The Brass Giant (3 page)

And some arrogant engineer had figured out a way to do it. The thought burned her from the inside. There was more for her to learn, and she wasn't going to stand by and let some University fop outclass her. She climbed to her feet, her eyes on the pub door. She'd find out how he did it—­sooner or later.

“
H
AND ME THAT
bit there,” said Petra, her fingers deep inside a musical box frame. She sat at the worktable in the back room of the pawnshop, with Mr. Stricket hovering over her shoulder.

“Which one?” he asked.

“The governor assembly.”

Mr. Stricket handed over the part. Petra wedged it into the base of the musical box and screwed it into the bedplate. Then she carefully connected the gear train, and finally placed the pin next to the air brake.

“Finished?” asked Mr. Stricket.

She gave the musical box the once-­over and nodded. “I think so.”

“Give it a wind.”

Petra turned the crank handle. The pawl clicked on the wheel of the mechanism, holding the mainspring in place. Two months of work, and so far, so good. She rotated the crank three times and sucked in her breath. One gear out of line, one tiny mistake, and the box wouldn't play. She pulled the pin from its holster, releasing the air brake and the mainspring. Silence. The air brake whirred, and everything turned like it was supposed to. One second ticked by. Two seconds. She had failed. Three seconds. She had done something wrong. Her mind picked through the months-­long process of repairing the musical box, trying to figure out where she might have made a mistake, and then the music played. A tinkling sonata reverberated from the musical box, silencing her doubts.

Mr. Stricket patted her on the shoulder. “Well done, my dear. Well done.” He crossed the room and sat in his old wicker chair in the corner, tapping his foot to the melody. “There's not a ticker on the face of this earth you couldn't fix.” He smiled proudly.

Petra couldn't help but beam. She replaced the casing around the base of the musical box, and the song intensified, perfectly captured within the instrument. Placing her screwdriver on the table, she leaned back in her chair. The melody within the musical box was proof of her skill, but what good was skill when she could do nothing with it?

She rested her head on the back of the chair with a heavy sigh and stared at the ceiling.

“Is something troubling you, my dear?”

She sighed again.

Everything. An overwhelming
barrage
of things. She couldn't attend the University because she was a girl. She would never become a qualified engineer. She would never amount to anything. She made a fool of herself
twice
in the same day, completely losing any chance she might have of attending the University, in disguise or not, and proving just how daft she was in front of probably the finest student the University had ever taught. She groaned. And there was absolutely nothing to be done about any of it.

The music slowed to a stop.

But what bothered her most was the fact that there was some aspect of mechanics that she didn't understand. She hated not knowing.

She sat up and twisted around in her chair. “Mr. Stricket, have you ever seen a ticker—­a machine of
any
kind—­act without someone directly controlling it, without being linked to a control apparatus or programmed to follow an engineered, repetitive function?”

Mr. Stricket seemed to think about it. “I don't think I follow.”

“Is it possible for a machine to act without direct intervention, almost autonomously?”

“That would be extraordinary.”

Petra frowned. “But you don't know how it could be done?”

“I imagine they study that sort of thing at the University.”

She swallowed back the acidic embarrassment in her throat. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I expect so.”

Mr. Stricket took a deep breath and stood, his joints creaking nearly as much as the old wicker chair beneath him. “It is such a shame the Guild forbids women to attend. I know at least one bright young woman who deserves a place there,” he said with a wink. Still smiling, he crossed the small room and reached for something atop the shelf above the table. “Now, I have something for you.” He pulled down a dark wooden box and carefully placed it in front of Petra.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Open it up.”

She carefully opened the lid, revealing soft felt lining along the walls of the box, but nothing else. “It's empty.”

A smile spread across his thin face, a twinkle in his green eyes. “It's for the musical box.”

Petra inhaled a sharp breath and shook her head. “Oh, Mr. Stricket, I couldn't.”

“Yes, my dear, you can. I bought that musical box months ago as a gift, to congratulate you.”

“Congratulate me for what?”

