gawker, she says behind her fan, “These are the ones who couldn’t get into the smoking rooms with the other Lords. Wait until Father gets here. Then we’ll see something, I wager.”
“The Heir to Grimgorn, perhaps?”
Lucy snaps her fan shut and taps me hard on the arm with it. “Shhhhh.” A miniature version of that wicked smile plays about her lips. “The rumors are already smoldering. No need to set them fully alight!”
I nod.
“And speak of the devils,” Lucy says, nodding toward one of the many arched doorways. “Here they come.”
The Lords enter in wreaths of drifting cigar smoke and bright frock coats, like a bevy of peacocks shooed before a heavy fog.
The last of them limps along with the help of a wolf-headed cane, and, unoriginally, wears a silver wolf-mask to match it. His clothing is fine, but rather plain for one of the most powerful peers of the Empire—black with a bit of lace trim and silver embroidery here and there.
He halts for a moment before spotting us.
Silver glints between the lace of his cuff and his leather glove. Rumors are true. The hand that grips the cane is not flesh but
“Father.” Lucy curtsies.
I quickly follow suit.
A single steel blue eye rakes me from behind the wolf-mask. The edge of a thick scar snakes above his left temple between the mask and his wig and the left eyehole is completely dark. “And this is the one you hired for your Companion?” he says. His voice is gritty, as though the inside of his throat is also scarred.
“Yes, Father.”
“Isn’t she a bit young?”
I try not to bristle. I shouldn’t expect him to treat me like anything more than a servant; that’s what I am to him, after all.
Lucy looks over at me and pulls me as close to her side as her feathered skirts will allow.
“She’s a good deal more talented and intelligent than most older women I’ve met, Father.”
He stares at me again. “As long as the forms are met,” he says finally.
Whatever other scorn he wants to heap upon my head is interrupted by a blast of the herald’s trumpet.
“Her Most Scientific Majesty the Empress Johanna and the Imperial Heir Olivia!
Everyone stops what they’re doing. If they’re seated, they stand. If they’re already standing, they drop their masks and put their right hands over their hearts.
It’s difficult to see much from a curtsy, but my first impression is of a tiny woman swallowed by her black gown, carrying a gnarled staff on which a large white raven sits. Its red eyes sweep the room and lock with mine for a moment. I shiver and bow my head even lower.
When the Empress sits, she signals that we may relax, candlelight winking off her beringed fingers. Her high collar keeps her head stiffly upright; I’m reminded of forbidden pictures of the ancient queen of Old London. Her face is peculiarly mannish; I can’t help noticing her uncannily close resemblance to her ancestor, First Emperor John Vaunt.
Next to her throne stands a fair-haired girl perhaps the age of the Tinker thief—Olivia the Imperial Heir. She’s an anemic flicker compared to her royal mother’s smothering darkness.
And when the candles dance just right . . . I try not to stare too hard, but it looks as if something binds the princess’s lips and hands. Dark threads that only I can see. Someone doesn’t want her to speak. I can see how I might unravel the end of the thread and free whatever’s being held on her tongue. The urge to unbind her is so powerful, I lift my hand before I realize what I’m doing.
Then I see a Guard pass outside the door. And the red eyes of the ghost raven. Right here, right now, it’s far too dangerous.
Something about the spell wards people away from her. No suitors come to court her; no courtiers flatter her. She stands quite alone in the hall of clocks and Carnivalgoers as if she belongs to another world and has been momentarily frozen here for display.
Musicians tentatively begin the first waltz. Lord Virulen murmurs to Lucy and nods to me before replacing his mask and stumping off to where a crowd of other nobles stand. I’ve not yet seen Master Grimgorn. I must have missed him in the crowd.
As soon as her father leaves, young lordlets rush to find space on Lucy’s dance card. Underneath it all, the clocks hum, inevitably ticking toward the symphony of sound that will deafen us at the top of the hour.
“Vespa!” Lucy says, snapping my gaze to her face. She’s looking at me with a mixture of annoyance and impatience; clearly, she’s tried to get my attention before now.
“The young baron would like to dance with me.” A powdered boy simpers behind Lucy’s shoulder. “Hold my things, will you?”
“Yes, my lady.” I take her fan and reticule.
She takes her companion’s arm delicately, though he’s a head shorter than she is, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.
I take a seat with the other servants and Companions. None of them speak to me. Lucy whirls from one partner to another, while I search for some sign of Grimgorn, and the Empress and her spell-stitched heir look on.
Then I spot him—a man dressed in inconspicuous black, which makes him stand out to me like a dark sun. Hal. He’s wearing a wig and carries a horned mask listlessly in one hand. He doesn’t see me. I’m not sure what he’s doing here. Why would the Empress invite a lowly Pedant to her ball? Has he somehow magicked his way into the ball? I wonder.
It’s all I can do not to cry out his name. I bite my lip as he slips out into the hall. What is he up to? The Primer echoes in my head:
“Saint Darwin and all his apes,” I mutter to myself. If I don’t go after Hal now, I don’t know when I might see him again.
As a new quadrille starts, I slide off my chair and weave through the crowd to one of the many arched doors. I look back. Lucy laughs and spins on the dance floor. I don’t want her to see me leaving, so I hold my breath and glide as quickly through the door as I can.
Raven Guards flank the entrances. One stares at me with that empty, clicking gaze. He and his fellows wear the Empress’s red and white livery over their armor, but they still smell like rusty guano.
“I must find the water closet, please.”
“That way,” the bird-headed guard says, pointing his pike down the hall. No matter how often I hear them speak, I can’t get used to the human voice emitted by that clacking bird-beak.
The dark magic that made him is palpable. I hope he can’t feel my magic, even though I’m not using it just yet. What will happen when I speak the love charm? I suppress a shiver.
I hurry down the corridor, my heeled shoes clattering on the marble, dulled only by the sounds of yet more clocks. They’re everywhere here, as well—clocks with ornate, gilded frames, with skeletal faces, or bodies like rearing horses. Portraits and tapestries nestle between them as if incidental to the décor.
Floating everlights beckon me down the corridor toward an ornate arch. The edge of a dark coat whispers round the corner. I want to shout at Hal to wait, but I know that would be foolhardy for us both.
I look back down the hall toward the Guard. The arches and columns block all but the tip of his beak and pike. If I keep to this side of the hall and move quietly, he won’t hear me. I slip off my clacking heels and creep past the door to the water closet. I just pray no one comes at me. I’ll have to throw a shoe at them before I can get my hands free. And even if I can get my hands free, I’m not sure what I could do. The
The marble freezes my toes before I finally slip into the alcove. The heavy mahogany door is open, and I stop to read the words carved over the lintel. CHAMBER OF CURIOSITIES. Around the winged clock face of the Ineffable Watchmaker are carved these words:
