A Clockwork Heart (5 page)

“Leave me be!” the woman hissed in what sounded like a heavy French accent. She turned and smiled at the usher. The man went all cross-eyed and swept the door open for her.

“Wait! Stop!” Elle said, but the woman slipped out from under her grasp and disappeared into the dark night and the rain.

“Did you see that?” Elle stood at the door next to the speechless usher.

The usher slowly shook his head and blinked at her. “May I help you, madam?” he said.

“Um, no. Thank you. Sorry for the trouble,” she murmured. “I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

“Would you like me to escort you back to your seat?”

“Thank you, that's very kind, but I can manage on my own. Good evening,” she said politely.

Back in the stalls, Elle did her best to slip into her seat as quietly as possible.

“What was that all about?” Marsh whispered.

“It was nothing. I thought I recognized someone, but I was mistaken,” she said.

“Don't go running off like that. You had me worried,” he whispered. “I know I no longer have my powers, but even
I
could sense the Shadow back there, Elle. I was about to raise the alarm.”

“It was nothing. She ran off before I could speak to her, so no harm done.” Elle closed her eyes in exasperation. His overprotectiveness was smothering her, but here was not the place to raise the issue.

“Let's enjoy the rest of the performance, shall we?” she said to him.

He gave her a long look, but said nothing. Instead they turned their attention to the remainder of the performance.

CHAPTER 6

The Black Stag was not very big or impressive as far as public houses went. It was a squat wood-framed building that had been clinging to the bank of the Thames since Tudor times, much in the same way a tick clings to the side of a beast. The place was mostly frequented by dockworkers. They were hard men with big hands and unwashed bodies who poured mother's ruin into their pints and drank to forget the bleakness of their existence.

Only the hardest bangtails and gin fairies survived here and they clung to the crooked beams and low-slung doorframes, where nothing escaped their gaze.

“Did you bring the money, sir?” Art said.

Henry gave a small nod. “Under the table.”

Art leaned over and eyed the portmanteau at their feet. “Very good, sir.”

Henry lifted his hat as if to put it on his head but changed his mind. He placed it back on the ring-stained table in front of him. The fine beaver felt appeared very much out of place against the cheap sticky wood.

“There is no need to rush now, my lord. We've got the whole evening yet. They'll be along any time now.” Art took a sip from his glass.

“Are you sure we have the right place?” Henry said.

“I am sir. The Black Stag. Two hours after sunset. I'm sure they'll be along soon.” Art sounded slightly annoyed. He spoke as if he were placating a petulant child.

“Sorry,” Henry said. He took a deep gulp from his own glass. The ale was thin and tepid and he was sure he could see a fine greasy film over the top. He shuddered quietly and looked around him. What a squalid place. And was that a real Nightwalker brooding in the corner? This certainly was not the type of establishment he would normally frequent, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And he was a very desperate man indeed.

Art sat with his hand round his glass, his eyes trained on the door.

Henry noticed for the first time that the stubble on his companion's chin was tinged with gray. How old was he? Did he have family? Henry realized that in spite of the fact that Art had been in service with them for most of his life, he knew almost nothing about the man before him. Thinking back, he couldn't recall a single incident where the two of them had been alone together for more than a few moments. He wondered if he should make small talk to pass the time, but somehow it seemed inappropriate to do so.

Just then, a man walked in and went up to the counter. The peacock feather in the band of his hat drew a few hostile looks.

“Bloody travelling folk. Bringing the Evil Eye in ‘ere. Take that thing out of ‘ere!” the landlord growled. He gave the counter an extra wipe in the direction of the man with the feather almost as if to wipe the bad luck away.

Someone near the counter cursed and spat on the floor.

The man with the peacock feather in his hat ignored them. Instead, he scanned the room until he spotted Art. His dark eyes rested on them for a moment. Then he nodded and walked out.

Art let go of his glass. “Come along then, sir,” he said to Henry as he stood up from his chair.

Henry took a deep breath and smoothed his hands down his waistcoat. “Right then,” he said. He gathered up the bag from under the table and stumbled after Art, tripping over the loose floorboards as he went.

Outside it was really dark. Henry paused under a spark light for a moment to find his bearing. In this part of the East End streetlights were few and far between, but this one flickered bravely against the inky fog.

“Art,” he said looking about in a moment of panic, not sure why he was whispering.

