Godspeed (11 page)

There were tense evenings, when I would hear the doctor and Schuyler argue, but was mostly unable to make out the words they hurled at each other in their anger.

During the course of these quarrels, doors were often slammed; sometimes glass was broken. I tried to focus my eyes toward the direction their voices carried from, but all I could see was the dark, impregnable wood paneling on the walls.

How this was possible, I didn't understand. Their voices were close by, but I was unable to determine their exact location.

One very late night, after yet another surgical procedure had required the doctor use the strongest methods at his disposal to sedate me, my curiosity was further piqued.

I awoke to find Schuyler had suddenly appeared at my side, though I was absolutely certain that the door had neither opened nor closed.

Still, I could barely spare the strength to wonder, as it was all I could do most of the time simply to keep drawing one breath after another. I had to learn to live all over again with the violent, intense thumping that substituted for my own diluted heartbeat.

Finally the fever relented, and I was returned to my room to sleep a few hours each night.

I awoke with the sound of birds and turned toward the newly dawning springtime, and I yearned for the warmth of it upon my face.

*   *   *

My strength soon rallied.

It was by far the happiest spring I had ever known, even if I could only appreciate the newly budding blooms in the shimmering glow of prevailing moonlight as I peeked through heavy, drawn curtains.

He was near, and that was all that mattered.

For at least a few moments every day, he was so close I could almost touch him, and when he was, there was nothing more in the world I could have wanted or asked for.

He spoke to me as if I was worth taking notice of, and I longed for our talks, no matter how short they may be.

In his company, I saw myself as a different person. I was no longer the servant's child, born and destined to take up the same humble work of my parents’ hands and of their parents as well. It was not that I thought I was too good for it — on the contrary, I had never imagined myself suited to anything else, let alone ‘better’, as the world would so unkindly describe it.

It was that he automatically gave me credit, from very early on, as one possessing a mind that did not need to be talked down to. He did not, even when he could tell I hadn't the faintest idea what he was saying, bend his words to an easier frame in order to suit what he considered my intellectual deficits.

Rather, he took the time to explain to me in great detail the meaning of each term, each word, each idea, and how they were all tangled together — especially when it came to those ideas of his that were, in reality, tangled up with the very heart beating in my chest.

On the night when I first asked for him to explain to me, to really, truly explain to me what it was he'd done to prolong my life, he initially directed my attention to the mantle above the fireplace in his laboratory.

This was the first time my gaze settled upon an elaborate Four Hundred Days Clock, all gears and winding golden parts, turning first one way then the other as the hands ticked away the time… time I was content to spend listening to him talk about anything at all in the world, just so I could continue to hear the sound of his voice.

He took the clock down from the shelf and placed it on the table before me, where my eyes watched the ornate crystal findings grasp hold of and relinquish the light at will, refracting beautifully vibrant colors on the walls, and even upon the bodice of my dress; illuminating the metal of the ‘clockwork box’ device he had created and modified just for me.

“What is a heart if not the ultimate clockwork?” he murmured, intensely focused upon the intricate machinery of the timepiece. He closed his eyes, seemingly taken far away from his current location as he whispered, why he felt the question was complete and no more
explanation was required. “After all, it is the singular mechanism that keeps the ticking time of the soul.”

I realized this was not the first time I had heard him say those words. He had said them in my presence before, when I was only barely conscious and perceiving what little I could process going on around me through the nearly impenetrable filter of pain.

I didn't know if he'd originally spoken the words to Schuyler or someone else; I only knew that when he spoke them to me, they sounded different.

As he opened his eyes again and they locked onto my own, I wondered what it was he really saw when he looked at me: a living, breathing woman, or merely a wind-up doll built to his own specifications who existed purely at his whim.

He knew well enough that I had a physical heart, the question in my mind remained whether or not he would ever understand that heart had real, human feelings, still.

“You see, young woman,” he began, as he removed the glass dome which encased the clock and revealed to me the winding, musically aligned parts within. “Just as this must keep proper coordination of its parts to correctly keep the time, so, too, must your body have all parts working in concert in order to keep you alive.”

I watched the clock, mesmerized, as the beauty of the mechanism powering it completely captivated me.

“One spring out of alignment, one failing connection to the power source, and the gears would alternately skip and seize; keeping neither proper time nor serving any other worthwhile function. When you were brought to me, the Fever had so damaged the connecting components of your heart that it could no longer remember the cadence it was to properly keep on its own. It needed to be reminded — repeatedly — and sadly, the means I had at the ready to do so exacted a vast toll upon you overall.”

He hardly needed to remind me of the toll those ‘treatments’ had taken, I felt the inward and saw the outward scars of the ordeal daily.

Still, his voice was soothing and hypnotic in a way that surpassed anything I had ever known, and I hung upon his every word.

“Then the decision was made, with no alternative, to switch you to the box. It was a dangerous time, a huge risk to you to stop the
more powerful treatments, but they had begun to inflict more damage than they were doing good. So we had to abandon them.”

I wondered, silently, that he spoke of ‘we’ when he was the only one who had treated me; was he referring to Schuyler, whose arguments I remembered in greater detail than almost anything else during that time?

“Then, even the box began to create scars, damage upon the fragile vessel it was meant to help to operate.” His eyes took on a sorrow, a burdened quality — so deep, so painful, that I was certain that there must be more to it than simply fear for my continued existence. I was still virtually a stranger to him, still kept to myself even the name by which I was rightly called in this world. The pain that he was feeling was much more deeply rooted; and it had, I was convinced, a specific proper name.

He ceased speaking, sat down in the chair, and began to stare at the clock now himself, his chin resting on his hands, eyes half closed.

