There Will Be Phlogiston (8 page)

He was laughing, but there was a shaky edge of
relief to it, as he pulled away the body, and lifted her onto her
feet. She wobbled a little—purely gravitationally; she was
fine
—and he put an unseemly arm round her waist to steady
her.

The Brass Alchemist rose with regal grace. The horse
shied, steam jutting from her nostrils. His hand snapped out,
caught the lead rope, and drew it tight. Rosamond stared into
blood-and-silver eyes, full of pain and hate and pleading, and saw
her own reflection.

“What is the meaning of this?” The marquess’s voice
cut thin and sharp across her somewhat disordered nerves.

She pulled abruptly away from Jones. “It’s . . .
it’s not what it looks like. He . . . They . . . they were hurting
her.”

“Hurting whom?”

“The . . . the horse.” She sounded shrill and
childish. Frightened. And she hated herself for it.

Mildred tittered in the silence.

The ringmaster adjusted the jaunty angle of his hat,
unfurled his avuncular smile. “My lords, ladies, this is the merest
misunderstanding.”

“I very much hope so,” returned the marquess. The
words were for the Brass Alchemist, but his heavy-lidded eyes never
left Rosamond.

She shivered. Then realised she couldn’t stop
shivering. She gripped her elbows tightly, trying to bring her
wayward body back under control.

Movement at her side. It was Jones, pulling off his
coat. And the next thing she knew, he had flung it across her
shoulders. It was an awful thing, heavy and made of—she
thought—oilcloth, but it covered the mess she was in, and it was so
blissfully warm.

It smelled a little of him too, reminding her of the
shape of his body, the taste of his mouth. Real, solid,
lovely
things. Nothing like this.

It was wrong, she knew it was, but she drew
Anstruther Jones’s coat tightly around her, and felt a little like
herself again.

“My lord,” she said. “I will not stand idle by while
this animal suffers.”

“Suffering is not your concern, my lady. Come, I
will take you home.”

He held out his hand and she stared at it blankly.
“Please. You must—”

“I must do absolutely nothing. We are leaving.” And,
with that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Leaving Rosamond frozen in mingled outrage and
uncertainty. She had no wish to run after him like a child, but she
had already made a spectacle of herself once today. She had no wish
to compound it by flagrantly disregarding her fiancé in public. She
was sure engagements were broken for far less than that.

Having secured a marquess, if she got herself jilted
by a marquess, her life would be over. But what was the use of
being a marchioness if you could do . . . nothing?

Less than if you weren’t.

Later, she would deny the instinct that made her
look to Jones. Her faith in him. At the time, she was too shocked
to really notice. And, more pressingly still, in the confusion and
her distress, she had somehow forgotten that in giving his coat to
her, he had been obliged to remove it.

Which meant he was . . . he was . . . in his
shirtsleeves
.

She had never seen a man in such a state of undress
before.

But there he was, in broad daylight, with nothing
but clinging cotton between her eyes and the bare skin of his arm.
She could see the shape of his muscles. The indentations between
them that seemed designed to fit her fingers.

She somehow managed to work her way up to his eyes.
Found them gentle.

“He’s right,” he said softly. “This is no place for
you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She whirled round, and
pointed at the blackened streaks upon the horse’s flank. “They were
hurting her. And I wish to see it stopped.”

The oddest, sweetest smile tugged at the corners of
Jones’s mouth. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And even odder and sweeter still, she believed
him.

The carriage ride home was undertaken in
silence.

She was summoned to her father’s study the next day.
In the afternoon. Presumably because he was too busy in the morning
to call her a disgrace to the family.

It was a lecture with which she was already
acquainted. She had heard him deliver it to her half brother once,
but she had never expected to be its recipient. She was so careful.
She tried so hard. She did everything right. Why couldn’t he see
that?

Why couldn’t he see
her
?

She tried to let the speech wash over her—not what
he expected of his daughter, inappropriate, thoughtless,
unbecoming, an act of unthinkable wilfulness that had brought shame
on her parents and jeopardised her prospects of making an
advantageous match—but it was no use. His father’s words stuck in
her like porcupine quills, and they hurt.

