The Falling Machine (29 page)

“Finally, I have everything I need.” He slipped the element into a lead case and dropped it into his pocket. “Now we can—”

There was a sound like a thunderous belch, and Eschaton flew off the ground like a leaf on the wind. He landed five yards away, falling hard as momentum abandoned him back into the brutal hands of gravity.

The wind struck Murphy, as well, but only indirectly. As he slid across the ground the heart was torn from his hands, and it landed heavily on the concrete.

Standing next to Liberty's arm was a female figure wrapped in a man's leather coat that was clearly far too big for her. It was held in place by a thick belt strapped around her waist. A black leather mask covered her face, while the rest of her features were hidden by a curtain of leather that dropped down below her nose.

She looked down at the Automaton's body. “You killed him,” she said in a threatening tone as she pointed the gun in her hand directly at the fallen form of Lord Eschaton. “I'll tear you apart!”

A
fter the argument with her father, Sarah had spent two days mostly in her room, and mostly alone.

For all her father's bluster, she was hardly a prisoner in the house. There had been an invitation to tea with Lady Mardens, and she had even received messages from two of her old school friends offering to come by and commiserate with her. At first she felt a little guilty for being so antisocial, especially considering that she had been completely absent from any events since the death of Darby almost two months before.

But her face was still marked from the glass. And while she would have appreciated the company, the last thing she needed to be doing was trying to explain her cuts and bruises to women who thought that having too much salt in their fricassee was a terrible act of violence.

At least the physical wounds she had incurred at the Darby house had begun to close up and scab over. Now it was the emotional pain that caused her the most discomfort.

She had spent most the night after the confrontation crying. Yesterday, after managing to gain some composure, she had admitted to herself that the girl she had been only a few short years before was dead and gone. Then Sarah had cried all the more when she realized how utterly maudlin and self-absorbed she was being, considering the real loss that had been going on around her. Later that day she decided that it had really been more about Sir Dennis than it had been about herself.

But Sarah had found herself unable to genuinely weep for Darby's death. The feelings of rage and frustration could open up the taps, but the tears wouldn't flow when she thought of the old man himself. She wondered what was wrong with her, that she could be so unfeeling. But perhaps she just wasn't ready to truly grieve for him yet.

Sarah peered out of her frosted window, staring down the street at the flickering gas lamps. Things were happening out there right now—millions of people living their lives, in a million different ways. But, she wondered to herself, how many of them carried the Paragon's greatest secret around their necks?

Somewhere down the hall a door was violently flung open, sending out a booming sound that rattled the walls of her room. It was followed by a flurry of footsteps—her father's stocking feet pounding the floor as he ran.

Sarah jumped up and pressed her ear to the door. Her father was calling for the footman, demanding that someone flag down a carriage, the horses having already been put to bed for the evening.

She cracked the door open to better be able to hear what it was that was going on.

“When did you get this? Why wasn't I told?” Her father's voice was loud and agitated. “Get on the telegraph and let the others know! If this is true…Damn that metal man!”

Sarah leaned back and gasped. “Tom!”

She opened the door wider this time. Her father was screaming out requests followed by mumbled, inaudible replies. “Where the hell are my boots! I'll need to go by the Hall first, and there's no damn time! Who's on duty now?”

It wasn't the first time such an emergency had swept over the Stanton household. Nor was it even the tenth. But it was one of the first times she could remember since her mother died that she had not been a part of the commotion. Her father would charge out of his office, screaming that there was an emergency at the Hall, and the staff would call the continued screaming. Up until now she had always been a part of preparing him to “head out into the action” as he liked to put it.

She closed the door and leaned back against it. Sarah hadn't just spent the last few days crying. She had been considering plans of her own. What she would do if the Automaton needed her…Her eyes glanced over to the bed.

But what if it wasn't really Tom? Perhaps it was just Nathaniel, or any one of the others, caught up in another nonsensical battle, fighting some trumped-up gang leader and an army of dandies…

“What other mechanical man could he have been talking about?” And if it was Tom, and if he needed her help, she had promised to come help him. But her previous attempt to protect the Automaton had resulted in her nearly losing one of her feet to frostbite. People who stood in the way of the Paragons got hurt in the most surprising ways.

