The Clockwork Three (9 page)

He made it to Stephano’s lair without incident. The woman with the milk from the other night stood inside by the door. Her dull blonde hair drooped in front of her eyes. She pushed it back, and held out her hand.

“Give me whatever you made,” she said.

He took a step back. In all the years Giuseppe had known him, Stephano had never left the collection at the door to another. The padrone trusted no one with his money.

The woman rolled her eyes, lashes thick with makeup. “Look, kid, you know he’ll know. Just give it over.”

“Where is he?”

She pursed her lips like a tightened knot, and tapped her toe on the ground.

“You don’t know?” Giuseppe asked.

“No, I don’t know! He just took off all of a sudden and left me with you brats. ‘Just get their money,’ he says. Well, I’ve a mind to just get the money and keep it for myself. I’ve had enough of this.”

“Here,” he said, and handed her his take. “Best be long gone before he gets back, though. You know his temper.”

Doubt darkened her eyes like a shadow. “Go get some supper.”

Giuseppe nodded and left her, but he skipped the kitchen and went to look for Ferro or Alfeo. He wanted to find out what had happened, and along the way he watched for Pietro. He never saw the little boy but found his friends sitting up in their usual spot on the third floor. The other boys in the room talked and laughed as they never could when Stephano lurked on the stairs below them.

But Alfeo was quiet. “Giu, I’m really worried.”

Giuseppe set his fiddle on the floor and sat down. “What is it?”

“I think we need to take you to the hospital.”

“What happened? Why?”

“Because I’ve never heard of anyone’s shadow falling off before.” Alfeo kept a straight face, but Ferro snorted. “And I think you need a doctor to sew your Pietro back on.”

Giuseppe punched Alfeo in the face and knocked the boy flat on his back. Alfeo looked up, shocked.

Ferro grabbed Giuseppe’s shoulder. “Hey, Giu, he was only joking.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

Alfeo sat up, rubbing his jaw. “Think it’ll be funny when I break your nose?”

Ferro turned to him. “Back off, Alfeo.”

“But —”

“Back off, or I’ll thump you both.”

A moment passed. Giuseppe grunted and held out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Alfeo stared at him. Then he took Giuseppe’s hand and they shook. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Look, we saved enough room for the kid. Where is he?”

Giuseppe looked in the corner. “I don’t know,” he said. “Either of you know why Stephano’s gone?”

“Nope. But Ferro was there when he left. He didn’t say anything, did he, Ferro?”

Ferro shook his head. “He was there by the door like always. Then Ezio came in and said something to him. Next thing, Stephano gets this look on his face like he’s got murder on his mind. He called Paolo, and the three of them took off.”

“What did Ezio say to him?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t hear it good. Sounded like something about the Old Rock Church.”

Giuseppe went cold. He stopped breathing, and the room noises faded. “The Old Rock Church?” he whispered. Had Ezio found out?

“Yeah. You like that place, don’t you, Giu?”

Giuseppe tried to swallow but felt a throat full of gravel. If Stephano knew his secret, if he had found the stash and the violin, it was over. And Giuseppe was dead.

“Giuseppe? You all right?” Alfeo leaned in. “You look like you really do need a doctor.”

Giuseppe staggered to his feet. “I gotta get out of here.” He snatched up his old fiddle.

Ferro sat back. “What? Why?”

Giuseppe stumbled over a few other boys. “I gotta check on something.”

He did not hear their reply. He fled from the room and almost tripped down the stairs, but by the time he reached the front door he felt like he had found his legs. As he approached, the blonde woman stepped in front of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked with a sneer.

“Out,” Giuseppe said. He pushed by her and opened the door.

“I’ll tell Stephano!” she called after him, but he was already running down Crosby Street.

His rapid footsteps echoed over the cobblestones and bricks, but his racing heart sounded louder in his ears. This could not be happening. How had Ezio found out? He hoped it was not true, that Ferro had misheard, but it was a frail hope. He flew down alleys and streets, the city blocks passing in a blur. He slowed as he approached the Old Rock Church.

A strong wind had whipped up from the east, bearing the tang of sea-water through the city. Giuseppe crept up to the churchyard wall and peered over but had difficulty making out anything in the darkness. The trees hissed and rattled overhead, and the cemetery seemed deserted. He felt a swell of relief but decided he had to be certain his treasure was safe. Perhaps it was time to move its hiding place.

