Mechanica (24 page)

I
HAD
only my worn overcoat to shield me from the chill that penetrated the glass carriage walls. I couldn’t make quite the elegant entrance I desired when I pulled up to the palace—at least an hour later than I would have liked, due to the burgeoning snowstorm. Squinting through the darkness and flurries on the way through the Forest, I’d wondered if I could somehow attach lanterns to the front of the carriage, or even to Jules himself. Gas lamps would gutter in the wind and wet, but the faint red glow from Jules’s furnace reminded me of the radiant spheres I’d seen at the Night Market. Mr. Candery, in fact, used to have one just like them. . . .

But of course I couldn’t use Fey lights in public. I wondered what the Heir really thought about the legalization of magic. I wasn’t going to the ball for his sake, as so many were, but I had to admit that I was curious about the next leader of Esting, the young man who supposedly wanted to reopen the trade routes and appoint a Fey ambassador. Perhaps, through him, there was hope for magic after all.

When I finally arrived at the palace gates, I saw with relief that there was no line of carriages before me. Most of the other guests had already arrived, so only the guards and valets saw my ugly old coat. I’d used my second-to-last drop of ombrossus just before I left too; whatever anyone else thought about me, at least I would be hidden from the Steps.

And at least the gown beneath my coat—Jules’s gown—was gorgeous, and I wore my own glass headpiece to match my shoes. For the first time since my parents’ deaths, I was proud of the way I looked. It was a strange feeling.

A valet appeared at the carriage door. He bowed discreetly while I exited, though I saw him stare at my glass carriage and mechanical horse.

Two more servants opened the heavy palace doors for me. They moved quickly and silently, so much so that I thought I might not even have noticed them, were I not also a servant . . . and had I not been looking for Fin.

I entered a dark hallway. My glass-and-steel shoes clicked too loudly against the marble floor, and I winced at the sound before remembering that the music in the ballroom would drown it out once I’d left this huge, all-but-empty space.

There were only a few lamps lit in the hall; most of the light came from the ballroom itself. I lingered in the darkness for a moment, a strange premonition moving over me: I thought that I could never come back quite the same, once I’d walked into that bright light.

I shook my head and told myself I was being silly. I squared my shoulders and stepped out of the shadows.

The view from the top of the staircase stopped my breath. The floor was white marble, and a black velvet carpet extended all the way down the steps. An orchestra was just visible in a far corner of the ballroom, but swaths of silvery fabric hid it from most of the dancers, giving the impression that the room itself produced the music.

I looked more closely and realized that might not be far off: there were no musicians. Instead, jointed metal contraptions drew the bows across the violins and cellos, and a series of narrow tubes blew breath into the wind instruments. A huge metronome of sorts lurked behind the other instruments, adding percussion to the eerily precise music.

I was fascinated, and I promised myself I’d find the person who’d created the orchestra before the night was over. I checked the pocket watch I’d tucked into the draping at my hip: it was already past eleven. I had precious little time before Jules’s charcoal ran out, and I wanted to give us plenty of spare fuel in this freezing weather. I’d have to leave by midnight.

As I put my watch away, I realized I was standing in a deeper shadow than I had been a moment before. I looked up at the ceiling, and my mouth dropped open.

There were at least a dozen chandeliers moving above the dancers, each many times larger than the one in the dining room at Lampton Manor. They were covered with long, lean crystals like icicles, echoing the biting cold outside. They rotated slowly on invisible axes, so that a subtle dappling movement infused the ballroom with light. As they spun, they also moved across the ceiling in wide circles, their many branches sweeping around like the legs of giant, benevolent insects. The ballroom ceiling was all one great clockwork panel, and I realized, watching it, that this ball wasn’t just a celebration of the Exposition, but its beginning. I had another reason to be glad I’d come, besides Fin. Missing this spectacle would have broken my heart.

I took a deep breath and started carefully down the stairs. When I’d almost reached the safety of the floor, I realized someone was watching me. The sharp glitter of his monocle, and the absurd size of his gray mustache, made me recognize him at once from my first Market excursion: it was Lord Alming.

