The Clockwork Three (13 page)

He brought a candle downstairs to the basement and sat next to the clockwork man with
The Clockmaker’s Grimoire
. He flipped the pages in the book until he reached the chapter on the Analytical Engine. He began to read and found a lot of mathematics that were well beyond his abilities, but the idea behind the engine overwhelmed him like a forest fire.

How could he have not thought of it?

How many times had Frederick used Jacquard cards on the looms back at the orphanage? If you could change the pattern of weave by changing
the punch cards, why could he not change the behavior of the clockwork man in a similar way? Babbage proposed such a use for differing calculations in his Analytical Engine, but with his experience on the orphanage looms, Frederick was certain he could adapt the concept. There would be a card for walking, and a card for running, a card for writing. A card for anything. And the cards would be inserted and read by the head of the clockwork man.

He lay awake on his back for hours, planning, designing against the dark ceiling. His mind felt as though it smoldered and crackled. It was all coming together now.

Somehow Frederick’s past at the orphanage had crept up out of the cellar to help him. Looking back had offered a way to look forward. All the while, Hannah’s questions brooded at the edge of his thoughts like a thunderhead out over the sea.

The next morning he went upstairs early to make Master Branch breakfast. He lit the stove and sliced some bread, which he slathered with butter. Then he cracked some eggs in an iron skillet. They sizzled in pork fat and brought Master Branch sniffing from his bedroom.

“Well, this is nice of you, lad,” he said, tying on a dressing gown.

“Sit down, sir, eat,” Frederick said.

Master Branch pulled out a chair and plopped into it, and Frederick served him a plate of food. Then he cooked himself some eggs and sat down next to the old man.

They chewed and listened to the city waking up, the sounds of rolling commerce out on the street.

“Delicious,” Master Branch said, wiping up yolk with his bread. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Frederick said.

Master Branch rose from his chair.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering….”

“Yes?”

Frederick put his fork down.

“What is it, lad?”

“Why didn’t any of your other apprentices make journeyman?”

“They lacked the necessary talent.”

Frederick chewed on that. And on something else.

“Is there another question you’d like to ask?”

“Do you … do you know the name of my mother?”

Master Branch lowered himself back into the chair. “I don’t. Can you not remember?”

Frederick tried to speak and choked. “No. She was just Ma.”

The mantel clock ticked away the seconds of silence.

Frederick stared at the table, studied the wood grain. “Back at the orphanage, would they … would Mrs. Treeless know?”

“I imagine she would.”

Frederick nodded. “I’ll clean up. You can go get dressed.”

Master Branch lingered for a moment and then withdrew, while Frederick remained at the table, facing down a whole new problem.

Hannah’s Father

I
T FELT TO HANNAH THAT THE OPERA SHOULD HAVE CHANGED
something in her permanently, but it had not. Madame Pomeroy had kept the dress and locked away the diamonds, and the next day Hannah had put on her maid’s uniform as she always did and gone back to work. But something had changed. Something to do with Frederick. She did not know what to make of him. He was like a bird in a turtle shell, fragile and armored at the same time, and after having spent the evening with him, she found that she wanted to pry him out. Over the next few days she hoped for an opportunity to return to his shop to speak with him again, but none came.

Then, on the fourth night since the opera, Madame Pomeroy kept Hannah later than usual. When she reached home and stepped through the door, she knew something was wrong.

Doctor Morse leaned over her father with one hand braced on the headboard, the other touching a stethoscope to her father’s chest. Her father’s face twisted in a grimace, eyes closed, his clothing soaked with sweat. Hannah’s mother stood nearby, plucking at her apron, eyes blank like the broken windows of an abandoned house, while her sisters cried from their bed.

Hannah froze. “What’s wrong with Papa?”

Her mother turned. She saw Hannah, and behind her eyes it was like someone had set fire to that empty building.

“Where have you been?” she said.

“At work.” Hannah took a step toward her mother. “What’s wrong with Papa?”

“I need silence, please,” the doctor said without looking up.

Hannah’s mother turned her attention back to the bed. Hannah inched up next to her and looked down on her father. His irregular breath seemed to leak from between his lips. The doctor lifted away his stethoscope and pulled out the earpieces, letting the instrument spring loose around his neck.

“His condition is very poor,” he said. He spoke low and even, like he was saying a prayer. “I recommend the removal of the leg by tomorrow.”

“Remove the leg?” Hannah grabbed her mother’s arm. “What’s he talking about?”

Her mother shook her head. “It’s … I …” She covered her mouth and began to sob with her eyes open, staring at Hannah’s father.

Doctor Morse put his hand on Hannah’s back and led her a few feet away. “Your father developed a bedsore that has become gravely infected.”

“But how?”

“Your mother believes it to be her fault for not rotating him enough. I have tried to reassure her, but …”

“You can’t take his leg. He’ll need it when he recovers.”