He hunched down and ran through the gate, over the grass, to Mister Stroop’s tomb.

He froze.

The flagstone lay in the grass, and the crypt gaped open.

“I told you he’d come,” said a voice behind him.

Giuseppe spun around. Ezio and Paolo emerged from the shadows. Stephano slid into view behind them like he was rising from a well of black ink. He had one hand on the hilt of his big knife. His other hand held Pietro by the hair. The little boy grasped at Stephano’s fist like he was trying to keep him from pulling his hair out.

“You were right, Ezio,” Paolo said.

Giuseppe tried to run, but three paces later they were on him. Paolo slammed into his back with his shoulder, and Giuseppe sprawled on the ground gasping for air. He rolled to get up, but Ezio pinned him down and drove his face into the earth.

“Good work, Ezio,” Stephano said.

The two boys hauled Giuseppe to his feet. Paolo held one arm and Ezio held the other. Pain flared in both shoulders. He looked at the angel, at Marietta, and saw her crying in the street all over again.

“You can’t hide anything from me, Giuseppe.” Stephano came up, dragging Pietro with him. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Giuseppe said.

Stephano snarled and punched him in the mouth. Giuseppe’s head cocked back from the blow, and he tasted blood.

“Still a liar,” the padrone said. He let go of Pietro’s hair. “Go fetch it.”

Pietro looked at Giuseppe as if he were pleading for something.

“Now!” Stephano shouted.

Pietro squealed and ran off into the darkness. A moment later he came back with Giuseppe’s violin case and handed it to Stephano.

“Go back to the house now, Pietro.”

The little boy tucked his head. Had Pietro seen him hide the violin? Had the little boy betrayed him? Had they forced him to tell? Giuseppe attempted to meet Pietro’s eyes, but the other boy never looked up. He slunk away from them, slipped from the churchyard, and was gone.

Stephano knelt down in the grass before the violin case and snapped the latches open. He lifted the lid and then pulled the green instrument from its velvet bed like he was trying not to wake it.

“Such a pretty thing,” he whispered.

“Yes, it is,” Giuseppe said. “Where’d you get it?”

Stephano laughed without smiling. “All right. All right, fine. I found it in that crypt over there.”

Giuseppe nodded. “I wonder who put it there. Better be careful. You don’t want to go angering any ghosts.”

“Oh, I don’t fear any ghost, boy. You shouldn’t, either. I’m the only thing you should fear. You still deny it’s yours?”

“Never seen it,” Giuseppe said, and spat blood.

“Well then.” Stephano turned to Ezio. “You’ve been hoping for a new fiddle, haven’t you?”

Ezio dug his fingers into Giuseppe’s arm. “Yes.”

Stephano shrugged. “Take this one.”

A boiling rage tore through Giuseppe’s insides.

“You got him, Paolo?” Ezio asked.

Paolo reached around with his arm and put Giuseppe in a choke hold. “I got him.”

Ezio let go and went to Stephano. He took the green violin and held it up to the moonlight. He let out a low, vulgar whistle. Then he bent and withdrew the bow from the violin case. He lifted the instrument to his chin and winked at Giuseppe.

The sight of Ezio about to play his instrument was too much. Giuseppe screamed and thrashed. “Don’t you touch it!” But Paolo squeezed off his air, and he sputtered and choked until the night started to vanish into a deeper blackness. He calmed himself to keep from passing out.

Stephano pointed at the green violin. “Don’t touch it, you say?”

Giuseppe stared at him with six years of hatred.

“Why should you care?” Stephano asked.

“Because it’s mine,” Giuseppe said.

Stephano cupped his hand behind his ear. “What’s that?”

“It’s mine!”

Stephano sighed. “And now it’s Ezio’s. But I’m keeping the money. I’ve had quite a windfall.”

Giuseppe’s eyes welled up. He tried to pinch them shut to keep the tears in, and for a moment he willed the night into unreality. None of this was happening. It could not be. He was too close. Only another week and he would have been on a boat, feeling the rise and fall of ocean swells. After that, home with his brother and sister.

“What should we do with him?” Paolo asked behind him.

Giuseppe opened his eyes. The earlier wind had abated.

Stephano regarded him with the cold indifference of a butcher standing over a carcass, trying to figure the best way to take it apart. “We get rid of him.”