I cast my eyes down, not sure if he had recognized me or if he’d just happened to be watching the staircase when I’d entered. But he approached me right away, just as somber and imposing as I remembered him.

“Good evening, young miss,” he said, bowing politely.

I curtsied as deeply as I dared—which was to say, not deeply at all, since my balance in the glass shoes was still a little uncertain. “Good evening, Lord Alming.”

“I must say, I am quite astonished to see you here,” he said. “I’ve looked for you many times since our encounter at Market.”

I looked up.

“Your friend sells your wares, but you’ve never come back yourself. I wish you had.” He frowned. “I’ve a grave matter to discuss with you regarding your machine.”

Horror drew the warmth from my skin. A man like Lord Alming could ruin my professional reputation; if he found my work unsatisfactory, he could easily make sure every potential patron at the Exposition knew not to bother with me.

But before I could respond, he swept into a far deeper, more intricate bow than the one he had offered me. I spun around, knowing that whoever commanded Lord Alming’s deference would require mine as well.

I found myself face-to-face with the Heir himself: the medals on his black dress uniform, the thin platinum circlet on his head, and especially the Heir’s crest near his heart, told me the young man before me could be no one else.

It was several more seconds before I realized that he was also Fin.

No; it wasn’t possible. Christopher—that was the prince’s name. I frowned and recited his full title to myself, which I’d inadvertently memorized during the Steps’ many repetitions: His Highness Prince Christopher Dougray Fadhiri Anton Abdul-Rafi’ Finnian—oh . . .

I felt my eyes widen as I stared at him. He looked so much like his mother, Queen Nerali, with her wide, deep brown eyes, dark skin, and curling hair. How could I not have seen it? I told myself it would have been ridiculous to think someone I had met at Market was the Heir—but I still felt like a fool.

Royalty suited Fin. He stood straight in his dress uniform, seeming somehow taller than he had in his plain clothes. His hair, which I’d always seen in unkempt curls, was pulled back into a short queue.

Still, the mischievous quirk in his eyebrows and the open kindness of his face were just the same as they had always been. His eyes glimmered with good humor, and their utter familiarity threw me off. I felt a blush simmer over my face.

He offered a fluid, formal bow, and I stupidly attempted to curtsy in response. My hard, slippery shoes wobbled under me, and I had to spread out my arms to catch my balance.

Fin chuckled and took my hand. “Hello, Nick,” he said.

My shock was fading, and annoyance and embarrassment took its place. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I rasped.

But I already knew why, of course. The Heir never left the palace. King Corsin kept him even more closely guarded than the borders of Faerie—or so, at least, he’d let his people believe. An alias would be the only way for Fin to come out of hiding.

He shook his head—
not now
—still smiling. “Care for a dance?”

I pulled back. Of course I wanted to dance with him, but I wasn’t feeling particularly graceful, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of him ever again. “Didn’t you see me curtsy? I can’t possibly dance—I’m here to find a patron for my workshop. Which I was about to do, by the way, until you turned up.” Talking to him almost made me forget he was the Heir; I’d imagined our conversations so many times, that with the real Fin finally before me again, I could hardly help but talk to him naturally. I could see him again as the boy laughing at me at Market, murmuring seriously up in the trees . . . kissing me in the shadows of the Forest Queen’s ruins.

I pulled my thoughts back to Lord Alming. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to find him again.”

Fin nodded but didn’t drop my hand. I looked around for Lord Alming, but he’d vanished. As I wondered desperately if I’d lost my chance, I realized that quite a few people were staring at us.

My mortification grew. I wondered if my dress was all wrong: most of the other ladies had chosen white gowns, as had Piety and Chastity, or barely there pastels. My midnight blue ensemble stood out like a deep bruise.

Then the circlet on Fin’s brow caught the light of a passing chandelier, and I remembered why people were staring. Every woman here hoped to gain the attention the Heir was offering me.

“Don’t you want to dance with me?” he asked.

I remembered the note in the forest, the real reason I’d come. Of course I did.

There were so many things I wanted.

