“Are you finished, lad?”
Frederick looked up. Master Branch stood in the doorway.
“What?” Frederick said.
“I asked if you were finished. Three times.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m finished.”
“Good. Come upstairs for supper.”
Supper already? Frederick followed the clockmaker up to the apartment and sat down to a plate of sliced ham and potatoes mashed with butter. Frederick stabbed at the food with his fork, but never lifted any to his mouth. He noticed Master Branch watching him and forced himself to take a bite before the old man could comment.
“Is everything all right, Frederick?” the old man asked, anyway.
Frederick moved his potatoes around. “I’m fine, sir.”
“It does not seem that way to me. I don’t mean to be harsh with you, but your work has been very slow the past few days. And your eyes are red. Right now you look like you can barely stay upright. Are you sleeping?”
“Not well,” Frederick said.
“Why not?”
Frederick put his fork down. “I don’t know.”
Master Branch opened his mouth, closed it. He opened it again and held it that way as if hoping the words would fly in. “I would point out that these changes began on the very day you asked me about your mother.”
“They did?”
“Yes. Which leads me to think they are related.”
Frederick said nothing.
“What do you think of that?” Master Branch asked.
What did he think of that? The tiredness was because of his nocturnal work on the clockwork man. Not his mother. But then, he had only begun laboring through the night after the opera, after Hannah had asked him all those questions he could not answer.
“I don’t know what to think,” Frederick said.
“Well, it’s just a thought. I’m just saying that it would be understandable for thoughts of your mother to keep you awake, to distract you.”
Frederick knew it was not that. Babbage and the clockwork man had distracted him, and he realized now that was exactly why he had seized on them. It was the avoidance of thoughts about his mother that kept him awake. But how much longer could he avoid them?
“Perhaps,” said Master Branch, “it would help to confront whatever it is that’s bothering you. Learning her name, for example. If you’d like, I’ll go to the orphanage with you, or even for you, to find out more about her.”
“Thank you, sir. But that won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure? I truly believe it might help you.”
“What I mean is, I think I should go alone.”
“Oh.” Master Branch seemed to think about it. “If you are sure.”
“I am sure.”
“Very well.” The old man scooped the last bit of food together on his plate, scraping it clean to the last bite. “I believe I could make do without you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. There was weight to the word. It felt too soon. He was not ready. What little food Frederick had eaten turned to a roiling sludge in his belly. He swallowed and nodded.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
Frederick forced himself to consume the rest of his supper, now cold on his plate. He passed another night without sleep, but not down in his workroom. He lay awake on his cot behind the shop, staring at the ceiling, firelight from upstairs leaking between the floorboards like spilled honey.
How could he do this? How could he go back there? The thought of it turned him cold and set him trembling. The orphanage still gaped in his memory, a black sinkhole. If he got too close, he risked falling in, so he had always stayed as far away from it as he could. He could not face that place again, he could not face her. But what would it mean if he did not? His mind tossed back and forth throughout the night, resolved to go one moment, and frightened out of it the next. But his thoughts kept coming back to his mother, and he knew what he had to do.
He had to go back. Tomorrow. Right up to the edge of the pit, staring straight into a mouth without any teeth.
Throughout the night he formulated a plan. He thought about what he would ask, and how he would ask it. He would wear his new suit. She would see that he had become something now; he was an apprentice clockmaker deserving of respect. And as furious as he felt at the thought of her, he would have to maintain his composure and treat her with civility. He knew how cruel and vindictive Mrs. Treeless could be.
Frederick stood in the street, hands clenched at his sides, staring at the front door. His legs shook, and he felt his heartbeat up and down his torso, in his throat and ears. The orphanage and factory were smaller than he remembered, and he had expected them to appear sinister somehow. He watched them, paralyzed, for some sign of the old hag living inside, some shadow or mark of cruelty. But the corrugated iron roofs and common redbrick walls matched all the other factories marching down the road.
He gathered himself and looked down at his new clothes, feeling armored in them. He was safe. She could not hurt him now. Frederick lifted his chin and marched into the street, across it, and right up to the door. He placed his hand on the latch and held it there, poised for a moment while he took a deep breath. Then he opened it.
Inside was the dingy entryway through which he remembered leaving with Master Branch years ago. He had no memory of arriving through it with his mother. A faded rug covered a floor that would fill a bare foot with splinters, while a table sat against a wall wearing a coat of dust and an empty vase. A hallway ran off to the right in the direction of the mill and factory floor, while another led toward the dormitory. Next to him, a staircase climbed to the ceiling and through an entry to the second floor. The orphanage office waited directly in front of him, fenced with paneled wood and panes of frosted glass.
Frederick walked up and rapped on the window. “Hello?”
Something creaked inside, the sound of a swivel chair. Then the glass split down the middle and slid open. A pimpled woman peered out at him, a look on her face as though Frederick had carried in a foul odor from the street.
“Can I help you?”
Frederick tried to harden his voice. “I’m here to see Mrs. Treeless.”
