Mechanica (28 page)

At last I found my voice, a voice that would not deny him, yet; a voice full of questions rather than answers. The voice I had always had. “Why?” I asked. “Why, if you love Caro?”

Now it was his turn to be stricken, to go blank. “I—”

“I know you do,” I said. “I know it. I could see it in your face in the orchestra pit last night. Don’t do either of us the injustice of denying it.”

“So that’s why you left . . .” He blinked, twice. “I’ve never denied it,” he said. “It’s just that no one ever asked me, till now. No one even thought it was possible. But you—”

“They must not know you very well.” Not that I knew him so well either—something I’d told myself a thousand times since last night. But I knew him well enough to see the light in his eyes when he looked at another girl. I knew him well enough to see that light was not there when he looked at me.

He nodded, then laughed a little, and some of his natural ease came back. He took in a breath, and I knew he was going to tell me the truth. “I’ve loved her forever,” he said, more quietly still. “Since we were children. I loved her long before I ever met you that day at Market. Sometimes I wondered . . . sometimes I got angry, that I had loved someone so long, before I even had the chance to fall in love in the first place. I fell in love with her before I could speak, before I could think. My first memory is of her, of making her laugh. Even then—I was probably two—all I wanted was to make her laugh, always.

“Of course,” he went on, “there hasn’t been a single moment in my life when I haven’t loved Caro, but sometimes I . . . sometimes I’ve wondered if it would still have been that way, if we hadn’t been friends our whole lives. I know she’s wondered that too. There are other people she . . . but none of them last. And for me, well, the only person who’s made me wonder is you.”

He took three steps toward me and clasped my hands in his. He leaned forward to search out my eyes. “You,” he murmured, “a girl who had brought herself to Market of her own volition, a girl clearly of the kind of, well, the kind of background my father is hoping for, and a girl who is also intelligent and sweet and beautiful . . . How could I not have wondered? My father has lectured me for years, ever since Philip died, that the only girl for me would be an Estinger maiden of proper background, of proper birth . . . but I was never allowed to meet anyone at all, of course. And over the last year, when I’ve met a very few . . . well, they’ve all been like your stepsisters: vapid and stuffy, named after virtues that are usually an absurd clash with their personalities. But you were fresh and real, Nick, and I admired you from the start. I wanted to make you laugh too, the way I did with Caro. And when you laughed, then I started to wonder what it would be like to kiss you. And then I—I hoped—oh, Nick, wouldn’t you have hoped, as I did?”

“I did hope,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. I swatted my fingers across my face, embarrassed, and I had to pull away from his grip to do so. “I hoped too.”

Fin looked horrified; his other hand dropped mine of its own accord. “Oh, Nick. How incredibly cruel you must think me. How incredibly cruel I have been.”

“No—you didn’t—” But that denial died on my tongue too. “A little, maybe.” A laugh broke its way through my tears.

“Oh, Nick, I never thought. You were—you were a hope, for me, of a different life. A change in fate when my fate was already designed.” He glanced down at his hands, clenched and released them. “But my story was decided a long time ago.”

I heard a murmur from the crowd outside, at some miracle or other passing by. “The people out there don’t think so. They think your story—our story—began last night.”

Fin took a long breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was clearer, steadier. Somehow I knew he’d rehearsed these words. “Yes, exactly,” he said. “They believe the story is ours, yours and mine. They believe in us, Nick. That’s why we have to get married.”

I stared at him; I ogled. Just seconds ago, ticked out in the beat of my own heart, I’d heard him tell me all about how he loved someone else. Did I know him at all, this person I thought I loved, if he could propose such a thing?

“But I—but Caro—” It seemed the mechanisms of my voice had seized up again.

“I know,” he said. “I think . . . I think I am glad I told you after all. If we marry, we should at least be honest with each other. And if you—bound as my heart is, it would only be reasonable for you to find someone else to love too, Nick. I wouldn’t blame you, not in the least. And there are plenty of brilliant young men in court, in Esting, in the realms abroad—genius inventors, poets, men far more handsome than I, men with a thousand more virtues, and I say this as a prince who has never counted modesty or humility among the particularly worthwhile virtues. And, oh, Lord, you should meet those two demons-in-gowns. Modesty Dulac and Humility Covington make your stepsisters look like turtledoves.”

