Ticker

by Mantchev, Lisa

  Like a shawl of frost, a sort of terrible calm settled over me. Twisting my hand about until I thought it might snap, I jammed the Pixii into my attacker’s bare wrist.

  No use lying to yourself, Farthing; this is going to hurt.

  The Pixii discharged with a burst of phosphorescent blue light, and electricity shot through both of us. Every muscle in our bodies contracted, and then my assailant went limp. I stumbled forward but kept my feet. Instead of shuddering to a stop, my Ticker hammered merrily in my chest.

  Nic vaulted into the hallway, brandishing a fire shovel. Still without his glasses, he’d need more than luck to land a blow, though he hadn’t let that stop him. “What’s happened now?”

  “An ambush.” It took me only a second to recharge the Pixii, and then I sat atop the intruder’s chest and jammed the metal foreprongs under his chin. “Rise and shine.”

  When the stranger opened his eyes, another frisson of white heat traveled from the base of my skull to every extremity, somehow just as real as the discharge from the Pixii. I peered into eyes so dark gray they were one blink away from black, and imagined ridiculous things: spreading a blanket for a picnic, sharing a pair of gold binoculars at the opera, snowy sled rides with furs up to our chins . . .

  A sudden silence in my chest told me that the clockwork heart had ceased pumping the blood through my veins. I realized that I shouldn’t be touching this man, though he remained very still. Almost too still.

  “I’m afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage, Miss Farthing,” he finally said.

  “As you do me,” was all I said in response. I could feel the blood draining from my face. My hands went cold. My feet prickled as though snow-kissed. Looking down at him, I whispered, “So this is what dying feels like.”

  The stranger caught me in his arms as I fell back, but Nic’s frantic shout seemed to come from a great distance. Remembering the jolt the Pixii gave me just a few minutes ago, I tried to tell Nic to use it again. My nearly incoherent mumbles must have conveyed the message. All at once I heard the whine of the charge, felt a rip and tear of fabric at my throat and cold metal against my skin, then energy raced through me. My eyes flew open, and I gasped for air with a horrible sucking noise. I lay prone on the floor between the coatrack and the wall. The stranger knelt over me now, one hand gripping the Pixii.

  Before I could say or do anything to reassure him, he charged it and zinged me a third time—what I deserved, perhaps, for attacking him earlier. I convulsed around the pain, then my world constricted to the wild gray gaze of the stranger as he took me by the shoulders.

  “Miss Farthing!” He sounded like a Cylindrella record player, winding down. “Can you hear me?” He put his head to my chest and checked my respiratory functions. “Say something.”

  “It . . . isn’t . . . nice . . . to electrocute people, sir,” I sputtered.

  “She needs a stimulant,” Nic said, stumbling forward and tripping over the edge of the carpet. “And something sweet to bring up her blood sugar.”

  “Plum cake would be nice.” Colors were brighter than they ought to be. I thought I could taste yellow.

  “I’ll plum cake you!” Nic said. “I think that scared another ten years off my life!”

  The first ten were scared off the day that Warwick implanted my clockwork heart.

  “How long has she been having these kinds of episodes?” the newcomer asked, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me to the chaise in the study. After depositing me on one of the slashed-open cushions, he sat down next to me, arm at the ready to catch me if I toppled off. His sturdy presence was as reassuring as the light scents of his cologne and fresh linen, but his face was drawn.

  “A month. Maybe two.” Nic stumbled in after us and felt his way to the desk. “Her ventriculator is already outmoded,” he added as he rummaged in the drawers. “It was only a prototype to begin with, and the doctors aren’t certain how much longer it will function. Warwick was developing a new Ticker for her when he was arrested.”

  The sharp reek of ammonia carbonate cleared the rest of the fog from my head. Indeed, I could just make out the label under my very nose.

  THE BESTSELLING OF ALL THE PATENT FAINTING MEDICATIONS!

