Grave had been watching her for several minutes when he finally said, “They took the Parisian Ribbon off your neck.”
At the mention of the device, Charlotte’s hand went to her throat. “Yes.”
“I’m glad,” Grave said.
He looked at Coe. “When are we leaving?”
Coe regarded Grave, a pleased expression taking over his features. “Within the hour.”
When Coe shifted his gaze to Charlotte, his smile was pained, but also resolved. Her fingernails dug into her palms.
What could she do? She had to find a way out of this.
She drew a surprised breath when Grave reached under the table to take her hand. He grasped her fingers for barely a moment and then let go.
“I’m ready.”
Charlotte had no idea what he meant.
13.
OF ALL THE places in the Empire Charlotte didn’t want to be, the Military Platform of the Floating City ranked near the top. But she readily admitted the accommodations Admiral Winter had provided were far preferable to a cell in the Crucible. Charlotte didn’t know the precise function of the building to which she’d been taken, but from what little she’d glimpsed, it seemed to provide temporary quarters for visiting military officials.
Guards had been posted outside her door, but Charlotte was otherwise left to her own devices. As soon as she’d been left alone, she’d gone to the window, but had immediately ruled it out as a way to escape. The smooth marble walls of the building offered no grips for a climb, and the drop was too far to be sure she wouldn’t break a bone.
That afternoon, Charlotte received tea and visitors.
Coe directed his companions to gather around a table as cadets set out trays of sandwiches and cakes.
“Charlotte.” Coe gestured to a woman and man, both severe-faced and garbed in military uniforms. “Lieutenants Redding and Thatcher.”
“Will the admiral be joining us?” Charlotte asked.
“My father has other commitments,” he replied. “He has tasked me with the oversight of Grave.”
She nodded, wondering when or if she’d see Admiral Winter again. If Coe had been given full responsibility over Charlotte and Grave’s captivity, perhaps she could find a way to leverage her familiarity with him to her advantage.
Indicating the third guest, a man wearing the drab clothing of the Hive and a tinker’s apron, Coe added, “And Summing Miller.”
Summing Miller twitched in his seat, sneaking anxious glances at his military counterparts.
“Miller here is one of the most skilled tinkers of the Hive,” Coe told Charlotte. “He’s made great strides in weapons innovation.”
“Thank you, sir,” Miller said.
“We’ve recruited him to assist us in the continuation of Hackett Bromley’s work.” Coe waited for a cadet to fill his teacup, then added sugar and cream.
Charlotte sat up straighter. She hadn’t heard anything of Hackett Bromley—Grave’s father, or as Grave would say, the Maker—other than that the Empire had taken him into custody.
“Unfortunately, the information Bromley provided hasn’t been fruitful,” Coe said.
Charlotte glanced at the lieutenants, wondering what their role in this was.
Catching Charlotte’s eyes, Lieutenant Redding said, “We hope that you’ll be able to provide Miller with valuable insights, given the time you’ve spent in close proximity to the asset.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows lifted. “The asset?”
“Grave,” Coe said. “Keep in mind, most of us aren’t on familiar terms with him the way you are.”
“You’ll have to pardon me,” Lieutenant Redding said quickly. She had a pinched face, made more so by the tight braid ringing her head. “We don’t often deal with civilians . . . in this capacity.”
Lieutenant Thatcher chuckled, making his heavy jowls shake beneath a thicket of dark sideburns.
A cup clattered. Tinker Miller had knocked over his tea and was mopping up the hot liquid with a linen napkin.
“I’m so very sorry.” Miller had begun to sweat.
“No worries, chap.” Thatcher reached for a sandwich. “They’ll pour you another cup.”
He waved at the cadet hovering nearby. While the cadet poured Miller’s tea, the tinker watched the cup and saucer like they might come alive and bite him.
Charlotte picked up her cup. “Will you tell me what you learned from Bromley?”
Thatcher and Redding exchanged a glance, then looked at Coe, who nodded.
“Bromley engaged in unique experiments with alchemy,” Redding told Charlotte. “Specifically transmutation of organic matter to inorganic.”
Charlotte had taken a bite of a cucumber sandwich, but now found it hard to swallow.
Meg stood up. “What is he?” She pointed at Grave.
“Flesh and blood,” Bromley answered. “But blood is iron, and bone can become steel. The heart and lungs are but machines. If built with skill, they will run perpetually and perfectly.”
“We have his formulas,” Redding continued. “And Miller has been able to successfully replicate several of his transmutations.”
Thatcher clapped the tinker on the shoulder. Miller looked ill.
Redding hesitated, looking to Coe again.
Taking a sandwich from the tray, Coe didn’t meet Charlotte’s eyes and kept his tone overly casual. “Where we’ve run into trouble regards animation.”
Charlotte tried not to imagine the specifics of Miller’s experiments.
“Do you understand what I’ve said?” Coe asked.
“Animation.” Charlotte stared into her cup of tea. “Life.”
“Precisely.”
She sipped her tea, biding time until she could form the right question. “Bromley couldn’t tell you how he accomplished that?”
