This Monstrous Thing(58)
I felt Clémence’s hand try to abandon mine, but I clung to her. I was afraid if I didn’t have something to hold on to, I’d tip over. “Why did you come here?” I asked Mary.
She glanced at Oliver, and he spread his hands. “Go on. You can tell him.”
“I went to your shop,” Mary said, her voice quavering, “and it was all torn up. I thought if you’d made it out, you’d be here with Oliver, so I came to find you. But you weren’t. And then I couldn’t get out.” She glanced sideways at my brother. “Neither of us could.”
“It’s a brilliant prison, Ally,” Oliver added. “Doesn’t keep people out, but it certainly keeps them in.”
I ignored him and instead asked Mary, “How long have you been here?”
“Four days.”
“She’s good company,” Oliver interrupted again, like he couldn’t keep his mouth shut for more than a second. “My first company in years. Mrs. Shelley—did you know she was Mrs. Shelley?” He seized Mary around the wrist and held up her hand so the gold ring around her finger flashed in the light. She flinched. “Are you devastated?”
I was grateful the darkness covered my blush—I was so hot I thought my face might catch fire. “Stop it,” I snapped, but Oliver just laughed. He let go Mary’s wrist and dropped into a chair beneath the window, crossing his legs in a crooked way that came only from having metal-hinged joints. “Why are you angry at me?” I asked.
“Because you left!” he cried, voice suddenly sharp-edged, and he flung his pipe. I dodged, but a few flecks of hot tobacco still licked my cheeks. “You left me here to die, to rot!”
“I didn’t leave you to die. I didn’t have a choice! The shop was raided. The police were hunting me. I had to get out. Why else would I leave you? I’ve got no life but you!”
“Apparently you have a whole other life I didn’t know about.” He pressed his metal finger against a piece of glowing tobacco that had landed on the arm of the chair so it smoked against the upholstery. “All this time I thought you were working in the shop, you’ve been out chasing literary pursuits.”
“Literary pursuits?” I repeated, dread creeping through me. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t think I’d notice? How insulting.” Oliver snatched a book from beside the chair and tossed it at me. I knew what it was, but I made a show of looking at the spine. Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, with that empty space below the title where the author’s name should have been. So I had left it with him.
“What’s this for?” My voice wavered in spite of my best efforts, and I fought the urge to look at Mary.
“I was hoping I could trouble you for an inscription,” he replied. “I’ve heard books are worth much more when they’re signed by the author.”
This time I did look at Mary. She looked away. “I didn’t write it,” I said.
Oliver continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “I thought it was Geisler at first. I couldn’t believe a boy with so much clockwork in his blood would write something that elegant. You never told me you were a writer.” He stared at me like he was waiting for me to crumble and confess. When I didn’t say anything, he dropped his head back over the arm of the chair with a groan. “Come on, Ally, are you really not going to admit it was you?”
“I didn’t write it,” I said again.
“Of course you did, it’s us!” he cried, and suddenly he was across the room and towering above me. I’d never realized how much taller he was until that moment. He seized me by the front of my coat, wrenching me away from Clémence and nearly lifting me off my feet. I could see the puckered scar along his hairline flex as a vein in his forehead tightened. “It’s about me, and you, and bringing me back to life—it’s about us!”
From behind us, Mary said quietly, “It wasn’t Alasdair.”
“You don’t think so?” Oliver called to her. “All just a big coincidence? A young man who brings back the dead with clockwork to gain the notice of a famous university and what he makes instead is a monster. Doesn’t that sound a bit like our Alasdair Finch? And what a chance—it’s Geneva, and it’s Ingolstadt, and it’s my bleeding life!” He shoved me backward and I had to grab the windowsill to keep from falling. I looked to Mary and then to Clémence. They were both staring at me, and I realized that out of all of us, Oliver was the only one who didn’t know the truth.
When I spoke, my voice tripped over my heartbeat. “I know it’s about us, Oliver, but I swear to you, I didn’t write it.”
“They’re looking for me,” he said, shoulders shaking. “Mary told me all about it. There’s a manhunt going on for this resurrected man. The police are pulling clockworks off the street to make sure they aren’t me, and all the clockworks want me to rise up and lead them. People are rioting in my name.”
I took a step toward him, not sure what I was going to say but almost certain he wouldn’t listen. “Oliver, I didn’t write—”
He was so fast I didn’t realize he was moving until his fist crossed my face. He used his mechanical hand, and it hit me so hard I collapsed, blinking stars out of my eyes as my vision tipped.