“When was it that you had the idea for this?” I asked, indicating the box still tethered to me.

He shifted uncomfortably, the first sign I had ever seen in him of uneasiness. “I've had many ideas for similar devices over the years,” he said, offering nothing more specific as to how many years or other attempts he'd made to design such a thing. Observing the questioning look in my eyes, he added, “It is the realization of many nights’ lost sleep, anguish, and untold grief.”

I was surprised he was so forthcoming, and though I wished I could restrain myself, I could not. I asked the question that followed.

“Grief over whom, sir?”

Suddenly he rose, swept the clock away from me, and returned it to its place on the mantle. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to replace the glass, causing it to clink and clank as it bumped against working metal gears. Finally, he turned to face me.

“All you must know is that a high price was paid for the invention which keeps you alive.”

His voice had lost all tone of softness and intimacy now; he was back to being the statue that I had first known him to be.

“Mind that, and do as you're told, so that the gift bestowed upon you does not prove to be given in vain.”

He returned to his desk, sat down, picked up his journal and pen, and began to write. Without looking up at me, he said two words more that served both as a directive and an end to our conversation.

“Good night.”

*   *   *

The following evening, I was summoned to the laboratory again, and nervous as to the reason.

I found Quinn Godspeed still and silent at his desk, and he did not speak to me or move until Schuyler had locked the door behind me.

I watched him, staring at something through a jeweler's loupe, his eyes fixed upon what he was doing with inhuman intensity; more like a cat observing its prey with unflinching focus,

waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

I studied him with rapt attention for some time, thinking that he had no idea until the moment he turned to me, loupe still in place, and nodded in my direction.

“My father was a clockmaker,” he declared, without my having to ask. “He was… sort of a business partner of Schuyler's father. He built timepieces, restored antiques for the shop on a regular basis. I learned everything I know about clock repair and watch making from him.”

He closed the case on the back of the watch he'd been working on and set his tools aside. Last of all, he removed the loupe and put it away. “I find concentrating on the task of repairing such a thing helps me to think.”

I marveled that work so intricate, requiring such meticulous attention, could help anyone think about anything else. It just served as evidence again of the unusual mind at work here, someone so brilliant that clockworks were no challenge at all, and only in the mysteries of the inadequacies of the human body could a true challenge be found.

“Your mother?” I asked softly. Hearing how dry my throat was, the doctor rose from his chair and brought me a glass of water.

“I do not remember.”

He did not elaborate as to whether she left him by choice or by chance, taken in death or had abandoned him when he was a boy. “Before you ask, no, I have no siblings. Well, none that are not… convenient fabrications.”

I left the comment alone for now; I did not want to stop him talking. If I risked asking the wrong question in this moment he may never be willing to approach this topic again.

I wondered that he was willing to approach it now. Again, I was too afraid of breaking the spell to question too mightily.

“Schuyler's mother, I remember. She was a very kind woman. Gifted,” he continued. “A musician. All the musical instruments you find around this place originally belonged to her. She tried to teach me to play violin and piano, but I had no natural talent for music.

“So off to my father's workshop I went, usually ferrying back and forth from it the items from Ruby Road that needed to be repaired. Very early on he had me assisting him, handing him this tool and that, never once behaving as if he believed I didn't understand. No matter how young I was, he always used the proper terms for things and explained to me exactly their purpose inside the clockworks.” He got a distant look in his eye, and shook his head as he paced past his workbench and moved toward the cabinet across the room.

He opened up a panel, procured a bottle and glass, and poured himself a drink. “I didn't realize then that the greatest gift he would ever give me was faith in my own mind.”

He downed the dark, pungent liquid in one long gulp and nodded approvingly at the taste. He pivoted on his heel and turned back toward me. “Still, you refuse to tell me about yourself.”

I looked away.

“Even so much as your name.”

My eyes remained focused on the opposite wall.

“I am a fairly resourceful man, you know.”

I felt the urge to laugh at the magnitude of his understatement. To say he was fairly resourceful was to say that the sea, roaring and endless with advancing and retreating tides, was vast and tasted slightly of salt.

“I've done some investigating,” he said, pacing again as he spoke. “There have been no reports of a young woman your age, anyone even close to your description, going missing in the last year, and I highly doubt you were on the street more than a day before Schuyler plucked you from it. Otherwise you would not have survived.”

He looked me over with carefully critical eyes, almost as one considering purchase of a piece of used merchandise. “Why is it a girl with such… who has been at least somewhat carefully kept and cared for over the years, would not be reported missing?”

I summoned all of my strength to speak, because I was driven to answer. “To be reported missing, sir, one must first be missed.”

He inclined his head, accepting my explanation. He clearly understood how much speaking those words, words tied to such difficult emotions, took out of me. He pressed me no further.

He returned to the workbench behind the surgical table, where I now sat with my legs hanging over the side.

He opened the top drawer, procured a small wooden box, and held it up on display.

“A gift.”

My eyes widened when I saw what at first appeared to be a brilliant silver-tone locket; antique, and fashioned in the arcing shape of a heart.

“This, like most things in life, is more than it first appears.” He removed it with one hand and set aside the box with the other before moving within reach. “This is the means by which we will free you from the torment of harsher treatments.”

I watched with absolute amazement as he unlatched the clasp on the charm and revealed its complicated interior. Gear upon gear, lever upon lever, all churning and clicking away in musical, clockwork time. He leaned in so close now that I could feel the warmth of his cheek against mine.

“Here.” He dangled the necklace in front of me, where it danced and flickered in the light. “This is your new heart. It's rare, and young, and made of pure white gold.” For an instant he looked upon me with an expression I could not possibly put emotion to. “Exactly, I am certain, like the one it will repair.”