Real Girls Don't Rust Page 3

  Still, I take out my clockwork key and explain the concept to Travis. “If it works, you’ll just have to insert and wind it once a week.”

  “You made this yourself?” he asks.

  I nod. “There’s a chance it could jam the keyhole, and that might be lethal. Are you sure you want me to try this?”

  “I trust you,” he says without hesitation.

  His confidence doesn’t make me feel any less nervous.

  I take a deep breath and place the device gently into the keyhole, careful not to force it. Slowly it begins to settle into place, then snags. I pull it out, oil the keyhole, gently readjust the tip of the clockwork key. Travis’s dark eyes bore into me the entire time. The calm is starting to slip from his face—just a little, and he keeps using his free hand to fidget with his spectacles. I dig into my front pocket and extract my latest letter from Delancy. “Do you want to read a letter from my sister?”

  He looks at me like I have three heads.

  “As a distraction,” I say. “You’re making me nervous,” I add when he doesn’t respond.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He takes the letter in his other hand, and I go back to work. This time the device goes all the way in, settling with a tiny, but satisfying, click. I hold my breath, picking up the little key. What if this doesn’t work? What if it jams the whole device? What if it kills Travis?

  I shake my head to clear it and pick up the key, inserting it into the clockwork device’s keyhole and twisting ever so gently. My stomach is doing aerial flips, and I can hear my own heartbeat thumping in my ears. Or maybe it’s Travis’s, I can’t tell. The key winds, and I can feel the subtle vibration of the keyhole. It’s working.

  I keep winding, and I dare to look at Travis’s face. He’s watching his hand, and his eyes widen with each turn of the key until I think they might pop right out of his head. “You did it,” he whispers, his voice so filled with awe that it sounds like he thinks he might be dreaming.

  “You all right?” I ask, because he’s looking a little peaked, too.

  He nods and smiles. I think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him smile…at least a genuine, truly happy, full smile. It makes him look like he’s about nine years old. I grin back.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I’m still kneeling there with the key in my hand, and now I flop down next to him, feeling as spent as a wet dishcloth. “So what are you going to do, now that you’re a free man?”

  He shakes his head like it’s too much to contemplate. “I don’t know yet.”

  “You’ll be leaving, won’t you?” I ask. I try to keep the sadness out of my voice because I know, of course, that he should leave.

  “Eventually. I might stick around here awhile longer, though, if Dr. Fish’ll have me full-time. At least he pays me.”

  “Skorp doesn’t even pay you?” I squawk.

  “I guess keeping me alive was his form of payment.” He shrugs at my outrage. “It’s over now, thanks to you.”

  I think about Travis’s words that evening during the carnival. I don’t believe I could be so calm in his situation, but I admire him for it nonetheless. Being rageful toward Skorp won’t bring Isaias back.

  After the carnival ends that night, I find Travis in the balloon basket.

  “I really can’t thank you enough, Laraby,” he says as I settle in.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  He passes something over to me, the letter I’d given him to read before. “She sounds nice, your sister. Both of them,” he adds, because the letter was mostly about Izaly.

  We’re quiet for a minute, and then he clears his throat and says, “I, uh, noticed the name of the town on the letter. Where your sisters live, I mean, in Greysville. ‘Bout two weeks from now, we’re going to be in Bedsford. It’d be about a two days’ ride on horseback between Bedsford and Greysville, but I could fly there in a couple hours. Would you like to go? We could leave early and come back that night and you could have practically all day with your sisters…if you want to, that is…”

  His words are falling all around me and for a moment I’m having trouble grasping them, having trouble picturing the mere possibility of seeing Delancy and Izaly. But the last little falter in his voice, the uncertain “if you want to,” brings me back to my senses. “Yes! Yes, of course!”

  “It’s the least I can do,” he says. “I know it must be hard for you, being so far from them.”

  I nod, but already my happiness is being tempered by something else, a rush of feelings I’ve bottled up forever. “It’s Jackson I miss most, but he’s the one I’ll never get back,” I say slowly. “My sisters—I love the idea of them, but sometimes I feel like I don’t even know them. Izaly especially. And I’m working to make a life for her and the boys, but I get to thinking, sometimes, that they might not even want it by the time I’ve built it. They’re settled where they are. It’s me that hasn’t got anybody.”

  Travis doesn’t say anything at first, but he slips his hand into mine and gives a little squeeze. I squeeze back.

  I do have someone.

  “Things will work themselves out,” he says. “It’ll be all right.” He smiles at me again. “After all, you can fix anything.”

  And for that moment anyway, with his hand in mine, it feels like I can.

  In The Shadow of the Eagle’s Eye

  Tonja Drecker

  One in. One out. One in. One out. Amelia jabbed the needle into the cloth and pulled it through the other side. The pretty bluebell took form along the edge of what was to be a dainty doily, a present for one of Momma’s friends who was assisting with the wedding preparations. Amelia set the needle to the side and pushed the last stitch into position. It was lovely, although she hated to admit it. Needlework was a drab activity, time-consuming and meaningless. The proper way for a lady to spend her time, Momma claimed.

