The Inventor's Secret (12 page)

Charlotte moved close to him. Her arms encircled his
neck, and she would have fastened her mouth to his, but
Jack grasped her forearms and firmly dislodged himself
from her embrace.
“Stop,” Jack told her. “I can’t kiss you.”
Humiliation seized her limbs, and she began to tremble. “Why?”
“Because I care for you, but I’m not who you think I
am.” He leaned in as if to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, but Charlotte shoved him back.
“
You
stop,” she snapped. “If this is your game, I don’t
want to play.”
He gazed at her, face pale as the starlight, and slowly
nodded. “It might be best if that’s how you see it.”
Charlotte turned away from him so he couldn’t see the
tears that pricked her eyes.
“Let me take you back to your quarters,” Jack said.
When Charlotte didn’t answer, he added, “I have to . . .
for appearances’ sake.”
Lifting her chin, Charlotte took his arm. But she didn’t
speak another word to him that night.

IVEN THAT JACK was Charlotte’s escort,
she found it impractical to avoid him, so instead she ignored him. Speaking to him was
out of the question, except to acknowledge his
queries in short, clipped sentences or even better with one-word answers, and she preferred not looking

Jack’s behavior the previous night had left Charlotte in
a tizzy. She was furious, but sad. Outraged, but deflated.
Her conflicting emotions were unpleasant enough, but
even worse was the simple fact that she had no idea what
to do about them. Charlotte couldn’t puzzle out Jack, nor
could she stop herself from mulling over the scene, despite
how miserable it made her. Every time she blinked, Jack’s

face was there, inches from hers. Her skin remembered his
touch too well. Maybe she’d been wrong to want something more than verbal fencing with Jack.

As the
Hector
’s crew tossed mooring lines to waiting
docksmen, Charlotte tried to set her mind to the coming
day. New York was no longer a glittering object she could
look down upon from afar; the morning had revealed it to
be a behemoth that looked down on her and all the other
puny arrivals at the airship docks.

The city dwarfed the massive dirigibles tethered to the
military platform. The docks buzzed with activity. Swarms
of passengers stepped onto automated staircases that had
been rolled out to meet the arrivals. Brawny dockworkers
shouted commands and gave directions as cargo was offloaded from the ships. Smaller patrol aircraft zigged and
zagged above them. Bells clanged as trolleys sped along the
platforms, whisking travelers from the docks into the heart
of the city.

Charlotte lifted her skirts, taking care that the fabric
didn’t snag in the staircase’s moving parts. Jack stood rigidly alongside Charlotte. She glanced at him and found
his expression bleak. His mood worried her. Ash had explained that while they were in the city, Jack’s childhood
home would serve as their residence. But judging by Jack’s
demeanor, this homecoming wasn’t one he looked forward
to.

When they reached the end of the staircase, Charlotte
waited for Meg and fell into step beside her, letting Jack
lead them forward but preferring to keep company with
her “maid” rather than take the proffered arm of her sullen
escort. Grave and Ash hauled the baggage off a ramp that
adjoined the staircase, bringing up the rear of their party.

While Jack seemed to despair at their arrival in the city,
Grave’s expression could only be described as bewildered.
Charlotte wondered if the strange boy’s continued amnesia
grated on Ashley’s nerves. Although he’d been dressed in
garb from the city, Grave gave no sign of familiarity with
his surroundings.

Jack led them to join a throng of travelers awaiting
the next trolley. The trolley that slowed to a stop before
the small crowd boasted the same, rich ornamentation of
Charlotte’s stateroom aboard the
Hector.
Its exterior featured carved ebony paneling accented with brass. Glass
windows had been cranked halfway down to allow the
fresh air of the fine morning to circulate through the car.
The men and women of New York’s society began to board
the trolley. Before Charlotte could follow, Jack turned to
Ash.

