Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (26 page)

The Countess smiled at Trigger. Was there something in that smile that spoke to Gideon of a strange darkness he could not identify? She said, “I do, unfortunately, travel with a great deal of baggage, Captain Trigger. I hope it does not inconvenience you overmuch.”

“Not at all,” said Trigger. He poured brandy for those who wanted it. “Now that we have told our stories, though, what now?”

“The writer in me demands some kind of concordance,” said Stoker thoughtfully. “Where did it all begin? That’s the ticket. To begin at the beginning.”

“
The Shadow Over Faxmouth,
” said Gideon. “Captain Trigger—well, John Reed, really—and the adventure in Arkhamville.”

“Quite,” agreed Trigger. “That was the first sighting of one of the Children of Heqet, though it was dormant and little more than a mummified grotesque. What revived it, I wonder?”

“It stole an item Professor Halifax had found on a previous trip to Egypt,” said Gideon. “Could the proximity of the pendant have effected some kind of awakening in the thing?”

“When did all this supposedly happen?” asked Bent.

“Autumn of 1887,” said Trigger.

Bent said, “What happened next? Old Hermann Einstein— wherever the hell
he
is now—was delivered of this Atlantic Artifact, which we now know to be inside the head of Maria, in January 1888.”

“Evidently the Children of Heqet somehow knew of this,” said Trigger, “and began their search for it. I wonder why they waited so long to strike?”

“Perhaps they had other items to plunder?” suggested Bathory.

Trigger held up a finger. “Or . . . what did Einstein’s manservant say? There was some disruptor device. . . .”

“Quite,” said Trigger. “If Einstein’s paranoia about having the Atlantic Artifact stolen from him led him to create a suitable . . . I don’t know, masking device, perhaps this clouded the Children of Heqet’s talent for being able to locate the thing.”

Stoker said, “So you suggest that once Maria left Einstein’s house, and the influence of his disrupter, this made the Children of Heqet aware of its existence again, and they followed the trail to London?”

Bent pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “This is making my head hurt. Let’s look at this from a different perspective. The mummies are after certain items. The scarab stolen from Countess Bathory; whatever they were digging for in Sandsend; the pendant John Reed acquired from Arkhamville University; and the artifact in Maria’s head.”

“Those notes from John Reed,” said Gideon. “The breakin at the British Museum, where the guard was horribly murdered. A . . . figurine was stolen.”

“The
shabti
.” Captain Trigger nodded. “Of Egyptian origin.”

“And now they have them all,” said Stoker. He glanced at Trigger and coughed. “Presuming, of course, they managed to wrest the pendant from Dr. Reed in Egypt.”

“I do not think there is any doubt,” said Trigger. “John went in search of the Rhodopis Pyramid. He cannot have failed to encounter the Children of Heqet.” His eyes fell. “And even he cannot have resisted those monsters.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Bathory sat forward. “What were your plans?”

“We had arranged transport to Egypt,” said Trigger. “We thought to look for John, so he could perhaps aid Mr. Smith with his troubles in Sandsend. Events seem to have overtaken us, though. The mummies are here in London . . . or at least were.” He looked at Gideon. “It was your suggestion that we go to Egypt, Mr. Smith. Your home is no longer under threat. What do you wish to do now?”

Gideon opened his mouth, then paused. Trigger was right. The Children of Heqet no longer threatened Sandsend—they had gotten what they wanted, whatever had been buried within Lythe Bank in years or centuries past by smugglers or pirates. His quest was over. But he had promised Maria he would help her find Professor Einstein. He had a duty to Maria; he had made her a promise. And whether it was John Reed or Lucian Trigger who was truly the Hero of the Empire, Gideon knew one thing: Heroes kept their promises.

“I need to speak to Maria,” he said. He would tell her he was now free of his commitments and could devote his energies to searching for Professor Einstein. The thought of returning to Sandsend didn’t occur to him until he stood on the carpeted landing at the top of the stairs. Return to Sandsend? Fish the shallows in the
Cold Drake
? Where running around London in the company of Captain Trigger had once seemed the highest, most improbable fantasy, now it was his old life that was beyond him. A warm breeze emerged from the billowing curtains at the end of the hallway, caressing his face, bringing with it the smells and faint clamor of London. He closed the gap between the top of the stairs and Maria’s room, the middle one of three guest bedrooms, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

18
Clockwork Wishes

With each page Maria turned in the journal of her creator, she felt the memories of Annie Crook receding, becoming events that had happened to someone else. She wasn’t angry that Gideon had kept the journal from her; she could see why he might have thought it would prove upsetting to her. That he considered her feelings—that he considered she could
have
feelings at all—caused whatever beat invisibly in her breast in place of a heart to hammer all the harder. In fact, reading the coldly scientific methods and results outlined by Einstein made her feel
better
. What man or woman truly knew where they came from, other than the collision of biology that brought sperm and egg together? It was the great question of the age, the desire to know what was the essential, mysterious spark giving self-awareness and humanity to mankind. Thanks to Einstein’s journals, Maria had more idea than most people what animated her. And she was just as much a mystery as any flesh and blood woman. A brain, a clockwork body, a mysterious artifact. Who was to say her own life wasn’t as God-given as anyone else’s?

