This Monstrous Thing(10)

“Well, we’ve got to behave for Christmas.”

He laughed as he stretched out his legs. “I had a man come from Geneva a few weeks ago called Emile Brien. Got his leg blown off at Waterloo and walks on cogs now. You know him?” I shook my head. “He said he was enlisted by a group of clockworks here who are trying to get some trouble started. Know anything about that?”

“No.” I suddenly realized the plates on my hands were crackling with current—I’d been so intent on what he was saying I’d forgotten them. I touched my palms to the conducting plates on Morand’s arm and a bolt tore from the gloves into the machinery.

I knew I was right about the half-inch stock, but I still held my breath as the gears leapt to life and interlaced, smooth and soundless as the summer Rhone. No sparks or broken teeth. No sticky ratchet. And no strain on the center wheel. Morand bent his arm a few times, then worked the silver fingers in and out of a fist.

“Feel all right?” I asked.

“Outstanding,” he replied. “Well done, Alasdair.”

I nodded like it was all business, but I was pleased. Father would have to admit I’d been right about the half-inch stock. He was brilliant in matters of flesh and blood—back in Scotland, before he’d been recruited by Geisler for his fleet of Shadow Boys, he’d been a navy surgeon—but only passable at machinery. He’d never admit that cogs and gears spoke to me in a way they never had to him. Father was a doctor, same way I was a mechanic. Some things you just are, deep and true inside your bones.

Morand retrieved his hat from where he’d hung it on the back of the chair. “Tell your father if he ever tires of Geneva, I have a job for him. My boarders could use a Shadow Boy. Or maybe you’re interested. You’ve got quite the talent for it.” He looked at me like he thought I would answer, but when I stayed silent, he added, “Or, God forbid, if you’re ever in trouble, you can always find your way to Ornex. You know that. So do your parents.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He extended his metal hand and I shook it. “You’re a good lad, Alasdair,” he said. “Be certain you stay that way.”

I hung back in the workshop when Morand went to say his good-byes to Father. As soon as the door hissed shut behind him, I reached for my bag and the copy of Frankenstein Mary had sent. I’d rather have my teeth pulled out than read most books, but I’d be damned if I didn’t slog my way through one about Geisler and his work.

It wasn’t there. I emptied the bag, ran my hands along the pocket, even held the whole thing upside down like an idiot, but the book was gone. I thought for a moment I’d left it up in the flat, but I’d stowed my bag in the workshop before going upstairs to dinner. Perhaps I’d left it on the bus or dropped it on the way up to the castle. Perhaps I’d given it to Oliver by mistake with the other books.

I groaned aloud at that thought. If it was truly about Geisler, that was the last book in the world I wanted him reading. I’d have to go by later and see if I’d left it.

But it was already late. Father would have things for me to do, and wouldn’t let me slip away as easily as he had the day before. I could go tomorrow, I thought, but then remembered we had the Christmas market. The next day, maybe, but I knew I’d be exhausted. Perhaps after that. Wait until Sunday, when everything was settled.

A thousand reasons not to go.

I lamented less the loss of the book and more Mary’s letter that had been tucked inside it. I cursed myself for not reading it as soon as I got it. Damn Jiroux and the clockwork veteran on the bus. Damn my stupidity for losing it. Damn the way Mary still had a hold of me, my heart as true as a compass.

I still couldn’t fathom why she’d sent the book. Perhaps she’d heard it was about Geisler. She’d known we were familiar with him, and she’d left Geneva before he and Father had their proper falling-out over Oliver’s death, so she wouldn’t know we’d parted ways. Perhaps she’d seen it was about clockwork and thought of me. Or perhaps she meant it as a warning. I thought of that small brass badge blinking up from Morand’s lapel.

I pulled my legs up on the bench and stretched out, lying flat on my back and staring up at the dark shadows that the lamplight carved on the pocked ceiling. Mary had been nineteen the last time I saw her. She’d be twenty-one now, same age as Oliver was. Would have been. I wasn’t certain how I was meant to measure that anymore. We had that dreary summer together and the warm fall that followed it—Mary, Oliver, and I, thick as thieves, my mum had called us. Until Mary came along, I hadn’t known what it was like to sit in the sunshine on the lakeshore and think about absolutely nothing except the pale triangle of freckles peering from the bunched neckline of her dress. Life had never been that simple before, and certainly hadn’t been since.

Mary, the first girl I ever loved. First girl I ever kissed. The girl who’d dug up my brother’s body with me. The sorts of things that stay with you.

The workshop door hissed, and I sat up as Mum appeared in the doorway. “You want some supper?”

“If you’re offering.”

“Come upstairs, then, it’s hot. Your father’s closing up early to get things in order for tomorrow. Were you sleeping?”

“No.” I looped my arms around my knees. “Just thinking.”

She came and sat beside me on the workbench. We weren’t a very familiar family—never had been—but she put her hand on top of my knee and her thumb worked in a slow circle. “It’s a hard time of year, isn’t it?” she said, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the Christmas market. Then, like she’d overheard my thoughts, she asked, “What did Miss Godwin send you?”