The Brass Giant (11 page)

She twisted in Emmerich's grasp. He was a cage, a prison of kindness and sympathy she did not want. She wanted the hurt, the confusion and betrayal seething in her chest, the hatred for Tolly, the memory of his hands on her, the poison of his words. She needed the pain.

Emmerich's arms held her resolutely. “I won't let you go,” he said.

His words pierced the shell around her.

The warmth of his voice melted into her skin and carved deep into her bones, creeping toward her heart like a flame. She shuddered, shaking free of the numbness and the cold.

She didn't remember her legs giving out, but she found herself sitting in the middle of the floor, Emmerich rocking her as if she were no more than a frightened child.

Of all the terrible things in the world, of all the dreadful things that had happened to her, she had
him
. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and pressed her face into his chest, inhaling his familiar scent, filling her heart with the memory of him holding her in that moment. He rested his head on top of hers and sighed, his breath tickling her forehead.

Then a door slammed somewhere outside the office, and Emmerich bolted upright, dragging Petra to her feet.

“Someone's coming,” he said, lunging for the light switch.

The room darkened. Petra heard voices come nearer, and footsteps.

“You are still watching him?” asked a deep, melodic voice.

Petra felt Emmerich stiffen beside her.

“As best we can. He spends a lot of time in the fourth quadrant.”

“Anything to report?”

“No, sir. He is sometimes seen in the company of a girl, but I suspect that is nothing to concern ourselves with. You know the way of young ­people these days . . .”

The voices faded to a low murmur as they passed out of range, but two shadows fell across the light beneath the door and did not move.

“We need to hide,” whispered Emmerich, pulling Petra to the back of the workshop.

She obediently followed him to the array of pipes along the back wall, slightly obscured by the stacks of crates. Silently, he directed her to a tiny alcove behind one of the larger pipes. She pressed against the wall, feeling movement around her, the familiar click and hum of gears and balance wheels comforting.

“Be careful not to move,” said Emmerich, stepping into the narrow recess.

Even over the sound of machinery, Petra heard the voices approach again.

“And his progress?” asked one of what now seemed several men.

“Impressive. He works harder than any of the other junior engineers, completing tasks well ahead of the timeline.”

“No delays then?”

“Not at all.”

“We were right to move his deadline,” said another voice. The others murmured in agreement.

The grating of a key inside a lock echoed through the room. Petra held her breath. The door creaked open and light flooded the room. She hoped—­
willed—­
the men would not find their hiding place.

They examined the prototype in silence.

“Does he know the true purpose of the machine?” asked one of the men.

Emmerich tensed. Petra felt the muscles in his back tighten.

“No,” said the first man, his voice smooth and melodic. “Not yet. But he will soon, and I assure you that when the time comes, he will be willing to do whatever is necessary for our plans to succeed. He is loyal to the Guild—­and to me.” A moment passed. “This machine is only the beginning.”

Finally, the many pairs of feet trailed away, the light switched off, and the door banged shut.

“Continue to keep tabs on him. We must be sure of the project's secrecy.”

Their voices and footsteps faded away until only the sound of whirring gears and rocking levers remained. Emmerich peeled away from Petra then, carefully guiding her out of the dark alcove. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the crack of light beneath the door.

“Who was that?” she asked.

He dropped into his desk chair, exhaling forcefully. “A few Guild members, I think,” he said, kneading his brow. “And my father.”

She blinked. “Your father?”

“He's a member of the council, the one who petitioned for my early application to the Guild and who brought the automaton to their attention.”

Petra chewed on her lip. “Did you know he was having you followed?”

Emmerich sighed heavily. “Yes.”

“And you still risked letting me help you with the automaton?” Her voice rose an octave. “How could you be so—­”
Stupid
, she wanted to say. Foolish. Reckless. Irresponsible.

His hand rested on her forearm, but she jerked it away.

“You said my involvement with this project could mark you for treason if we were found out, and now they've seen you with me.” She recalled the ragged man who had visited the shop, who had rescued Emmerich from Tolly just hours ago, all the times she had seen him in the street, just watching. She shook her head, backing away. “Emmerich, I can't. If they find out that I've been helping you, that you—­” Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't seem to breathe. “I can't.”

He fumbled across his desktop and struck a match, the light blazing in his fingers before it dwindled to a small flame. He lit the lamp on his desk and shook the match out. The glass cover cast an eerie green glow across his face.

