“Um—why?” Imogen looked dubiously at the metal figure.
Evelina wet her lips, suddenly feeling like her stays were far too tight. “Because the residue of magic that was on the gold came from there.”
“Skipping past the fact that I was handling something with magic on it, and you knew and didn’t tell me, how can you tell it’s the same?”
“It feels prickly.”
“Prickly?”
“Like a mustard plaster. Hot and irritating.”
“Are you sure that’s not my irritation you’re feeling? You should warn people—”
Evelina twitched with impatience. “Imogen! Worry about that later. I cleaned the magic off the bag before you ever touched it.”
Her friend pulled a face. “Oh, very well. And this sensation is coming from over there?”
“Right.”
Imogen sighed, toying with the handle of her reticule. “I think I’ll just have to take your word for it. To me, the place feels wrong, but that’s not really proof of anything.”
“But it is. It explains why there’s no one in this alley. Everyone can feel magic, even if they don’t realize it. And if it’s a charm to keep people away, that’s exactly what it’s going to do.” Evelina looked at her friend, trying to weigh the slight mockery in her voice. “You’re taking this very much in stride.”
Imogen gave a low laugh. “There’s something about nearly dying a few times when I was little that makes everything else look very manageable. Although that ugly automaton is giving me pause.”
“Most storerooms or warehouses have them. Go down near the docks and they’re all over the place.”
Imogen, who had never been anywhere so exciting, gave her a look brimming with curiosity. “Are thieves that much of a problem?”
Evelina nodded. “The bigger the machine, the more important the merchant.” She couldn’t help thinking of Lord Bancroft’s stolen automatons, and wondering one more time what was so important about them.
Imogen looked impressed. “This one is plenty big. I wonder who owns it?”
“Someone who’s putting it there simply for show. It’s rusty.”
“Does that mean it will leave stains on my skirts while it mashes me into the dust?”
“Only if it catches you.”
“How sporting.”
“You stay here.”
Evelina marched toward the huge metal figure, stopping a few feet away. With a great groaning of metal, it shifted one leg so that it could face her—rather pointless, since it didn’t have eyes to see or a head to put them in if it did. As a result, Evelina wasn’t sure where to look, and had a disconcerting sense that she was somehow being rude.
A good five seconds and a lot of noise later, it completed its change of direction. The huge, dull gray foot made an enormous
Then it gave a puff of steam—a signal that the boiler was ramping up for action, and also that the unit was in need of repair. The coal-fired boilers inside these units were small but highly efficient as long as the housing was tight. If the system was losing pressure, it was no wonder the unit was slow.
Evelina tapped one foot. The thing was obviously here for show. The real guardian was whatever magic she sensed inside the warehouse. “Pardon me? Mr. Automaton?”
It ignored her salutation and ponderously lifted one fist high above its head. Metal creaked, flakes of rust raining down as it strained to move. She supposed if she stood very still and didn’t bob about, it might have been able to deliver a mighty blow.
Meanwhile, the automaton had become stuck. The arm had reached its highest point and couldn’t seem to reverse course, the joint sticking at the zenith. The thing shuddered with the robotic equivalent of dry heaves. Calmly, she reached up to examine its chest. There was the usual plate that could be removed to expose the workings inside. She touched the metal skin and found it hot and slippery from the escaping steam. The fingers of her gloves came away soaked.
“Evelina!” Imogen cried.
She darted aside as the automaton finally unstuck and thumped its fist into the ground where she had been standing a moment before. Then she waited patiently as it creaked to an upright position again.
“I’ll be done in just a tick,” Evelina replied.
As it raised its arm for another attack, she unlatched the chest panel—standing on her toes and cursing as she burned her thumb—and disconnected the main pneumatic line. The automaton froze, arm raised. She squinted up to read the date of manufacture on the back of the panel: 1856. No wonder the thing was so slow. It was ancient. The maintenance label read
“I think this fellow was designed for breaking up rocks,” Evelina announced when Imogen reached her side.
“It’s not much of a guard.”
“It looks impressive. That’s probably good enough for casual passersby. One look at this and your common bully-boy would stay away—at least until he figured out he could run circles around this thing.”
Evelina’s palms were sweating.
“Well,” Imogen said brightly. “That wasn’t so hard. Now what?”
“Now I have a look around.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Evelina stepped away from the machine, dread crawling up her scalp. The sunshine seemed suddenly thin as watered soup. “No, there’s no telling what’s in there.”
“I’m not going back to the carriage to sit there like an obedient spaniel.”
Evelina gave her a baleful look, but Imogen didn’t budge. Evelina relented, imploring the gods that she wasn’t putting her friend in danger. “Then stay close.”
The warehouse door wasn’t locked, but came open with a creak of hinges. Sunlight fell in filmy banners from windows set high in the unfinished walls. Evelina felt a prickling against her face, as if she’d walked into a swarm of biting insects. Whatever caused that was the real guardian. She swallowed, but there was nothing to ease her dry throat.
She held up a warning hand, listening for movement, hearing nothing.
“Go slowly,” she spoke in a whisper. “There’s definitely magic in here.”
Imogen stopped. “What kind did you say it was?”
“I don’t know yet.” Evelina tugged her close. “Just stay with me. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
Crates were stacked at one end of the space, some with the lids pried off to reveal tufts of packing straw and sawdust. A crowbar leaned against the wall.
“This doesn’t look like the draper’s stock,” Imogen said. “I don’t see any cloth. I actually don’t see anything that looks like merchandise for a store. What is this?”
“An importer’s wares, perhaps? There are all kinds of languages on the labels of these crates. I think that one is Greek.”
They stuck close together as they moved quietly between the rows of wooden boxes. The loudest sound was the hem of their skirts dragging through the old sawdust that littered the floor. As Imogen said, there were no stacks of dishes or furniture or other household goods. It was as if whatever had been unpacked had already been removed.
“What’s all that?” Imogen asked, indicating a workbench and racks of carpentry tools at the other end of the building.
“It looks like a workshop, maybe? Perhaps some items are sent in parts, and they assemble them here?” There was a fascinating pile of old gears and wheels, as if someone had disemboweled an entire showroom of clocks. “I wonder if the Gold King knows about all this machinery. You could build half a factory from these scraps.”
