Real Girls Don't Rust Page 7

  “You…you missed a bit.” I point to the corner of the room, where a winking piece of the broken mirror gleams up at me.

  Without acknowledgment, the woman pushes her supply cart to the corner of the room and sweeps up the glass. She doesn’t spare a look for me on her way out.

  Later, when I am safely in my own bedroom, I ask Stacey to bring me the mirror from my dressing table. She detaches it from its base and carries it over to me, and then sits down on the end of the bed.

  A brief look is all that’s necessary. Fancy hadn’t gotten the better of me earlier. A hideous glass-goggled eyepiece is strapped around my head. Its brass fittings secure the oversized external components to my face so that they are held firmly in place. The milky lens is necessary, I’ve been told, to protect the seeing sphere behind. Lifting my hand to my face as gently as I can, I press down on the clasp at the outer corner of the eyepiece. It unlocks quietly with a click, and then the glass plate swings open to reveal the sphere behind it.

  My left eye stares ahead sightlessly. Sadly. The new eyepiece shines with a highly polished perfection. Staring back at me from the mirror is the best and worst thing I have ever seen in my life. “I’m hideous,” I say.

  “No, no. Not at all. To be sure, it’ll take some getting used to. But think of the advantages. Surely they outweigh…”

  “The grotesque accessory? The stares I’ll receive in the street? The stigma of being like one of them?”

  Stacey smiles. “I think it’s anything but grotesque. You’ll no longer be the meek girl leaning on my arm, Lissie. You look important. Like someone commanding a ship. Like a leader. Besides, I don’t think they are quite so bad. Your father doesn’t think so. At least not so far as a certain ophthalmic surgeon is concerned.”

  “No, of course not.” My cheeks redden.

  “Why, he’s all your father speaks of.”

  “I know. You mustn’t misunderstand me. I like him, I do.”

  Stacey fusses with a stray ringlet. “So do I.”

  “But I feel branded now. I can’t hide this…this thing. It’s a part of me now. That frightens me.” I flip the little round eyepiece window closed with a snick.

  In the weeks following the surgery, Dysart’s string of terrorizing killings continues; Papa forbids all excursions except for worship. The newspaper headlines scream of brutal attacks on Alphas, and of things—other things—that are so horrendous they can’t be uttered. Stacey is as attentive as she can be under the circumstances and sends little bits and pieces to the house—a new fabric sample, a special black and red rose from a new variety, an article on golems clipped from some sort of publication. Scanning the article, I can’t discern an author, or the publication from which it has come. The print is small and the paper thick. To me, it looks nothing like the newspapers Papa reads over his breakfast. As far as I can make out, the unsophisticated writings are nothing more than a treatise on subjugation. A call for an uprising of Dysart City’s Ωs and golems. The paper’s cry of revolt stirs something within me even as I read.

  “Rise against the tyranny of the Official! We will no longer be slaves!

  For those who are oppressed, RISE UP

  For those whose intellects are bound, RISE UP

  For those kept from living, RISE UP

  For those whose tears were taken before being shed, RISE UP”

  I stow the article away in an old music box before Papa finds it. If the Dysart Official ever discovers this article in our home, Papa will be arrested immediately and tried as a collaborator, or even for perfidy. The paper will have to be destroyed as soon as possible.

  As I sit back against the pillows of the window seat, I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around my legs. I know the article hasn’t just been written for golems, but written by them. They do feel. They do experience emotion. They are captives to the Dysart Official in more ways than I’ve ever considered. Is this what my mother had been fighting for? Is this what she’d given her life for? It isn’t fair, I realize. It isn’t fair at all.

  Can I see another’s woe,

  And not be in sorrow too?

  —William Blake

  To my astonishment, Papa invites Dr. Job to take tea with us. Papa’s relations rank amongst the best old Dysart families. Although he won’t keep the visit a secret, there is a good chance he leaves it until late for a reason. I’m sure it isn’t shame, but rather a careful sort of concern for his station. Too much involvement with a bio-golem might raise questions that can’t be answered with a hastily replied, “He’s seeing to Lissie’s eyes.”

