The Girl with the Windup Heart
Page 24

“I’m getting you out of here!” Ipsley shouted.
“Not yet!” Finley cried, but he was already gone. She sank to her hands and knees. Felix’s boots appeared in her line of vision. She couldn’t even tense to prepare for the kick he was surely going to deliver to her head.
But no kick came, and Finley lifted her head.
The girls—all with their eyes returned and bloodied lips free—surrounded him.
“Kill her,” he commanded, pointing at Finley. “You kill her now.”
The girls cocked their heads in unison—a disturbing sight. Then, they snapped upright, hissing with teeth bared and eyes wide. She didn’t know which one attacked first, but they lunged at him like dogs at a bone, snarling and snapping. A cry of pain echoed in the fog. And as the world dropped away, the last thing Finley saw was Lord Felix screaming for mercy as he was devoured by his former victims.
Five weeks and four days earlier...
“Where are we going?” Mila asked as she sat beside Jack in his sleek steam carriage. They were racing through the streets of London—well, perhaps racing wasn’t the best word. They raced from time to time, and then other times they were held up in the chaotic throng that seemed to be normal traffic. Mila didn’t understand how people could get so jammed up, and she didn’t want to understand it.
“I told you, it’s a surprise.” Jack shot her a small smile. “Think of it as a belated birthday present.”
“Birthday present?” she echoed.
To his credit, he didn’t look at her as though this was something she should know, or common knowledge among “real” people. “It’s a custom that on the anniversary of someone’s birth you give them a present.”
“But I wasn’t born.”
He made a face as he steered the carriage between two carts, a swearing farmer and an angry man shouting in Chinese. Something about a cow... “Of course you were. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but you had a day when you were awake and became aware of yourself as a being and not a machine.”
Yes, he had a point. “That was weeks ago.”
“That’s why this is a belated present.”
She shrugged. “All right.” This didn’t really make a lot of sense to her, but it was nice to be out of the house. She liked it when Jack took her out exploring. He took her to interesting places like museums where she could learn about things. She enjoyed learning.
She stared out the window at the passing city and all it’s strange wonder. There were so many things to see. It was a clear morning, and a dirigible was flying high above them. L’air France was written in script on its side.
“What’s it like to fly?” she asked.
“Like flying,” Jack answered.
Mila frowned. “I don’t understand.”
His lips tilted on one side. “It’s something you have to experience for yourself. No one can tell you what it’s like.”
“Oh.” She peered up at the ship again. “I would like to find out someday.”
“I’ll see that you do.”
She believed him.
They pulled up in front of a large brick building with white columns. It wasn’t fancy, but it was lovely. Jack shut down the engine and got out of the carriage, coming around to open her door for her. He was adamant about opening her door—another thing she didn’t understand. Her limbs worked just as well as his, and she understood the procedure of turning a handle. Still, it wasn’t that important a detail, so she didn’t push it.
She turned her head to look at the sign in front of the building, but her gaze went instead to what appeared to be a pile of rubbish beside the steps. Her heart skipped a beat. Was that what she thought it was? She moved closer. It was.
It was an automaton that had had its logic engine ripped out. There was what looked like dried blood on its tarnished brass face. Its mouth was slightly open—it was a humanoid machine—and she could see what appeared to be two humanlike teeth.
“Damnation,” Jack swore. “Come away, poppet.”
“Why would someone do this?” she asked, horrified. It had been murdered.
He led her away, up the steps to the building. “Someone probably got scared. Some people are afraid of the automatons that have become sentient.”
“Why would they be afraid?”
His gaze locked with hers. “Because machines are smarter and stronger than we are, and that’s terrifying.”
And that was the moment that Mila realized she could never tell anyone who didn’t already know what she really was. It was going to have to be a secret, and a closely guarded one. She didn’t want people to be afraid of her.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
She followed him into the building. It smelled of dust and paper and ink, and when he led her into the main room her jaw literally dropped. Thank goodness it was bolted to her skull.
Books. Wall after wall, row after impossibly long row of beautiful books.
“What is this place?” Was that breathy sound in her voice?
Jack was grinning. “It’s a lending library. You can borrow whatever books you want, take them home and read them. Then we bring them back and you can get more. Do you like it?”
“Oh, Jack!” It was all she could say. She didn’t know the right words to correctly articulate just how wonderful it was.
“Go,” he instructed. “Find ten books. I’ll wait.”
“Only ten?”
His smile turned patient. “We can come back tomorrow.”
She ran into the first row.
Half an hour later they left with an armload of books that Jack insisted on carrying. Mila wore a huge smile on her face—until they stepped outside and she saw the discarded automaton again.
Jack put the books into the boot of the carriage before joining her. “You want to take it, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she replied. Then she turned to him. “Jack, what would you do for a real person?”
He shrugged. “Bury him—or her.”
“Then...can we bury him or her?”
Jack didn’t say anything, he just went and picked up the automaton. It was heavy, and his back bowed with the strain. Mila could have done it, but she sensed that he would not have liked it if she had. He put the remains in the boot with the books.
They drove to a cemetery not far from Jack’s house. It was a little shabby, he explained, but it would suit their purpose. This time, he let Mila carry the automaton, as he carried a shovel and an old fence post he found near the entrance.
Mila found a nice little spot, out of the way, beneath a tree. It was a pretty spot—the sort where one might like to sit and read a book on a summer day. She’d never done that, but she’d like to.