I had a sudden image of Piety and Chastity as preening birds, stuffing feathers from other species—peacocks, perhaps—amid their own gray plumage and cooing over the results, and I had to laugh again.

That was the first moment of hope I had for my broken heart. At least I could still see the humor where there was humor to be had.

“Anyway, Nick . . . we can use this story. Remember the Forest Queen? The whole country is in love with you right now—and not just because they believe I am too. They’re in love with your ingenuity, your beauty, your grace; they love that name they’re calling you. You are everything Esting longs to be, and this story, falling in love at first sight at the ball—my father’s councilors couldn’t have constructed something so perfect if they’d tried. This story will build us up, Nick, you and I, until the whole kingdom follows us. You’ll be Mechanica forever, with a happy-ever-after people will tell each other for generations, countless generations yet to come. You’ll be the story girls tell themselves at night, girls who hope for a better life. You can become that, Nick. Think of how a story like that would inspire people.” His eyes were bright, and there was a faint sheen to his skin. His words had sped up until they were hurried, fervent.

I thought of all the long nights spent in my lonely bed, reading Faerie stories and romances, imagining that a happy ending waited for me, too, preconstructed as perfectly as Mother’s machines. Having to believe that, just to keep on going.

But with Fin, as Heiress—as the story Mechanica—my bed would still be lonely. I would still lie there and tell myself stories instead of living them. The only difference would be that every girl in Esting would be telling herself the same story, my story, and wishing her life would have as happy an ending as mine.

And then, finally—with a feeling in my chest that was a sinking and a rising at once, a drowning and a stirring of wings—I knew my answer. I could not fit inside a story someone else had built.

“No, Fin,” I said. “I can’t marry you. I love you; for a few moments, I even thought I was in love with you. But I can’t marry you.”

I touched his cheek, and we smiled at each other, gently, sadly.

Fin reached his hand up to cup mine. “I thought you might say that,” he said.

That fervent look in his eyes had dimmed a little, but it was still there. He looked like an Heir now, truly, a young man who would someday lead a country. I thought he must love Esting more than he loved either Caro or me; in a strange way, the thought was a comforting one.

He released my hand. “You may be right, in the end,” he said.

I nodded, and because my heart asked it, I kissed him for the last time, under his right eye, then his left.

And then I turned, and I left my love behind.

Fitz was waiting for me just outside the curtain, as I expected him to be.

“Well!” he said, grinning at me. “Are my best wishes in order?”

I laughed, and I was surprised to hear the sound, not so soft or sad as I’d thought it would be. I really laughed.

“Always, Fitz,” I said, and nothing more. However he chose to read my answer was fine with me; I didn’t think I owed him the truth.

Thankfully, he took this as all the confirmation he needed of Fin’s and my impending nuptials, and he winked slyly at the tall, muscular guard who stood by the stage stairs. To my startled amusement, the huge man let out a squeak of glee, and I saw the kind of happiness spark in his face that I’d thought was reserved for young children listening to a Faerie tale.

And I found I was happy too. My heart was free, and there was the Exposition to take in, still. So many things to take in.

People made way for us again as Fitz escorted me back—and not just in front of us, either. There was a clear cobblestone path leading all the way from the stage to my carriage, to my beautiful Jules, who stood patiently waiting for me, nickering at passersby, clearly enjoying the awed and admiring glances he received. I couldn’t help admiring him myself, as well as the faceted bubble of the carriage. No one dared to come near him—or rather, only one person: a tall man in an acid-green top hat, who stroked Jules’s nose in a way I found all too intimate. And Jules, guileless showoff that he was, leaned happily into the man’s gloved hand.

I bolted toward him. The man turned, and I just had time to recognize the monocle, the serious, freckled face, and especially the huge gray mustache that curled up most of the way to his hat, before I collided with him headlong. He was holding a round, lilac-colored hatbox, and he fumbled and nearly dropped it.