They hurt a lot.

And she hated it. She wanted to be angry. It would
have felt so much better to be angry. A cold blue flame burning
inside her, keeping her safe and untouchable, instead of what she
was, which was small and pathetic, and on the verge of tears.

As she was making her way back to her
room—comporting herself with the composure that befitted a lady—a
footman approached her with a letter. She had not seen the rough,
bold scrawl before, but she recognised it nevertheless. She knew
only one man who would write so carelessly. Who wouldn’t realise
his hand presented him as vulgar, untutored, and practically
illiterate. Someone to be despised.

All it said was:
Come riding with me
tomorrow—AJ
.

She had declined his calling card. (He had kissed
her at a ball.) She had no place accepting his invitation. But
accepting the invitation of an unsuitable man would make her feel
strong—wilful, as her father had claimed—in a way that crying in
her room most certainly would not.

It was an act, of course. But what else did she
have?

So she said yes.

It was only Anstruther Jones, but she wore her
favourite riding habit anyway. It was navy cashmere, with an
elongated jacket one shade lighter, fitted tight to the waist and
flaring over the hips. It was trimmed in the military style, in
dark-blue silk, and it made her feel . . . wonderful.
Invincible.

At the appointed time, she settled her top hat over
her hair, tucked her cane under her arm, and swept downstairs to
meet Jones. He was waiting for her in the courtyard with two
horses, one a soft-eyed bay, no doubt suitable for a lady, and the
other . . .

“Oh!” She could not quite hold back her shock, her
joy. “You bought her?”

Jones grinned, broad and ridiculous. “Aye. Xanthos
is her name.”

Xanthos. The golden horse from the Clockwork Circus.
She gave a whinny of something that might have been recognition,
and Rosamond reached up to stroke her neck, a gloved hand gliding
over that strange, unnatural patchwork of metal and flesh. Surely
she should have been sickened, or at the very least apprehensive.
She had, after all, seen this animal tear a man’s arm from his
body. But she wasn’t. She simply wasn’t.

Maybe it was because she was strange and unnatural
too.

“She can be ridden?” she asked.

“Not by me she can’t,” returned Jones, laughing. “I
wouldn’t dare.”

What a peculiar man he was. Rosamond cast him a
rather scornful look. “You’re frightened of horses?”

“I wouldn’t say frightened. There aren’t very many
of them in the undercity or up in the blue.”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, you expect me to ride
her? Are you not even the slightest bit concerned I may be unable
to control her? That I could suffer some fall or fright or
injury?”

He shrugged. “Are you?”

Rosamond knew herself to be an excellent horsewoman.
It was the only one of her accomplishments from which she derived
any pleasure. “No.”

“Then why would I be?”

She was sure there was an obvious retort, but she
was unable to work out what it might be. “Help me up,” she said,
instead.

He cupped his hands for her and lifted her easily
into the saddle. Xanthos stood steady. Oddly calm for a creature
that reeked of blood and oil and burned hot beneath her. She
gathered up the reins and pressed her leg against the animal’s
side, urging her to move. And, to Rosamond’s surprise, she did.

It was like, and not like, riding a living horse.
The motion was similar, but the sense of power was greater. She
felt not the tightening of muscle, but the shift of metal parts,
the creak of clockwork and the pulse of pistons.

Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.

It made her almost want to laugh.

Jones had mounted and come up—carefully—alongside.
He did not look well in the saddle at all, hunched and awkward,
bundled in his coat.

She might have laughed at that, too, but she was
moved by an impulse of benevolence, and didn’t.

“Where are we going? To the park?”

“How about Ashworth?”

“Sir, one might think you wished to get me alone in
some secluded woods.”

“You’re riding a half-mechanical marvel that eats
only raw flesh. I’m sitting on an elderly lady called Sandy. If
anybody’s getting left on their own in the woods, it’s me.”

And now she really did laugh. She couldn’t help
herself. “But aren’t you ashamed?” The question slipped out before
she could prevent it.

“That I wasn’t born rich? That I didn’t grow up like
you, or people like you? No.”