And even if she could escape, there was no way that she could figure out where Tom was…Sneaking into the Hall of Paragons on a Saturday morning was one thing, but in an emergency it would be buzzing with preparations for battle, with both heroes and servants preparing.

Perhaps she could hide out nearby, and follow them when they headed out….

She shook her head and spoke sternly to herself. “You're being ridiculous, Sarah. You're just a girl—not an adventurer.” She was standing on thin ice as it was. If her father discovered her chasing the Paragons, there was no telling how much trouble she would be in.

And she didn't want things to get any worse. She had already decided that she wouldn't let her father force her into some loveless society marriage. But waging that war would have to be done with guile and patience. If she tried something now he'd have her wed in a month, just to get her out of his hair.

She closed her eyes and tried to order her thoughts. The anxiety inside of her only seemed to grow.

Throwing caution to the wind, she fell to the floor and pulled the box out from underneath the bed. She lifted it up and tumbled the contents out onto the mattress.

Sarah reached down and picked up the pneumatic gun. It had taken some work to keep the weapon a secret from Jennifer and her father when she had gotten back to Stanton House, but she had managed to use the commotion to sneak it up into her bedroom. And after she had been stripped of her mud-covered petticoats it had only taken a moment's distraction to kick it under the vanity.

The pistol felt heavy and cold in her hand, leaching away the warmth from her skin. It was, she thought to herself, in every way the opposite of Tom—a machine without grace, thought, or mercy. “But you're mine,” she said to herself, “and you'll do just what I tell you to.”

She placed the gun back on the bed, stripped off her clothes, and picked up the thick riding breeches and black boots she had selected. They were the only actual pants that she owned, and for what she had in mind layers of petticoats would be absolutely the wrong thing to wear.

She had also stolen one of her father's white dress shirts. It was much too large for her, and she needed a pair of garters to hold up the sleeves.

Once it was somewhat fitted she pulled one of her black winter corsets over the top of it. She laced it up as best as she could without the help of any of her servants. It might not look right, but at least she was able to breathe.

There was a reverberating slam from downstairs that signaled her father's departure. The commotion in the house died down instantly. She ran to the door, hoping to lean her ear up against it and find out just how much time she had.

“Miss Stanton?” She gasped with surprise and stepped back as it swung open. Jennifer Farrows's voice rang out. “Your father told me to…What
is
going on in here?”

Sarah lost her balance and fell to the floor, her bottom landing with a solid thump on the carpet.

“I was trying to hear something.” She looked up at the maid with a ridiculous grin on her face.

Mrs. Farrows looked around the room, giving herself a moment to grasp what was going on. “What are you wearing?” The look of surprise on her face melted into one of outright horror. “This! This is…”

Before things went too far Sarah jumped to her feet, swept around the flustered maid, and shut the door behind her. “I need your help.”

“My h-help…? What you
need
is a good spanking from someone with a firm hand!”

“I'm not a child anymore, Jennifer.” Sarah turned around and presented the strings of the corset. “But if you do still have a firm hand, then I could use your help in cinching this up properly.”

The older woman's trained fingers reached out and grabbed the strings automatically, tugged them tight, and then dropped them. “Sarah, you're wearing your corset on the outside of your father's shirt.”

The maid looked over her shoulder and saw the rest of the objects spread out on the bed. “No, I won't help you with this. I know I'm just the maid, but I'd like to think that I'm also your friend.”

Sarah turned around. “It must seem like madness. It seems that way to me as well.” She took the other woman's hands into hers. “But let's be honest with each other. Can you truly imagine me sitting up here, rotting away until the summertime comes so I can be married to some rich idiot who'll stuff me into some other mansion? I'd go mad in a week.” She clutched her hands to her chest, taking Mrs. Farrows's with them.