  From my window I view the eerie red horizon that meets the crashing waves just off the coast. There was a time when I thought I could hear the water answering the moon’s pull. The ebb and flow, and the darker, more violent thrashings, sounded as clear to me as if I stood by the water’s very edge. Now all I hear is my own breathing as it mists the windowpane.

  Dr. Job’s carriage enters the drive. Its struggling turbines wheeze and whirr, then sputter as the clanking vehicle comes to an abrupt stop under the porte-cochère. A hazy cloud of steam billows from the carriage just as Dr. Job steps down onto the gravel drive.

  I join Papa and the doctor by the warm fire in the parlor.

  Tick. When Papa is called away by his valet, the ticking of the mantelpiece clock heightens the silence between me and Dr. Job. He holds his cup and saucer delicately. Tick. I suppose it is in reverence of its fragility. While he stares into the glowing coals, I pull a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket.

  “‘We will no longer be slaves.’”

  “What did you say?” As he spins to face me, his teacup rattles against the saucer. The hum of grinding porcelain particles echoes around us. I watch it swivel until it stills.

  “You wrote it. ‘For those kept from living.’ Liberation. It was you. Wasn’t it?” I hand the article to him. He sets his tea down on the side table and takes the paper from my outstretched hand.

  Dr. Job lowers his head as he reads over the printed words. “How did you know?”

  I put my own teacup down and fuss with the ruffles of my skirt. “No one else is quite like you.” And then, to myself, “Are they?”

  “Where did you get this? It was never meant to fall into hands such as yours. On that you can believe me.”

  “I do believe you.”

  Folding the paper until it’s no bigger than a matchbox, he leans forward and tosses it into the fire. He watches it burn. I watch it too, until it is no more than charred scraps of ash at the bottom of the grate.

  “Where did you get it?” he asks.

  “Stacey gave it to me. I haven’t been allowed out with the curfew. She sends me things sometimes, you know, to occupy or amuse me.”

  “And did it amuse you?” Dr. Job keeps his gaze on the fire, but the tone of his voice holds a note of some emotion foreign to me. He blinks slowly and awaits my response, while his fingers tap steadily on his knee.

  “No. It saddened me immensely.”

  “Do you know anything of sadness?”

  My cheeks blaze. Even if he doesn’t mean it as cruelly as it sounds, I feel wounded. With losing my mother and all that I’ve experienced with my eyes, I feel that, although I have much to be grateful for, there are things no girl—of any class—should have to experience. Even so, I think better of it and say nothing.

  “And what of your friend, Miss Allan? Does she know anything of sadness?”

  “I think…”

  “Do you?”

  I can’t understand why Dr. Job speaks so harshly. And where is Papa? Why would he leave me to be swallowed up in the little tempest of my own creation? I scoff, and then answer in my haughtiest voice. “Of course. Do you, Doctor?”

  “Where did she get it?”

  “I don’t know. She has ties, I suppose.”

  Dr. Job sits on the edge of his seat. As the firelight sends flickering shadows dancing across his face, he squeezes his eyes closed. “The Official will remove my l
ifelight, Lissie. If word gets out about my involvement…”

  “I know. I won’t say a word.”

  Finally the door swings open and Papa strides in. “Blasted killer has struck again. Closer to home, I’m afraid. Wretchedly unsavory, too.”

  “Unsavory, you say?”

  Papa nods knowingly at the doctor and lowers his voice. Even so, I catch every word. “It isn’t enough to take a life, but to tamper with the remains in such a manner is obscene in the very least.”

  A shudder passes through my entire body. I excuse myself and go looking for my shawl. The old house, which is always on the cool side, has just become bone-chillingly so.

  When Stacey fails to send word to me the next day, I put it down to her studies. She’s a lot brighter than she cares to admit, and enjoys reading—mainly modern novels and etiquette—as much as I enjoy poetry from across the seas.