Mr. Stricket cupped her face in his hands and smiled. “Petra, if I ever had a son, I can only imagine that he would have been something like you: passionate, strong-­willed, and a deft hand with machines. He would have been my apprentice at the shop at a young age, learning to repair and build tickers.” Her old mentor placed his hand on her shoulder, tears glimmering in his eyes. His smile quivered. “Now, I may not have a son, but I do have
you
. You have been my apprentice since you were old enough to turn a screwdriver, but today you are no longer an apprentice.” He gestured to the table and to the musical box. “You, my dear, are a master. This musical box is proof.”

The heat rose in her cheeks, and the corners of her eyes stung, but she did not cry. Petra Wade never cried. She blinked back the traitorous tears as she stood and faced Mr. Stricket. She wrapped her arms around his frail body like she had done as a child, ever since the first day she wandered into his store and he taught her the secrets of clockwork.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

He smoothed her hair. “Of course, my dear.”

 

Chapter 2

P
ETRA SAT ON
the steps outside the shop, watching the ­people of the fourth quadrant move up and down the street. Outside the pub, a group of women and a few men gathered, speaking heatedly to one another. She caught snippets of their conversations. “ . . . abominable machinery . . . Satan's machines . . . death to the Guild . . .” Luddites. Why the Guild tolerated their presence, she didn't understand.

Since seeing the automaton, Petra had haunted the steps whenever business was slow. Two weeks she had waited, hoping she might see
him
again, but there hadn't been a hint of the automaton engineer. Other students had frequented the walk between the University and the pub down the street, but not the student she wanted to see.

She wasn't entirely sure why she wanted to see him.

She hated him for his pretentiousness and his arrogance. She hated him for being an engineer, for being a student at the University. She hated him for the automaton and his money. She
loathed
him, but she equally admired him. He was everything she was not and everything she wanted to be.

The bell above the pawnshop door tinkled, and Tolly came out onto the landing. “Pa said you need to clean the display cases. They're smudged.”

Petra released a heavy sigh and glanced over her shoulder. “I'll be in shortly. Just give me a minute.”

“Is everything all right?” asked Tolly, plopping down beside her. “You've been awfully distracted lately.”

Petra only nodded. A rickshaw rattled down the road, followed by a trail of black smoke puffing from the stack. Several steam vents flew open and cleared the noxious fumes from the street.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She released a puff of air, blowing her bangs away from her eyes. “Not with
you
.”

“Still upset about the University, then?” He leaned back against the stairs and looked up the street toward the gleaming towers on the other side of the city. “I don't know what you expected, Pet. You're a girl. You don't belong there.”

She just shook her head. It wasn't even about the University anymore, or the Guild. All she could think about was the automaton—­and its engineer. She wished she could disassemble the machine, discover the secrets of its hidden controls, find out what exactly made it tick, what prompted the Guild to purchase its design for such a large sum of money.

She
needed
to know.

But Tolly wouldn't understand that. He would never understand.

He didn't want to.

Petra turned on him. “Is there something else you wanted?”

Tolly shrugged. “Just thought I'd ask how you were.”

“As if you actually care,” she snapped, suddenly angry. “Don't pretend, Tolly. I'm not stupid. I know what you think of me, what you think of my tinkering. And I'm tired of hearing it. I'm tired of listening to you tell me over and over that I'm never going to be an engineer, that I'm not one of them, that I don't belong.” Her throat tightened as anger filled her up inside. “Well I
do
belong. And one day, I'll be there,” she said, pointing up the street. “I'll be the best of them, and then you'll see.”

“Right.” He rolled his eyes and stood. “Well until then, you have some counters to clean, so hop to it.” He vanished back into the shop, the door slamming behind him.

Petra hugged her knees, gritting her teeth as she focused on the University, its brass walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. She meant it. Someday, she would be one of them, and then the whole world would see.

The shop door banged open, slamming against the brick wall as burly, snarling Mr. Monfore stepped onto the landing, Petra's broom perched on his shoulder. Swinging the broom around, he smacked her in the side with the bristles.

“Get up off them steps, girl. You have cleaning to do.”