“Servants and luggage on the rear car,” Jack told him.
“Disembark in five stops.”
Ash nodded, and Grave followed Charlotte’s brother
silently as they carried the luggage to a simple flatbed enclosed only by a brass railing and partially covered by a
simple canvas canopy. Charlotte presumed the canopy was
meant to protect the luggage in case of rain—not the servants.
Meg started after Ash, but Charlotte stopped her, saying, “Meg, wait.”
Turning to Jack, Charlotte asked, “Can’t my maid accompany me in the trolley?”
Meg and Jack exchanged a look, but Jack answered,
“Yes. Ladies’ maids are permitted in the main car.”
“Come on, then.” Charlotte took Meg’s arm and joined
the boarding line for the trolley without waiting for Jack.
Charlotte found a window seat, and Meg settled next
to her. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Jack sit
on the bench directly in front of them, but she kept her face
turned toward the window. The trolley bell clanged, and
the car moved forward, as an overhead cable drew it along
the tracks. As they sped away from the docks, a chiming
melody sounded above their heads. Charlotte looked up to
see that the inner ring of the trolley’s ceiling was decorated
with automated men in uniform bearing tiny instruments.
The other passengers paid no mind as miniature drums,
bells, and pipes sounded “God Save the Queen.”
Jack leaned back in his seat, turning his head slightly
toward them. “By the time we get out of the city, I guarantee you’ll hate the sound of this song.”
Meg covered her giggle with her hand, but Charlotte
didn’t acknowledge Jack. She felt a twinge of guilt when
she noticed his shoulders slump. Gazing out the window
to distract herself, Charlotte watched the docks give way
to neat rows of squat marble buildings fronted with Doric
columns.
Unlike the docks, which had been bustling with passengers, crewmen, and workers, the Military Platform
appeared to be occupied entirely by members of its namesake. Everywhere Charlotte looked, she saw uniformed
men—some hurrying from one building to the next, others
in formation, chanting as they performed drills in public
squares.
Though among the upper tiers of the Floating City,
the Military Platform that housed the docks was not the
pinnacle of the metropolis, and soon the trolley began to
ascend, towed up a bridge until the tracks leveled out at
the next platform. This level of the city bore no resemblance to the spare, meticulously neat Military Platform.
The geometric lines of former level were replaced by swirling sculptures of dancers, gods and goddesses of the Greek
pantheon, fantastic creatures. Even the massive coliseum,
in front of which the trolley stopped, was softened by flowers and vines carved into its marble face.
“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte murmured, gazing at the
golden orb onto which a map of the world had been etched.
“The Arts Platform,” Meg surprised Charlotte by saying, “I thought it would have changed, but it’s just as I remember.”
Charlotte turned to Meg. “I can’t believe you once lived
here.”
Meg laughed quietly. “I’m sorry we haven’t had a
chance to speak of my past, Charlotte. I hope you understand that it wasn’t my intention to deceive you.”
“Why haven’t you talked about it before now?” Charlotte said, frowning. Until a few days ago, she’d assumed
that Meg had been brought from the Resistance camps,
like Charlotte and Ash had. Meg was already living in
the Catacombs when Charlotte and Ashley, aged five and
seven, had come to join the other children.
“When my mother sent me away, she told me the past
was best left behind,” Meg said to Charlotte.
Questions danced on Charlotte’s tongue, but she stayed
quiet. Meg had spoken in low tones so that none of the
other passengers would hear her over the whir of the trolley and the ceaseless tinkling of the Imperial melody. Even
so, inquiring after Meg’s history in public was unwise.
Swallowing her curiosity, Charlotte remained silent as the
trolley moved on, taking them up another bridge. When
they reached the next platform, the trolley’s stops became
more frequent.
Each time the car halted, passengers disembarked,
strolling toward wrought-iron gates that opened to manicured gardens, which in turn decorated the foreground
of mansion after mansion. Though not clad exclusively in
ebony like her stateroom had been, the fashion of wood
bound with metal abounded here as well. The homes of
New York’s elite were tall, narrow, and boxy. They came
in glossy shades of chestnut, mahogany, maple, and oak,
accented with brass, iron, steel, and even gold.
The trolley moved on, stopped, and moved on again
until only a handful of passengers remained. When the
bell clanged at the next stop, Jack rose. Meg and Charlotte
trailed after him. Once off the trolley, Charlotte turned
