The Inventor's Secret (21 page)

Bromley hesitated, then relented. “I have a room on the
fifth ring. We can go there.”
“You live alone?” Ashley asked.
“Yes,” Bromley said. “We won’t be bothered. I’ve already met my quota for the week, so if I don’t return to the
workshop today, it won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” Coe said. “Let’s go, then.” He kept his hand
on Bromley’s shoulder as the inventor led them to the elevator bank.
Charlotte caught Grave’s hand, holding him back.
When he looked at her, his tawny eyes were sad.
“You remember, don’t you?” Charlotte squeezed his
fingers. “Seeing Bromley brought your memory back.”
“Not all of it,” Grave said softly. “But I remember
something important.”
“What?” Charlotte asked.
“Dying.”

He must be mistaken. He’s been upset because of Bromley, but what he told me can’t be
true. It can’t.

On the fifth ring, Bromley took them down a long, narrow side corridor until he stopped in front of a metal door
identical to ten others on either side of the hall. A tin plate
affixed to the door read h. bromley.

The room was cramped and had no windows. A bed
crowded against a writing desk and stool. In a narrow alcove, Charlotte spotted a washbasin and toilet.

Bromley made his way to the bed and sat down. Grave
left Charlotte’s side and sat on the bed with the man he’d
called both Father and Maker. Coe took the stool and

As their silence filled the small room, Bromley lapsed
into staring at Grave.
“I didn’t think you’d return,” Bromley murmured.
“But you sent him away,” Ash said pointedly. “He was
wandering alone when we found him.”
When
I
found him,
Charlotte thought.
Bromley bowed his head. “I had no choice. The boy
couldn’t stay here.”
“Why are you calling him the boy?” Charlotte asked.
“Is he your son or not?”
“You think it’s a simple question,” Bromley murmured.
“But you’re wrong about that.”
Meg moved farther into the room and knelt on the floor
in front of Bromley. “Your wife, Rosemary, sent us here.”
Bromley’s head jerked up. “You’ve seen her?”
“At the temple,” Meg said. “She recognized Grave as
her son. But she also said her son had died.”
“Yes,” Bromley said, his expression wan. “Our son
died.”
“This is ridiculous.” Ash ground the heel of his boot
into the floor. “We didn’t bring a dead boy here.”
Bromley’s laugh was hollow, but it was Grave who
spoke.
“Yes, you did. But you didn’t know it.”
“It’s coming back to you, isn’t it, boy?” Bromley asked
Grave sadly. “I’m not surprised, given that it all happened
here in the Hive.”
Grave nodded, then sighed.
“You must be related,” Ash snarled. “Because you’re
clearly both mad.”
“Hush, Ashley,” Meg chided. “They’re telling us the
end of a story, but we need to know the beginning.”
Ash ground his teeth but held his tongue.
Meg looked up at the inventor. “You’re the one who
must tell us this tale.”
Bromley gazed at Meg’s upturned face, and the tension
eased from his limbs. His voice took on a dreamy quality.
“The day my son was born, I was the happiest man that
ever was,” Bromley said. “How could something so perfect as my own child bring a curse upon my life? I never
thought it could be so.”
“Illness is not a curse. There is something else that
caused your sorrow, something hidden. Reveal it to us.”
Meg spoke in a slow, soothing tone.
Bromley moaned. His jaw clenched as if he was in pain,
but he didn’t look away from Meg’s steady gaze. “I only
wanted to save him.”
“Your son.” Meg nodded. “As any father would.”
“But I am not any father,” Bromley whispered. “I am
an inventor.”
“You invented something you hoped would save your
child?” Meg asked.
“Yes.” Bromley’s voice shook. “But I had to let him go
before I could bring him back.”
“The child died?” Meg inched closer to Bromley.
Bromley’s fingers dug into the mattress. “It wasn’t his
fault. He was born with a body too frail. I wanted to make
him stronger.”
Meg asked softly, “How?”
“In the mysteries of Athene and the fires of Hephaestus,” Bromley said. “That is where I found the answer.”
Bromley stood up and reached past Coe toward the
writing table. Bromley slid his hand beneath the table.
Charlotte heard a click, and something dropped into
Bromley’s waiting hand. When he sat on the bed again, he
was holding a book. The cover was plain; the pages bound
in black leather. Meg took it from him.
When she opened the book and read its opening lines,
she drew a hissing breath.
“What is it?” Ashley tried to look over Meg’s shoulder,
but she closed the cover and tucked it in the folds of her
skirt to keep it out of sight.
Meg was looking at Grave, scrutinizing him.
“I know what you’re looking for,” Bromley said to her.
“You won’t find it.”
“Why not?” Meg snapped, her soothing tone retreated
before anger.
“My innovation,” Bromley said. “Restructure the body
before reviving it.”
Meg stood up. “What is he?” She pointed at Grave.
“Flesh and blood,” Bromley answered. “But blood is
iron, and bone can become steel. The heart and lungs are
but machines. If built with skill, they will run perpetually
and perfectly.”
Charlotte’s nails dug into her palms. He couldn’t be
saying what she thought he was.
“My father.” Grave turned his eyes upon Bromley. “The
Maker.”
Ash had the bridge of his nose pinched between his
fingers. “If I’m following this nonsense—and believe me
when I say I think it’s all nonsense—you’re suggesting that
your son died, and you rebuilt him with machinery.”
“That is precisely what I did,” Bromley replied.
“But he’s not a machine,” Charlotte said, her mind
flashed to the mechanical creatures harnessed to carriages
outside the Governor’s Palace. “He’s a person.”
“He’s the echo of a person,” Meg said quietly.
“Yes.” Bromley passed a weary hand over his eyes. “I
thought I could bring my son back. Stronger. Whole.”
Meg shook her head. “That’s not how it works. That’s
why it’s forbidden.”
“What are you talking about?” Coe snapped at Meg in
frustration.
Withdrawing the leather-bound book from where she’d
tucked it into her skirts, Meg took a deep breath and said,
“This is the Book of the Dead. Not the true book, but transcribed passages from the original.”
“Bah!” Ash began to laugh. “That’s a child’s ghost
story.”
“I once thought as you,” Bromley said in a rough voice.
“The book is real.”
“What’s the Book of the Dead?” Charlotte asked,
frowning.
“It’s supposed to contain the keys to the art of necromancy,” Ash told her bitterly. “It’s a fanciful notion, that’s
all.”
“Your mind is closed to the arcane, Ashley,” Meg said.
“But that doesn’t mean others haven’t opened doors to
those mysteries, or even walked through them.”
Coe stood up, towering over Bromley. “If you’re goading us with these tales—”
“Look at me, young man,” Bromley interrupted. “I am
destitute. I lost my wife and my son. What could I gain by
lying to you and risking your wrath?”
“He’s telling us the truth,” Meg said. “But he hasn’t yet
told us how it was that Grave left the city.”
Bromley looked at Meg and nodded. “After the boy
died and his mother had gone, I began my work. I had no
thoughts, only obsession. On the night I finished, I realized
what I had done. The natural laws I had broken. When my
invention awoke, he would be something new, something
both marvelous and terrible, but not my child. And if he
were to be discovered . . .”
“Because it was known that your son had died,” Meg
offered.
“Yes,” Bromley told her. “Before he woke, I secreted
him from the city.”
“And left him in the wildlands,” Charlotte whispered.
Bromley turned a pleading gaze on Charlotte. “I knew
he wasn’t in danger. That no harm would come to him.”
“How could you know that?” Coe glared at Bromley.
“He’s just a boy.”
“No.” Bromley faced Coe, his expression grim. “He’s a
dead boy who cannot die again.”