“She’s on the factory floor. State your business with Mrs. Treeless.”
“I would like to find out information about the relatives of one of the former children in her … care.”
The woman’s face remained passive. “You look familiar.”
He gave her his name. “I left a few years ago. I would like to know about my mother.”
The woman grumbled and went to a back corner. She opened a cabinet drawer and riffled through a row of files and papers. “I don’t see anything here.”
“What do you mean?”
The woman gave the cabinet another glance. “I don’t see your file.”
“Perhaps if I could speak with Mrs. Treeless —”
“Not without an appointment.”
“Please. It will only take a moment of her time.”
The woman shook her head.
“Then will you schedule an appointment for me?”
“I’ll let her know you stopped by. Come again tomorrow, and I’ll tell you if she’s agreed to see you.”
Frederick ground his teeth. He forced a tight smile and turned away. As he walked toward the front door, he heard the window slide shut behind him.
Outside on the street he walked down the block, peering now and then into the factory yard through gaps in the fence slats. Children scurried from the orphanage to the factory, and Frederick felt their fear of being late, that utter panic when the clock betrayed him by a minute. A cold wave of guilt trickled down his back for being safe on the other side of the fence, where the hours arrived without punishment.
A few steps later he came to a gate in the fence, locked by a loose chain. He tested the opening and thought it barely wide enough to slip through. He looked both ways down the street and squeezed inside. The edges were rough, and he felt a snag and hear
d a tearing sound behind him. After stumbling into the yard, he checked his new coat and found he had nearly ripped a pocket off.
He ran his fingers through his hair and looked up at the sky, the factory smokestacks spewing poisoned clouds. He could turn back. He could come again tomorrow with Master Branch. But she was in there right now, pacing, spewing, yelling. He squared his shoulders and set a determined course for the large factory doors.
As he drew nearer, the sound of the power looms chewed at his ears. He stepped inside the factory and recoiled from the overwhelming odor of sweat and filth and machine oil. He covered his nose and stared down the rows and rows of machinery on the floor, the struts and ropes and pulleys along the rafters, and the bolts of fabric racing up and down between them. Everything in the factory, every part of it, seemed to be in motion. Wheels spun, shuttles flew, children darted, while steam thunder shook the ground under it all.
How could he ever have been used to this? He looked around and saw a couple of foremen but no Mrs. Treeless. He moved close to the wall, and his eyes ranged down the long factory.
About a third of the way into the building, he saw Roger Tom. It had only been a few years, but the man looked as though something had defeated him. His shoulders sagged, and his neck bent like he had that millstone from the Bible hanging from it. He barked at the children around his feet but did not watch to see what effect his threats had, whether he was heeded or not. He just walked on.
And then Frederick saw her. She came behind Roger Tom, marching between the machinery and children, with eyes like two black wedges, eyes that cracked and broke asunder anything in her path. Frederick cowered in spite of his intent to stand his ground and became furious. At himself, and at her. He lurched forward and landed between Mrs. Treeless and Roger Tom, right in the old crone’s path. That brought her up, and it took but a moment for her to recognize him. She clutched her dog, a pathetic little thing now, mostly bald with clouded eyes. It did not move, and Frederick had the morbid thought that it might be dead.
“I saw you down on the pier,” she said. “And you saw me, too, didn’t you? You had that look. The same one you have now.” Her gaze mocked him, and she smiled when her eyes came to the ripped pocket of his coat. “What are you doing here, boy?”
“I came to ask you some questions,” Frederick said, his voice sounding weak among the machines.
“Let me guess. Your mother.”
Frederick swallowed. How did she know?
“You hear that, Roger Tom?” Mrs. Treeless called over Frederick’s shoulder. Frederick looked and saw the foreman standing there, a blank, unreadable expression on his face. “He’s come to find out about his dearest mum,” she said.
“What was her name?” Frederick asked, his voice getting louder.
Mrs. Treeless smirked. “It’s always the mother. You think it’ll make you feel better. Well, I can tell you, boy, you were broken when you came to me, and you were broken when you left. All of you brats are damaged, and finding out why your mum left you all those years ago won’t mend a thing.” She laughed and brushed by him.
“Stop!” Frederick shouted.
Mrs. Treeless halted. Roger Tom glared, and the children nearby stopped to stare.
Frederick had not meant to raise his voice. “You witch,” he said, and pointed at her. This was not what he had planned to say. “You will tell me my mother’s name.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and stroked her dog’s remaining fuzz. “I’ll do no such thing.”
Frederick took a step toward her, and suddenly Roger Tom was there blocking his path.
Mrs. Treeless flapped a hand like she was shaking water off her fingers. “Get out of my factory, boy.”
“Tell me her name.”
Mrs. Treeless turned to the children nearby. “Back to work,” she said, and walked away.
“Tell me!”
She never glanced back.
Roger Tom looked down at Frederick. “I’ll show you out,” he said.