to make sure Ash and Grave had disembarked with the
baggage. She saw them trundling in her direction, bearing
their cumbersome load.
Jack crossed the street, which Charlotte noted had cobblestones that were indeed washed with a golden hue as
Lord Ott had promised. He stopped in front of an iron
gate. While the fence enclosing this mansion was in the
same style as the others, the house behind it was not. Jack’s
home had been constructed in the manner of the Military
Platform’s architecture. It was broad and squat, formed
of pristine marble. The front of the mansion offered few
hints that this place was a residence: the acanthus leaves
of its Corinthian columns were gilded, and the columns
themselves were inlaid with vines of jade. The building
projected a cold, unwelcoming atmosphere.
“Let’s get this over with,” Charlotte heard Jack mutter
before he opened the gate.
They were halfway up the path through the front garden, which Charlotte noted was filled with hedges sculpted
into heroic figures from Greek myths, when the front door
opened to reveal a man clad in a servant’s uniform.
“Mr. Jack.” The man smiled broadly. “Your brother
told us to expect you today.”
“Hello, Thompson.” Jack’s reply sounded warm but
weary.
Thompson was an old man with only a few wisps of
white hair still clinging to his scalp.
“The staff has prepared the rooms according to your
brother’s instructions,” Thompson continued, as his gaze
settled on Charlotte. “This must be the Lady Charlotte
Marshall?”
“Yes,” Jack answered for Charlotte.
Thompson teetered forward into an awkward bow.
“My lady, the House of Winter is honored by your presence.”
Charlotte managed to thank him, though she choked a
little on the words, finding his deference unsettling.
“With your permission, my lady,” Thompson said, “I’ll
show your servants to their quarters and instruct them on
the rules of the household. Mr. Jack can take you into the
parlor for refreshment, which I’m sure you’re needing after
your long journey.”
Before Charlotte could reply, Jack asked Thompson,
“My mother?”
“In the courtyard, Mr. Jack,” Thompson replied. Charlotte found it strange that his tone was suddenly grieved.
Jack nodded, his voice curt. “I should see her. Please
have the refreshments brought to us there.”
“As it pleases you, sir.” Thompson stepped back to give
them entry.
“I’ll put Miss Marshall’s servants in your charge and
see her to the courtyard,” Jack told him, hooking an arm
around Charlotte’s elbow.
Charlotte wanted to protest Jack’s steering her around
like a ship, but she couldn’t make a scene in front of
Thompson.
Thompson creaked into a bow again. Jack met Ash’s
steady gaze and gave a brief nod. Without another word,
Ashley, Grave, and Meg followed Thompson into the
house and up a grand staircase, leaving Charlotte alone
with Jack. She started to pull away from him, ready to
chastise him for presuming this type of intimacy with her,
suddenly Jack was holding her hand, squeezing it tight.
“Charlotte, about my mother . . .”
“What is it?” Charlotte looked at him, startled by the
strain gripping his jaw. The bleakness of his expression
stopped her from chiding him as she’d intended.
Just as suddenly, Jack bowed his head and released her
hand. “Nothing.”
Without another word, Jack led her from the foyer,
through a parlor and a study, and then pushed open glass
doors to reveal a courtyard in the middle of the house. A
balcony ringed the green space, and a fountain bubbled at
its heart.
Marble benches faced the fountain, where nymphs and
fauns danced. Between the benches was a chaise longue,
upholstered in ruby jacquard, its presence jarring in comparison to the tranquility of the courtyard.
A woman was sprawled on the chaise. She wore a rumpled silk dressing gown. At some point, her hair had been
expertly piled atop her head, but now the gray-streaked
brunette locks were in disarray. One arm hung limply off
the side of the chaise, her fingertips nearly touching a tray
on the ground that held an empty sherry glass. Her other
arm clutched a silk pillow to her chest.
“Give me a moment,” Jack said, leaving Charlotte at
the edge of the lawn.
He walked to the woman, leaned down and gave her
shoulder a gentle shake. “Mother.”
This was Jack’s mother? Charlotte didn’t know where
to safely place her gaze. It seemed rude to stare, but ostensibly Charlotte was in the garden to meet this woman.
“Leave me, Thompson,” Lady Winter sighed. “I’m having the loveliest dream. So lovely.”
Jack shook her again. “Mother, it’s me. It’s Jack . . . I’ve
come home.”
Lady Winter opened one heavy-lidded eye. “What?”
“Mother.” Jack’s voice sounded like it was about to
break.
Charlotte’s chest tightened as she watched the strained
exchange between mother and son. She didn’t know what
she’d expected Jack’s family to be like, but she never would