There was no rebuke in his voice. If anything, it
was as kind as she had ever heard it. But she blushed regardless.
She had always known that she was better than some people, and not
as good as others, but she had never before realised how arbitrary
it was, the flimsy tissue of wealth and position and circumstance
and history. She almost wanted to apologise, but that would have
made her look weak. “What if I think less of you for it?”

“You’ve already told me I’m not good enough for
you.”

“Well, it’s true.” It was meant to sound dignified,
but it came out huffy.

And made him smile again. (How white his teeth were
in that sun-weathered face.) Damn him.

They walked on in silence. Or, at least, as close to
silence as they could manage with the clopping of hooves and the
clanking of steel.

People were staring at Rosamond. Moving hastily out
of her way. It ought to have made her feel uncomfortable. It was
not good attention. But she found she liked it. Knowing they were
afraid of her and her monstrous steed.

Though Anstruther Jones, apparently, was not.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she heard herself
say.

Oh God, what was happening? What was she
thinking?

“Because I like you.”

For some obscure reason, she was disappointed. She
had somehow come to rely on the idea that he was not the sort of
man to lie. “How . . . how can you possibly like me? I have been
grossly unpleasant to you.”

“You were honest. I liked that. I know you don’t
want my money.”

She was unsettled, not so much by him, but herself.
But enough was enough. “On the contrary, I want your money very
much. It’s you I wish to dispense with.” She tried to give him an
arch look, but so much of his concentration was focused on his
horse that he entirely missed it, which was a shame.

“You didn’t seem to be dispensing with me that time
you kissed me.”

Oh, outrageous! She was going to tell him it had
been a mistake—he certainly deserved to be told such a thing—but
somehow she couldn’t bring herself to utter the lie. “Well, you
have some facility in that area.”

He laughed, and she thought about kissing him again.
Feeling the shape of his smile against her mouth.

“Tell me what else you like about me,” she said.

“You’re spoiled,” he offered, after a moment,
“proud, headstrong, stubborn, a little unkind.”

“And this is why you like me?”

“Yes.”

“You are very blunt, sir.”

“I am.”

“And vulgar and uncouth.”
And kind, and likerous,
and
strong and clever and and and . . .
“I think I
should like to gallop now. Do try to keep up.”

They had reached the edge of the Ashworth Valley, a
slender ribbon of green around which Gaslight sprawled black, grey,
and brown. Sometimes Rosamond’s governesses had brought her here to
practice her watercolours. She had only been permitted to paint the
decorous scenes, the gentle slopes and the pretty hills, but she
liked best the scarlet woods in autumn and the hidden waterfalls
that thrashed between glistening black rocks.

She urged her horse into an easy canter and from
there faster, and faster still, until they were galloping, the
world falling away beneath Xanthos’s long, hard strides. It was
such a visceral thing, the way the wind bit at her cheeks and
ruffled her skirts, the wild scattering of leaves in their wake,
the crack of branches, and the jolting thud of hooves. Her heart
leapt and her breath caught at the sheer, shocking
speed
.

Not effortless, this power, not graceful, or
beautiful. She could feel it gathering, working, struggling almost.
The grate and grind of metal. The clicking of an artificial heart.
And, just then, it didn’t seem like less, or imitation, or even
limitation. It was triumph and freedom and hers.

She was Prometheus. And this was stolen fire.

Ever burning.

She had no idea how long or how far they galloped.
Xanthos was tireless, her steps unfaltering, her pace never
slowing. It was Rosamond, in the end, who reined her in, and that
was only because the path had grown too steep and narrow to be
navigated so quickly.

Excellent horsewoman, yes. Foolish, certainly
not.

They followed the grey-blue brook as it wound its
way past abandoned paper mills and lumber factories, these
moss-covered remnants of Gaslight’s fairly recent past. The light
was silver-edged as it slid through the trees, spreading its dusty
glister over the water. And, finally, there was the waterfall,
smaller than she remembered, skittering restlessly over a haphazard
pile of algae-slick stone, rushing past her in a flurry of silky
white.