  When I still haven’t heard from her two days later, I ask Papa to have a letter sent to her. I stride up and down the gloomy halls as I await her response. Her parents don’t have the same number of staff that we do, and at times she’s been called upon to assist the housekeeper with laundry or some small task, not to mention her lessons, so I reassure myself with the most likely reasons for Stacey’s absence.

  I’ve all but forgotten my worries when, just after the clock chimes six, Dr. Job is announced. Papa greets him warmly and he is once again invited into the parlor for tea. As Papa fetches his cigars from the box on a side table, I hazard a glance in Dr. Job’s direction. Expecting him to be once again taken with the fire, I’m startled to find his steely-eyed gaze on me.

  “Are you well, Miss Webster?” he asks after a pause.

  “I am well. And you?”

  Papa strikes a match from the other side of the room and curses when the head fails to light. Both Dr. Job and I ignore the interruption.

  “I am what I am.”

  “What a curious thing to say,” I respond.

  “How is your eyepiece? I’ll need to see you soon to examine it thoroughly. It would be a shame if anything were to happen, anything to compromise your vision.”

  My mouth pops open. Am I truly hearing the menacing tone in his words? I adjust the band around my forehead and tap the glass of the eyepiece. “It’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  The fire hisses and crackles in the grate. The blaze throws light around the room and touches upon a shiny surface that flickers in the darkened space.

  I follow Dr. Job’s gaze as it graces a silver picture frame on the wall.

  “That’s my mother.”

  “Now, don’t bother Dr. Job with talk of old,” Papa says. “He is a medical man, a real man of science…of progress.”

  I laugh to hear my father say such a thing. To talk of progress in Dr. Job’s company is an insult to him and golems everywhere if one considers that they’re little more than automatons with artificial souls. I push my teacup across the table. Suddenly it isn’t so appetizing. These things, these unpleasant things, and Papa’s cigar smoke are making me sick. Taking my leave, I hurry out of the parlor and into the hall. One breath, two.

  “Everything all right, Miss?”

  Our Omega housekeeper, who’s turned from her dusting duties in the long hall, gives me a once over. She cares about me, and I’ve never even taken the time to enquire about her family. Does she have a family? A daughter, perhaps, my age? Or a son who will forever take orders from another? This woman clearly hasn’t had the benefit of marrying an Α as Stacey’s mother has. She will never rise from her situation.

  “Don’t fret, Miss. You go upstairs and lie down. You’ll feel much better.” She continues past me toward the kitchen and leaves me standing alone again in the hall.

  Dr. Job’s coat and hat have already been put away, but it occurs to me that, if I want to do anything for either The Ω or the golems, he will have information on how to do it. I might be only one person, but one thing I know from my mother is sometimes it only takes one voice. I at least have that.

  I find Dr. Job’s coat and hat easily enough in one of the back hall closets. I tug it from the hanger and turn the pockets inside out. It’s silly, I reason, to expect him to carry such materials on his person. Maybe I’ll get lucky though. Finding nothing but the worn inner lining, I right the pockets and feel on the inside of the coat. A small hidden pocket is concealed just below the regular breast pocket. Thinking I have just struck gold, I reach inside.

  What I find is not what I’m looking for. It’s smooth and cool and I recognize it at once. It’s a cameo brooch. One I know only too well. It belongs to Stacey, and if she doesn’t have it, it’s been forced from her. Finding it secreted away in the hidden pocket makes it seem like a stolen treasure, or even an illicit trophy. But can it really be? Stacey’s Omega heritage makes her an easy target, but to think that she is in danger fills me with dread. Biting my lip until the metallic hint of blood touches my tongue, I drop the cameo and stifle a cry. Dr. Job is not the person I think he is. He is much, much worse.

  I’ve lived to bury my desires,

  And see my dreams corrode with rust;

  Now all that’s left are fruitless fires

  That burn my empty heart to dust.

  —Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin

  The last vestiges of the red Dysart sunset fade as the rain eases to a light mist. Forgetting my hair, forgetting my lovely dress, I steal toward the tumbledown carriage under the porte-cochère. The needle on the boiler gauge is pitifully low; even Dr. Job himself will have trouble getting home. The ruby-colored wisteria—my mother’s favorite—twining around the columns drips rainwater down at my feet as I groan in defeat. Even if the carriage was usable, I’ve never driven before. My blindness has even prohibited my studying Papa as he so easily steers our carriage to and fro. And so, with no other option, I run.

