“Why don’t you have your factory make them?”
Norbert shook his head. “My factory turns out materials in large quantities, far more than my little machines might need. Besides, the parts have to be custom-fitted. Don’t worry-I pay the metalsmith well to keep silent. And it’ll be easier now that I don’t have to worry about scheduling appointments for days when you don’t visit.” He drained his glass. “The beauty of it all, my dear, is that everything appears perfectly normal. Your father will continue to get proper care, and when we’re married, his debts will be paid. My first son will be a peer. You may work on whatever other projects you like, as long as my machines stay in good repair. Everyone comes out ahead.”
“I see.” Alice sank into a chair of her own, barely noticing the soft velvet cushioning. She felt suddenly tired, as if she had worked a full day on her knees scrubbing floors. Norbert was right, of course. Father would be cared for. His debts would be paid. Most importantly, everything would be for the best because it would all appear
“Very well,” she said.
The days passed into weeks, and Alice worked out a new routine. Breakfasts still belonged to Norbert, but mornings found Alice in the new workshop. She couldn’t think of it as her workshop yet, even though Norbert made it clear it was as much her domain as the kitchen was to most wives.
The workshop lay behind an anonymous locked door at the end of an unlit hallway on the second floor. It looked perfectly normal and respectable from the outside. Inside was a place clean, spacious, and well lit by electricity, where Alice spent secret time hunched over a worktable, refitting rubber rings and lubricating little pistons. She stayed strictly away from the rooms where Norbert entertained his business contacts.
Alice didn’t bury herself entirely in the workshop. There were wedding arrangements, but not many, since theirs was going to be so tiny. Her wedding dress arrived, and she modeled it halfheartedly for Louisa. And now that she had explored the house and taken over the household accounts, Alice took on Louisa’s help and put on afternoon teas for ladies who were fascinated with the houseful of automaton servants. The events were always highly attended, especially after she fitted one of the footmen to spout tea, milk, and hot water from his fingertips (though she told everyone she’d had it done for her). Alice remained bright and merry on the outside, but underneath she felt lost and frightened. The idea of ferreting out more secrets had lost its appeal, and although she felt flickers of curiosity about the fates of Gavin and Aunt Edwina and the grinning clockworker, she no longer felt a burning need to uncover more ugly truth and take the emotional bruises that came with it.
“I don’t know why I did this, Father,” she whispered at his bedside one morning. “I’m wearing a shell, and it gets heavier every day.”
Arthur Michaels shifted slightly on the silken sheets. His eyes were sunken; his white hair brittle. His hands had shrunk to sticks, and he weighed so little that Alice could lift him with ease. He slept almost all the time now and ate nearly nothing.
Alice held his hand for a while, then pursed her lips and left the room. The automaton stationed near the bed would alert her to any change. Right now she had errands to run. Specifically, she needed to visit the special shop Norbert had mentioned. Three of Norbert’s automatons were malfunctioning beyond her ability to repair at home, and she needed to commission parts. She put on her hat, skewered it with pins, and went downstairs.
Although Norbert preferred his mechanical carriage, Alice had persuaded him to buy for her use a more conventional vehicle, a small, boxy carriage pulled by a pair of well-matched horses. A vehicle like Norbert’s attracted a great deal of attention, and there were times when Alice didn’t want all eyes on her. Kemp drove in a cloak and hat to disguise his own identity, and when they arrived, he carried two muslin-wrapped automatons into the shop while Alice took the third.
The shop was crowded from floor to ceiling with shelves and bins, all of them filled with a jumble up of tools and parts-cogs, wheels, levers, pistons, drill bits, spools of wire, steel sheets, rivets, bolts, screws, nuts, and more. At the back of the shop behind a counter, a wizened little man perched on a stool with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather apron. An enormous pencil was stuck behind one ear, nearly lost in the wrinkles that covered his bald head. His name was Mr. Smeet, and he had once been a smith himself, but now his son and grandsons ran the forge out back while he ran the business out front. Nothing in the shop itself was ordered in any way that made sense to Alice, but experience had taught her that Mr. Smeet could lay his hands on anything from the shelves in seconds.
“Ah, the young miss and her automatons,” Mr. Smeet said in a piping voice that matched his tiny body. “What do you need today?”
Alice made herself march up to the counter and set the bundle down. She had gone through this many times, and she still hated it. Nausea oozed through her stomach, and her skin itched, as if dozens of accusing eyes were watching her. She had to continually remind herself that she was protected. The machines were hidden under muslin, and their true function was also hidden behind an access panel.
“I need parts to repair these three,” she said briskly as Kemp set the other two beside the first.
Mr. Smeet reached for one of the bundles. “Let’s have a look.”
Alice helped him unwrap the three automatons. Two were spiders, and the third was shaped like a large vase, though the opening at the top was not used for flowers. All three had been deactivated. Mr. Smeet put on a jeweler’s loupe, got out a large sheet of foolscap, and spun the automatons toward himself with little
“These’ve been abused,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Alice said. “I’ll need-”
A dreadful wrenching noise tore the very air, and a section of the roof came off the shop, taking a large portion of the front wall with it. Alice screamed, flung herself sideways, and went down, hampered by her skirts. Shouts and screams filtered into the shop from outside, and a hail of wood and metal pelted over Alice. In an enormous hole where the front of the shop used to be stood a two-story machine. It had a squat, round build, with heavy legs, long arms, and gleaming brass skin. A glass bubble enclosed the top, and a young man with ash-blond hair pulled levers and spun wheels inside it. He wore a high collar and an evening coat that fit him badly. Alice stared up from the floor of the shop, trying to take everything in. The man, who pulled up a speaking tube from between his ankles, somehow struck Alice as familiar, though she couldn’t say how.
“Wonderful!” His voice crackled thin and tinny. “Don’t fight me, and I’ll remember it as a kindness when I’m ruling London. Blow me a kiss, and I’ll make you my queen.”
The machine clanked into the shop, and its front opened like a drawbridge. It leaned down, long arms reaching. Alice scooted back, her eyes wide. She was panting in fear. Kemp lay trapped under a wooden beam, one of his eyes smashed, and Mr. Smeet had fled out a back door.
The machine scooped up handfuls of machine parts from the bins and shelves and dropped them into the opening, like a child stuffing his pockets with boiled sweets. “Memory wheels!” The young man laughed. “I’ll build myself an army! Blow me a kiss, and you’ll be my queen.”
He sang a little song as he worked.
More parts went into the compartment. Outrage overcame some of Alice’s fear. He was a thief! A common thief! She scrambled to her feet as the machine shoved more parts into its chest cavity. But then to her horror, the machine plucked Norbert’s little automatons from Mr. Smeet’s counter and held them up so the driver could examine them through the glass bubble.
“Premade automatons,” he cried. “Yours, my queen? I’ll be grateful. May I have the honor of a dance?”
And then Alice knew him. He was the ash-blond man in a bad coat who had asked Louisa to dance at Lady Greenfellow’s ball. He was the second son who had seen Louisa home-and stayed for breakfast. He was even wearing the same badly cut coat.
“Patrick Barton!” she gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