The doctor exhaled through his nose. He placed both his hands on Hannah’s shoulders and bent to meet her eyes. “Child, your father had a stroke. He will never recover. And now, the wound in his leg is poisoning his blood. We must amputate.”

“Hannah,” her mother said, “don’t make this harder.”

Hannah’s lip quivered, and she bit down on it. “No. No, you can’t.” She turned to the doctor. “Isn’t there something else we can do?”

Her mother relapsed into tears. The doctor held his chin, tapping his cheek with his index finger.

“Is there something else?” Hannah asked.

“A drug,” he said. “It’s new, very expensive. It doesn’t always work.”

“We have to try it,” Hannah said.

“Child, in my opinion, there may not be time. And the cost would be —”

“We’ll pay for it,” Hannah said.

Her mother trembled and said nothing. She just bowed her head and held up her hand as if to stop Hannah’s offer from across the room.

“I’ll get the money,” Hannah said. “Just give him the medicine.”

“But the compound takes time,” the doctor said. “It won’t be ready until tomorrow afternoon, perhaps evening. By then —”

Hannah stamped her foot. “He’ll make it!”

The doctor stepped away from her.

Hannah’s chest burned, and her voice crumpled to a whimper. “He’s strong. He’ll make it.” Her tears broke free. “Please don’t take his leg.”

Hannah’s sisters had fallen silent on the bed, listening. When they saw Hannah crying, they began to wail.

“I am sorry,” the doctor said. “Your mother is the one to make the decision.” He turned to Hannah’s mother, as if expecting her answer in that moment.

Hannah’s mother pressed her palms against her temples. “I don’t know what to do.”

Hannah pushed the doctor aside and tumbled toward her. She grabbed her mother’s hands and held them, their faces inches apart.

“Please, Mama,” she said.

“Hannah, I —”

“Papa will make it. I’ll get the money.”

Her mother stared into Hannah’s eyes, as though searching for something.

“I’ll get it. You’ve got to trust me. Just try the drug. Just try …” Hannah broke off.

Her mother gave a slight nod. “All right,” she said, her voice more of a croak.

“Thank you, Mama.” Hannah fell against her mother’s chest, and her mother held her there.

“Doctor,” her mother said, her voice stronger. “We will try this drug. If it does not work, we will amputate. What must I do in the meantime?”

“Ma’am,” the doctor said, “I must advise against taking this risk.”

“What must I do?” she asked again.

The doctor came forward, solemn, with his hands clasped before him. “Keep the wound clean, change the bandages frequently. And we must still break the fever. Keep him cool, apply cold water to his forehead and feet. If he begins to shiver, cover him until that subsides and apply the cold water again.”

“And the medicine?” her mother said, still holding Hannah.

“If I go straight to the apothecary, he can begin work preparing the drug tonight. As soon as it is ready, I will bring it to you. No earlier than five o’clock tomorrow evening, no later than seven.” He cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid the apothecary will expect payment on delivery. The medicine will cost you twenty dollars. Can you have the money by then?”

Twenty dollars? A month of Hannah’s wages.

Hannah’s mother leaned back and held Hannah at arm’s length. Hannah nodded.

“We will have it,” her mother said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I will come back in the morning to see how he is doing.”

Hannah clutched the sleeves of her mother’s blouse until the doctor had gathered his things and left their apartment. They listened to his steps receding down the stairway. After he was gone, Hannah’s mother gathered her back into an angry embrace, and her sisters rushed from the bed.

“Ah-ah!” Her mother pointed at them and they slid in their socks. “Doctor says you two are to stay away from your father. We don’t want your grubby little hands making him any worse.”

Hannah’s sisters pouted and flounced back onto the bed.

Hannah’s mother raised her hand to her glistening forehead, as if taking her own temperature. “I hope you know what you’re doing, girl.”

“I do,” Hannah said.

“Where will you get the money?”

“I’m going to ask Madame Pomeroy to loan it to me.”

“You think she would do that for you?”

“She seems fond of me.”

“But how will we repay it?”

“From my wages, over time.”
Or from Mister Stroop’s treasure
. “But I have to go see her tonight.”

“But it must be nearing midnight.”

“I know, but we can’t risk any delay.”

“All right. But be quick about it. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Hannah leaped to her feet and ran for the door. “I’ll hurry back.”

“Keep to the well-lit roads!” her mother called after her.

Hannah took the grand staircase two steps at a time, as many as her legs could manage, her black skirt flapping like the wings of a bat. She reached the top floor and paused to catch her breath before pulling the bell on Madame Pomeroy’s door.

No one came, and Hannah wondered if her mistress had already gone to bed. Then Yakov answered, still wearing his long gray coat. He opened the door only a few inches, and peered out at her.

“Hannah,” he said through the crack.

“I’m sorry for the late hour, but I need to see Madame Pomeroy,” Hannah said in a rush.