Someone shouted nearby. “Hey! What’s going on out here?”

Giuseppe recognized the voice of Reverend Grey. They all looked and saw a lantern bobbing toward them from the church. Stephano reached for his knife.

Giuseppe panicked. They would kill the reverend if he got any closer. His mind scrambled, and he looked down. He saw Paolo’s foot. He stomped hard on it and wedged his chin under Paolo’s arm. He bit down till he felt Paolo’s skin tear. The older boy shrieked and Giuseppe sprang from his grasp. He sprinted for the gate and flew into the street. He spared a moment to look back and was relieved to see all three after him.

He barreled down the road, shouts and curses overtaking him, flying like he had wings. He burst onto the square, panting, and darted into the crowd, knowing that would not be enough to slow Stephano. Over his shoulder he saw them charging after him, knocking people aside in their pursuit.

The throng was thickest by the Opera House, and Giuseppe veered that way. Silk and fur and feathers grazed him as he threaded between the rich folk waiting outside. When he came through the crowd, he found himself at the steps leading up to the grand theater entryway. He looked up into the golden light spilling out and thought about fleeing into it, but dove to the left instead. He splashed down the alley between the Opera House and the Archer Museum, hoping he had lost them.

Halfway in he stopped and leaned against a wall next to a small theater door. He had never run so hard in his life, and he felt like someone had stabbed him in his side.

“He’s down here!” Ezio stood at the alley entrance, pointing.

Giuseppe looked the other way down the pocket street and then looked at the door.

Stephano and Paolo appeared with Ezio, and they all three bore down on him.

He tried the door, and it opened. Giuseppe stepped through.

The Analytical Engine

F
REDERICK LEANED OVER THE DISMEMBERED POCKET WATCH,
satisfied. He had laid out all its components on a square of black velvet and found the damaged gear. The owner of the timepiece had dropped it from a moving carriage, and although the blow had temporarily hindered the clock in its function, it would not prove fatal. Frederick replaced the broken part and set about resurrecting the watch.

His motions were practiced and precise. His eyes flitted, and his hands manipulated the pliers, calipers, and other tools like spidery metal extensions of his fingers. While he worked, he thought.

Over the last few weeks he had failed in his efforts to create a head for the clockwork man. Subsequent visits to the automaton exhibition room had yielded nothing of value to him, and he did not know where to turn next for inspiration. He had considered going to the museum, but the collection of clockwork on display there was inferior to anything the guild possessed. He knew a solution to his problem existed, but it eluded him like a pacing figure seen through frosted glass.

Frederick finished the watch and wound it. He set the time and held the piece to his ear, counting along with the gentle beating within. He
sighed and took a polishing cloth to it. When he could see himself in the watch’s face, he placed the timepiece in a box, ready for the customer to reclaim.

His stomach growled, expressing its emptiness. He left the workroom and climbed the stairs to the apartment. Master Branch sat in his armchair before an empty hearth, napping, with an open book in his lap. His feet stuck out wide, and his head had fallen back on the chair, mouth gaping open in a snore. Bread and cheese were laid out on the table next to a pitcher of cider. Frederick lifted the kitchen chair and inched it out so as not to make noise. He sat and ate. The bread was fresh, with a crisp crust and a moist center, and the cheese was nice and sharp.

When he finished, he brushed his hands together and stood. Master Branch still dozed, and Frederick went to him. He grabbed a small pillow from the other chair and very gently raised the old man’s head and set the pillow behind it. He picked up the book Master Branch had been reading, placed the ribbon to mark the page, and set it on a pile of books propped up next to the chair. The old clockmaker had so many volumes Frederick doubted they could all be read in one lifetime.

He looked around, scanning the titles. It occurred to him then that a solution to his problem might be hiding in one of these dusty tomes. It also occurred to him that the idea should have come to him sooner. He started in one corner and looked at the spine of each book. Some had nothing written there and had to be excavated from their piles to glean their topics. There were books of history, books of fiction, travel books, and science books. Of course there were books on clockwork. Frederick paid particular attention to those. Some of the material was interesting, most of it boring and mundane. Frederick read but kept one ear tuned
to the chime of the bell on the shop door downstairs. But a lack of customers that afternoon left him able to read for an hour or more.

