Cinderella Six Feet Under(88)

“Art it is?” Ophelia frowned.

“Well, there are considerations of syntax.” Penrose studied the third lock, the one with six letters. He fussed and twirled. Ophelia stood; the crouching was too much for her tender toe. She limped around, peered over the professor’s shoulder, and anxiously out into the courtyard—

Another snap.

She darted over. “You’ve got it!” The dials spelled CELARE.

“To conceal.” Penrose was quickly turning the dials of the last lock.

“You know what it says?”

“Yes. A common saying.” Penrose positioned the final dial on M. The lock spelled ARTEM. “Ars est celare artem. It is art to conceal art.”

“Art to conceal . . .” Ophelia’s eyes narrowed. “Aha. Quite the jokester, that Colifichet. He made these locks—they are artworks, in a sense—to conceal the artworks in his workshop.”

“Precisely.” Penrose pushed into the dim workshop. “Well, Miss Flax. After all is said and done, we make rather a fine housebreaking team, do we not? Or, I ought to say, shopbreaking.”

Ophelia hurried through just behind him.

The workshop felt bigger than it had before. Light seeped through tall windows, but the ceilings and corners disappeared in shadow. They picked their way towards the draughtsman’s table. Whatever it was that Colifichet had been laboring over was no longer there. When they inspected the workbenches, there was no sign of any finished projects, or even works in progress. Only delicate hand tools lined up in neat rows or hanging from brackets on the walls.

And those big, shrouded shapes in the corner.

Penrose headed for them.

From somewhere behind her, Ophelia heard an almost-sound. Like another person’s breath in the dark, or the faint rustle a sleeve makes when it brushes against one’s side. She froze and strained her ears.

Nothing. Only Penrose’s soft footfalls and her own wheezy pulse.

Ophelia hurried to Penrose’s side, feeling sheepish.

The shrouded shapes—there were four of them—stood about as tall as Ophelia. Drop cloths covered them from top to bottom. Behind them was a cupboard.

Penrose took hold of one of the drop cloths and pulled.

Something clicked, followed by a soft, rhythmical gear-grinding. The drop cloth swished to the floor.

They stood face-to-face with a man. Ophelia stepped back. No, not a man, exactly. A sort of mechanical person, with ivory-white skin, a curly white wig, and knee breeches. In one hand it held a bottle and in the other a tray with a champagne glass. It grinned, its eyes shifted back and forth, and it lifted and lowered the champagne bottle.

“I don’t fancy the look in his eye,” Ophelia said.

“It’s merely a charming trifle.” Penrose unveiled another of the shrouded shapes.

This automaton was meant to resemble, Ophelia fancied, a man of Chinese extraction. It wore a toggle-buttoned blue suit, a round, pointy hat, and a droopy black moustache. It held a long-stemmed pipe. With that grinding-gears hum, it brought the pipe to its lips.

“Ingenious,” Penrose murmured. “Human-sized automatons. Now I understand what Colifichet was suggesting when he said he’d like to replace the ballerinas with mechanical dancers.” He reached for the third shrouded shape.

“Why don’t you leave the other two alone, Professor?” Ophelia swallowed. “We don’t know how to stop them. Colifichet will know we’ve been here.”

“I’m certain there is a crank or something that will quickly send them back to sleep.” Penrose unveiled a third automaton.

Ophelia took another step back.

A bear stood on its hind legs, claws outstretched, teeth bared, eyes rolling. It lurched forward.

“It’s on wheels,” she said. “And I think that’s a real bear hide. And real claws and teeth—watch out!”

Penrose dodged to the side just as the bear bent and took a chomp at the air where Penrose’s shoulder had been.

“Behind you!” Ophelia cried. The footman had wheeled up behind Penrose, holding the champagne bottle high. It brought the bottle down with a jerky swing, narrowly missing Penrose’s skull.

Ophelia heard a sinister little chugging next to her. She spun. The Chinese automaton had rolled close, puffing some kind of steam from its pipe. Ophelia coughed. She took another breath, and suddenly felt woozy. Things went slow and sideways.

“There’s something wrong with this smoke,” she said, doubling over. She could feel the Chinese man’s eyes on her. But how could that be? A mechanical contrivance couldn’t see. Could it? She coughed again, and her eyes streamed.