Mechanica (26 page)

Stepmother never let me do her hair. I straightened Chastity’s and curled Piety’s after every wash, and I had the burn marks on my hands to prove it. But Stepmother insisted she needed no help with her ablutions. She sailed downstairs every morning looking as cold and perfect and iconic as ever.

Was this why, this bit of gray at her temples? It was beautiful, a bright silver gleaming under my candle and in the thin moonlight coming in between her curtains. The snowstorm must have been passing, if moonlight could get in.

She turned in her sleep. I backed away from the bed, suddenly terrified I’d woken her.

“William,” she murmured, barely a sound, barely a movement of her lips. Her hands on the pillow dug deeper.

Her breath evened again, and she kept sleeping.

My father’s name. William Lampton. William.

How many times had I woken, knowing I’d called Mother’s or Father’s name in my sleep, and knowing no one would come to me?

Stepmother was calling Father too, and no one would come.

I told myself to back away. If I stayed, I would start to care for her. If I stayed, I would start to think about how alone she would be, with only the silly daughters she’d made, after I left. I couldn’t begin to think of Stepmother that way. I had to be able to leave her.

My heart hammering as hard as it had all night, I turned and fled her room.

I
N
the morning, I donned the sky-blue day dress that Jules and the buzzers and I had sewn months ago, years and years, it seemed now. My hair curled and pinned by my own hand, the work boots on my feet after all—in the aftermath of last night’s storm, I had no other choice and could only hope that my long skirt and the thick snow on the ground would hide them when I walked—I went to the kitchen. The last drop of ombrossus waited for me in Mr. Candery’s cupboard. I was a little frightened of using it, this final smidgen of disguise and protection that he had left for me. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t need it anymore after today. But that wasn’t necessarily true. It was just another part of my great gamble, the one I decided to make as soon as Stepmother had read the words on that filigreed invitation . . . as soon as I’d found Mother’s workshop, really. I had to gamble on my own escape.

I tipped the last drop onto my finger, trying not to let my hands tremble.
The Steps,
I thought, closing my eyes . . .

“So, it’s true.” Behind me, Chastity’s beautiful voice was light and mocking. Even before I turned to face her, I knew exactly the cold smirk that would be on her face. And I was right: it was the same expression she’d worn when she told me about stomping on Jules.

Oh, no,
I thought.
Oh, please.

Chastity stood there triumphant in a yellow morning dress, her hair half tumbled down from last night’s elaborate updo, kohl smudged under her eyes. My shock at her being awake at this dawn hour, the night after a ball, was exceeded only by wondering how she’d managed to dress by herself.

“I didn’t quite believe Fitz, even though he insisted it was you.”

Fitz!
I thought. When I’d applied the ombrossus and thought of my enemies, I’d only pictured the Steps . . .

“I have to admit, Nick, I didn’t recognize you. You just don’t
fit in
at a ball.” She looked around the kitchen, which had fallen into a slightly grimier state than usual in the last week or so; magic can only do so much without your own elbow grease to help it along, and Lord knew I’d been busy.

I looked at Chastity then, really looked at her. Any passing stranger would have said she was a beauty. Even a suitor besotted with lust and money might not notice what lay behind her blank and lovely expressions. The callousness, the cold in her eyes . . . but that inner frost was not what I saw as we faced each other in the kitchen. It was that girl I’d first seen at our parents’ wedding, who I’d thought would become a new sister, who I’d dreamed of and planned for over those lonely childhood months, decorating her bedroom, choosing her books.

It was this, still, that frightened me, that hurt. I looked down at the floor.

“You’re pathetic, Mechanica,” Chastity continued. “You can’t even look at me. Too scared. Too scared even to run away, all this time, eh? At least before you’d found someone rich enough to run to.”

“What?”

“Please. How else could you have gone to the ball? And why else would you be sneaking out this morning? And”—her eyes flashed even colder—“how old and ugly is he, to take on someone like you? What do you let him do to you?” She sniffed contemptuously. “You’ve never had any mettle. Whoever’s stooped to rescuing you must be just
embarrassing.
”

I don’t know what did it. Maybe it was the strange experience of seeing one sister without the other as backup; maybe the early hour and my lack of sleep lowered my tolerance for the Steps’ absurdities.

And of course Chastity was far, far off the mark, something I articulated to myself only just then. I had rescued myself entirely. I’d had help, certainly: Mother’s workshop, Jules and the minions, Mr. Candery’s gifts. Fin and Caro, and everything they’d done. My heart healed a little, just thinking of their goodness. But
I
rebuilt Jules,
I
made the carriage; when I decided I wanted to go to the ball, the products of my own hard work took me there.

Yet it wasn’t until I caught sight of the patent boots that had crushed Jules adorning Chastity’s feet that I moved, that I stepped forward and slapped her as hard as I could across the mouth.

I’d just finished building the vehicles of my self-made salvation. I’d spent months hammering metals and carrying hundreds of pounds of horse and carriage parts out to the forest.

As hard as I could slap was hard indeed.

Chastity stumbled sideways, clasping her jaw. There was blood on the red of her lips. I could see my last brown drop of ombrossus clinging to her cheek, but it didn’t matter. My gamble would succeed. I would never need it again.

“Nick . . .” Chastity mumbled, prodding gently at her cheek, which was already beginning to swell. “Nicolette . . .”

I stared at her; she hadn’t used that name since we’d first met. It was strange, but she was looking up at me now with something like surrender, something that in a less proud girl I might have thought was jealousy. “The Heir couldn’t really . . .” she whispered, then trailed into silence again.

I didn’t want to wait for her to finish. Whatever she was trying to say, I was sure I didn’t need to hear it.