Jack dug a hole just big enough for the discarded pieces. He was sweating when he finished, but he still hadn’t said one word of complaint. Mila was more grateful for his silence than she could ever say—and somewhat unsettled by it. She put the machine into the dirt, arranging it carefully before standing back so Jack could bury it. When he was done, he stuck the fence post into the ground beside it.
“A grave should have a marker,” he explained.
A grave. People had graves. Humans.
Hot wetness filled Mila’s eyes. She blinked it away.
Jack held her hand as they walked back to the carriage. He opened her door for her and she climbed in. She didn’t know what to say. This feeling—like someone was sitting on her chest—was new and unpleasant.
“That was a good thing you did,” Jack told her when they were almost home. “A very good thing. I’m humbled by your compassion—honestly.”
The wetness burned her eyes again, and this time she let it come, let it run down her cheeks before finally wiping it away.
She didn’t say anything until they were back at Jack’s. She carried her books into the house and made to take them up to her room. Jack said he had work to do.
“Jack,” she said, partway up the stairs.
He looked up from hanging his coat. “Yes, poppet?”
Poppet. She liked it when he called her that. It was his special name for her. “Do you think it would be all right if today was my birthday?”
His stared at her for a moment, then he smiled. “I think that would be grand. Happy Birthday, Mila.”
She almost giggled in relief. Hugging her books to her, she ran the rest of the way upstairs to her room.
* * *
Finley. Griffin’s eyes snapped open as he jerked upright on the sofa. His chest felt as though someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer—from the inside—and sweat dampened his hairline. Damnation, he was shaking.
“Your Grace?” Looking up from the book on his desk, Thomas Sheppard’s eyes were very much like his daughter’s, so much so that Griffin had a hard time meeting his gaze. “Is everything quite all right?”
Was it? The sense of panic that had forced him awake abated. Had it been real or had he dreamed it? “Was Finley here?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He shivered. Was it cold in the parlor or was it just him? He could barely feel the heat from the fire.
Sheppard shook his head. “No.”
“Must have been a dream, then.” He forced a smile as another shudder ran down his spine. He drew the quilt from the back of the sofa around his shoulders.
The older man didn’t look convinced. “She was in the Aether, though. I felt her when she came in.”
Griffin’s heart thumped hard. For future reference he would have to remember that Finley’s father was very literal. “Here” was obviously their immediate surroundings. “Do you feel her presence still?”
“No. She’s gone.”
He pulled the quilt tighter around him. Finally, he began to feel warm again. “She was going to confront August-Raynes, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” Finley’s father returned to his book. “I do hope she was successful.”
Griffin almost laughed at the absurdity. “If she weren’t I rather think she’d be with us right now—as a ghost.”
“Unless August-Raynes imprisoned her like those poor souls he’s attached to his will.”
Staring at the man, Griffin felt his jaw slacken. “Mr. Sheppard, you’re not easing any anxiety I might be feeling.” Did the man not realize what he was saying? Or had he been in the Aether so long that he’d forgotten what it was to be alive? To want to live?
Sheppard glanced up once more. At least this time he appeared somewhat contrite. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for not explaining. I’m sure I must seem quite callous and uncaring in my lack of concern for my daughter’s well-being. Since Finley is of my blood, I would have felt her death in the Aether. She is alive. Hurt, but alive. My apologies for adding to your worries.”
He was ill-tempered and he knew it, so Griffin said only, “Thank you.” Adding to his mood was the fact that this man—who barely knew her—had a bond with Finley that he did not. A foolish thing to be jealous of—a girl’s father—but he was. No matter where she went or what she did, Thomas Sheppard would always be a part of her. She could leave Griffin tomorrow and never think of him again.
Finley wasn’t about to leave him, he knew that. She’d take on August-Raynes and Garibaldi himself if she had to. The foolish girl would get herself killed, and while eternity with her was a pleasant thought, it was not Finley’s time to die.
His head swam, heat creeping through his skull. Pinpricks of discomfort trailed up his arms and neck.
“Your Grace?” Sheppard steadied him with a firm hand. Good thing he was already sitting.
“I’m weak.” An unnecessary announcement, but he made it all the same. “I’ve never stayed in the Aether this long, and Garibaldi drained all my strength. I am little more than an invalid, and it feels like days since I’ve had anything to eat or drink, which only makes me weaker.”
“I’ve had some success with manifesting in the living world,” the older man shared. “I could see about getting something for you.”
Griffin shook his head. A cough scratched his throat. “If you leave I’ll be a sitting duck for Garibaldi.” God, he despised weakness.
“Your Grace, I don’t know what to do for you.”
He met Sheppard’s gaze. “That makes two of us, my good man.”
That didn’t seem to appease the older man at all. “But I am a man of science. In life I prided myself on being able to find a solution for any problem I encountered.” He laughed humorlessly. “Some of those solutions were to my own detriment, but I saw every new possibility as a success. Other than gathering up Aetheric energy and giving you another blast, I have no idea whatsoever of how to treat your current condition.”
Griffin smiled—it took a lot of energy. He wasn’t so peevish anymore. “Whatever happens to me, sir, Finley won’t blame you.”
Sheppard looked away. Were they in the living realm he probably would have flushed with embarrassment of being so transparent. “I would rather help you and reap the pleasure of seeing her happy.”
“The chance to meet you has made her very happy, I know it has.” Griffin withdrew his left hand from under the quilt and placed it on the other man’s arm. He coughed again. “And I appreciate all you have risked on my behalf—and hers.”
A proud smile brightened Sheppard’s face, making him look his age. It was odd to see this man—who ought to be in his late thirties—looking not even a decade older than himself. But when he glanced at Griffin’s hand, the smile slowly melted away. “Your Grace...”