“Petra, it will be fine,” he said calmly. “They do not know
why
I spend so much time with you. They will have their assumptions, but they would never expect a girl to be any help to me. They have no reason to suspect you.”

She managed to take a deep breath. “I shouldn't be here,” she said, her heart racing. She snatched up her watch and screwdriver, stuffing them in her pockets. “I have to go.”

Petra headed for the door, but then Emmerich's arms caught her in a tight hold, not ungently.

“Please stay.”

“I can't.”

She fought free of his grasp and curled her fingers around the door handle. Opening the door would mean the end of her time as an engineer, the end of her dreams, the end of her time with Emmerich. Not opening the door could mean the end of her life.

“Petra, I
need
you.”

She did not look at him. One glance into his eyes would destroy her resolve—­those beautiful copper eyes. Her grip slackened. Her shoulders relaxed. How easy it would be to stay, to enjoy their time together while she could. Minutes ago she sat cradled in his arms, comforted by the fact that she had his friendship. Perhaps something could come of it. Perhaps social stature didn't matter to him. Perhaps he could come to love her.

“Please,” said Emmerich, his voice like a spell against her determination.

Petra steeled herself against it. If the Guild discovered her involvement, their time together would come to an end. There would be no chance for a future. There would be no Emmerich to love. There would be no Petra.

“Goodbye, Emmerich.”

She turned the handle and fled.

 

Chapter 9

A
FTER QUITT
ING,
P
ETRA
found she had more time than she knew what to do with. Working for Emmerich had demanded every hour she could spare. Now she sat around listlessly, nothing to do, nothing to occupy her time. Mr. Stricket couldn't offer enough evening repair work to satisfy her. At home, she cleaned and cooked and sewed, looking after the little ones and helping Matron mend clothes, but it still wasn't enough. Every minute she didn't spend with her hands active, her mind drifted to Emmerich and the automaton.

She could not shake him. He visited the shop nearly every day, arriving well before her shift ended so she couldn't sneak off early. He pleaded for her to return to work, offered her more money, offered her anything she wanted, but she refused him each time, hating herself for it. After only a week, he stopped begging her to return, instead describing his latest progress with the automaton, telling her of faulty mechanisms and measurements that needed to be adjusted, how he could not move forward until the primary gearbox stopped malfunctioning.

If he thought his descriptions would entice her more than his pleading, he was right. As of their last meeting, he had completed the wireless control. Another week and he would start constructing the double mainspring to power the automaton—­
her
double mainspring, the design she had given him. She wanted nothing more than to see the design in action, see that her theory could work, but she still stubbornly refused to go back—­angry with him for not telling her the truth, and terrified of what might happen should the Guild discover that he had shared their secrets with her.

Eventually, after three weeks of trying to convince her to return, he gave up. His visits came less often until finally, he stopped visiting altogether.

P
ETRA SAT STUBBORNLY
at the kitchen table, mending dresses and sewing buttons with Matron Etta and her sisters. She had gotten quite good with a needle over the past few weeks—­her stitches were nearly as good as theirs. Still, even as she sewed, her thoughts always went to Emmerich. It had been almost a week since she last saw him.

Some days, she thought of returning to the University and apologizing for her behavior. Other days, she wanted to forget him and the automaton, run away and never look back.

She did neither.

“Petra, you've sewn but three stitches,” said Matron. “Try to focus, dear.”

She looked down. The needle lay slack in her fingers, thread snaking across her skirt. The patch she had begun to sew held onto the trouser leg by three irregular stitches. She ripped out the strands and threaded the needle again.

Emmerich likely thought badly of her. She had abandoned him and the automaton, leaving him to complete the project by himself with only two months to his deadline.

He probably hated her. Why else would he stop coming to see her?

If she hadn't been so stupid, she could now be helping him wind the mainsprings or test the automaton's power displacement. She hated sitting with her sisters, sewing clothes and pretending she was a normal girl uninterested in machines, pretending she was content with this life.

She knew she should stop being so stubborn and apologize. There was no sense in denying the fact that she wanted to be with him, whether it was working on automatons or just being together in silence, and traitorous or not, she wanted to be there when he completed the automaton.

She stood up, setting her sewing aside. “I'm off.”

“To where?” asked one of her sisters.

“We still have sewing that needs to be finished,” said Matron.