It was under the window on the south wall where Frederick found a book titled
The Clockmaker’s Grimoire
. The words confused him. A grimoire was a book of magic, of arcane knowledge and spells. But there was nothing magical about clockwork. As Frederick opened the cover and read the introduction, he realized the writer had not used the word in its literal sense. It was only that a well-crafted automaton appeared as something wondrous and impossible, something magical to the observer who did not know its inner clockwork secrets. Frederick scanned the contents, and the titles of two chapters froze his eyes on the page.

“‘Of Babbage’s Difference Engine,’” he read aloud in hushed awe, and then, “‘Of Babbage’s Analytical Engine.’”

Master Branch twitched and smacked his lips.

If Frederick were seen with the book it might raise questions, so he closed it and put it under his arm. He left the room on his toes, descended the staircase one careful step at a time. He paused when he reached the bottom, looked up and listened, but heard nothing. It was unlikely that Master Branch would notice the missing book right away. Frederick took it down to his secret workroom, where the clockwork man reclined patiently, biding its time, headless and waiting for the spark of life. When he opened the book to continue reading, the bell rang upstairs, and he heard the scuff of the front door.

He set the book down on his worktable with a grunt and trotted up the stairs. He entered the front room and saw Hannah standing in the middle of the floor.

“Hello, Frederick,” she said.

“Uh, heh — hello, miss.” Frederick stepped behind the counter. “What can I do for you? Are you here about your mistress’s commission?”

“Partly. Is it coming along?”

“Quite well, I think.” Frederick wiped his forehead. “Master Branch is very pleased. It should be completed within a matter of weeks.”

“Excellent. I will convey that to Madame Pomeroy.”

Frederick bowed his head.

Hannah glanced around the shop like she was trying to find something else to look at.

Frederick said, “What was the other part?”

“Pardon?”

“You said that was ‘partly’ the reason for your visit. Is there anything else I can assist you with, miss?”

“Yes,” she said, and blushed. “Madame Pomeroy also asked me to see if you would be free to take in an opera this evening.”

Frederick cocked his head to one side. “An opera?”

Hannah came up to the counter and laid her hands on the wood. “Yes, an opera. Italian, I think.”

“You know about opera?”

Hannah smiled, but there was sadness in it, and she did not meet his eyes. “I used to.”

Frederick frowned. “And Madame Pomeroy wants me to attend with her?”

Hannah looked up. “And with me.”

The clocks ticking around them suddenly sounded obnoxious and loud. He wanted to wave his arms and shout to quiet them down. “You’ll be there?”

“I will.”

Frederick took a deep breath. “You may tell Madame Pomeroy that I would be pleased to attend the opera with her this evening.”

Hannah curtsied. “She will also be pleased, Frederick.” She turned away from the counter and started for the front door.

“Hannah?”

She looked back. “Yes?”

“What should I wear to the opera?”

“Have you never been?”

“No.”

Hannah smiled again. “Neither have I.” She opened the door. “Just wear your finest. It really doesn’t matter. If you’re with Madame Pomeroy, people will stare at you, anyway. Be at the Opera House by eight o’clock. We’ll meet by the steps.”

“I’ll be there.”

Hannah left, and Frederick let out a long sigh. He was wearing his finest.

Footsteps clomped on the stairs, and Master Branch came down into the shop. “Who was that, Frederick?” he asked through a yawn.

“Madame Pomeroy’s attendant.” He tried to sound casual. “I think her name is Hannah.”

Master Branch looked at him through his white eyebrows. He smiled. “I believe you are correct. She was asking about the commission?”

“She was. I told her when to expect its completion.”

“Good.”

Frederick cleared his throat, but did not know how to approach the clockmaker about the opera that evening, and then the old man spoke before him.

“Shall we get to work on Mrs. Chatham’s mantelpiece?”

“Uh … yes, sir.”

For a half an hour they puttered around each other in the workroom by their own awkward rhythm. Frederick kept thinking about what Hannah had said, about his clothes. He could not wear what he had on to the opera, but had no money of his own with which to buy a new suit. He hated asking Master Branch for anything, especially money. As they worked he opened his mouth to speak several times but failed to make a sound. When Master Branch announced he would be leaving soon to meet a friend for an early supper, Frederick panicked and just blurted it out.

“Sir, Madame Pomeroy has extended an invitation to me.”

Master Branch set down his tools and lifted his glasses. “Has she? And to what have you been invited?”

