The Brass Giant (4 page)

Monfore cleared his throat, and she yanked open the drawer. As she searched through the collection of pawn stubs, her thoughts drifted to the engineer. Why had he come to the shop? Why was he looking for her? She snatched the correct file and slammed the drawer shut. Why did she care?

“Here.” She tossed the file onto the counter and picked up her broom, spending the last thirty-­five minutes of her shift listlessly sweeping dirt from one side of the shop to the other.

When her pocket watch finally ticked past four o'clock, Petra filled the dustpan and carried it to the front door to dump it off the side of the stairs into the bin. Then she could go home and curse herself a thousand times more for not meeting the engineer face-­to-­face when she had the chance.

Turning the handle, she pressed herself against the door and pushed it open, abruptly knocking into something at the top of the steps. There was a hiss of pain, and Petra realized that there was a man sitting on the landing. She dropped the dustpan and edged around the door, wringing her hands.

“So sorry, sir. I didn't—­” She stopped, her eyes widening as the man stood to face her, unable to utter anything more than a startled gasp.

He rubbed his shoulder. “No, don't apologize. I shouldn't have . . .” He finally looked up and saw her. His copper-­brown eyes met hers, and a slow smile lifted his lips. “It's
you
.”

Petra felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Anything she thought to say in reply sounded absolutely daft. She hadn't expected him to be there—­to be
here
—­and he stared at her so intensely that she could not find the sounds to put into words.

“Would you like to take a stroll?” he asked, appraising her with a crooked smile.

The warmth in his voice broke the tension that had coiled up inside her. She swallowed the dry feeling in her throat and released the breath she had been holding. “All right,” she said hoarsely.

She placed the broom against the railing and took his offered arm as if she were some finely dressed lady, not a shop girl in a soot-­stained work dress and dusty apron. He led her down the front steps and turned up the street, heading toward the center of the city. He smelled of metal polish and oil, and the familiarity of the scent calmed her.

Petra glanced up at his striking profile. He was much taller than she remembered, and he had shaved recently. He casually regarded her inquisitive stare, and she caught the faint hint of a smile before she turned away, the heat rising in her face. They passed several shops and apartment buildings before either of them broke the awkward silence.

The engineer spoke first. “You lied, didn't you?”

“Sorry?” It wasn't the conversation starter she expected.

“That day, when I came down the street with my automaton. You criticized my work, and when I asked what you would have done differently in the machine's design, you said you did not know. You lied to me.”

He slowed to a stop and looked into her eyes, shocking her into silence with the full force of his copper stare. “The others might have been convinced that you were nothing more than a foolish girl who knew nothing beyond how to push a broom, but the way you looked at my machine . . .” He inhaled a deep breath. “When you placed your hands on the automaton, your eyes lit up like a thousand electric lights, and I knew you were more than just a shop girl, more than what you seemed to be,” he said, a breathless excitement to his voice. “The way you focused on the sounds within the machine, the way you examined its structure, its manufacture, assessing, judging, calculating, rearranging it all in your mind—­I saw it all. I saw the truth.” He smiled. “Only an engineer could look upon a hunk of moving metal with such enthusiasm.”

Petra frowned. “What are you getting at?”

He regarded her carefully, seeming to weigh his next words in his mind before he spoke. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

She blinked. “
What?
”

“You were right,” he said, his voice suddenly heavy. “The automaton
is
flawed.” He turned his gaze up the street toward the University and sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, tousling the neatly combed tresses. “I'm supposed to redesign the machine for some future use by the Guild, but I need help doing it. The prototype you saw was nothing more than an experiment, to see if I could manufacture a theoretical control I'd been thinking of, but then my father . . .” He trailed off. “Never mind that. Needless to say, when the council saw my design, they wanted to own it, to reproduce it—­an innovation for the new age.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “But it isn't ready. It needs more work.” He sighed and then mumbled, “I should have never put it forward in the first place.”

Petra stared at him, a paid engineer of the Guild, complaining to
her
about having everything she had ever wanted—­a University education, Guild recognition, a future career in engineering, and most importantly, the work space and funds to create the next great innovations of the world. She gritted her teeth, trying not to let the irritation slowly building up inside her show. It wasn't
fair
.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

He regarded her carefully. “You saw the automaton for what it was—­a haphazard prototype, a flawed machine not fit for the Guild.” His eyes blazed with intensity, the wheels of his mind seeming to whir into a frenzy. “You could help me change that.”

Petra frowned. “How?”

“You could help me fix it, help me design a machine worthy of the Guild, worthy of the Chroniker name.”

“Me . . . help
you
?” She blinked, her heart racing. Petra Wade, Guild engineer. This could be her chance; this could be the opportunity she had been waiting for all her life, offered freely, and yet . . . She narrowed her eyes. “Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“Because . . . because I'm no one, just a shop girl,” she said, shaking her head.

“What's the difference between spur and helical gears?”

Before she could stop herself, the words spilled from her mouth. “Spur gears are simple, having teeth parallel to the axis of rotation, while helical gears have teeth inclined in relation to the axis, ensuring smoother action and better load capacity. But with helical gears, there is the disadvantage that the teeth build up side pressure which causes thrust on the . . .” The realization dawned on her, and she met the engineer's eye. “That's what was wrong with the automaton's gear system, why the gear train kept throwing itself off balance. You tried to balance the thrust with opposing rotations, but you miscalculated.” Her fingers twitched toward the screwdriver in her pocket, and she flexed her hand into a fist, her mind racing with possible adjustments she could make to the gear train. If she knew the weight and gauge of the gears inside, and the corresponding systems, she could—­

She glanced up at him. “Why are you smiling?”