Neither one spoke for seconds as they looked at each other. Then a tear fell out of Mrs. Farrows's eye, and Sarah sniffled, breaking the silence.

Jennifer took back her hands. “Turn around.” Sarah tried to reply, but her words caught in her chest. “Turn around,” Mrs. Farrows repeated.

Sarah did as she was told to, and the older woman grabbed the corset strings and pulled them tight. “You'll never be able to manage this ridiculous costume on your own.”

“It's the best I could come up with, given the circumstances.”

The older woman took a second look at the jumble of items still lying on the bed. “Look at that mess.” She frowned. “You're definitely your father's daughter, there's no doubt about that.”

“I only wish that he could see that.”

“You're both too stubborn for each other's good.” She spun Sarah around. “And you both dress like French perverts.”

Sarah giggled. “Mrs. Farrows! I had no idea.”

“Well, it's true. And if you're going to Madison Square dressed like a tart, you'll end up getting unwanted attention from more than just the villains.”

“Madison Square?”

Jenny clucked her tongue. “Damn it.”

“Such language! What do you know, Jenny Farrows?”

“I overheard your father saying that the Paragons had received a note that they were to meet the Automaton.”

“When and where?”

“I shouldn't say.”

Sarah spoke more slowly and directly. “You know you'll tell me, so save me the trouble.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Madison Square Garden at seven p.m.”

Sarah glanced at the clock on her dresser. “But it's nearly seven now!”

“It seems that O'Rourke didn't take it seriously.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyone who's been in your father's employ for as long as he has should know that the more outlandish something is, the more likely it is to be true.”

Jenny regarded Sarah for a moment, then pressed her hand to her face and tapped her index finger to the apple of her cheeks. “You're going to need a coat. Meanwhile take a look in the bottom drawer in your closet. There should be some old costume pieces along with some other bits of junk that might help you with your suicidal journey.

“Now wait here, and I'll be right back.” Mrs. Farrows bustled backward out the door.

When Sarah pulled open the drawer she felt her heart drop. Jenny had taken the gloves she'd stolen from her father's closet and placed them on top. Sarah could only wonder at how angry and disappointed Alexander Stanton would be if he knew that she had stolen them from his closet. Still, it felt like wearing something of her father's could bring her good luck, and the steel-reinforced fingers might come in handy. She threw them onto the bed.

Rummaging a bit deeper she grabbed an old tricorn hat. It was battered and worn, an actual hand-me-down from her revolutionary grandfather that had managed to make it into her hands. She pulled it over her head and looked in the mirror. It certainly made her appear less feminine. “That could be useful.”

She walked back to the bed, reached down into the pile, and lifted up the Sleuth's mask. While the front of it was clean and polished, the interior looked well used, and she wondered how many adventures it had been on with Mr. Wickham. She pressed it against her skin and looked into the mirror above her vanity. Her face was gone, replaced by a black veil, her green eyes masked by a thin scrap of black muslin tightly stretched across the eyeholes. Tom's words rang in her ears: “When a man puts on a mask, he discovers his greatest confidence and his darkest desire at the same moment.”

The door snapped open and then shut again. Sarah turned to see Mrs. Farrows entering the room, a black leather coat hanging off her arm. She stepped behind Sarah and held up the jacket. “Now try it on.”

Sarah slipped her arms into the sleeves. “No smart comments.”

“I've already told you this is ridiculous, and you've already ignored me.” Jenny reached around Sarah's waist and began to tie the belt.

The coat was oversized, but not too big. There was a layer of thick wool inside to keep her warm, and a row of heavy buttons down the front. With the right tailoring it could seem quite dashing. “Where did you get this?”

“Jean-Tom, the cook. It's from when he lived in Paris. He asked me to take it out for him, but he's grown far more stomach than this coat will ever give.”

Sarah scooped up the hat and gloves, and slipped them on. Then she stepped in front of the mirror and sighed. “I do look ridiculous.” Although there was something about it that was thrilling as well—she hadn't dared to imagine it, but she was a Paragon. “Or at least I'm pieces of Paragons…”