“The opera. Tonight.”

“The opera?” Master Branch stuck out his tongue as if he had tasted something bitter. “I utterly loathe the opera. Perhaps she is unhappy with us.”

“I do not think that is the case, sir.”

“No? Well, you shall go, of course. I’m sorry to inflict that on you, but she is a customer.”

Frederick looked down at his stained shirt, and his pants, worn shiny at the knees. “I don’t think my clothes quite suit the occasion.”

Master Branch eyed him over. “Nonsense. You look fine.”

Frederick nodded. “You do provide well for me, sir. I couldn’t be more grateful. But from what I have seen, the opera requires a slightly greater degree of finery.”

“Does it, now?”

“Yes. From what I have seen.”

“Hmph.”

“Perhaps, sir, if you think of it as an investment —”

“How so?”

“Well, Madame Pomeroy is very wealthy and well connected. There will undoubtedly be a number of her acquaintances at the opera this evening.”

“Go on.”

“We would be wise to keep Madame Pomeroy happy with us, and make a good impression tonight, would we not? For the sake of future customers.”

Master Branch raised an eyebrow, like lifting a bank of snow. “Very well. You shall have some new clothes.” He pulled out a few dollars from his pocket. “But only as an investment, mind you.”

“Yes, sir.” Frederick accepted the money.

“Head on down to my tailor, Mister Hamilton. He’ll be able to set you up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Frederick stepped out of the shop onto the street. He turned to the right down Sycamore Street and followed the lane till he reached the sign over Mister Hamilton’s shop, a swinging plank cut to look like a spool of thread. He went inside.

Bolts of fabric lined the walls, and tables bearing different pieces of clothing crowded the small room. The smell of newly woven material stirred unpleasant memories, and something moved in the cellar of his thoughts, bumping the door. Frederick squeezed through the merchandise to the counter on the opposite end of the shop and rang a silver bell.

From a room behind the counter a little voice said, “Coming.”

Frederick put his hands behind his back.

Mister Hamilton pushed aside a curtain and stepped into view, a sprite of a man not much taller than his counter. “Yes, young sir, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Frederick. I’m apprenticed to Isaiah Branch.”

“Ah, yes, Isaiah. And how is the old clockmaker these days?”

“Quite well, sir.”

“Wonderful. You must give him my regards. In the meantime, how may I be of service to you?”

“I need to buy clothes to attend the opera this evening.”

He clapped his hands. “Ah, the opera. Very well. How much did you want to spend?”

“I’d like to be as frugal as possible.”

“I imagine so, knowing Master Branch. I think I have just the outfit.” He skipped over to a table and pulled a pair of trousers from a pile. “I believe these will fit your waist, but we’ll have to hem the cuffs.” He whipped a fabric tape measure from his pocket and ran it up the length of Frederick’s leg. “But only by a few inches. I could take care of it now. Can you wait?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mister Hamilton nodded and retreated through the curtains to the back room with the trousers hanging over his shoulder. “How long have you been with Master Branch?” he called out.

“Nearly three years now,” Frederick said, raising his voice to be heard.

“And before that? Where do you come from?”

“An orphanage,” he said.

The tailor went quiet.

Frederick sniffed and looked around. A bolt of cloth near the counter caught his eye, and the deep cellar memories rumbled again. He reached out to the fabric and took hold of it. The weave felt familiar, and the pattern blazed in his eye. In that moment the cellar door flew open, and like a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, the past rushed up to claim him….

The pattern in the fabric had a flaw. Mrs. Treeless held it up to Frederick’s nose. “You see this? I had to shut down the whole loom because of this!”

“I see it,” Frederick said, head bowed. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Well?” The toothless hag towered over him, smelling of whiskey. “Can you fix it?” The little white dog in her arms, an old, ratty thing, stared at him with vacant, beady eyes.

“I don’t know,” Frederick whispered. The great machine sprawled out before him, a maze of gears and pulleys, shafts and struts. “I don’t think so.”

She stamped her foot. “Don’t think so?”

“It’s beyond my skill.”

“Useless boy! I thought you were good with machines.” She stormed from the platform. “I’ll send someone for the machinist.”

Frederick relaxed some and looked down at the other orphans. They waited at their posts on the production line, uncertain of what to do. If they left their places, they might be beaten. If they stood idle, they might be beaten. He leaped down to the factory floor.