My face burned still hotter. “All right,” I said, “but something simple, please, Fin.”

He made a small motion with his white-gloved hand. A servant near the wall nodded and strode away, and a moment later the music slowed. I might almost have called the song gentle, if the prospect of dancing with the Heir while everyone watched hadn’t set my heart careening against my ribs like a steam engine.

Fin led me to the center of the dance floor, and the couples around us backed respectfully away.

He turned to face me and smiled again. His hand found my waist.

I slipped my own hand onto his shoulder. I crimped the corners of my mouth into a smile, and Fin laughed outright.

“It’ll be fun,” he said. “Just let me lead.”

His hand tightened ever so slightly around mine, then the music swelled and he stepped forward and we were dancing, spinning over the floor, my skirt swirling around us, and the chandeliers drifting and sparkling overhead. So much space opened inside me again, space exploding into something bright and rare that, in that moment, I knew must be love.

I don’t know how long we danced; in his arms, I had no sense of time. We simply moved together, on and on through the music . . . until Fin stopped in the middle of a step. “She’s here,” he said, so softly that no one but I could hear him.

The momentum of the dance spun me against his chest, but even my slamming into him didn’t distract him from where he was looking now—off toward the dark pit devoted to the mechanical orchestra. He stepped toward it, leaving me in the center of the dance floor.

I heard a few scandalized murmurs behind me, but I tried to ignore them as I followed Fin. Once we were beyond the silver drapery that surrounded the pit, none of the courtiers dared to follow.

The air was warm in there, the same metallic-friction warmth I knew from my workshop. A heavy woman in a red gown, the color of blood or roses, was standing in front of the orchestra, her back to us, quietly asking questions of a man in a conductor’s tuxedo. She watched as he moved a series of levers on a panel set back against the wall. There was a moment of silence, and then the music changed, the dance Fin and I had shared becoming a minor-key saraband.

I didn’t want to know who the woman was—I knew only that Fin had spoken of her with reverence, relief, adoration, and I’d never heard him speak of me that way. The space he’d made in my chest collapsed, and my muscles and bones went metal-cold.

Then the woman turned, and I saw that she was Caro.

Her dress was almost exactly in a style my mother used to wear—very much in vogue a decade or so ago. The full, rounded skirt had no bustle, and the neckline plunged into a deep vee. The old-fashioned gown suited her, though: its low neckline showed her creamy skin, and its tight bodice molded her torso into a thick hourglass. Even through my misery over Fin, I knew she looked beautiful.

“Oh, Nick,” she said, reaching toward me, “I hoped you’d come, I really did—I asked Fin to leave you a note. Do you like the music? I gave Mr. Kinsworth here an idea or two, from my music boxes, you know.” A flush of pride colored her skin all the way down to her shoulders.

The conductor nodded a brief greeting to me, then bowed to Fin and discreetly made his way out of the orchestra pit, leaving us in private.

“Yes, Caro. It’s wonderful.”

My voice was quieter than I would have liked it to be. I hated this. Tonight ought to have been thrilling, perfect, the beginning of the Exposition and the portal to my future. I was supposed to be utterly happy, and yet here I stood, wretched and confused, unable even to congratulate my friend properly.

I asked myself if I was jealous of Caro. I glanced at Fin again, then tore my gaze away, unable to bear the way he looked at her. Yet I cared for Caro as well—I cared for her too much to resent her happiness.

She was looking back at Fin now, and their smiles showed all the years they’d known each other, all the experiences they’d shared, and most of all, a secret they’d kept far too long . . . even from each other.

Watching them, I realized I’d known they were in love ever since I’d met them at Market.

I expected them to embrace, but neither of them moved. So much love shone on their faces that I was sure they couldn’t help but recognize it in each other.

And I could not watch that happen. I looked from one to the other of them, and I could not bear it. I shook my head, and as Caro began to reach toward me, I drew open the curtains and walked back into the ballroom. Dozens of courtiers gaped at me, but I kept my shoulders straight and my head high. I knew they were only looking for Fin, and sure enough, as soon as I passed they gathered around the orchestra pit again.