  “A proper lady,” Amelia mumbled. She took the needle and jabbed it back through the tightened linen. If this was the task of a proper lady, she preferred never to become one.

  Giddy laughter glided through the window overlooking the garden. Amelia rested the stitchery on her knees and watched her younger sister dart among the lilac bushes. How she wished she could run around with her, but with the approaching wedding, she wasn’t allowed out of the house for fear the sun might darken her skin.

  “Amelia, I believe it’s time you readied yourself for tonight’s party.” Momma stepped into the room, propping the hair piled up on her head this way and that. With an irritated sigh, she took the hairpin pursed between her lips and rammed it into a loose sprig over her ear. “There. That should hold for a few moments.”

  She came across the room, gliding her hand over the top of the chairs lined up along the dining room table. When she reached Amelia, she gazed at her daughter’s work and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Amelia rubbed her finger over the bluebell one last time and laid the cloth-covered hoop on the side table. “I should be done in time.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you will.” Her mother sat down in the chair next to her. She traced her finger along the lines carved into the armrest. “I don’t know if I should bother you with this before tonight, but when I consider that it might happen to you, my own daughter…” She cringed.

  “What is it?” Amelia laid her hand on her mother’s arm. “The authorities didn’t find another one, did they?”

  The cracks in her mother’s lower lip widened as she bit down. She nodded.

  “Who? Where?”

  Her mother swallowed hard. “Elizabeth Branford. Down by the old bridge.”

  Amelia gasped. “But she…”

  Her mother nodded. “I know. You used to play with her when you were younger.” She reached her arm across her lap and squeezed Amelia’s hand. “It was the same as the others. A perfect circle burned around her head like the brim on a hat.”

  “Was it the British?” It didn’t seem possible. They had
been defeated almost three years before, although their long presence in New York did leave some doubt as to whether or not the Queen had genuinely given up her claim on the colonies.

  Her mother shook her head. “No, no. No one believes that.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  She laid her hand on Amelia’s knee and, after a moment, added, “The people in town call him the Archangel, but no one knows who he is.”

  “That’s the fifth body,” Amelia whispered. The picture of her childhood friend lying limp across the riverbed flashed before her eyes, but she pushed it back into the place where she kept the other four. It’d been much harder to handle the news of the first two murders, but with three…then four… She’d known each one, some more personally than others. The news hit hard each time, but practice had taught her to hide it, to drive it into the back corners of her mind.

  “Well, life carries on.” Her mother sniffed and patted Amelia’s hand. “As the future Mrs. Richard Goldsboro, it is your duty to present yourself in the finest manner possible tonight. I believe that the blue dress with the large ribbon would be most appropriate for this evening. It’s the most elegant.”

  “It makes me appear older,” Amelia corrected.

  Momma took a deep breath. “El-e-gant.” The “t” echoed through the dining room, causing the large chandelier over the dark oak table to chime. “Not older. Perhaps a bit, but that can only be of benefit. Richard has a few years on you. We needn’t stress the age difference by dressing you like a small child.”

  Amelia picked at the lace on her dress, a special model shipped in all the way from Paris. Momma was stuffing her into “older”-looking dresses more and more lately. At this rate, Amelia was sure she’d be dressing like a seventyyear-old woman by winter.

  “No, Momma, you’re right. We mustn’t,” she said with a deep sigh as she rose to her feet.

  She went to the entrance hall and turned up the stairs. The polished wooden railing seemed cold for such a warm day. Amelia gripped it as she climbed, one step at a time. She didn’t understand Momma’s concern. Richard might be twenty-five, but she was nearing seventeen. That didn’t make for nearly as large an age difference as some married couples in town. When she considered that it was her mother who had encouraged Richard to start courting her only a few days after her sixteenth birthday, it made the woman’s attitude all the more preposterous.

  Richard had joined them for dinner—a real dinner, not one of these gigantic ordeals with music and dance that he classified as dinners. It’d been a simple supper with just the three of them. Amelia had not guessed Momma’s or Richard’s intentions at the time, but it wouldn’t have bothered her if she’d known. His dark eyes never left her that evening. She’d been instantly caught in his spell. There was very little she could remember from that evening’s conversation, although she knew they had laughed and enjoyed every word that had flowed out of his mouth.

  A warm, cloudy feeling encompassed her as she remembered the light kiss on the back of her hand at the evening’s end. She’d sworn never to scrub that spot again, an oath she couldn’t keep. It didn’t matter, though. There’d been many more in the months that followed. Strange that none of them had quite the effect on her that the first one had. She lifted her hand to her lips and kissed the spot before continuing to her room.

  The preparations took hours, and Amelia felt like an overly decorated porcelain doll as she climbed into their carriage. The dress made it impossible to sit properly. The ruffles on the back bunched into a hard knot, and no matter where she placed her feet the silken folds got in the way. By the time she got the fluffy layers halfway organized, the carriage had passed the familiar row of willows draping around the Goldsboro estate. They reminded her of the curtain at the theater. When the carriage passed to the other side, the manor stood at center stage, beaming brighter than the sun. The carriage stopped directly in front of the house; the door swung open, and a black arm appeared to help her step out.