A hand gripped his upper arm. “It might be best to get out of the light, sir. We don't want to attract too much attention to ourselves, now do we? The fellow went that way.” Art's breath was sticky and strangely intimate against his neck.

“Right then,” Henry said again, gathering himself.

They walked along the alley that led off from the pub. A miasmic stench rose up from the river tainting everything within a half a mile from the water. It was so thick and potent that not even the relentless drizzle seemed to be able to quench it. The streets were thick with mud and dirt and the patina of squalor stuck to everything.

Someone moved up ahead and Henry caught the slight movement of a peacock feather bobbing up and down as the man they followed passed a patch of grimy light that spilled out from between a set of ill-fitting shutters. His footfall sounded on damp wooden planks that had been thrown onto the squelchy street to serve as walkways .

“Hurry. Don't lose him,” Art whispered. They walked on in single file for a while. The buildings turned to dockyards and the fog grew thicker. Henry shivered inside his good wool coat.

Art stopped and gripped his arm again. “Wait a moment, sir,” he whispered. Henry felt his heart thump against his chest as he strained to see, but his efforts were in vain. The fog had him almost completely blinded.

Near them, someone struck a match and a lantern flared into life. The form of the man with the peacock feather took shape in the flickering light.

“Come,” was all the man said. He pointed at Henry and the illuminated side of his face curled into a smile. “This way.”

Henry took a step back and bumped into Art, who gripped his shoulders with his large hands. “Steady on, sir. I think they want you to go in alone. I'll be waiting right here if you need me.”

“Don”'t leave me here on my own,” Henry said to Art with an imploring look before he followed the man with the peacock feather round the corner.

A horse snorted and suddenly the lantern revealed the shape of a covered wagon. The only sign of life that could be discerned was a thin strip of orange light that leaked out from underneath a crack in the door.

Henry stumbled again, this time over uneven cobbles under his feet. “Sorry. I'm sorry,” he mumbled under his breath.

“No need for sorry,” the man with the peacock feather said smoothly. “This way, please.” They climbed the steps and entered through the little door of the caravan.

Inside it was very warm. Glass-covered candles whispered a gentle welcome to those who came in from the cold, and strange flickering shadows around the inside of the wagon spoke of the magic that went on in there.

“This is Florica,” the man with the peacock feather said.

Florica looked up and smiled at the man. They had the same eyes, Henry noted, the color of ripe juniper berries. She said something in a language he did not understand. The man with the peacock feather smiled and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment before he sat himself down in the corner.

He took a hunk of half-dry meat that sat wrapped in a piece of cheesecloth from the shelf next to the stove, pulled out a long knife and started carving small slivers from it. The man offered him a piece of meat, which he held out to him between thumb and blade.

Henry did his best not to shudder. “N–no, thank you. I've already eaten,” he said as politely as he could. The ruby-dark meat looked very suspicious and he was not about to take any chances.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. My brother Emilian watches over me while I work.” Florica gestured for him to sit.

So Mr. Peacock-Feather had a name, Henry thought as he sat down on a wooden bench. He clutched the portmanteau on his lap.

The inside of the wagon was lined with floral-print curtains, which seemed inappropriately cheerful in the circumstances.

Florica's heavy brass earrings rattled as she lifted her shawl from her hair. Henry stared in fascination as some of the fronds of the shawl caught on one. She shook her head to free the shawl and met his gaze. “So you seek my help,”

“I–I brought the money,” Henry nodded and held up the bag.

Emilian leaned over and took the bag from him with surprising speed. He unclipped the latch, peered inside, and smiled.

“Good,” Florica said. “Now. I can tell that you have come about a woman, no?”

“Yes. They say you are able to heal people,” Henry said.

“You have something that belongs to the woman?” Florica said.

Art reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver locket. “My fiancée. Emily. Her portrait and a lock of hair.”

Florica ran the silver locket through her fingers. “And she has been ill for how long?”

“Six months. We became engaged just before she became ill. Now, we don't know … we don't know if we'll ever …” Henry's voice trailed off.

“Ah. Yes. Love. It is a powerful thing. A lot of things come from the heart,” Florica said.

She opened the locket and tipped the curl of blond hair into her palm. She held her hand to her face and sniffed.

“Yes. I can feel it. Your love for this woman is strong.”

