This Monstrous Thing(52)

“That was lucky,” I said when we were far enough away from the checkpoint that we wouldn’t be overheard.

“That wasn’t lucky,” Clémence replied. “That was carefully planned.”

“You knew about the magnets?”

“Geisler told me. He heard about them in France.”

“They weren’t doing that when we left.”

“Maybe something happened.”

The officer had said protests. And Frankenstein. I shivered.

“Is that your necklace?” I asked as Clémence tugged the pendant over her head and dropped it into the pocket of her coat.

“No, I lifted it from a woman at the inn last night. I thought I’d sell it and see what money we could get.” And then she smirked at me, herself again.

“Why don’t you smile more?” I asked her.

“I smile all the time.”

“Not like you smiled at that guard.”

She knocked the heel of her boot against the base of an industrial torch to get the snow off. “Some men think a smile is an invitation to put their hands wherever they want.”

“He didn’t.” Clémence snorted. “He was flirting!” I said. “You were flirting. I’m just saying, you look nice when you smile. It’s attractive.”

“I don’t want to be attractive,” she replied. “I don’t want to smile, and I won’t have you telling me I should. I don’t want attention from men like him.”

“But that girl with the scarf, you’d like her attention, wouldn’t you?” I snapped. It felt mean even as I said it, but I didn’t retreat.

Clémence went red as a cranberry, then jerked her coat tighter around her.

We didn’t say anything as we crossed the river into the city center. The streets were busy, snow trampled into slush by shoppers and the spokes of omnibuses and carriages. I led the way, sticking to side streets and alleys as much as I could to avoid the crowds. It was nearly Christmas, I realized as a group of women with holly in their hair passed us, singing a wine-soaked round of “C’est le jour de la No?l.” So much had changed that it felt impossible I’d only been gone a few weeks.

We found a pawnshop in Vieille Ville and I stood beside Clémence at the counter while she negotiated with the shifty-eyed shopkeeper over the pendant. As he was counting out coins from the cash box, the shop door opened behind us with a rush of cold air. Before I could turn to see who’d come in, a tiny girl with jet-black hair spilling out from under her cap popped up between Clémence and me. “Take one,” she said, and thrust a battered leaflet into my hand.

The shopkeeper dropped the coins he’d been counting and charged around the counter, flapping his hands at her. “Out of my shop! Out out out!”

The girl shoved another leaflet at Clémence, then took off, skittering flat-footed across the shop and flailing out the door with her hair flying behind her. The shopkeeper stopped on the threshold and glared after her, then shambled back to the counter with his head bent. “Apologies,” he murmured.

I glanced down at the crumpled paper the girl had forced on me. Printed on it was an illustration of a man, half mechanical, half human. His chest was drawn to look like an open clock, and a long scar ran the length of his face. Above the illustration, in heavy, bold letters, it read FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER LIVES!

Next to me, Clémence drew in a sharp breath. I held up the leaflet for the shopkeeper to see. “Do you know anything about this?”

He didn’t look up from his cash box. “I’ve told her to stay away, but she keeps coming in and harassing my customers.”

“Does she work for someone?” I asked. “Or do you know—”

The shopkeeper shut the lid of the cash box so hard the change inside rattled, then slid our coins across the counter and turned toward the back room. “Excuse me.”

I didn’t wait for Clémence. I spun on my heel and dashed out of the shop, looking both ways down the street for the tiny girl with the black hair. I spotted her a few shops down, thrusting leaflets at passing pedestrians. Behind me, the bell jingled as Clémence followed me out. “Alasdair, what are you—”

“Oye, you!” I called, and started down the street. The girl looked up and for a moment I thought she was going to bolt, but instead she flung her hands in the air, one still fisted around her leaflets. I jogged forward to meet her, Clémence on my heels. “Don’t run,” I called as we drew closer.

“I can’t,” she replied.

“Can’t?” I looked down. One of her bare feet was wrapped in muddy strips of cloth. The other was tarnished metal, connected to the socket around her ankle with a heavy bolt rusted orange.

“Can’t,” she repeated. “It’s too stiff. But I’ll take the leaflet back if you don’t want it. Printing’s expensive.”

Clémence appeared at my shoulder. “She needs a mechanic,” she said as she stared down at the rusted foot. Then, to the girl: “Where are your parents?”

“In a grave,” she replied, straight-faced.

“Do you stay at the orphanage?”

“They wouldn’t have me.” She knocked her metal foot against the ground for emphasis. “The woman told me they only take human children.”