A Spark Unseen (13 page)

“What is it telling you, Uncle?” I whispered.

After a long time he said, “It says that it is right, that its pieces are working, and that the when is now.”

“And the clock is working even in a different place, isn’t it?” He moved about in my hand a little, but he was not trying to hit his head. “I told you that when you woke up, that we would have done just what Marianna said to. Do you remember that, Uncle?”

“I waited … for twenty …”

“But you don’t have to wait for twenty here, Uncle, because this place is not wrong. It’s a place Marianna made for you. We did just as Marianna told us.”

My uncle frowned. “But Marianna said that when the men come, that … that I am to wait … in the tunnel.”

I looked hard at my uncle, watching his short, panting breaths. Every now and again he was capable of remarkable penetration, as if a light had somehow beamed through his fog. “Yes, Uncle,” I said softly, “that’s exactly right. Only this time the men knew all about the tunnel. So Marianna made another place, a place where you could make new toys and where they would be safe. That is where we are now. And you can hear that the clocks are ticking.”

Which to my uncle meant that the world was still turning on its axis. I waited, hardly daring to draw breath, to see if he would accept this explanation. If he did not, I had no other plan. His mouth turned down again, ready to cry. I was ready to cry with him.

“But … where is … the house? And Mrs. Jefferies? The girl is here. …” I chanced a glance back at Mary. She had sunk to the floor, her back against the wall. “Did the water take it all away? Like before? I don’t understand. …”

“The water didn’t come this time, Uncle, and it’s all right to not understand. I’ll stay with you until you do. But now you are very tired. Would you come with me and lie down, and have some —”

Uncle Tully’s eyes snapped open. “Will I get too tired, Simon’s baby? Will I go away? The forever kind, like Marianna?”

I paused, my uncle’s head still cupped in my hand, his white hair and white nightshirt stained with blood, pale skin stained with coming bruises. And he was searching my face, puzzled, the mind that could confound the best the scientific world could offer, asking if someday he would die. The thought filled me with a pain that I could not show him.

“I don’t want you to go away, Uncle. I want you to stay with me. But if you did … if you did get too tired, then we would not forget. We would remember. Always.”

Uncle Tully sighed. “It is right to remember,” he said, eyes dropping. “That is what Marianna said.”

He was relaxing now. I slowly took my hand away from his head, before he could realize it was there, letting his bleeding temple rest against the wall. “Would you like to come with me, Uncle Tully, and look at Marianna’s new place, and all your things that we’ve brought?”

He winced, eyes remaining closed. “My head hurts, little niece.”

“Yes. And it has gotten very dirty. Will you let me use the cloth on it? The cloth will touch, not my hand.”

Mary brought a warm cloth, and my uncle allowed me to not only clean his head but his face and the backs of his hands as well. He tottered upright and we helped him to his bed, bloody nightshirt and all. The slowness of his movements woke all my slumbering alarm. But he drank his tea and ate a piece of toast, and I wrapped the blankets tight around him, sitting beside his bed while Mary sponged the bloodstains from the walls. And the last thing I remembered was watching the rise and fall of my uncle’s chest, up and down, up and down, counting each precious breath.

I sat up, startled, a blanket sliding down from my shoulder. I was on the floor of my uncle’s bedchamber, heart beating hard for no reason I could name. One gaslight flickered in the windowless room, and in the glow I could see that my head had been on a pillow, though I had no memory of it being put there; I had no memory of going to sleep. I blinked, then spun about to look behind me. My uncle was right where he should be, beside me on the little cot, still wrapped tight and sleeping heavily, as he often did after being upset. He looked terrible in the gaslight, but at least this sleep was natural, nothing like the forced unconsciousness I had subjected him to.

When the clocks in the next room began to strike — a soft noise in this sound-deadened place — I stopped watching my uncle, got to my feet, pushed my own wild hair out of my face, and wandered out of the bedchamber. I felt each and every ache earned from a night on a hard floor, but those pains were nothing compared to the seething hot guilt in my middle. Lane had taken much better care of him.

I paused, adjusting the clock that had been just a bit behind the others, and looked about the room. Ten o’clock in the morning, but the light from the high windows was barely there, the sun a mere thought behind low-hanging clouds. Someone — Mary, I supposed — had been cleaning since last night; the toppled chairs were righted, spilled tools back in their boxes, and the automaton pieces organized by body part on the tables and against the walls. A bit of metal shone out from beneath a cloth at my elbow, bright in the room’s dimness, and beneath the wrapping I found the flower of brass, one of my favorite things Uncle Tully had ever made. The metallic petals alternated buffed dullness with a high polish, the bloom narrowing at the bottom to the point of a stem. It was nothing grand or spectacular, no engines or steam, just a small piece of wonderment that fit in the palm of my hand.

Glancing once over my shoulder — I knew better than to be caught touching my uncle’s toys — I set the flower on the workbench, one finger on the top to hold it upright on the narrow stem, and gave a quick jerk to the string that had been threaded between the petals. The string came free, a wheel softly whirred, and when I removed my finger the flower was spinning, slow and unaided on the tiny stem point, the petals opening and closing with soft clicks. Mr. Wickersham had held this flower once, examining not its beauty but the spinning gyroscope in its center, the same mechanism that was in my uncle’s fish. I watched the flower turn, a thing perfectly and unnaturally balanced. Could there really be something inside this little flower that could sink an ironclad ship?