  DOCTOR ABSALOM’S OLFACTORY IRRITANT IS GUARANTEED TO ROUSE EVEN THE MOST RELUCTANT OF PATIENTS FROM THE DEEPEST OF DIZZY SPELLS

  OR YOUR MONEY BACK!

  My head recoiled, as though I’d been slapped, and several things came into rapid focus: the concern on my brother’s face, the stranger’s uniform of charcoal wool, the fact that I had just been attacked, and then saved, by a soldier.

  “I’m afraid you still have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I said.

  “Marcus Kingsley,” he said, offering me a small nod. “Proprietor and Legatus legionus of the Ferrum Viriae.”

  Thoroughly taken aback by the introduction, I blinked. We’d never met socially or professionally, but anyone with an eye to the broadsheets knew the Kingsley name. Marcus only recently inherited the military empire; still, it was common knowledge that disarming any member of Ferrum Viriae required stealth, cunning, and heavy artillery if one wished to avoid precipitous termination.

  For the moment, though, I was alive and fairly tingling with it. As was he, it would seem, from the flakes of brilliant scarlet that painted his cheekbones. I struggled to sit up, not wanting him to have the advantage of looking down at me in any way.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid,” I said, “but could you explain exactly what you are doing skulking about our home when you ought to be supervising your soldiers at the courthouse?”

  Though only nineteen or twenty, Marcus wore the air of a much older person the same way he wore his uniform: with excessive amounts of starch. He replied slowly, as though ironing out every word to perfect crispness. “Seconds after we received word about the factory explosion, one of your neighbors called in a burglary. The moment I heard it was Glasshouse, I put my second-in-command in charge and came to investigate. Tensions are running high in the city because of the trial, and against my advice, your family refused a protective detail. Where are your parents?”

  A masculine shout of “Penny?” came from the front door followed by a louder, feminine “Nic, where are you?” from the hall. Violet and Sebastian charged into the study, skidding to a halt several feet away. There was a lot for them to take in, what with the house in disarray, a bloodied and battered Nic squinting at them, the collar of my bodice ripped away from my neck, and Marcus Kingsley sitting next to me on the chaise.

  “Gracious, Nic,” Violet said, striding toward him as she yanked off her gloves. Taking his face in her hands, she turned him toward the light. “You look as though you’ve had quite the time of it this morning.”

  “And it isn’t even luncheon yet.” Nic tried to smile but only achieved a grimace.

  Standing, he allowed himself the small luxury of putting his arms about her and resting his head atop hers. With my breath still rattling in my lungs, I realized that if I was a cookie crumbling before his very eyes, Violet was a ship’s biscuit: sturdy and in no need of coddling. Ever prepared, she pulled a spare pair of Nic’s glasses from her reticule.

  “Stirling,” Marcus said, rising from the chaise to offer his hand in greeting.

  “Kingsley.” Struggling to recover his usual air of nonchalance, Sebastian accepted the handshake. As always, he was dressed like a model on the cover of The Dapper Gentleman’s Quarterly, but his shoulder-length hair and aristocratically thin mustache were currently tinted the ice-blue of saffyre gin. His eyes were the same dazzling color, but right now they were obscured by smoked-glass spectacles. He’d inherited his good looks, cheerful demeanor, and eye for the ladies from his father. His weakness for infernal, newfangled contraptions and rakish gentlemen came from his mother. Like both his parents before him, Sebastian was involved in every profitable venture in Industria as well as countless abroad. “Did we arrive in time for the festivities, or is this the after-party
?”

  “Penny’s Ticker is troubling her.” Nic hooked the wires of his spectacles behind his ears, his face puckering again with worry. “She needs to go up to bed and rest. I’ll send to Currey Hospital for one of the surgeons.”