  “Very practical.” Her mother clicked her shoe against the white granite which glistened like stars in the lamplight. “Every time I step up this walkway, I’m impressed by Richard’s innovation—a layer of stones to keep our dresses from getting muddy. A simple solution, but a costly endeavor.”

  Amelia nodded, unable to stop the smile creeping over her face as she remembered Richard’s comments the first time they’d dined here. But not nearly as priceless as preserving a woman’s beauty. If he hadn’t had her mother’s full support before, he did after that statement.

  “If it weren’t for that ugly creature perched on top of the roof, I’d have nothing but the fullest trust in Richard’s sanity.”

  “You do anyway,” mumbled Amelia as she gazed up at the bronze bird above. Its metal wings with their hundreds of fitted plates nuzzled together gave the appearance of real feathers. As if preparing for flight, the gigantic bird’s wings were spread out, ready to take the entire house with it.

  Richard never tried to hide his admiration for the bald eagle. The most majestic of God’s creations, barely falling short of mankind itself, he would say. Amelia had already listened to many detailed descriptions of this bird’s clever hunting practices. She always smiled and did her best to appear interested when Richard dove into another lecture, but afterwards she could never remember a word he’d said.

  The gigantic copper head swayed back and forth as if scanning the grounds for its next prey, a construction that Richard was particularly proud of. Periodically the beak would open wide, letting a tower of steam rise into the sky. This always drew gasps from the guests attending Richard’s parties. But Amelia found the creature’s eyes to be its most impressive trait. The large crystals glistened in the moonlight, giving life to the otherwise cold statue.

  “They must have cost a fortune,” whispered her mother, as if reading her thoughts.

  The eagle’s head came to a stop, its gaze seeming to lock on Amelia. She shuddered. Even if Richard was eccentric, one could hardly doubt the genius behind his moving sculpture.

  The warmth inside the entrance hall, combined with the festive lighting and rumble of conversation, wrapped around Amelia like an insulating quilt. When Richard appeared in his dark jacket, a large smile stretched across his face, Amelia’s world felt complete.

  “You look lovely.” He kissed her hand and held it, refusing to release it right away.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

  With a slight nod, he released her. Several sprigs of his black hair fell across his eyes as he looked up. Amelia resisted the urge to reach out and push them back into place for him.

  “Why don’t you go on to the ballroom? I need to attend to some important matters before I join you.” He glanced to the side as if searching for someone.

  “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to accompany us first?” her mother asked with forced politeness.

  Richard bent over and kissed her weathered hand. “I’d only be a blotch in the presence of such beauty.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. He knew how to wrap her mother around his finger.

  Catching Amelia’s expression, Richard winked at her.

  Amelia sighed. He knew how to do it to her, too.

  “I’ll be along shortly. Promise.” His eyes flashed a last smile before he disappeared around the staircase into his private rooms beyond.

  “Well, I hope you can manage to bind him down a bit after you two are married.” Her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval.

  Amelia smiled. She knew she never would. “Yes, Momma.”

  The ballroom was overfilled. The music came from another one of Richard’s creations—a mechanical orchestra perched up on the edge of the balcony. A conglomeration of brass arms and joints held the traditional instruments, playing them with as much grace and talent as any human ever could.

  Amelia nodded and greeted the various guests with trained, polite words as she went through the room.
She loved the atmosphere of such social events but lacked the talent for small talk. Luckily, her mother had enough talent for both of them and soon had the attention of several influential individuals. Senator William Floyd and his wife seemed particularly interested in her knowledge of Senator Thomas Stone’s family and his wife’s deteriorating health. Glad that she didn’t have to say a word, Amelia slid behind her mother and watched the dancers.

  “Excuse me. May I have this dance?”

  Amelia turned around with the intention to politely decline, but the moment she saw the young man, her heart stopped. Golden waves of hair cascaded down the sides of his face, dangling in subtle disarray. His features were hard and distinct, but his smile engulfed her like a small sun. Heat shot through her, flooding into her cheeks.

  Afraid that those around her might see her inappropriate reaction, Amelia dropped her head and busied herself straightening the folds on her skirt. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

  He coughed, not able to fully suppress a chuckle. “I was hoping I might have this dance. It would be a great honor to share it with my brother’s future bride.”

  Amelia jerked up. “You’re Richard’s brother?” She studied his face, searching for any similarities. There were none. “He’s never mentioned that he has a brother.”

  “No?” He raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t surprise me. He isn’t one to flaunt discrepancies in his family’s bloodline.” He tilted his head to the side. His crooked smile made her heart stop again. Then he leaned closer. “I’m Gabriel, his half-brother,” he whispered. “An undesirable outcome of our father’s more dishonorable behavior.” Her skin prickled as the warmth of his breath slid across her neck.

  “May I have this dance?” he repeated, holding out his hand.

  “Would your brother approve?” She fought to remember the correct behavior for someone in her position, a young woman promised to be married. It wasn’t easy.

  “No, probably not,” he said flatly and took her hand.