“I'm sick of sewing.”

Usually, such cheek would warrant a lecture from Matron, but Etta just snipped a loose thread from the garment in her lap. “Aren't we all?”

Fed up with being holed up in the apartment, Petra strode across the living room and fetched her student disguise from the dresser. She would march up those University stairs and apologize, and she wouldn't leave until Emmerich forgave her.

As she slipped into the trousers, a shuddering boom rocked through the flat.

“What on earth was that?” asked Matron, dropping her sewing into her lap.

A second boom assaulted the room, and the gas lamps flickered out. Only the pale morning sunlight streamed through the smoggy kitchen window, barely lighting the room. Petra fumbled with the buttons on her shirt, dressing as quickly as she could manage, and before anyone could say a word about her clothes, she shoved her feet into her boots, grabbed her hat, and headed out the door.

Twisting her hair up into her cap on the way down the stairs, she tried not to trip over her laces as another rumble shuddered through the building. When she reached the bottom, she threw the front door wide and stepped into the street, quickly crouching to tie her shoes. Several others milled about, gaping northward.

Great black columns of smoke rose from the University, darkening the sky with a malevolent cloud. Petra's heart leapt into her throat as she thought of the workshops ablaze, schematics burning, clothes burning, hair burning. Screams. Tears. Unbearable heat. A harsh ringing filled her ears, and she found herself trembling.

Emmerich was there.

Panic seized her, and she raced toward the University, tears burning her eyes. She should have apologized weeks ago. She should never have left. Now it might be too late.

Pedestrians crowded the University square. Alarms blared. Great, leaping flames licked the western walls, scorching the brass. Men wielding pipes and hammers threatened and beat back those who tried putting out the fires. A mob ascended the stairs, shouts of tyranny and protests against the Guild on their lips, a zealous gleam in their eyes.

Luddites.

From within the lobby a voice rang out: “At arms!”

Another explosion shook the ground beneath Petra's feet, and the steam vents along the street fired blazing columns into the air. She leapt back, pressing herself against a brick wall as she shielded her face from the blistering heat. ­People screamed. Skirts and trousers burned. Smoke billowed out of the University doors. Petra found it hard to breathe, her lungs seizing in her chest as her pulse raced in her throat, the rush of blood in her ears drowning out all other sound. Her breath came in short gasps, the world spinning before her eyes. All she could think of was fire—­fire and Emmerich and blood and death. She swayed on her feet and leaned against the wall to steady herself. All around the edge of the square, bystanders stood gaping at the burning University, too cowardly to step forward and put a stop to the needless violence.

The ringing in Petra's ears stopped, and she looked around for something to do, some way to help. Nearby, a woman stood atop one of the brass-­plated benches, shouting about the crimes of the Guild and the University to the ­people around her. Petra recognized her as the woman who often posted Luddite propaganda down Medlock, the woman who rallied the others, their leader.

Petra strode forward and grabbed her by the sleeve. “Stop this.”

The woman turned. “Stop?” She smiled, the University blazing in her eyes. “We'll not stop until this place has burned to ashes. We'll not stop until the Guild steps down from their high halls, not until this city is ours again. They are corrupt and they are greedy, and we will not let our lives be governed by their vices.” She gestured toward the University. “See the truth, dear girl. See how they arm themselves against us. And then tell me they have our best interests at heart.” The woman wrenched free of Petra's grip and thrust her hand in the air. “Down with the Guild!”

Her cry was met with a volley of smoking canisters shot forth from the University doors, raining down on the ­people in the square. One sailed over Petra's head and into the chest of a man behind her. Gas billowed around them, and Petra quickly raised her sleeve to her mouth, not daring to breathe as she pushed her way back to the edge of the square. Those around her retched and sputtered. Others pressed rags and shirtsleeves to their faces and kept marching forward. The sound of bullets rang out from within the University. An explosion blasted a hole in the upper floors and sent debris flying.

Petra ducked instinctively at the sound of the blast but did not think about fleeing. Knowing Emmerich was inside, the destruction drew her in. He could be hurt. He could be
dead
.

A second barrage of canisters rose into the air.

“Petra!”

She turned toward the voice, hope and happiness swelling at the sight of him. Emmerich limped toward her from the western side of the University, buffeted by the Luddite crowd. Soot blackened his shoulder and blood streamed down his shin. She ran toward him, blind to all else.