  “No, you won’t.” From the sturdy chain hanging about my neck, I retrieved a gold key, warm from nestling against my skin. Marcus popped several buttons off my collar when administering the jolt from the Pixii, so I merely had to nudge the fabric aside to access the brass faceplate set just under my left clavicle. Another demoiselle might have blushed, but the faceplate was located well above the ruffles atop my corset, and I’d been examined by so many doctors that I’d no patience for false modesty. I slid the key into place with a small click. “I must have forgotten to wind my Ticker this morning.”

  Violet gave me a narrow look. No doubt she wondered if I’d lied to her at SugarWerks or if I was lying now, but I would have died thrice over before admitting that Marcus had been the one to almost kill me, that his body pressed to mine and the heat between us had been enough to stop my heart. His gray eyes were on me as I tightened the mainspring. The muscles in my chest constricted under the combined pressure.

  I am more than a pretty little windup doll.

  But he knew that, somehow. There was respect in his eyes, alongside something decidedly personal. I paid back his attention with interest, wanting to see how long it would take him to avert his gaze. We were well on our way to a full-blown staring contest when Nic interrupted.

  “I do wish you’d take more care with yourself,” he said, wiping a handkerchief over his glasses and resettling them on his face. “I swear you’ll forget your name one of these days, Penny.”

  It was a variation on the theme he’d played since the implant, seeing ominous shadows in every passing rain cloud. Fresh frown lines pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes, once as merry as my own, were dark and somber.

  “Thankfully, you’ll always be there to remind me of it.” I reached out and gave his arm a squeeze, trying to convey through layers of cotton and wool that I was stronger than he thought.

  Before I could offer further reassurances, six men entered the study, guns raised.

  THREE

  In Which Hazards Appear Around Every Hedge

  “Stand down!” Marcus barked at them. Under the command was steel. Steel, and layers of reinforced Chytin body armor.

  They immediately lowered their weapons.

  “The rest of the house is clear,” the tallest of them said. “Save for rooms on the top floor we couldn’t access.”

  I let go of a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and explained. “The bedrooms have combination locks on the doors. There’s no way to access them without chopping a hole in the wall.”

  The soldier spared me a nod. “No other breaches or signs of forced entry at the back or side doors. And no sign of any of the staff.”

  “We’ve only a chatelaine, and today’s market day,” Nic said. “She wouldn’t have been here, thank goodness.”

  When Marcus reached into his pocket, the charcoal wool fell back far enough from his waist to reveal a holstered Magnetic Acceleration Gun. The MAG’s metallic inlays and soldered joints tempted my professional curiosity, but I knew better than to try to reach for it without his permission.

  Rather than draw the weapon, he flipped open a leather-bound notebook and assessed the room with a keen glance. “You never answered me before. Where are your parents?”

  I hesitated to voice my suspicions. Perhaps it had something to do with Marcus’s swift arrival here on one of the most important days in Bazalgate’s judicial history. Or it was the way he studied the mess of papers on Papa’s desk that warned me I ought to keep my suspicions to myself. Never mind that there was always the possibility that my father had simply forgotten his watch this morning.

  I’ll look a right fool if Mama and Papa turn up in time for tea.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I answered. “I sent my mother a RiPA message, but she hasn’t answered it yet.”

  “I have a unit down at the factory questioning your supervisor, but is there anything you can tell me? Anything out of the ordinary you noticed before the blast?” Marcus looked at Nic, who shook his head.

  “One minute I was gathering my things, the next I was on the floor.”

  “What about here?” Marcus scanned the room again. “I know the damage makes it difficult to tell, but does anything appear to be missing?”

  “We won’t know until we put the house back in order.” I gave him a well-practiced smile of dismissal. “We’ll be sure to file a full report once we’ve a list, but we don’t want to keep you any longer. You’re needed at the courthouse.”

  He automatically glanced at the military-encoded RiPA he wore on his left wrist. “I’m expecting a quarter-hour report any minute now. They should be close to announcing the verdict.”

  “You ought to be there when that happens,” I said. “Perhaps there’ll be a riot.” I didn’t want to think about such a possibility.

