rumble of thunder and a gust of wind, just like in a real storm.”
Emma dropped to her knees and began hunting around on the ground, her fingers touching and discarding various shapes. “See this?”
“The one that looks like a pistol?” Augustus leaned over her, taking advantage of his longer reach. His shadow fell across the floor in front of her, blending with her shadow to create a strange composite creature, a fantastical heraldic beast.
A beast with two backs? Emma found herself blushing, grateful for the darkness and her bowed head.
Scooping it up, he dangled it in front of her. If she stood, she would bump up against him. Emma stayed where she was, crouched on the floor like a child.
“I suppose it does look like a firearm,” she said, adding unnecessarily, “I haven’t had much to do with pistols.”
“No. I hadn’t thought you had.” The pistol-like object was whisked away.
What was that supposed to mean?
“Well, at least you don’t think I spent my entire childhood fighting off savages.” Emma pushed against the planks of the floor, levering herself up to her feet. She dusted her hands off against her dress. “You’d be amazed by the number of people who have asked me what it feels like to be scalped.”
Augustus smiled politely but didn’t take the bait. He turned over the pistol-like object in his hands. “Show me how this works.”
Emma did her best to recall Mr. Fulton’s instructions. “According to Mr. Fulton, the concept is similar to that of flame-throwing, only, in this case, the gunpowder in the pan, when struck by the hammer, creates the spark and the momentum that propels the flame.”
“So it creates a flare.”
“Yes.”
“With gunpowder.”
Emma looked at the mechanism in his hands. “I don’t really understand it,” she confessed, “but I can put the pieces together the right way and hope for the best.”
She spoke with more confidence than she felt. Sketches of hydraulic pumps for Carmagnac were one thing; putting together a flame thrower was quite another. Emma didn’t want to be the one responsible for burning down Bonaparte’s theatre.
“If worse comes to worst,” she said hopefully, “we can ask Mr. Fulton for help when he arrives. He said he wanted to see how his contrivances contrived.”
“What about your cousin?” Augustus asked, and there was something in his face that she didn’t quite understand. “He has some experience with munitions, hasn’t he?”
“Kort?” Among his other interests, Kort’s father had owned a foundry in Cold Spring, on the Hudson. Emma couldn’t remember quite what it was that it made, but she did seem to recall something about ordnance. Or was that only during the war? She couldn’t recall. “Something like that,” said Emma vaguely.
Augustus set the piece down, more carefully than the others. “What else do you have there?”
Emma turned in a slow circle. The muslin of her dress rasped against the rough wood of the crate, catching on a splinter. “That’s really all,” she said. “Just waves, wind, lightning, and thunder. Isn’t that enough?”
Augustus poked at another piece with his boot, this one a curved cylinder of metal. “What’s this for?”
Emma dipped down to free her skirt from the crate, bumping her elbow on the way up. “I—I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
“Really?” Augustus’s mouth twisted in a crooked smile. “I thought you had everything figured out. You certainly pegged me.”
Emma started to put out a hand, but Augustus’s stance didn’t invite caresses. She let it drop.
“Augustus? Are you sure you’re all right? We don’t have to do this now. The machines will wait until morning.”
Augustus folded his arms across his chest. “Of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The lantern light flickered and guttered around them, creating a kaleidoscope of shifting shadows. Augustus’s posture was as tense as a clenched fist. Emma fiddled with her favorite ring, turning it around and around and around. She could cede to his wishes and let it go. It was what she was best at, smiling and laughing and babbling on about nothing, letting uncomfortable truths evaporate like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.
Why dwell on unpleasantness when one could ignore it?
“Don’t,” she said, surprising herself. “Honesty, remember? You know exactly what I mean.”
“That little scene in the garden, you mean?” Augustus waved a hand in an entirely unconvincing show of insouciance. “Forgotten already. Muses come, muses go. From Laura one day to Beatrice the next. Any interest in serving as muse? There’s a pedestal going begging.” He looked Emma up and down with deliberate insolence.
She was meant to be offended, she knew. Instead, she felt a painful surge of remembrance and, with it, pity.
Nothing hurt more than the disillusionment of love.
“Oh, my dear,” she said softly. “You don’t mean that.”
He stiffened. “Why not? Don’t worry,” he said, “by the time I finish immortalizing you, you’ll scarcely recognize yourself. It’s all in a twist of the phrase.”
Emma’s heart ached for him. “Augustus—”
“
“Do get up,” Emma pleaded, reaching down a hand to him, “and speak sensibly.”
He clambered nimbly to his feet, ignoring her outstretched hand. “Would you rather be Cynthia, goddess of the moon? Astrea, patroness of the Earth, mother of all good and growing things? That was good enough for Queen Elizabeth, but she was a notoriously wanton jade when it came to poetry, posing as any goddess who came along. We can do better for you.”
“I never asked to be made immortal. Augustus—”
“Make me immortal, Helen, with a kiss?” It was the least convincing leer Emma had ever seen. “No. Not Helen. You don’t have that doomed look about you.”
“I don’t want to launch ships,” she said sharply. Pity only went so far. She leaned back against the crate, feeling the scrape of the wood through the thin muslin of her gown. “Can we please—”
“Aurora!” Augustus smacked a hand against the side of the crate with such force that Emma jumped. It couldn’t have done his hand much good either. “Why didn’t I see it before? I’ll make you Aurora, spreading light across the sky, bringing joy to the morning.”
It would have been a pretty sentiment if it hadn’t been spoken in tones of such concentrated sarcasm.
He struck a pose. “
“Why do you write such rubbish?” Emma burst out. “We both know you can do better.”
“Can I?” He braced his hands against the rim of the crate on either side of her. Emma wiggled back, but there was nowhere to go; she was pinned fast between him and the wooden slats. “Maybe I can’t. Maybe I’ve written rubbish for so long, it’s all I can write.”
“You never know until you try.” The words sounded weak and tinny on her tongue. She was sitting on the rim of the crate now, the edge digging into her buttocks. She squirmed uncomfortably. One false move and she was going to topple back inside, immured among the straw and sawdust. “I could help you!”
“Could you?”
“I could, er, listen.” The box tipped precipitately under her weight, pitching her towards him. Emma grabbed at his shoulders to keep from falling. “To your poetry.”
“So it’s all about the poetry, is it?” They were chest to chest, pinned together by the angle of the box, his breath warm in her ear. Emma’s body slid down his, muslin against linen, leg against leg, as the box rocked back into place behind them.
“What else?” Emma asked breathlessly.
“What else, indeed.” He pushed away, releasing her.