I laughed at her and left.

Instead of going through the forest and back roads, as we had on our way to and from the ball, Jules and I made for the main thoroughfare right away. Today, I wanted to show him off as much as possible.

The road was crowded with other people on their way to the Exposition, most in carriages and carts drawn by real flesh-and-blood horses, some traveling on foot, a few on bicycles or other contraptions. No one else I saw had transportation as fine as Jules, but I knew the most wonderful inventions, those commissioned by the crown and built by court-backed inventors, would already be in the main square.

At first I was lost in the swelling crowd as we approached the city. But then a few people began to make way for us—for the carriage, for Jules.

We were a sight, to be sure, the glass walls that surrounded me gleaming like a bubble in the clear winter sunlight, shining bright enough to blind me when the sun hit at the right angles. Jules’s glass shone too, as did the brass and steel and copper of his framework. I was so proud of him—of my work. We were everything the Exposition stood for, everything new and progressive . . . and we were a few things
I
stood for too, the magic melded with technology, the co-existence of Esting and Faerie, the affection and gratitude I still felt for Mr. Candery and my mother. Those parts had to be secret, of course, but I was proud of them nonetheless.

I was thrilled to see people’s mouths drop open as we passed, to see them stop and stare and point at the marvel that drew my carriage. It didn’t matter what I had been before this moment; I could hold my head high as one of the finest inventors in Esting that day, if our arrival attracted such attention.

A lively group of young people not much older than I had kept a close pace with us on the road. They smiled and waved at me several times. It would have been easier for me to duck my head, to turn away—so many years of loneliness still made me frightened around people my own age.

But I thought of my inventions, of Jules, of all the things I wanted, and I smiled and waved back. I told myself I could be brave, if not for my own sake, for the sake of my dreams.

The procession slowed as we neared the palace; people and carriages bottlenecked into the city square. The young group and I halted next to each other on the road. One of them, the boldest, I supposed, broke away from his companions and approached me.

He was perhaps twenty, and rather stunningly handsome: tall and broad-shouldered, with hazel eyes and the dusky skin and hair—and expensive clothes—of a Su-descended nobleman. His confident stride certainly indicated a life of privilege, a life in which no one had ever turned him away.

He rapped three times on my door.

“I beg pardon, miss,” he said, “but my friends and I”—he indicated the ornate carriage he’d emerged from, where two curl-covered feminine heads leaned out, staring at me in brazen curiosity—“we’d just like to know if it’s true.”

“I’m sorry?” Somehow I felt as if I already knew what he was going to say. My heart sank.

He chuckled at my question. “I see, miss.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You’d like to keep it discreet for now. I don’t blame you. But—just between us . . .” He leaned in and gave me a smile that had no doubt stolen a dozen young hearts. “It’s a wonderful story. You and the Heir. I’d just like to say, well”—another lightning smile, which thrilled me; I knew a beautiful man when I saw one—“I am happy for you, miss.” He winked knowingly, and when he turned away, he gave the same knowing nod to his waiting friends.

This, oh, this, my heart could not bear.

“Ah . . . sir?” I called after him.

He turned to me and bowed—actually bowed, deeply. He smiled as he did it, but it was a kind smile. I did not think he was teasing me.

I wasn’t sure how to begin, how to ask him the question that tore too much at my heart to form itself into words. We regarded each other for a moment, his eyes warm and thoughtful, and mine, I was sure, only searching.

“Please don’t worry, Mechanica,” he said gently. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Mechanica?
Where on earth had he heard that name?

He jogged quickly back to his waiting companions, and I could already see him starting to tell them what he’d gleaned from me—which I hoped was not much, but I couldn’t be sure.

I didn’t know what to think, but at the mention of Fin’s title, something inside me had woken up, shaken its feathers . . . something like hope. I felt a tug at the levers I held; there was space ahead of us on the road, and Jules wanted to move forward. I urged him on.

But as the minutes passed and Jules and I neared the square, more and more people began to whisper when they saw us. I kept hearing the name “Mechanica,” and my pulse skipped every time.

I still wanted to think it was Jules and the carriage that spurred their talk. But then I began to catch more fragments of words as we passed, murmurs that wove in through my carriage’s open vents.

“The Heir himself . . .” said one.

“The last one he danced with!” another exclaimed. “Oh, no, the
only
one!”

And, finally, the phrase that nearly made me halt Jules in his tracks: “Such a romantic story.”

My heart clattered at my ribs. People were talking about the Heir—Fin—and me, together, and they were calling it romantic? Had they seen something I hadn’t, something I’d told myself I couldn’t dare to hope for?

I sat up straighter, leaning forward in my seat so I could hear them better. Fin and me, a love story after all . . . That was a story I was desperate to hear.

But there was something else, something that did not sit so sweetly with me. These people didn’t care about my inventions at all; most of them were looking at me, not at Jules or the carriage. And they weren’t even talking about
me,
not really; they were talking about Fin. About a story that—I still had to admit—probably wasn’t even true.

Jules and I encountered group after group that started pointing and talking to each other excitedly as we passed. He looked back at me, nervous, but I nodded at him and sent a gentle prod through his rein-levers, and he straightened his neck and kept walking.

He was braver than I. There was no glass wall between him and the staring and pointing. At least I could feel somewhat enclosed, somewhat protected.

The murmurs and gestures and conspiratorial smiling only increased as we reached the palace. At last, at the edge of the square, I began to feel truly lost in the crowd. I felt the burn in my cheeks subside, and I began to look up and around me, out the sides of my faceted glass bubble, to see the other wonders of the Exposition.