Yakov glanced back into the suite, darkened behind him. “It will have to wait.”

“But it’s urgent.”

“I am sorry.” He moved to close the door.

Out of reflex, Hannah put out her hand and blocked him. The Russian, unperturbed, looked at her hand, fingers splayed against the wood, and then back at Hannah. He said nothing and waited.

“Please,” Hannah said. “Is she asleep?”

“No. But she will not see you now.” He looked at her hand again.

She pulled it away, and the door closed. Before it latched, she heard Yakov say, “Good night, Hannah.”

She stared at the door as if a witch’s spell had transformed it into a wall before her eyes. She was like the heroine in a fairy story, on a quest to save her father, and the wall was just an obstacle to be overcome. And Hannah carried the key.

She pulled it out of her pocket and weighed it in her hand. How angry would Madame Pomeroy be if Hannah entered the suite? Surely if her mistress understood, she would not be too wroth with her. But what if she was? What if she dismissed Hannah, stepping out of the way for Miss Wool to devour her?

But she had no other way to get the money for her father’s medicine.

Hannah tightened the key in her fist and then slipped it into the lock. She twisted it a hair at a time, hoping to slide the lock quietly. It clicked. She opened the door only as far as she had to and brushed through.

The lights in the entry were off, the hallway to Madame Pomeroy’s bedroom a dark tunnel. To her right, a faint, wavering glow emanated from the drawing room, and a low murmuring reached her ears. A moist chill hung in the air like ropes of seaweed dripping from the ceiling, brushing the back of her neck and her wrists. Something in the suite felt very wrong. Hannah crept forward, heart recoiling in her chest, and peered into the room.

Madame Pomeroy sat at a round table opposite from a man and a woman. Yakov hung on nearby with a watchful eye on his mistress. The three at the table had joined hands and had their eyes closed, while the dim gaslight sconces flickered along the walls. Madame Pomeroy spoke, her voice deep and foreign, intoning words as though she were striking a heavy bell.

“I am Evenor,” she said. “Father to the great kings of Atlantis. What is it you seek?”

“To converse with the spirit of Phineas Stroop,” said the woman at the table.

Hannah covered her mouth to keep her shock inside. It was Miss Wool. And there was Mister Grumholdt at her side. They had their backs to her, but she was sure it was them. His bald head flushed red, and Miss Wool’s steely braid coiled like a viper. And they were asking about Mister Stroop.

“Very well,” Madame Pomeroy said in the voice of Evenor. “I will reach through the void for the one you seek.” Her head slumped forward.

In the minutes of silence that followed, Miss Wool and Mister Grumholdt peeked at each other, and at Madame Pomeroy, but did not speak. Hannah breathed quick and shallow. The rumors were true after all. Madame Pomeroy communed with spirits. Hannah’s fingers and toes went numb.

She flinched when Madame Pomeroy lifted her head with a sucking, drowning breath.

“I have found him,” she said in the voice of Evenor. “Though I cannot contain his essence for long. Ask of him what you will.”

Miss Wool leaned forward. “Where is your treasure hidden, Phineas Stroop?”

Madame Pomeroy’s head fell to one side. “What do you mean by treasure?” she asked in a voice that was neither hers, nor Evenor’s, but something different, something that sounded weak and old enough to die on the spot.

Miss Wool hit the table with her fist. “Your treasure! The one you hid!”

“For God’s sake.” Mister Grumholdt reached out and put his arm in front of Miss Wool, as though to restrain her from leaping across the table. “Calm yourself, woman.”

Hannah felt hot tears burning her eyes. Why was Madame Pomeroy helping them?

Mister Grumholdt addressed Madame Pomeroy. “You must forgive Miss Wool. She is quite impatient, I’m afraid.”

Madame Pomeroy did not reply.

“Um, yes,” Mister Grumholdt said. “Well, what Miss Wool meant to ask is where you hid your earthly wealth before you died.”

“It is not … hidden,” Madame Pomeroy said.

Mister Grumholdt turned an ear toward her. “What was that, now?”

“Anyone … can find it,” Madame Pomeroy said.

“Riddles?” Miss Wool pushed back from the table. “We paid this circus freak for riddles?”

So that was it. They had
paid
her.

“Not … a riddle,” Madame Pomeroy said.

“Then what do you mean?” Mister Grumholdt asked. “What do you mean, uh, Mister Stroop?”

“McCauley held … the …” Madame Pomeroy’s voice decayed into a wheeze, as if she were moldering and falling apart.

Miss Wool and Mister Grumholdt leaned in.

“McCauley held the … key … to my … happiness….”

Moments passed quietly enough to hear the whisper of the gaslight, and Miss Wool and Mister Grumholdt sat immobile in their chairs as if waiting for the rest of the message.

When none came, Miss Wool bored into Mister Grumholdt. “That’s not a riddle?”