Mechanica (27 page)

And, oh, there were wonders to see.

A huge puppet theater, festooned with green curtains, caught my attention first. It had already entranced many of the children who milled about. The scene was a familiar one: the Forest Queen’s village at the height of its splendor, the platforms and sheds I knew not ruined, but flourishing as a whole, lively community. The set was at least ten feet high, a labyrinth of two-dimensional trees painted almost like life, but brighter, richer. Their leaves seemed nearly to move—no, they
did
move, metal leaves on clockwork mechanisms tinkling against each other, apples and pears crafted from small bells. The tall queen and her man-at-arms swung through the branches on ropes, climbed them like squirrels. I could see wires glinting off the ends of their jointed limbs, but there didn’t seem to be a puppeteer above them—just a pretty woman turning a crank at the side of the stage. Was the whole show automated?

I watched for a few more moments, as delighted as the children who gathered in front of the theater. Much as I admired the artistry and invention of the show, however, I had to wonder at the puppeteer’s choice of subject. Fin had told me, after all, that it was illegal even to print her story. I couldn’t imagine King Corsin, or the powerful advisors who depended on his favor, would want to offer further funding to such a project.

Of course, that could well be an issue with my own magic-dependent display too, but I was not looking for money from the crown. I only wanted a private investor, one who would help me set up my business. Besides, it wasn’t
obvious
that I was using magic. I told myself that I, at least, did not need the King’s approval.

I wondered if anyone else at the Exposition had decided to snub him as the puppeteer had done. But when I looked around again, I could think only of the wonder of the inventions all around me.

Since the Steps’ invitation had described the Exposition as a celebration of Esting’s achievements, I had not expected to see so many inventors from other countries. Yet there they were, one display booth after another. The Su aesthetic, with its sharp, elegant angles and warm, bright colors, jostled against the elaborate curls and aurora borealis shades that Nordsk designers favored. Yet they were both exuberant, vividly colorful, and I could not help but think that Esting’s simple, grayscale style looked a bit prudish in comparison.

There was a raised stage in the middle of the square, covered with gray curtains. I wondered at first if something especially grand might be hidden there, but then I saw the palace guards posted around it. The Exposition judges, I decided, must be waiting behind the curtain. Perhaps even the royal family . . . but I wouldn’t devote more energy to confusing thoughts of Fin than I could help, especially when there were so many other fascinating places to direct my attention.

I was not the only one who had built a mode of transport; that much was clear right away. None of them seemed really alive the way Jules was, but they were still incredible.

There was a many-legged contraption like a centipede, clomping along low to the ground with great clanking and screeching sounds, a grinning conductor at its head and flower-decked baggage filling each of its five jointed sections.

There was a vaguely triangular boat of sorts, blasting steam out of a small chimney and puttering around the square in an oddly comical fashion. It was operated by a young man in a caricature of a sailor’s costume, a beautiful man, his smile wide and roguish. In his ease and assurance, he reminded me of no one so much as Fitz. Fitzwilliam Covington, who had revealed me to Chastity. I might have seethed a bit about that if I’d had more attention to divert from the Exhibition.

A low, animal rumble from above drowned out my thoughts. When I looked up, I forgot about Fitz, my machines, the other inventions in the square, the burgeoning gossip about Fin and me, even my broken heart. All I could do was stare, mouth open with wonder, as was every other mouth in the square—every other mouth in Esting City, I had no doubt.

There was a ship in the sky.

I did not know what else to call it, but
ship
hardly did it justice. No word I knew, no word I might have learned, even from Mother’s books, could describe the great vessel high above us. I could not guess accurately from my place on the ground, but I thought a seafaring ship of similar size could hold at least fifty sailors. It had portholes, like a sea-ship, but I could not see the top to know whether it had a deck or merely a roof. And above it, hulking even larger than the vessel itself, was a great black balloon, emblazoned with the silver triple star and cross that was Esting’s emblem: our national flag, hundreds of feet wide, sailing across the sky.

Black spikes, needle-thin from so far away, began to protrude out of the portals. I squinted at them in confusion for a few moments, then realized—cannons!

And they exploded, all at once, in one round and then another, spirals of gray smoke following their volleys into the sky. Fireworks cracked and blossomed around the ship, green and blue and pink and gold, starbursts and flame spikes burning through the air. Fireworks that glowed in the daytime—these were a marvel in their own right, and I couldn’t stop watching them.

We all gasped, and took a collective breath, and gasped again at the next volley.

I had never been so close to fireworks before. I had seen them only a few times in my life, when Mother and Father had taken me to the city for Empire Day, the anniversary of Esting’s discovery of Faerie.

After they died and all my time was occupied working for the Steps, I would climb the servants’ steps to the roof on Empire Day, and over the tops of the trees, I could see the distant flicker and glow of the fireworks in the city. It was a lonely thing, sitting there by myself in the heat of summer, but it was lonelier to scrub floors and think of the fireworks without being able to watch them at all. On the roof, I could at least imagine all the other Estingers who watched with me and pretend I was lost in the crowd, or perhaps with a group of friends. The first year, I let myself imagine I was a small figure snuggled between Mother’s and Father’s tall shoulders. But it hurt too much to come down from that dream when the fireworks ended and I had to go back inside and finish my chores before the Steps returned from the city. After that, I simply pictured myself among strangers.

And in this moment, with every mind turned toward the ship and away from Fin or me or anything else in Esting City, I felt the same way I’d imagined then: one of many. All of us the same, lost in our collective wonder.

A dozen trumpets blared their sudden brass voices. An announcer cried, “Welcome, citizens of Esting, to the first annual Royal Exposition of Art and Science!”