have imagined the scene now unfolding before her.
Blinking into the sunlight, Lady Winter pushed herself
upright on the chaise. “Jack? My little Jack?”
Jack smiled weakly. “Hopefully not so little anymore.”
“Oh, Jack!” Lady Winter threw her arms around her
son. “Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you.”
“And I you, Mother,” Jack replied. He pulled back, and
she beamed at him, rocking a little on the chaise. Despite
Lady Winter’s recognition of her son, something about the
woman still seemed off to Charlotte.
Jack asked, “Didn’t Coe tell you I was coming?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Lady Winter answered with a
dismissive wave. “But you know how forgetful I can be.
Thompson will have taken care of everything of course.
He always does.”
“Yes, he does.” Jack beckoned to Charlotte, who approached with more than a little trepidation.
Lady Winter caught the movement and squinted in
Charlotte’s direction. “Have you brought Eleanor to see
me? Come here, dear child! Don’t be shy.”
Charlotte glanced sharply at Jack.
Who is Eleanor?
Jack shook his head, saying quickly, “It’s not Eleanor.
Do you recall Coe also telling you we would have a guest?”
“A guest?” Lady Winter’s eyes were wide and glassy.
“But we never have guests.”
“Miss Marshall has come to us from the islands—
you’ll remember how I’ve been stationed there,” Jack told
his mother. “She is an heiress to a sugar plantation, and
this is to be her first season.”
Lady Winter barely glanced at Charlotte before flopping back onto the chaise with a sigh. “I always wanted
to see the islands. Your father said he’d take me one day.”
“Father said a lot of things,” Jack muttered.
A woman of similar age to Thompson, wearing a simple gray dress and white smock, appeared bearing a tray.
“Where would you like to take your tea, Mr. Jack?”
“Hello, Mrs. Blake.” Jack passed a hand over his face
as he greeted her. “I trust you’re well.”
“Nothing to complain about,” Mrs. Blake answered.
“How nice it is to see you home.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll take our tea here. You can put the
service on the bench.”
Mrs. Blake prepared to pour the tea, but Jack said,
“Don’t worry over that. I can serve the tea.”
“As you like, Mr. Jack.”
“Mother, do you still take two sugars?” Jack asked.
“Bah, no tea,” Lady Winter replied. “Mary, bring me
another glass, if you will.”
“Yes, Lady Winter,” said Mrs. Blake, gathering up the
tray beside the chaise.
“Mother.” Jack let the sugar spoon go, and it clattered
onto the bench. “Take some tea.”
Mrs. Blake hesitated, glancing nervously from son to
mother.
“I don’t want tea.” Lady Winter propped herself up on
one elbow and glared at Mrs. Blake. “What are you gaping
at, you old mare? Another glass, I said.”
Mrs. Blake curtsied and hurried off.
“Mother”—Jack snarled the word—“don’t speak to
Mrs. Blake that way.”
“Don’t speak to your mother that way!” Lady Winter
spat. Her lip began to tremble, and before Charlotte knew
what had happened, Jack’s mother was weeping.
With a sigh, Jack knelt beside Lady Winter. “It’s all
right. Don’t cry.”
“You don’t know how hard it is,” Lady Winter gasped
between her sobs. “I’m so lonely.”
“When was Father last home?” Jack asked.
“It’s been sixteen months this time. He was supposed
to come for the summer,” Lady Winter told him, “but he
sent a letter. It arrived a few days ago.”
“And he’s not coming,” Jack finished.
Lady Winter began to cry again, and Mrs. Blake reappeared with a glass of sherry.
“Here it is.” Mrs. Blake placed the delicate glass into
Lady Winter’s hand.
“Oh, thank you, Mary.” She turned her tearstained
face up to look at Mrs. Blake. “You must forgive my ill
temper. I forget myself.”
“No harm done, my lady. You’ve tired yourself, that’s
all.” Mrs. Blake gave Jack a meaningful look. “Perhaps
you’d prefer to have your tea in the parlor?”
“Yes.” Jack stood and watched his mother drain her
glass in two swallows.
Mrs. Blake collected the tea service and exited the
courtyard. Charlotte wondered if she should follow, but
her attention was snared by a strange, high-pitched cry.
She turned to see a marvelous bird calling toward the sky.
Charlotte couldn’t help but stare. The peacock was vibrant; its cobalt chest and jade neck were unlike any of the
small forest birds she knew. Their advantage was camouflage, whereas this creature lived to be seen. Taking notice of her gaze, the peacock preened and fanned out its
enormous tail. As the feathers spread, a strange clicking
noise reached Charlotte’s ears. Her admiration coiled into
revulsion. The bird’s tail had been reinforced with metal
framework, and the many eyes of its feathers did not simply boast gemlike tones, but had been embellished with
real jewels. Emeralds and sapphires flashed in the sunlight
as the peacock strutted past her.