Petra clenched her hands into fists as rage boiled in her stomach, rising up her chest and into her throat. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “I
said
I'd be in shortly.”

Monfore pointed through the doorway. “You get in there and clean—­
now
—­or I'll have your wages docked for the day. I don't pay you to dawdle.” He flung the broom down the stairs and stalked back into the shop.

Petra sucked in a deep breath, held it, counted to five, and slowly exhaled. She ought to break the broom over his balding head. Instead, she descended the stairs and snatched up the fallen broom. She hated the days when Monfore was in charge of the shop instead of Mr. Stricket. He was a filthy lump of slag compared to Mr. Stricket and his golden manner, an overbearing dictator over her during the hours she was there.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her pocket watch and checked the time. Only three hours more and she would be free of him. Three hours and she could go home, where nothing but a bland dinner and unruly siblings awaited her. She kneaded her temples and inhaled deeply again, counted, and exhaled. Somehow, she would survive it all.

M
O
N
F
O
R
E
S
A
T
B
E
H
I
N
D
the counter, flipping through a stack of bank notes. Under his scrutinizing gaze, Petra cleaned the glass display cases, dusted the tops of the shelves, filed receipt copies, polished the items in the window, and swept the entire shop floor twice. Tolly had snuck off—­avoiding her, no doubt. It annoyed her that he could skip out on work and still receive more pay than she did. Benefits of being the shop owner's son, she supposed.

“Girl,” growled Monfore. “Find last week's pawn stubs and bring them here. I need to call on those customers.”

Petra wedged around the counter and squeezed a path between the paperboard boxes full of tickers Mr. Stricket needed to repair. The stacks seemed to grow every day. She turned the lamp up in the back room and scanned the labels attached to the front of the file cabinet drawers. Pawn stubs were at the top. She dragged a stool from the corner, and as she climbed onto the chair, the doorbell tinkled. Another pair of grimy footprints to sweep from the polished floor.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Monfore, transforming into the amiable persona he reserved for customers only. “How may I help you?”

“Ah, yes—­well . . .” The customer trailed off and cleared his throat.

Petra nearly lost her balance, grabbing the cabinet for stability. That voice. It couldn't be. She looked over her shoulder. Monfore stood leaning against the counter, but because of the stacks of boxes, she couldn't see the customer. Holding her breath, she carefully stepped down from the stool and extinguished the gaslight, plunging the back room in semidarkness.

“Is there anything in particular you're looking for?” asked Monfore. “We have all sorts of trinkets. Perhaps looking to please a lady?”

Petra crouched behind the stacks of broken tickers, peering out through a space between the boxes and the door frame. The customer shifted his weight, moving his face out of her sight; she could only see him from the waist down now. He was finely dressed, with a tailored waistcoat and trousers, and spats over his shoes. He held a hat at his side, his thumb rhythmically rubbing the brim.

If she could just look at him properly . . .

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “But, my apologies, I'm not here to purchase anything.”

She was certain it was his voice, and though she had heard it only once before, it stuck in her mind all the same.

“Looking to pawn?” asked Monfore.

“No, sir,” he said. “But you may still be of help to me. I am looking for someone—­a young woman.” Petra's breath caught in her throat. “She may work here?”

Monfore sat in his chair behind the counter and rested his hands on his lap, glancing toward Petra's hiding place. She swallowed hard, knowing he would somehow find a way to punish her for this. The seconds ticked by in silence.

The customer cleared his throat. “Might you know of such a woman, sir?”

“This girl,” said Monfore, steepling his fingers over his lap. “Did she wrong you in some way?”

“No, nothing of the sort.”

Monfore reclined in his chair. “I doubt my shop girl would be of any interest to you—­nothing more than a penniless orphan with little to no prospects beyond working here in my shop. She doesn't have the aptitude for much else. Quite dim-­witted and difficult to manage, you see. I doubt she's the one you're looking for.”

“I see.”

Petra wanted to throw something at Monfore. She closed her eyes, trying to find the nerve to stand up, walk out of that room, and introduce herself properly. She had already missed one opportunity. She couldn't miss a second.