The little toy spun on and on, never losing momentum, a bloom perpetually losing and then finding its sun, and suddenly I knew that I was homesick, not just for the Stranwyne I’d left but for the Stranwyne I’d known before. For the grandeur of Uncle Tully’s workshop, and Lane at a workbench, smelling of smoke and paint, for the summer sun on metal and the steam engines thrumming and my uncle’s joy when he wound up his toys. The sheer injustice of the loss twisted all my melancholy into anger. How I wished I’d shot Ben Aldridge when given the chance. Lane and I had that in common.

I stopped the flower’s spin with one finger, its gyroscope coming abruptly to a halt. My uncle’s vibrant, spinning world may have been shrunk to the size of this attic, but I would extract every drop of happiness from it that he could possibly have. I would live away from my home, tell every lie that was needed, and be the lady Mr. Babcock required. And I would bring us Lane. If we could not have our life at Stranwyne then we would build our old life here, cog by cog and stone by Parisian stone. This I would do. Somehow. Would not rest until it was done. For my uncle. And for myself.

I straightened my back in the would-be workshop and carefully covered the flower, letting it wait for its sun.

I
stepped through the shelf door into the dingy storeroom, where my empty steamer trunk sat, and crept down the stairs of a still and silent house. On the next landing, I discovered a large bedroom with shuttered windows, an unmade bed, and one of Mr. Babcock’s tall hats, and across from it a smaller chamber, bright yellow with white trimmings, containing Mary’s trunk and her knitting basket. I shook my head as I shut the door, the soft noise almost startling. The yellow room was obviously for guests, but who was I to deny Mary, who had left home and family for the sake of my uncle and me? Quiet pressed against my ears and I began to hurry down the steps. Where was everyone?

On the second floor, I found a small room with a convenience, the curtain moving slightly with the breeze that came through a broken pane of glass — poor Mr. Babcock, I must have given him quite a start — and then I found my room. There was no question that it was mine, because it had so obviously been my grandmother’s. The furniture was dark, tall, and heavy, nothing like the airy style in the rest of the house, the wallpaper only slightly brightened by the lighter shades of pink in a pattern that tended closer to red. My trunk hunched neatly at the foot of an enormous canopied bed, thick with fringed hangings, the noise of a French gilt clock on the chimneypiece rather loud in the silence. A small pile of papers sat beside the clock, pinned beneath a stack of French books that looked like fairy tales. A note in Mr. Babcock’s hand was propped upright on the top. I snatched it up, squinting in the dim.

I traded the note for the papers and flipped curiously through the stack.

Documents of differing sizes, all French, with various inks and signatures, gold foil emblems, official-looking insignias, and embossed shapes on each. I dropped onto the rose velvet chair beside the hearth. The word
prison
was the same in English and French, it seemed, and
hospital
could also be easily deciphered. These were invitations, permissions to visit places where a young man might have lost himself in Paris, and very probably, if I knew Mr. Babcock, certified license for me to pry into their every dark corner.

I bit my lip, water stinging just behind my eyes. Mr. Babcock had done this. He thought my search for Lane foolish and hopeless, and yet he had done this. For me. Such an obvious show of trust and affection was almost puzzling to me, would probably always be puzzling to some deeper part of myself, while at the same time a very different something inside me had been set loose, taken flight, and soared. My way was clear, the road smoothed. I would start as soon as I could be certain my uncle was settled. I riffled through the papers again, wondering if any of these places might be within walking distance of Rue Trudon. If I could only get a map of the streets, I could …

And then I froze. For the first time in many hours my mind went to the time before my uncle, to the man slouching against a streetlamp, and the short walk home that had become a chase. I’d been so distracted, so preoccupied, I hadn’t even mentioned the man to Mary or to Mr. Babcock. And where were they now? The clock on the chimneypiece ticked in the silence. I leapt from the chair, dropped the papers where I’d been sitting, and hurried to tug the drape back from a window that was nearly twice the height of my head. I jerked open one tall, louvered shutter, and a watery, gray light half lit the bedchamber.

The houses across the street were nearly identical to one another, only an extra space between window rows showing their delineations, and I saw a flower seller hurrying past, pushing her brightly laden cart at a trot beneath the heavy sky. Everyone was scurrying down the street or along the narrow sidewalks, making for the nearest shelter. All except for one. The man in the blue vest leaned against his lamppost, hands in pockets, unmoving, watching the doors of my house.

I stepped back, out of sight, the fear of the night before crashing down so that I could hardly stand. I whirled, ready to run down the stairwell, vaguely planning to yell until I found Mary or Mr. Babcock, but I stopped short, one hand jumping to my throat, only just holding in my gasp. A tall, thin shadow stood stock-still in my doorway. After a moment, the silhouette stepped forward, and the pale face and severe hair knot of Mrs. DuPont came into the window light.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, a bit too loud.

Mrs. DuPont took another slow step into the room, black eyes sweeping over the still-made bed, my untamed hair, the muddy and wrinkled, garden-stained dress that I’d obviously slept in. Her sharp gaze lingered on my face and the hand on my throat went quickly to my cheek, feeling the soreness beneath my fingers. I’d forgotten the blow from the wrench. I wondered if I had a black eye. I dropped my hand and clasped them both behind me, returning Mrs. DuPont’s stare.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” the woman said, expressionless. “Mademoiselle said to come to her at half past ten, so this is what we do. I have come to tell Mademoiselle that we wait for her in the salon.”