“I thought you came here to aid the Resistance,” Coe said to Ash, pouring himself
a brandy. The liquid sloshed over the edge

“This isn’t lunacy,” Meg told Coe in a sober voice. She
pointed to Grave. “He’s the proof that something horrible
has come to pass.”

Charlotte stepped between Meg and Grave. “Don’t talk
about him like that. He’s done nothing wrong.”

Meg looked the floor and whispered, “But he
is
wrong.”
“That’s not fair,” Charlotte countered. “You have no
proof that anything Bromley said was true. For all we

know, he became a lunatic when his son died. He probably
imagined the whole thing. We only went to the Hive because Rosemary told us Grave was her son, Timothy, but
she’s hardly a reliable source of information. Maybe Grave
just looks like this Timothy, and Bromley and Rosemary
are nothing more than mad, broken souls.”

“Your fear is blinding you, Lottie,” Meg chided. “Grave
himself is the proof. He called Bromley his Maker.” She
peered around Charlotte to ask Grave, “Is what Bromley
told us true?”

Grave had been silent since they had left the Hive. He
had called Bromley Father and Maker, but the appellations
didn’t seem to extend beyond recognition into affection.

Stretching out his arms, Grave stared at his hands and
flexed his fingers. He walked to Coe and took the tumbler of brandy from the startled officer’s grasp. Without a
word, Grave closed his fist, and the crystal crumpled as if
it had been paper.