Frederick thought about pushing past the foreman and chasing after her, but he knew Roger Tom or one of the others would catch him. And probably beat him. And his recklessness had ruined any chance of getting the information he wanted from Mrs. Treeless.
Roger Tom grabbed his arm, but Frederick shook it off.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
Moments later Frederick was back out on the street, staring in through the gate as Roger Tom tightened the chain.
“Don’t come back,” the foreman said.
“Sir,” Frederick managed to say. “Do you know who my mother was?”
The foreman frowned. He looked at his boots. “Go back to your home,” he said, and then he left.
Frederick lingered for a long time. What had he done? Why had he shouted and made demands? It was like he had slammed the door on himself. He shook his head. He should be glad to be out of that place. He should never have come back. Mrs. Treeless was right. There were no answers that would mend him.
The acid of his rage drained away, and he felt exhausted and limp legged. He slogged to Master Branch’s shop as if dragging his feet through a foot of mud. When he arrived he found he had no appetite for the supper the clockmaker had prepared. He had no will to join Master Branch in the workshop. He lay down on the floor by the fireplace and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again it was dark, and there was a pillow under his head. Master Branch sat in his armchair and looked down at him from his book.
“I did not know whether to wake you or not,” the old man said. “You were finally sleeping. Are you hungry?”
Frederick sat up and felt a wave rush inside his head. “No.”
“Do you want to talk about how today went?”
“No. It was pointless, like I knew it would be.” Frederick got to his feet. “I think I’ll just go down to bed.”
Master Branch nodded. “Very well. I will see you in the morning.”
Frederick clomped down the stairs and threw himself onto his cot. He felt as lifeless as the clockwork man in the basement beneath him, and for a moment he envied his creation’s handicap. He wanted to empty his head of all its contents, all its memories and questions and doubts. Just spill it all out and crush it under his heel and start from scratch. He had been getting by just fine. He had ordered his world, set its components in motion, and then watched the predictable rhythm unfold.
Frederick could do nothing to rearrange the past. He could not repair it, so he had ignored it, shut the door on a chaos of broken glass, bent gears, and twisted metal. But then Hannah had come and asked him all about it, even though the past should have nothing to do with him now. But it did. And now he could no longer ignore it.
CHAPTER 15
A Memorial Stone
HANNAH LEANED AGAINST A TREE TO CATCH HER BREATH. A single ant crawled from the rough bark onto her hand, and she watched it explore her skin before blowing it off into the dirt. She was sweating in the midmorning heat. She scratched her scalp, wishing in that moment her hair were thinner and shorter. McCauley Park spread away from her in all directions, dense and high. Every branch stretched upward, like hands swaying overhead in slow warning, urging her back.
It helped to pretend the forest was enchanted. Hannah spotted a circle of mushrooms, a fairy ring, and imagined tiny eyes peeking at her through the leaves. Translucent wings fluttering at the edge of her eye. Elves lurking in the shadows beneath the trees. It was more comforting to see these phantasms than to consider what might really be stalking her.
The path she trod had long ago lost its gravel to hard-packed dirt. She had no map, and took those tracks that seemed to lead inward, to Grover’s Pond near the center of the wood. She did not feel lost, exactly, but unmoored and alone, and wished for a trail of bread crumbs leading the way back out of the forest. Of course, the birds flapping and calling up in the trees would probably swoop down and gobble them all up, just like in the story.
Her decision to enter the park had
been made out of desperation, but now seemed more like stupidity. She had no idea what she was looking for at Grover’s Pond. All she knew was that McCauley held the key to Stroop’s happiness, Stroop had a clear view of the pond from his suite, and Mister Grumholdt and Miss Wool had circled a part of the pond on a map. With those facts Hannah had decided that Grover’s Pond was the next place to search for … something.
Back in the city, in her family’s apartment, her father lay stricken. If she did not return with money that evening, there would be no medicine, and her father, the strongest man she knew, the finest stonemason in the whole city, would lose his leg.
Time passed, and the sun crossed its halfway peak, sliding down toward afternoon. The dirt trail gave way to matted grass, hard to distinguish from the forest to either side. As she walked along, something faint reached her ear, a slight rushing sound, perhaps a brook. If it was, it might lead her to the pond. She took several steps in the direction it came from, head up, listening. She took a few more steps toward it, and a few more, before deciding it was only the wind through the trees.
She looked down at her feet and found them buried in underbrush. She looked back. More underbrush. Hannah had lost the tiny path she had been clinging to. She rushed to find it, eyes sweeping the green all around her, but saw no sign of the trail. It was as if the forest had just swallowed it up.
Hannah’s heart sounded an alarm in her ears, a rapid drumbeat goading her to action. Any action. She ran a short way in the direction she felt that she had come from. No path. She hurried back and chose a different direction. Still no path. After several attempts at this she felt like a mouse that had fallen into a barrel, crisscrossing the bottom in a frantic scramble for a way out. But there was no way out, and running around like a rodent would not solve anything.
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