Loharri discouraged her from running—her joints were delicate, and he did not want them to wear out too soon. Mattie decided that one time would not hurt her; besides, she enjoyed running.
Her feet struck the cobbles with an alarmingly loud noise, but Mattie did not care. The cool breeze washed over her porcelain face, and thick locks of her hair streamed behind her, like the wings of a night bird. Her skirts, awkward and bulky, hitched by her knees, rustled as she ran. She needed no air, and she felt no fatigue, but the rhythmic motion helped her think.
She felt closer to Niobe than anyone else. She loved Ogdela, but the old woman had never forgotten about the gulf between her and Mattie. Niobe was less polite than Ogdela, and occasionally her comments made Mattie self-conscious; yet, there was less of a chasm between them. Mattie resolved to teach Niobe her favorite formulae, even the ones she discovered herself and guarded as jealously as any other alchemist would.
She slowed only once she saw her house and the apothecary sign in its downstairs windows. She straightened her skirts and walked up with calm steps, expecting to find an angry note from Iolanda or a bored messenger.
Instead, she discovered Iolanda her own self. The joviality of the morning had disappeared, and she frowned at Mattie and rose from the steps where she sat like a commoner. “Where have you been?”
Mattie held up her parcel and the jar of blood.
Iolanda’s nose wrinkled. “That’s disgusting. And it smells like a dead sheep.”
“Would you like to come in?” Mattie asked, and led the way up the stairs.
Once inside, Iolanda marched straight to the kitchen. “Can I trouble you for some liquor?” she asked, a shade more politely than before.
Mattie poured her a glass of currant brandy she kept for especially distraught visitors.
Iolanda tossed it back with one swift motion and grimaced. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been getting quite a chill.”
“My apologies,” Mattie said mildly. “You didn’t give me an exact time, and I had errands to run.”
“I understand,” Iolanda said. “In any case, I have a request for you. Just give me a second to collect my thoughts.”
Mattie poured her another glass and waited, patient, as the fireflies outside lit up, one by one, yellow in the blue and thick darkness. Mattie wondered where they came from.
Mattie’s memories had shapes—some were oblong and soft, like the end of a thick blanket tucked under a sleeping man’s cheek; others had sharp edges, and one had to think about them carefully in order not to get hurt. Still others took on the shapes of cones and cubes, of metal joints and peacock feathers, and her mind felt cluttered and grew more so by the day, as she accumulated more awkward shapes, just like Loharri collecting more and more garbage in his workshop.
To remember things, she had to let them come to her, as the sounds and the sights around prompted and jostled some of the shapes loose; otherwise, she had to pick among the clutter, despairing of ever finding the pertinent piece of her past in the chaos.
Seeing Iolanda sitting in her kitchen, absentmindedly rolling the empty glass—back and forth, back and forth— between her soft palms reminded Mattie of another night in this kitchen, a year or two ago.
Loharri had showed up unexpectedly then; it was raining, and his black wool suit was soaked through, and the overcoat hung in heavy folds impregnated with water, like the broken wings of a gargoyle. Water pooled in the brim of his hat as in a rain gutter. “Do you have anything to drink?” he asked.
Mattie always kept a bottle for her clients—most of them needed it before they could speak freely of their troubles and ailments, of their need to make the garden grow or to fix the crooked spine of a spiteful child, of their misery. Back then, business was better than today—people would still rather buy a potion to make a servant sleep less and work harder in preference to buying an automaton, they still trusted alchemists more than mechanics. She had many clients, and bought a bottle of fruit brandy a week.
Loharri sat down heavily, not bothering to remove his rain-soaked overcoat; she had to free his listless arms from the sleeves and carefully lift the hat off his head, trying not to spill more water than was unavoidable. She hung the overcoat on the back of a chair by the burning stove and poured him a glass.
Loharri drank and then he talked. Mattie had not seen him like this before, even though she was familiar with his mood swings and proclivity to ennui. The words poured out of his mouth in a constant stream, and Mattie understood little of it. He spoke of people she had never met, of places she had never visited.
“Why are they afraid of us?” he said, plaintively. “We are just trying to help; we’re making things better. Without us, they wouldn’t even have running water, and yet… ”
His voice trailed off, and Mattie considered if it would be impolite to ask who ‘they’ were; she guessed that ‘we’ referred to the Mechanics.
“You are my only hope, Mattie,” he muttered, alcohol blurring his voice. “You are the only worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”
“I’m not a thing,” Mattie said.
“It’s not the point,” he answered. “The point is that I have nothing besides you.”
She comforted him the only way she knew how—she let him stroke her hair with his trembling fingers, the bone-white cuff of his shirt brushing against her cheek. She tolerated his searching, restless hands, let them entangle in her locks; she let him pull her close and touch her face with his lips.
He let her go. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and poured himself another drink.
Then he talked again, about the oppressive walls and the dark skies that thundered and spewed lightning, of the stone closing in, of the strange malaise of the mind that made one reluctant to think, to break away from the tyranny of the gargoyles’ city. No matter how the Mechanics modified and rebuilt it, the ancient unease remained, threatening to wake up at any moment and to engulf them all, pull them back into the stone the city was born from; then he talked about the new road the Mechanics were blasting through the hills, the road that would reach the sea and bring in prosperity and reason.
“Shh,” Mattie said and stroked his shoulder. “Have another drink.”
He obeyed, then fell silent and brooded awhile, and Mattie kept stroking his shoulder, unsure whether she was still responsible for giving him comfort, or if she were free enough to tell him harshly to go home.
She could never quite bring herself to hate him—she teetered on the brink often, never crossing over. She had learned resentment and annoyance while being with him, and cold gloating joy; but there was also contentment and sympathy, and pity and gratitude.
“This city watches you, always,” he murmured. He pulled Mattie closer, his arms wrapping about her waist and his face buried in her skirts. Mattie thought then that it was rather sad that he sought comfort by embracing a machine—the construct that was not built to give it. But she tried, and the trying threatened to rend her heart in half.
This memory was so vivid that she could not help but clasp her hands together.
Iolanda looked up from her glass, and smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was lost in thought there.”
“Me too,” Mattie said.
“What were you thinking about?” Iolanda asked. “Loharri,” Mattie answered. “He seems so vulnerable sometimes.”
Iolanda raised her eyebrows and took another sip from her glass. “Really? I did not see it in him.”
“Maybe not.” Mattie sat on the stool by the kitchen table—she was not tired, but she knew people appreciated being on the same eye level as their interlocutors. “What were you thinking about?”
“My order for you,” she said. “It’s not easy for me to ask it… but can you make something that would compel a person to listen to me?”
“To listen or to obey?” Mattie asked.
Iolanda shrugged. “Either would be fine. I need someone’s attention to persuade them, but if you can help that persuasion I will not say no.”
Mattie watched the fireflies flickering outside. She knew about compulsion; she understood coercion—like only an automaton with the key in somebody else’s hands could understand. True enough, Loharri was good—he never threatened her with the key, but the very fact that he could if his heart turned that way was enough.