Coe grabbed Grave’s wrist. When Grave opened his
hand, the pulverized tumbler poured onto the drawing
room floor like sand.

Grave didn’t object when Coe inspected his palm and
fingers.
“Not a scratch.” Dropping Grave’s hand, Coe muttered, “Hephaestus’s hammer. What has that crazy bugger
done?”
“You finally believe,” Meg noted.
“It’s not about belief,” Coe replied sharply. “It’s about
proof. The proof that this inventor, Bromley, managed
what the Empire’s been after for years and doesn’t even
realize it.”
“What are you talking about, Coe?” Ashley went to
Grave and gave a meaningful glance at the boy’s hand.
“May I?”
Grave silently offered his palm for Ashley’s inspection.
“Can’t you see?” Coe was taking agitated turns through
the parlor. “This boy—Grave, Timothy, whoever he was
or is—isn’t just some aberration of nature. He’s the perfect
weapon.”
Ash looked at Coe, his eyes widening.
Charlotte put her fists on her hips, glaring at Coe. “How
can you call him a weapons? He’s never attacked anyone.
He’s done everything we’ve asked of him. He’s strong. He
can break a glass and take a blow to the head, so what?”
“A blow to the head?” Coe repeated, puzzled.
“My cane,” Ash offered. “Charlotte has a point. Grave
was built for toughness, but we’ve no proof that he’s indestructible. It may be that a bullet could put him down.”
“Maybe we should find out.” Coe’s hand went to the
silver-handed pistol at his waist.
“Stop it!” Charlotte shoved Ashley aside and wrapped
her arms around Grave. “How can you all talk about him
as if he’s not a person? As if he isn’t standing right here
listening to you?”
Coe shrugged. “We haven’t gagged him. If he has something to say, he can speak any time.”
Charlotte didn’t move, but she frowned at his words. It
was true, Grave rarely spoke at all. And even now, when
a suggestion to shoot him had been made, he seemed unperturbed.
“I don’t think a bullet would hurt me,” Grave offered in
a soft voice. He sounded not at all worried, and that made
Charlotte terribly frightened.
“Do you know that a bullet can’t hurt you?” Coe raised
an eyebrow.
“No,” Grave answered. “It’s just what I think.”
“If the inventor did find a way to bind necromancy to
machinery, then Grave speaks the truth,” Meg said. “The
stories say that armies of the dead could not simply be
slain. They had to be utterly destroyed.”
“Destroyed how?” Charlotte asked through clenched
teeth. Despite how cold she felt, she wouldn’t let go of
Grave. No matter what strange revelations had been made,
she had been the one who found him in the forest. She knew
he
could
be afraid. She had glimpsed the fragments of a
lost, lonesome boy in Grave. She refused to concede to any
assertion that Grave was merely a machine or a monster.
Meg met Charlotte’s hard gaze and looked away guiltily. “Dismemberment.”
Coe assessed Grave’s body. “That might be a lot of
work.”
“You’re talking about dismemberment as work?” Charlotte shot Coe an accusing look.
“Strategically speaking.” Coe offered her an apologetic
smile.
“But the risen dead of the old stories did not have bodies rebuilt with metal,” Meg said. “Because of that difference, in this case, I don’t think dismemberment is feasible.
He would have to be obliterated.”
“Obliterated?” Coe rubbed his chin while he considered that. “Plenty of weapons can do that. Not a revolver
of course, but the bigger guns could.”
“It’s just a matter of blowing him up,” Ash said tartly.
“Birch could do that.”
“We are not blowing him up!” Charlotte stomped her
foot.
“Lottie, we don’t actually mean to hurt Grave,” Ash
told her calmly. “But we need to figure out what to do now
that we know—or think we know—who he is.”
“What he is,” Meg corrected.
“No,” Charlotte snapped at Meg. “
Who
he is. I don’t
care what you say or what your stupid old stories say.
Grave is a boy. He is one of us.”
Meg started to reply, but turned her face away from
Charlotte before she uttered any words.
Charlotte stared at Meg. She couldn’t understand
how Meg could be so cruel. So unfeeling toward Grave.
Meg had always been the most nurturing soul Charlotte
knew, but now Meg spoke of killing Grave in a voice cold
as stone. The city had changed Meg, and Charlotte didn’t
know why, only how much it grieved her.
“I would like to be one of you,” Grave murmured to
Charlotte. Encouraged that her instincts about the boy
were right, she hugged him tighter, hoping it gave him
some comfort. Grave didn’t seem to object to Charlotte’s
hanging on to him, but holding Grave, whose body was
cold and stiff, set off a hollow ache in Charlotte’s chest.
I wish Jack were here.
Charlotte wanted to believe Jack would take her side in
this. Angry as she was with him, Charlotte trusted Jack to
see this situation for what it was, not jump to the extreme
conclusions that the others had.