“Bromley proved intractable on the subject.” Redding’s lips pursed, as if she’d bitten into something very sour.
“Perhaps if I spoke with him?” Charlotte didn’t know what state she’d find Bromley in, or if he’d be able to assist her in freeing herself, but she thought it worthwhile to find out. “A friendly visitor?”
Thatcher cleared his throat. “That won’t be possible.”
Miller covered his mouth with a napkin, as if to cover a cough, but Charlotte thought she heard a quiet sob.
“Why not?” Charlotte asked.
“He’s no longer with us,” Thatcher said.
She looked at Coe. “You killed Bromley.”
“He did not survive questioning.” It was Redding who answered.
Coe spoke up. “And that leaves us with inquiries that must be resolved by Grave and you.”
Sitting back in his chair, Coe regarded Charlotte with a searching gaze. “Tell me, Charlotte. Do you know how Bromley brought Grave to life?”
Charlotte sipped breath from the air the way she’d been sipping her tea. She had to stay calm.
“I don’t know if I understand it,” Charlotte said quietly. “But yes. I have some idea.”
She carefully set her cup in its saucer. She couldn’t risk unsteady hands giving her away when she sensed her only opportunity to escape the confines of the Military Platform was about to present itself.
“And what are those ideas?” Thatcher asked. He rapped the table, making the tinker jump. “Pay attention, Miller.”
With her eyes on Miller, Charlotte shook her head. “He can’t help you.”
Thatcher’s furry brows came together. “What do you mean?”
“It isn’t the work of a tinker that can animate someone like Grave.” Charlotte had to dismiss the impossibility of what she’d just said. There wasn’t someone like Grave. There was no one like Grave.
She turned to Coe. “You already know this. Or have you forgotten?”
“Beg your pardon?” Coe straightened, startled by her accusatory tone.
“You were there,” Charlotte said. “When we found Bromley in the Hive. You heard his story.”
“And?”
“You saw the book he had.” Charlotte rested her hands in her lap. She wanted to twist her fingers together, wring them to relieve tension, but she didn’t.
“The man was a lunatic.” Coe waved a dismissive hand. “You can’t tell me you actually believe that nonsense.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She simply kept a steady gaze on him.
“He made a machine and gave it life,” Coe went on. “But that animation was a result of his designs. The rest was superstition.”
“How can you be sure?” Charlotte replied. “Especially given the trouble you’re having now.”
“Ridiculous,” Coe snarled at her.
But Redding watched Charlotte with interest. “I want to hear more about this book.”
The lieutenant asked Coe, “Do we have it in our possession?”
Coe shook his head. “Bromley claims he destroyed it. But the contents of that book are immaterial.”
“I disagree,” Redding said, ignoring Coe’s scowl. “We can’t afford to dismiss any source of enlightenment.”
“What do you have to say about this?” Coe asked Thatcher.
Thatcher shrugged, brushing crumbs off his uniform. “I see no harm in looking into it.”
“Very well.” Coe wore an expression of disgust. “Charlotte, what can you offer with regard to the mystical aspects of Bromley’s work?”
“Nothing . . . on my own,” Charlotte replied. She stopped, not wanting to appear too eager.
“Go on,” Coe said.
“The information you need is in the Temple of Athene,” Charlotte said. “In the arcane knowledge held by the Sisters.”
Coe folded his arms over his chest, suspicious and rightly so. “You know very well that only women can enter the Temple.”
Charlotte nodded.
“And you expect me to let you go there on your own to get information for us?” Coe sounded almost disappointed by her request.
“Send as many guards as you want,” Charlotte said. “And have Lieutenant Redding accompany me.”
She held his gaze, hoping her face didn’t give anything away.
“I don’t see what harm she can do if I’m escorting her,” Redding said to Coe.
Thatcher leaned forward. “Sending a civilian to speak with the Sisters is likely to get more results than marching a squad into the square. Redding is more than capable of handling the girl.”
“You’re underestimating her.” Coe reached for his teacup.
Under other circumstances, Charlotte would have been flattered by Coe’s comment. Right now it only worked against her.
After taking a few sips of tea, Coe said, “But I see no way around it.”
Hope bloomed in Charlotte’s heart, only slightly tempered when Coe said, “And I trust Charlotte understands it’s in her best interest, and Grave’s, to make sure this visit to the Temple occurs without incident.”
Redding said to Charlotte, “The Sisters receive petitioners in the morning. I’ll come to collect you.”
“Before I beg secrets from the Sisters, I have a request,” Charlotte said.
Coe’s teacup clattered in its saucer. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“I need to know that Grave is alive and safe,” she told him. “You know that I feel responsible for his welfare.”
Thatcher laughed quietly, but Redding stopped him with a reproachful glare.
“He’s alive,” Coe told Charlotte. “But seeing him is—”
“I think it might be very . . . educational for Miss Marshall to have a glimpse of our work,” Thatcher said. “Miller could provide some insights that could hone the questions she brings to the Sisters.”