  Neither did Marcus, it seemed. His gaze flickered about the room, monitoring the waning threat level. “You need a safety detail. I can spare two or three soldiers to man the doors.”

  I flapped a hand at him, doing my best impression of Grandmother Pendleton, who did not suffer the advice of others. “Nonsense. I’ll have the locksmith around within the hour. Once Dreadnaught returns, she’ll make short work of the mess.”

  Undeterred, Marcus peered hard into my face, as though trying to peel back the layers of lies and read the truth in my eyes. Whatever he lacked in battle instincts, that look of his burned me all the way down to my boots.

  Sixteen years of swapping whoppers with my twin hadn’t been for nothing. I met Marcus’s gaze with my most guileless expression. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “I am,” I said. “We are grateful for your prompt response.” He might have six inches and fifty pounds on me, but there was no need to shove him out the door. I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t fret, Mister Kingsley. I won’t tell anyone that I laid you out flat in my entryway. I’m sure that would be bad for business.”

  Blotches of red reappeared on his cheeks, like I’d slapped him. He turned and ordered his men out with a clipped, “We’re done here.”

  We watched the soldiers depart in shared silence. Violet still had her arms about Nic’s waist, the brilliant spikes of her hair standing out in stark contrast to his bloody shirtfront. Her iridescent blue fingernails glittered when she trailed them over the holes in the cotton.

  “You should go to the hospital,” she said to him.

  “We’ve bigger problems than a little blood.”

  “You’re lucky to have escaped with only a couple of scratches to show for it.” Sebastian’s expression took a turn for the serious. “Are you in pain? If you need something to take the edge off, I have these lovely little purple pills I picked up on my last trip to Bhaskara.” Taking a silver case out of his pocket, he offered it to Nic.

  My twin smiled and shook his head. “I’ve told you that your habit of collecting foreign medications is a bad one, yes?”

  “At least a dozen times. But you’ve no need of pills, foreign or otherwise, if you can survive an explosion and live to lecture me,” Sebastian said easily, opening the case and shaking out a tablet for himself. “I felt the tremor in my office halfway across town. Looked out the window to see smoke plumes and emergency vehicles headed your way. The broadsheet sellers are already squawking, but I like to get my information straight from the source—”

  He was interrupted by a startled shriek that emanated from the kitchen. Seconds later, Dreadnaught entered the room. Her eyes were wide with horror, and she had her hand pressed to her mouth. If I was the “First of the Augmented!” (as dubbed by the press), then she was the less-heralded second. After reading about my surgery in the broadsheets, Dreadnaught arrived on our doorstep with her
right arm half-twisted out of the socket, the appendage rendered limp and useless by a factory accident. As soon as my father could get clearance from the medical board at Currey Hospital, a team of research surgeons Augmented everything from the shoulder down. Only the brass glint between her sleeve and a black glove betrayed her.

  “The kitchen is chaos. The goose I was roasting is blackened, vegetables are all over the floor, half the good china is smashed . . . Did a bomb go off while I was at the market?” While each of us struggled to formulate an answer that would placate her, she contemplated us over the sea of ruin. “Would one of you explain what transpired here?”

  Nic found his voice first. “Someone broke into the house while we were gone. Fortunately you weren’t here when it happened.”

  While the housekeeper surveyed the mess in her hall with pursed lips, I couldn’t help but think it was the burglars who were fortunate they’d already made their escape. Dreadnaught removed her neat straw going-out hat, turned up the gas lamps and then her sleeves. Moving with the grace and speed of a hummingbird, she cleared the worst of the broken glass as we straightened the rugs and righted the tables.

  She retrieved her hat and moved to the door. “I’ll fetch some refreshments.”

  “Yes, please.” I was suddenly ravenous. When she returned, not only did I finish a cup of tea, but drank two more, consumed a plateful of sandwiches, and topped that off with a slice of lemon cake. The others watched me, no doubt fearing I might collapse face-first into the cart at any second, but I felt marvelous.