But in truth, Charlotte didn’t know what Jack would
do. She didn’t even know where he was right now. Or if he
was ever coming back.
Charlotte’s voice shook. “When I brought Grave to the
Catacombs, he was running from the Rotpots, just like we
would. He hasn’t done anything to harm us.”
“I don’t have a problem with Grave,” Coe said. “In fact,
I’m damn curious about what else he can do. It doesn’t
change the threat he is.”
With a groan, Charlotte argued, “But I just said—”
“Not him in particular.” Coe cut her off. “Not one boy.
But he represents the potential.”
Meg nodded, her face drawn.
“The potential for more.” Ash finished Coe’s thought.
“For others like him.”
“If Bromley did it once, he could do it again,” Coe said.
“If he’s kept that book hidden, I’d wager he didn’t burn his
notes either. Even if he scared himself half to death with
what he accomplished, Bromley’s still an inventor—a part
of him must be well chuffed at what he’s done.”
“He’s not,” Charlotte countered. “We all saw him.
Bromley is miserable.”
“I agree with Charlotte,” Meg said, her affirmation
startling Charlotte into finally letting go of Grave. “Hackett Bromley is a pitiful creature, but even the sorriest of
beasts can be forced to labor.”
Ash was nodding. “If the Empire were to find out what
he’d done . . .”
“They’d give him no choice but to replicate the process,” Coe said. “And the Empire would have a new army.”
Though she wanted to, Charlotte could muster no argument to counter the gravity of Coe’s words. Grave she
could defend. A thousand, faceless reanimated corpses—
part flesh, part machine—she could only dread.
“What can we do?” Charlotte whispered. With her
last threads of courage, she added, “If you try to kill him,
you’ll have to kill me first.”
“Linnet is right about you.” The look Coe gave her
bordered on admiring. “Don’t worry, Charlotte, we won’t
make you use your claws. For now, the most important
thing is to get Grave out of the city. The longer he’s here,
the more likely someone else is to recognize him—or for
Bromley, Rosemary, or one of the other priestesses to say
the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
“Will we be able to take the Dragonfly back to the Catacombs?” Charlotte asked.
“No,” Ash answered. “We’ll have to make other arrangements.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Coe buttoned his coat. “With luck,
I’ll have you out of the city tomorrow.”
Before he left the parlor, Coe quirked a half smile at
Grave. “Don’t break any more of my brandy glasses.”
The joke and the wink he spared Charlotte let her
breathe a bit easier, and exhaustion poured over her. She
sank onto the couch.
“You should go to bed, Lottie.” Ash came to sit beside
her. “It’s been a trying day for all of us.”
Charlotte looked into Ashley’s worried face.
Where’s Jack? If we leave tomorrow, will I see him?
Does he even want to say good-bye?
The questions were
on her tongue, desperate to be asked, but she swallowed
the words instead.
Before making up her mind, Charlotte looked up at
Grave.
“I’ll be all right.” Grave smiled at her. “You should go
to bed.”
Charlotte nodded and kissed her brother on the cheek.
She didn’t bid Meg good night, though she knew it was
a petty thing to do. As she ascended the stairs, Charlotte
heard the rustle of skirts and soft footsteps behind her, and
was irked that Meg would follow her.
She turned around when she reached her bedroom door
and was unsurprised to find Meg watching her from the
top of the staircase.
“I can see myself to bed,” Charlotte said coldly as she
opened the door.
Meg approached her. “Of course you can. But I would
like to speak with you.”
“To tell me more about how evil Grave is,” Charlotte
replied. “No, thank you. I’ve heard enough of that.”
When Charlotte passed into the bedroom, Meg followed her, closing the door behind them.
“I’m sorry to have hurt you . . . or Grave,” Meg said.
“What’s happened has frightened me more than you can
know.”
“Just because you’re frightened doesn’t give you leave to
be hateful.” Charlotte sat on a chair in front of a mirrored
dresser. “Grave has done nothing to earn your malice.”
“Will you let me try to explain?” Meg asked, coming
up behind Charlotte.
When Charlotte didn’t say no, Meg picked up a brush
from the dresser and began to carefully pull tangles from
Charlotte’s long tresses.
“You didn’t know my ancestors were enslaved,” Meg
said.
“No.” Charlotte rocked slightly with the smooth brushstrokes. “You’ve never spoken of it.”
“When my mother sent me from the city,” Meg told
her, “she didn’t intend for me to find a home in the Catacombs. She wanted me to live in the freetowns.”
“Beyond the Mississippi?” Charlotte’s curiosity bloomed.
“And what about your father? Did he wish you sent away
as well?”