“You spent no more than a minute with the automaton, and you figured all of that out without even removing the plating or reading the schematics.” He regarded her carefully. “You're an engineer.”

Petra stared at him. “That doesn't mean I can help you.”

“Why not?”

She pointed up the street to the University, its brass walls blazing in the afternoon sun. “I don't belong there.” She remembered their haughty laughter and jeered insults, the way they judged her, as if she was worth less than a smudge of grease on the bottom of their shoes. “You think Lyndon and the Guild will let you employ a girl from the slums, that they would let me design and build a ticker for them?” She shook her head, lowering her hand to her side. “They won't.”

The engineer stepped closer. “You don't know that. Please, I need your help.”

Petra looked into his copper-­brown eyes. Here was her one chance, the perfect opportunity for her to prove herself among the best engineers of the world, and yet she knew that it was too good to be true. “For all my life, the world has told me that girls can't be engineers, that I will
never
be one of them.” She sighed. “I don't know why you thought I could help, but I can't.” Her chest tightened and she backed away, glancing once more at the gleaming University. It was the monument of everything she ever wanted, everything this engineer offered her, and she was going to turn her back on it. “I have to go.” She shook her head and turned to leave.

“No, please,” he said, stepping forward. “Petra,
wait
. I—­” He clamped his mouth shut.

She stopped and stared at him. “How do you know my name?”

The engineer froze. “I—­erm—­” He swallowed. “I asked around, when I was—­when I was trying to find you.”

“What do you want with me?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

He blinked rapidly and then placed his hand on his chest. “My name is Emmerich Goss, and I need your help.”

Petra narrowed her eyes. “I don't believe you,” she said, her voice trembling as fear and doubt and embarrassment crept into her chest. She pointed toward the University. “There is a school full of capable engineers—­a
Guild
full of them—­and you come to
me
? Do you think I'm stupid?” Heat welled behind her eyes as she recalled every teasing insult spoken at her expense, every rude name, every mockery of her ambitions. He was no different than they were. “You're lying. This is some trick, some scheme to get me to make a fool of myself, to put me in my place. I know it is.”

“No, it's not like that. Why would I—­”

“Because you're just like the rest of them. You're a pompous, self-­important prat who thinks I'm inferior because of where I live, because of who you think I am.” She stood up to her full height, still several inches shorter than the engineer, and glared stubbornly into his copper eyes. She was a shop girl, a stupid, impoverished shop girl from the fourth quadrant, but she was also an engineer, and he had no right to judge her. “I am ten times the engineer you are, and I won't be played by some University fop who thinks he can get the better of me.” She wheeled away from the engineer and strode down the street, her hands clenched at her sides and eyes stinging.

“Prove it,” he said quietly.

Petra stopped but did not turn around.

“You think you're a better engineer, that you could do my automaton better. Prove it.” His boots clicked against the cobblestones as he stepped closer. “Agree to help me, and you can prove to everyone that you're just as good an engineer as the rest of us. I'll even pay you for your work—­five pounds sterling a month—­for as long as you help me.”

Five quid a month! It would take her ages to make that much money working at the shop. If she agreed, in just a few months she would have enough to pay for her tuition at the University. Six months, and she'd have enough for a year.

She turned around. “Why should I believe you? How do I know you aren't lying?”

He hesitated, seeming to weigh the answer in his mind. “I could show you.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow, after hours, I'll show you the automaton. I'll show you why I need your help, and you can decide then if I'm telling the truth.” He laid his hand on his chest. “I give you my word as a gentleman that this isn't some trick. I'm not trying to fool you.”

Petra narrowed her eyes. Her heart pulsed in her ears as she considered the offer. It was a risk, but five pounds sterling a month—­getting paid to work on a Guild ticker, to have a hand in building the next great innovative technology, a chance to prove herself. It was everything she'd dreamed about. How could she walk away?

She looked into his copper-­brown eyes, his face nothing but sincere. If nothing else, she would at least learn the secrets of the automaton, how it worked, how he controlled it.

“Fine,” she said, making up her mind.

A wide charismatic smile spread across his face. “Excellent.” He offered his hand. “And now I think a proper introduction is in order. Emmerich Goss, Guild engineer.”

She eyed his open palm and resigned herself to the formality. “Petra Wade.”

He shook her hand firmly, still smiling. “Very pleased to meet you, Petra,” he said, his eyes gleaming. He withdrew a step and tipped his hat. “Until next we meet.”

P
E
T
R
A
C
LIMBED THE
stairs to her flat and pushed through the door, finding her hodgepodge family all sitting around their poor excuse of a dinner table. Their matron, Etta Wade, busied herself with plates and flatware, making sure the youngest had napkins tucked into their collars and that everyone had washed their hands before doling out their dinner.

Matron Etta had collected the children over the years—­the unwanted, the abandoned, the forgotten. First had been Petra, foisted onto the young nurse after the tragedy of the Guild fire thirteen years ago. Then Solomon joined their family a few years later, and Constance not long after. And then the rest of them—­little Helena, quiet Emily and ladylike Esther, mischievous Chris­tian and dutiful Susan, and always new young ones, nameless babes left at the hospital door, and unruly toddlers, coming and going as their parents were found or a new adoptive family offered to take them in.

Matron glanced up from the table as Petra kicked off her boots. “Oh, good, you're here. Constance has to be off tonight for a special rush order at the shop, and I need you to watch after the little ones once I'm gone.” She gestured to the tumble of children playing in the floor, their supper already eaten.

“I just watched them last night,” said Petra, hanging her apron next to the door.

Matron Etta frowned. “Yes, but you're all I have. Esther still isn't old enough to look after them, and Solomon has to work.”