“Yes,” Henry said. His breath caught in his throat. “Please say that you will be able to help her.” Sweat beaded on his forehead as he spoke. “The doctors say that there is nothing that can be done. Her heart is dying. I'll do anything, give anything, to have her whole and well again.”

A slow smile spread over Florica's face. “Anything is a very heavy price to pay,” she said. “Are you sure you can afford it?”

Henry leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I love her. Please do something. Anything.”

Emilian grinned from the corner and sliced off another sliver of meat.

“So it shall be done,” Florica said.

“You mean you will be able to help her?” Henry said.

Florica nodded slowly. “That I will do. But the price is steep. Are you sure?”

Henry nodded. “I'm sure. Just do it, for heaven's sake.”

She leaned forward. “Swear it,” she hissed.

“I swear,” Henry said.

Florica reached behind her and picked up a battered tobacco tin. Carefully she measured out a fine powder, weighing it into her hand, before tipping some of the contents into the candle before her. The caravan filled with a fine fragrant haze. It made Henry's eyes water and his head swim.

“First you need to relax. Close your eyes,” she whispered.

“Very well, then. I am relaxed.” Henry straightened his spine and slouched again in an attempt to convince her.

She laughed softly. “No. Not like that.” She looked at her brother. “Lay him down on the bench.”

Emilian gripped Henry's arm and pulled him round so he lay on his back on the bench. The wood was hard and the edges dug into Henry's shoulders. Before he could protest, he felt cold manacles click around his wrists. Emilian pulled them tight and suddenly Henry found himself trussed up like a Christmas goose.

“Wait. Hang on. This can't be right … stop!”

“Hold still,” Florica said.

“What do you mean ‘hold still'?” Henry said. “I demand that you explain the meaning of these shackles right now.” Henry struggled against his bonds.

Emilian laughed. It was only a little chuckle, but it sent cold shivers down Henry's spine.

Florica rested her head on Henry's chest. “You have a good one. Not very brave, but loyal. It beats strong. I will do this thing for you because I pity you, poor man. You give your heart to your lady and
our
Lady will give you one of hers.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Stop this right now or I shall call for help!” Henry said.

“Silence!” Florica hissed. “The bargain has been struck and there is no going back now. You are one of the lucky ones. One of the special ones. The Lady's army needs leaders and you shall be one.”

She looked up at Emilian. “The box,” she said.

Emilian handed her a polished wooden case.

Henry watched with growing horror as she lifted a metal contraption out of it. It had gears and a handle that made the mechanical bits whirr. The front bit clawed and rattled as she turned the handle.

“N–no, please,” Henry tried to say, but Florica placed her hand over his mouth with surprising force. Large tears started running out of the corner of his eyes.

“Better round the servant up from outside. We can add him to this evening's catch. They can deal with him along with the others at the factory. The Lady will like it if we bring her more than she asks for, I'm sure,” Florica said.

Emilian nodded and disappeared out the door.

Florica turned and looked down at Henry. “Now, hold nice and still and this will only hurt a little,” she said.

“Promise me she'll be better,” Henry wheezed from under her fingers.

“I promise by the Shadow that the strength that lies in your heart will go to hers this very night, and she shall be healed,” Florica said. In that moment her eyes filled with compassion for him. “I am very sorry,” she murmured.

Henry closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Anything to save her—just be quick about it.”

The last thing he remembered was the sensation of someone unbuttoning his waistcoat, which was also the last thing he felt, before he screamed.

The Clockmaker sits hunched over, eyes trained on the tiny cogs and gears before him. Around him the walls are alive with faces and pendulums that tick and click and whirr. Carefully, with the measured precision that comes only from years of experience, he lowers a small brass part into the heart of the casing. He raises up the tweezers he holds and caresses the spring as the little piece falls into place. The tiny counterweight pauses, fighting momentum as it strains to slip into motion. And then, soft as breath, the device clicks and comes alive.

Gently the Clockmaker eases the casing over the finely machined innards and with a deft twist of his screwdriver he tightens the little screws.

The clockwork heart whirrs and shivers as it lies in his palm. At the center of his little miracle lies a tiny crumb of carmot, no bigger than a grain of sand. No more is needed to give the heart life.

The Clockmaker smiles. “You will be special,” he murmurs. He lifts a key that hangs from a string around his neck and eases it into the heart. The clockwork heart bucks and starts ticking.