“My father believed in the cause of the rebellion,” Meg
said. “He survived the war, but was one of the founders of
the Resistance. He was captured and sent to Boston before
I was born. My mother told me stories of him often, of his
bravery and his sacrifice. But his fate terrified my mother.
She never spoke of her grief or her fear, but I could sense
how strong the loss was, a shadow in her blood and bones.”
Meg drew a sorrowful breath. “I have aunts, uncles, and
cousins in the West. I was to be raised by them, away from
New York, beyond the Empire’s grasp. Despite the terms
of abolition, after the Rebellion, many former slaves feared
an attempt by the Empire to return them to forced labor.
Rather than take that risk, the freemen and freewomen
negotiated a new settlement with the Empire. Those who
wished would leave the coast and settle on lands beyond
the Mississippi trade zone and the French battlements. In
return, the freemen and freewomen pledged to neither raise
arms against the Empire, nor to support the Resistance.”
“And the Empire agreed to the new settlement?” Charlotte asked.
“They had set a precedent for such an agreement in the
negotiations undertaken with their Indian allies after the
Seven Years’ War and the Rebellion.”
“To create the Indian territories in Canada.” Charlotte
looked to Meg for affirmation, and the older girl smiled.
“That’s right.”
Setting aside the brush, Meg ran her fingers through
Charlotte’s knot-free locks. “I was a willful child. I didn’t
want to leave my mother, much less cross some faraway
great river whose currents would mark my separation from
her. So I fled the caravan that she’d paid for my passage
overland. It was the middle of the night when I stole from
the wagons.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” Meg laughed softly. “Not only was I willful,
I was foolish. At six years old, I was certain I could find
my own way back to New York. I was also convinced that
when I arrived, my mother would be so impressed that
she’d never send me away again.”
“What happened?” Charlotte knew the wildlands as
well as anyone, and she knew how long a child alone could
survive there—not long at all.
Meg began to unbutton Charlotte’s gown. “You’ll not
remember Jonathan. He left to join the fighting before you
and Ash came to the Catacombs, but he was to me what
Ashley is to the young children in hiding now. A leader, a
hero.”
Charlotte was tempted to tell Meg about many unheroic and annoying qualities her brother had, but kept quiet
while Meg continued her story.
“Jonathan was scouting and found me in the woods.
I was sick from eating poisonous berries I didn’t know to
avoid. He brought me back to the Catacombs. When I was
well again, I told him I wanted to go back to the city. Jonathan told me that he’d take me to my mother, but only after
I’d stayed in the Catacombs for a week to make sure I was
well enough for the trip.”
With a sigh and wistful smile, Meg continued. “It was
a clever ploy. In the Catacombs, I was surrounded by children my own age. Like me, they felt displaced, but they
had a purpose: to resist the will of the Empire and, most of
all, to survive. I made friends so quickly, felt a camaraderie
I’d never experienced. One week became two, and soon I
didn’t want to leave at all.”
“Did your mother find out where you were?” Charlotte
asked, thinking of how worried Jedda must have been
when her daughter never arrived at the freetowns.
“At Jonathan’s urging, I sent her a letter,” Meg answered. “I told my mother that I was honoring my father
by joining the Resistance.”
Having loosened Charlotte’s gown, Meg went to the
wardrobe to retrieve a sleeping chemise. “When my mother
wrote back, she praised my bravery and my choice. I doubt
she truly felt such things, but worried that any further attempts to send me to the West would only incite another
rebellion from me and lead me to a much more dangerous
end than a life with other exile children in the Catacombs.”
Charlotte slipped out of her gown and day underclothes
and pulled on the chemise Meg offered. “Did you ever see
your mother when you were young? Did she visit the Catacombs?”
Though she could remember no such visits from Jedda,
Charlotte didn’t think that meant they hadn’t taken place.
But Meg shook her head.
“My mother stayed in the city,” Meg said. “I stayed
in hiding. This trip is the first time I’ve returned to New
York since my mother sent me off with that caravan. I see
now that I waited too long, though. Neglected too many
things.”
“How can you say that?” Charlotte picked up a shawl
she’d draped over a chair, wrapping it around her bare
shoulders to ward off the creeping chill in the room. “You
do more than anyone in the Catacombs. Even more than
Ash. He gives orders and makes decisions, but you