I looked toward the gray-covered stage. The curtains were still closed, but for a moment, I saw the announcer we’d all heard standing before them, a short, round man with a red face. A second later, my view was blocked by a huge white mare—and by Fitzwilliam Covington, in a black military jacket, riding her. His auburn hair was slicked straight back from his forehead, emphasizing the strong lines of his cheekbones and jaw. He looked forbidding and handsome. I swallowed.

“Miss Nicolette Lampton,” he said, dismounting. “If you would accompany me. You’ve been summoned by the Heir.”

I stared. “Fitz, I—” I groped for what to say next. “Why does he want to see me?” Then a better question came: “Fitz,
why did you tell Chastity about me?
”

He grinned and leaned in close. “I told everyone,” he said. “It’s perfect; I even told them that fanciful name the Halvings gave you. You’ll see. It’s a perfect story.”

He mounted his horse again and moved ahead of the carriage, waving for me to follow. Dozens of spectators pushed each other aside, making a wide clear lane for us. I followed him, too overwhelmed even to think about what I was doing.

He led me to the stage. I worried for a moment about leaving Jules alone while I followed Fitz—while I went to meet Fin—but as I cast my eyes around for potential meddlers, two of the palace guards who were standing by the stage stepped forward to guard the carriage. I could see that I didn’t have to worry about thieves anyway: the multitude of faces regarding us were full of only awe, of something almost like worship. They looked at me as if I were not just a girl, but a heroine.

I opened my small glass door and stepped down, trying as best I could to hide my work boots under my skirts. I was embarrassed to see that more than a few people were peering down at my feet, as if they expected to see something unusual; glass slippers, no doubt. I wondered how much everyone knew.

I pressed my forehead to Jules’s to gather my strength for whatever these next moments might bring. He whuffled against me, hot coal smoke and the sound of springs, and at least for that moment, I could feel my pulse start to calm down.

“I told the story, Nicolette,” Fitz said again, beckoning me toward the stage steps. “It’ll help you, I promise. It’ll help us both. I can’t begin to tell you how delighted King Corsin was to hear of how his son fell in love with a hard-working, well-born, but self-made Estinger girl. It’s just the kind of thing the kingdom needs to bolster up Esting for the coming war.”

“Fitz, how did you know that we—that I—” I started to ask. But before I formed that question, a more frightening one took its place. “War?”

Father’s bloodless body on some frontier, girls like me everywhere left without families . . .

“Fitz.” I made my voice as hard and authoritative as I could. “Fitz, what war?”

He looked at me disparagingly. “The Faerie revolution, the one that’s been brewing for years. Don’t be naïve.”

A thousand questions sprang to my lips, but Fitz continued talking before I could ask them.

“First things first,” he said. “I saw you and the Heir dancing at the ball—as did everyone else of importance in Esting, I have no doubt! Those ninnyish sisters of yours didn’t even recognize you so clean and made up in a lovely gown like that. I always knew they were idiots.”

I knew enough not to mention the ombrossus. Still, I remembered all of Fitz’s fawning over Chastity. I knew he was a charmer, but I’d thought at least that he was genuine about his admiration for her. “But, Fitz, you always said Chastity—”

He cut me off again. “Ah, she’s a beauty, that’s certain. But you and I both know that’s all she is.” He winked at me, and I was flustered, as always. “I’m sure when you’re Heiress, you’ll be flocked by lovely women who can hold a conversation . . . and hold their high places in court, too.” He smiled, and there was something in the smile I didn’t like. “You and I, Miss Nick, we’re both going places. I helped you, you see?”

It echoed between us, unsaid: “And you in turn will help me.”

He had always called me Miss Nick, and I’d always been glad. But now I wondered: had he only been making me like him in case the liking ever became useful to him?

“Right,” he continued when I did not reply. “We had better go in.”

I hesitated at the bottom of the steps, not quite willing to follow him.

He took my hand and pulled me forward, so I did not have any more time to be frightened of what waited behind the curtains. To my chagrin, a smattering of applause broke out when I reached the top of the stairs. Fitz stopped, turned, and waved at the crowd, nodding and grinning. He squeezed my hand, hard, and I knew he was telling me to do the same.

I still didn’t quite dare to hope, to believe that what Fitz had told me about Fin’s feelings for me was true. But what else could I do? I smiled and waved along with him, and for a moment, with the people of Esting smiling back, I let myself believe that this happy ending was mine.

And then Fitz opened the curtains, and I stepped backstage alone.

It was dark, a darkness too much like the one in the orchestra pit the night before.

I wondered briefly if my life would be defined by a series of miseries in places like these—dark, gray, heavy-curtained rooms. Backstage areas, when everything outside was clean and bright.

But I thought of my dark cellar workshop; I was not afraid of shadows. I stepped forward to meet my fate.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I was surprised to see only one other figure in the space with me. I thought they would both be there, the King and his Heir, but it was just Fin. He leaned against a heavy ebony chair, almost a throne, its back tall and carved with a lattice of sharp angles. He didn’t sit on it properly, as I supposed a prince should sit on a throne, but rather leaned one hip against it, his ankles and arms loosely crossed. As always there was that smile on his face, that grin without a trace of malice, that radiant kindness.

“Hello, Nick,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

F
OR
a moment, I thought I could say yes.

When I tried to part my lips to speak, though, nothing happened. I stood and stared at him, blank-faced and blank-souled, my heart in free fall. I knew I could, should, catch it. But I could not move.

Fin’s smile faltered; it was only the second time I’d seen it do so. “Well,” he said, more softly this time, “will you?”