Redding and Coe both appeared taken aback by Thatcher’s suggestion. Miller’s eyes had gone wild, as if he was desperate for escape.
Without waiting for his peers’ assent, Thatcher pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll take them myself. Come then, Miller.”
Miller stood. He hadn’t touched his tea or any of the food.
“Miss Marshall.” Thatcher waited for Charlotte to approach, then offered his arm. His affability made Charlotte wary.
“Lead the way, Miller.”
The tinker kept his head down, but marched dutifully from the room. Thatcher and Charlotte followed at a leisurely pace.
The day was startlingly bright outside the dormitory. The sun’s rays bounced off the gleaming marble pillars and facades of the Military Platform with such intensity that Charlotte found herself squinting. Miller wove between buildings and gave wide berth to squads performing drills. The drone of airships grew louder as they approached the docks. Charlotte surveyed the sky. Dragonflies zipped nimbly between Gryphons, midweight gunships that lacked the versatility of Dragonflies but boasted superior firepower. Despite their considerable size, the Gryphons were dwarfed by the Empire’s Titans, even though the larger vessels were docked at a distance. Their mass forced them to anchor at the far edge of the air docks. Charlotte knew she was glimpsing only a fraction of the Imperial Air Force, and that knowledge made her shudder. Here were the gears of war, the machinery of conquest.
“Fearsome, aren’t they?” Thatcher beamed at the airships.
Charlotte didn’t answer, chiding herself for her unbidden display of emotion.
The buildings that skirted the air docks lacked ornamentation. Where the majority of the Military Platform strove to impress and intimidate, these structures were designed only for service. Miller entered one of the stark gray loading bays. Sparks flew around a Gryphon’s frame as mechanics performed repairs.
On the opposite side of the bay, they paused before two guards standing at attention on either side of a door. With a signal from Thatcher, the guards stepped aside to let Miller pass through. Thatcher and Charlotte followed him into the narrow corridor beyond. The passageway opened into a building smaller than the repair bay. Windowless, the room glowed with phosphorescence that emanated from globes strung along the walls. The filmy blue gleam of the light reminded Charlotte of the bioluminescent fungi that lit the caverns of the Catacombs, but in this strange place, the memory chilled her. In the center of the room sat a long steel box that resembled a train car. On closer inspection, Charlotte decided that it was a train car.
Thatcher disengaged his arm from hers. “Wait here a moment.”
While Miller hovered nearby, Thatcher withdrew a key from his coat. Once he’d unlocked the door, he beckoned to Charlotte. She walked to the door with heavy footsteps, as if she were slogging her way through deep mud. She’d asked to see Grave, but now that she was here, Charlotte was consumed by dread.
It’s better than the Crucible. It has to be.
Miller was inside, lighting lamps to enhance the low blue illumination that already filled the space. The interior of the car resembled what Charlotte surmised Scoff’s apothecary and Birch’s workshop would look like if forced into the same space and jumbled up. Every nook and cranny was filled with something to catch the eyes. Strange baubles competed for shelf space with vials of liquid. A metal cart held what looked like tinker’s tools along with medical equipment.
The dominant feature of the space was a long metal table draped with a sheet. Something was beneath the sheet.
Charlotte couldn’t breathe.
Miller took the edge of the sheet and, when Thatcher nodded, drew it back.
Charlotte choked on her scream; only a weak strangling sound trickled from her throat.
Steel cuffs bolted to the table restrained Grave at the neck, wrists, and ankles. His torso had been sliced from the base of his throat to his abdomen. Skin and tissue had been peeled back. Hooked wires pierc
ed the flaps of skin on either side of his ribs, holding them aloft and open like a pair of gruesome wings. Grave’s collarbones and ribs lay exposed. Under the light of gas lamps, his bones didn’t appear white, but had the luster of brushed steel.
Tears burned in Charlotte’s eyes. Despite Coe’s promises, they’d seen fit to kill Grave. How could she have been so foolish as to cooperate with someone she knew to be a traitor? She should have made Grave run when he’d had the chance. She should have tried to convince him that protecting her didn’t matter.
Unable to move, Charlotte watched Thatcher as he casually walked around the table, surveying Grave’s body.
“Miller,” he said, “will you take Miss Marshall through your work thus far?”
The tinker cleared his throat. “Um. Y-yes, sir.”
He pointed to the flaps of skin tented around Grave’s chest cavity. “Piercing the skin presented our first dilemma. It was somehow modified to the point that it neither breaks nor tears easily. What finally worked was a mechanized saw that I refitted with a diamond blade. The skin is remarkably resilient. There’s been no degradation of the tissue since we opened him up.”
Miller leaned over Grave’s exposed ribs. “Here is evidence of Bromley’s work I was better able to grasp. You’ll see that the bones have been altered—”
“Stop!” Charlotte couldn’t bear another word. “This is monstrous! What have you done? What have you done?”
She wheeled on Thatcher, who’d finished his inspection and come to stand beside her.
“Why such distress, Miss Marshall?” Thatcher’s voice was calm, but his hand moved to his gun holster. “Isn’t this what you asked to see?”
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