“Then, I apologize for wasting your time, sir,” said the customer. “I must have confused the woman's identity.”

“I am sorry I could not be of more help,” said Monfore.

“Yes, I am sure that you are,” he replied, his tone veering from politeness to suspicion. He stood there a moment longer, an uncomfortable silence weighing on the room. “Well, then,” he said finally. “Good day, I suppose.”

Monfore nodded politely, but the glimmer in his eye was anything but friendly. “And to you, sir.”

Petra held her breath and waited, keeping her eye locked on the empty space between the stack of boxes and the door frame. If he would only move a little farther toward the front of the shop, she might see his face, but as he turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his heavy boots thumping across the wooden floor, his back remained to her. She still couldn't make out his face from where she sat.

He reached out for the door handle, but then hesitated, curling his fingers into a fist. “One thing,” he said, turning back around.

Petra's heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of his windswept hair, thick eyebrows, and intense copper eyes. The engineer had come looking for her.

“Your shop girl,” he said. “What's her name?”

Monfore shifted in his chair. “I don't see how that matters.”

The engineer rubbed his thumb along his jaw, studying Monfore with a calculating stare. “No,” he said, frowning. “Perhaps not.”

Petra could see his face so clearly now—­the glimmer of his eyes in the gaslight, the line of his jaw, the intensity behind his gaze—­as she silently pleaded for him to glance around the shop. If he turned just slightly and looked toward the back room, he would see a sliver of her face in the doorway; he would know she was there.

Hiding, like a child.

Realizing how foolish she must look, sitting there in the dark, she withdrew from the door and flattened herself against the shelves, cursing her cowardice. A moment later the bell over the shop door tinkled, and he was gone—­again.

Minutes passed before she shakily stepped out from behind the stacks of paperboard boxes and faced Monfore.

“What the bloody hell was that about?” he demanded.

Petra winced, his tone piercing through every last shred of her practiced restraint. But instead of showing false shame, as he expected, she let her anger rise, billowing up inside her—­every torment, every insult, every belittling remark she had endured in the years of Monfore's tyrannical reign over her, all the times he had called her
stupid
and
worthless
and
inadequate
. She gritted her teeth and stared him in the eye, determined not to back down or let him get the better of her, not this time. She was tired of obeying, tired of taking orders, tired of letting others rule her life.

“It's none of your damn business,” she said firmly.

“None of my—­” The vein in his temple bulged, and his eye twitched. He rose to his full height. “Now you listen here, girl. I told you once—­I don't put up with the same nonsense Stricket allows.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “You come here on time. You work. You go home. You don't take breaks. You don't invite loiterers into my shop. And you sure as hell don't disrespect me.” A spray of spittle rained on her cheek. “Understand?”

Petra wiped her face with her apron, seething beneath her calm exterior. “Perfectly. Now, if it isn't too inconvenient for you,
sir
, I'll be going.” She turned away and marched toward the front door, holding her chin high.

“You still have forty minutes left in your shift,” said Monfore. “You're not going anywhere.”

She stopped in front of the door, tightening her hands into fists. “I have other business to attend to at the moment,” she said quietly, not turning around. “So if you don't mind—­”

“If you don't put in the hours, you don't get paid, girl. You walk out that door, you won't see a penny of wages this week. I'll make certain of that.”

Petra hesitated. Matron needed that money, even if it was a meager twenty pence. Her eyes drifted to the small square window set into the door. On the other side, standing at the top of the stairs, was the engineer, unaware that she stood just inches away. She gripped the door handle. More than anything, she wanted to talk to him, find out the secret behind his automaton, but she just stood there. She couldn't give up a week's worth of wages. It wasn't worth it.

The engineer vanished from the window, gone forever. Petra released the door handle and bowed her head, defeated.

“Pawn stubs,” growled Monfore.

Petra shuffled to the back room and climbed onto the stool again. She rested her head on the filing cabinet, wishing she had the nerve to tell Monfore to shove off, wanting nothing more than to march out of the store, face the engineer again, and demand to know how the automaton worked. But she didn't. She was a coward.