Since her adventures alone she had resolved to be less dependent on others. While living in Einstein’s house she could always rely on the Professor or Crowe—loathsome, horrible Crowe! How she longed to pummel his face in with her newfound strength!—to wind her when required. Alone in the room she practiced winding herself, finally finding a position that allowed her, albeit awkwardly and slowly, to insert the key in the brass aperture and turn it until she felt strength and vitality in her clockwork muscles. She had asked Mrs. Cadwallader for a needle and thread and had sewn the small cotton bag that held her key tightly to her dress; she would not risk being without it, ever again.

However . . . with her liberty came something else. Her acceptance of what she was—and what she wasn’t, because thanks to Captain Trigger she now knew she most definitely wasn’t Annie Crook—had brought a thing she had never dared allow herself.

Hope.

Hope that she might live her own life. Hope that she might make her own way in the world. And . . . could she even think it? Hope that even she, Maria the clockwork girl, could find . . . love?

Mr. Gideon Smith. When he had appeared out of the fog on Embankment, she had almost swooned. Handsome, strong, Gideon Smith. He had no family, very much like herself; no roots laid down, but instead a desire to see the world and all it offered; a thirst for adventure. The horizon never came any closer, no matter how far you traveled, considered Maria. Wouldn’t it be a thing, to chase that horizon, for ever and ever? And wouldn’t it be a thing to do it with Mr. Gideon Smith by her side?

She sighed again, recognizing the tiny differences in the emotions that seemed to emerge almost constantly now, since she had confronted what she thought she might be in Cleveland Street, and since she had learned what she actually was. This sigh was flecked with longing and fear. Mr. Smith had shown her kindness, but not love. She closed her eyes and wished very hard that he might come to her there and then.

One step at a time. Clockwork girls might be allowed life, of a sort. But were clockwork girls allowed wishes?

She started, and smiled, as she heard the soft padding of feet on the carpet outside her room, and very slowly the polished doorknob began to turn. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were.

Gideon paused with his hand on the doorknob, his fist raised to knock gently on the paneled wood. The breeze from the open window kissed his face once more, the curtains twisting and revealing the full, fat moon in the sky—framed within the jagged outline of shards of glass. Gideon frowned and let go of the door. The carpet beneath the small window was littered with smashed glass. Something had broken it.

Someone had entered the house.

Too late, he remembered the conversations downstairs.. If the Children of Heqet had traced Maria to London all the way from Sandsend, what on earth had made Trigger and the others think she would be safe in Mayfair? With dread he flung open the door to Maria’s room to find it empty. A tall-backed chair lay on its side, and Einstein’s journal was cast haphazardly on the polished wooden floor. The bay window was open, the curtains blowing fiercely in the wind.

Maria, once again, was gone.

“Gone?” asked Bent. “She can’t stay in one place for ten minutes, that one.”

“She hasn’t wandered off this time,” said Gideon. “She’s been taken.”

He led them upstairs to the room and showed them the smashed window. Trigger said, “We can’t be sure it was the Children of Heqet. . . .”

Stoker turned to Bathory. “You did not sense anything?”

Bent was on him, sharp as a tack. “Sense anything? What do you mean?”

Stoker coughed. “Countess Bathory has . . . she can sometimes know where the Children of Heqet are.”

“No, Bram, I did not,” said Bathory. To the others she said, “I do have certain . . . abilities. But they must be fueled. By . . .”

“By fuel we do not have,” said Stoker quickly.

Gideon shook his head. “We must find Maria. Bent, can’t you get those urchins on it again?”

“The Fleet Street Irregulars?” Bent scratched his head. “It’s late. Even mudlarks like that have to sleep sometime. Besides, we got very lucky earlier.”

“They won’t be in London now,” said Bathory. “Not with a prize like Maria in their grasp. They have the Atlantic Artifact. They’ll be taking it back.”

“Back?” said Gideon.

Bathory shrugged. “Have we not established that the Children of Heqet are connected in some way to the Rhodopis Pyramid? It makes sense they would head there with their bounty.”

“And to whoever’s waiting for them.” Bent nodded. “Mr. effing Walsingham, my money’s on.”

“Gideon,” said Trigger, “while you were up here we decided we would still travel to Egypt tomorrow. I need to know what happened to John. Countess Bathory wishes to take vengeance against the Children of Heqet—and whoever their master might be—for the murder of her husband. Mr. Stoker is accompanying the Countess, and Mr. Bent . . .”

“Mr. Bent’s not letting go of the story of the decade,” cackled Bent. “What about you, Smith?”

Gideon looked back at the broken window. Maria had trusted him, had thought she was safe. He had let her down. He said, “Then I’m going to Egypt as well.”

“Just one thing,” said Bent. “We’re not exactly the Duke of Cornwall’s Light effing Infantry, are we? In fact, the only weapon we seem to have is Trigger’s cane, and that didn’t come off too well against that thing back on Embankment— though Mr. Smith was exceedingly inventive with it.”

Trigger allowed himself a small smile. “Mr. Bent, I think it’s time I showed you the armory.”

“John did like to collect items from his various adventures,” said Trigger as he opened the doors to the first-floor room. “And weaponry was no exception.”

“Good Christ,” said Bent as he wandered into the long, narrow room. Rifles were ranked in cases all down one wall, and handguns were fixed to boards on the opposite side. Further down there were trays of grenades and larger, industrial- looking machines of war and killing that Trigger and Reed had collected over many years.

“We should perhaps take one or two items, as insurance,” suggested Stoker.

Bent, his eyes shining, took down a four-barreled revolver from the wall. Trigger smiled. “The Lancaster. Fitted to take brass cartridges. Quite a kick.”