  Speeding down the drive as fast as my boots allow, I crunch the gravel and fly toward the one place the doctor might keep Stacey unseen. The clinic.

  A few Ωs working late stop and stare as I pass. My dress sways around my knees and my hair falls into my eyes as I run. Each breath sears my lungs, and the wind burns my sightless eye. The glass eyepiece at least keeps my new seeing sphere safe as I hurtle through Dysart City in search of my friend.

  The cleanliness of the streets fades as I enter the fringes of the city limits. The homes gradually grow less grand. A two-story home in much the same style as the clinic’s catches my attention. The flaking paint of its weathered patina gathers on the dying lawn. The little pieces curl at the edges and skitter about each time the breeze lifts. Neglect and weary submission loom all around me. Fighting off nerves that I might be stopped and questioned, I move on and keep watch over my shoulder for anyone who might have taken a keener interest in me. I laugh to myself. At least I’m not afraid of the dark. Darkness is something I’ve known for a long time.

  Soon my steps begin to slow and my breath comes so quickly. The ache in my legs radiates to my toes, and, as I stop to get my bearings, I see it in the distance. The clinic—the Gothic house on the hill—stands wary and alone in the dark. A single light glows from a third-floor attic window.

  I cry out in relief when I finally arrive, but nobody answers when I pound on the front door. It has been a fruitless effort, but a necessary one. The house groans and shifts each time the wind blows. The rain has stopped, but the water rushes through the gutters until the house—gables and all—sounds of the ocean. A path leads from the terrace lawn around the property and to the back of the house. The back door is bolted as tightly as the front, but the service staircase trails up to the second and third floors. Taking hold of the cold iron railing, I climb the rickety stairs one tread at a time.

  No light shines out of the windows as I approach the first landing. The air has turned a bitter cold and my teeth chatter as I ascend. I now stand at the highest point. I let go of the railing and rattle the doorknob. This too is locked, but I bunch up my coatsleeve and sl
am my elbow through the thin pane of glass. The little pieces splinter and fall. In the morning, the golem cleaner will remove the shards without question.

  She might, in her haste or of her choosing, miss a piece.

  I hope she does.

  The bolt of the door is close enough to the broken pane that, after slipping my hand through, I am able to open the door with ease.

  As I walk down the hallway, I pause, sure that I’ve heard something. I quickly convince myself that in a house this old little whispers and moans are to be expected. But there it is again. Muffled and distinctly familiar. Flinging open one door after another, I see things that will remain with me even if I lose my sight again. Jars, endless rows of labeled jars, line shelves of one of the chambers. The dark blue of the walls presents a false calm, for the contents settling at the bottom of the still, colorless solutions peer out in a sightless manner, speaking of a horror I know only too well. The scene is all the more disturbing by the labels, each of which contain the letter L or R, and the neatly printed addition of green, blue, brown, or hazel.

  His skills, then, haven’t been entirely inborn. Dr. Job, it now appears, has been practising his technique. I fear, however, that these subjects weren’t the consenting kind. His desire to be free and to work hard in his chosen field has come at a high cost. Dr. Job used his talent to foster his ill will toward his oppressors, The Α. I shake my head sadly and close the door. This sort of sadness is not for now. It will come later.

  At last I come to a small closet. Upon opening the door I find my friend on the floor with her hands bound. “Shh. You’re all right.” As I untie the fetters from Stacey’s wrists and ankles, she collapses into my arms.

  “He can’t hurt you. He’s with Papa.” I lift Stacey up and let her lean on me as I take her elbow and lead the way downstairs. Through tears, she tells me of how she’d approached the doctor. She’d wanted to help, wanted to join the fight for Dysart’s golems. He’d invited her in. Knowing she was alone, and mistrusting her sincerity, he’d turned against her. I hate to think what might have become of Stacey if I hadn’t found her.