“Lord Alming!” I panted. “I’m so sorry! Just a . . . just a moment of your time . . .” I’d come to think of myself as very fit, especially in the last few months; I thought it must have been my panic that had winded me, rather than the short sprint to my imagined patron.

“Ah, Miss Lark,” he said. “I have been hoping to find you. You waltzed off with the Heir last night, and I must say I was a bit put out with you, but I hear you have plenty of reason. Ah! Romance, drama, youth. How any of you enjoy it entirely escapes me, but I am sure you must be pleased. The whole kingdom is delighted with you, at any rate.”

Suddenly he frowned, and his mustache angled perilously downward. “But love stories are not what I have come to discuss with you. Ah, no. We must talk about your machine.”

My heart skipped, not in love or hope this time, but in fear. I still didn’t know what had gone wrong with the machine I had made for him, but I would set things right if I could. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the knitting machine, sir, but whatever is broken, I’ll replace it, repair it, I—I usually do quite good, quite reliable work—”

He stopped me with a raised hand. “The machine’s perfect, lass,” he said. “I’d wanted to discuss a further order with you, last night. But now . . .” He opened the hatbox he held and withdrew what was inside. “Now I’d like to talk about this.”

In his hand was my slipper—the one I’d lost at the ball.

It was still whole, perfect, steel gears glinting their delicate circles inside the shining glass exoskeleton.

“I nearly went home early last night, before I’d decided to forgive you. I am relieved that I returned; the food alone was spectacular. You’d gone by the time I came back, but you’d left this in your wake. There’s remarkable workmanship there,” Lord Alming said, following my gaze. “A dancing shoe, a real one, made of glass and gears! A wonderful thing in its own right, and a beauty too. I imagine every lady in Esting will want a pair, with this grand romantic tale circling about.” He winked at me. “Mechanica and the Heir. It’s a lovely story.”

I studied Lord Alming’s smiling face, wondering if I’d lose this chance too. Would he still want to sell shoes made by a nonprincess?

“Oh, sir,” I said, “the story’s not—the story’s not true.”

I was close to tears, but Lord Alming chuckled and waved his gloved hand. “Does it matter? Will it matter to the ladies paying a hundred crowns for these beauties?”

“A hundred crowns?” I was startled out of my self-pity, and I looked at him incredulously. The exorbitant price reminded me of the lovesbane bloom at the Night Market; a pair of shoes, for nearly the same price as lovesbane, which could save a life, or end one . . . “For one pair of shoes?”

Lord Alming nodded. “More, perhaps, once the trend sets in. I’d like to put these into large-scale production, Miss Lark—I’d like us to be business partners. I believe you are going to be a very rich woman.”

He handed me the slipper, and I looked down at it, rubbing my finger over the rounded toe. Lord Alming watched me, his face serious and professional, that of an investor making a business proposition.

He began to talk of the details: seed money and commissions and royalty rates. Because of Mother’s journals and the economics books I’d read, I was proud to say I could understand all of his terms. The rates he offered seemed more than fair, but he still insisted I get quotes from other potential investors before I signed an agreement with him. He’d seen young people swindled before, he said, and he wanted to be sure he was doing right by me.

I gathered myself together, the parts of my heart that still worried about Fin, and Caro, and Jules and the Ashes, and even the Steps and how I would deal with them, how I would manage to leave them. What Lord Alming offered here was no Faerie-tale ending, at least not the kind Estingers all over the country were dreaming up for me. It was simply a step, albeit a valuable one: a step in the right direction. But a step was all I wanted. The rest I would do myself.

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Yes,” I said. “I believe I’d like to work with you.”

He smiled that wide-cracking smile again, the one that made his mustache brush his eyebrows. “Excellent, Miss Lark, excellent.” He winked. “Or would you prefer that I call you Mechanica?”

I held my slipper up to the light, where it glimmered and flashed. I flexed my toes in my old, cracked work boots, considering. I placed the glass shoe gently back in the box.

“You can call me whatever you like,” I said, “but I should tell you my real name is Nicolette Lampton.”

“Lampton.” His eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline. “Not Margot Lampton’s daughter?”