The canisters descended on the square, pinging against the brick pavers, and an intense flash of light blinded her. She collided with Emmerich, smelling his familiar scent, one she desperately missed.
Emmerich
. She breathed him in, the feel of him against her filling her heart with joy, even as light and ringing silence ripped all sense of sight or sound from the world. She squeezed her arms around his waist and felt his strong arms around her, wrapping her in his warmth.

A blast buffeted the air and a sharp piece of metal grazed her cheek. Emmerich inhaled sharply and clung to Petra, holding her tight against his chest.

When the ringing finally faded from her ears, Petra blinked the square into view. She shivered, feeling herself sink toward the ground even as Emmerich tried to hold her up. Shards of metal littered the square and the University steps, glinting in the sunlight. ­People lay on the ground. Screaming. Twitching. Bleeding. A surge of sickness welled in her throat, but she swallowed it back. Emmerich gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him, blocking her view of the terrible sight. She pressed her face into his chest and let his warmth overwhelm her. It all seemed so distant now—­the Luddites, the fires, the explosions, the dead.

She had Emmerich again.

“I am glad to see you,” he said softly, a slight strain in his voice.

“I'm sorry for leaving,” she said into his shirt, warmth seeping into the fabric and sticking to her face. She drew back. He was bleeding. “Emmerich, you're hurt.”

“My back,” he said, sinking to his knees.

Petra knelt with him and peered over his shoulder, focusing on the injury to his back instead of at the awful scene splayed across the square. A large shard of metal stuck out of his shoulder, blood streaming down the front of his chest. Several smaller pieces peppered his back. Blood seeped into his clothes, staining his shirt and trousers a deep red.

“Emmerich,” she whispered, gingerly touching his shoulder. “What's happening?”

He shook his head, trembling. “Luddites found their way inside, infiltrated the subcity, sabotaged the gas lines.” He winced. “It's just like before. Most of the inside is ablaze. They had explosives, Petra. Dozens of students are dead, engineers too.” He groaned again, trying to stand. “The Guild militia is defending the University, driving the Luddites out, but . . .” He trailed off, his face turning white as he tried to move. “We need to go. We need to leave the square before it gets worse.”

“
Worse
?”

A call rang out, and men wearing stark gray uniforms filed out of the University, bandoliers belted across their chests and guns strapped to their arms. Among the fallen, a dozen or so of the injured struggled to stand. The Guild militia aimed their weapons at the men and women still left half alive, and those who dared to move toward the University were shot down by an explosive charge to their chests, obliterating the last of their rebellion—­and their lives. Petra stared in shock.

She had to escape from it, the tangy smell of blood, the crying and moaning. Steeling herself against the bloody injustice of it all, she lifted as much of Emmerich's weight as she could manage, struggling to keep him upright as she dragged him out of the square and into an alley, out of sight of the Guild militia. Would the gunmen mistake them for Luddites and follow them? She helped Emmerich lean against a wall, and he reached down and jerked a slice of metal out of his calf, wincing as he tossed the shard to the ground. He pressed himself against the brick, breathing hard.

Petra examined his face, streaked with soot and blood. Though wounded and weak, his eyes were bright. She brushed his sweaty hair aside and wiped a stain of soot from his forehead. He smiled weakly at her touch.

“Can you walk?” she asked gently. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice weak.

They left the sounds of fire and torment behind as Petra navigated the narrow alleys between buildings, avoiding the main roads to keep away from the crowds. Emmerich staggered next to her, a trail of his blood following their path. She did not head for the hospital. The nurses and doctors there would have their hands full with the injured and the dying. Instead, she headed home.

The two of them stumbled out of the alley just opposite the apartment building. Matron Etta and two of her sisters, Constance and Esther, stood in the street, gazing at the smoke from a distance. Esther spotted Petra first, her blue eyes widening at the sight of Emmerich's arm around her shoulders, not the blood that covered them both. If the situation hadn't been so terrible, Petra might have laughed.

“Etta,” she said, getting Matron's attention. She groaned against Emmerich's weight, panting from the effort of holding him upright and dragging him so far. “He's hurt.”

Matron ducked under his other arm and helped ease the burden on Petra. “What happened?”

The sight of bodies, mangled and burned, the blood, the gunmen, the stench of death, the blazing fire . . . She could not find the words to speak, shuddering at the images in her mind.