Yes. Johann knew this part. “I am pirate. Pretend pirate.”
“Not a soldier.” Cornelius looked terrified. “You must not say you are a soldier.”
Ah, at last Johann understood Cornelius’s terror. “Austrian soldier, not good here.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I talk German. Bad French.”
Cornelius launched into incomprehensible French, saw Johann’s blank expression and stopped with a sigh. “No speaking. Little speaking.”
Don’t talk much. That would be easy. “I do what you say.”
Cornelius touched Johann’s face. “Vous êtes un trésor.”
I am a…something. Johann frowned as he tried to work it out, then froze as Cornelius’s lips brushed his cheek.
It wasn’t really a kiss—nothing more than the usual dry French buss. But it rekindled that strange sensation, made Johann unconsciously follow Cornelius’s mouth as it moved away.
In the flickering, hissing gaslight, their gazes met and held. Cornelius’s lashes were outlined, Johann realized, with kohl. Johann stared at the eyeliner, that strange sensation in his belly curdling until, to his astonishment, it made his cock swell ever so slightly in his trousers.
With a gasp, Johann drew back. He blinked rapidly, as if whatever was happening to him was some kind of grit in his good eye.
Blushing, his smile fading, Cornelius turned away. “Come. We go to the café.”
Johann followed, not entirely certain of what had just happened, but eager to move on from it, whatever it had been.
Chapter Three
The café was terribly French.
Johann knew enough about the city to understand this was one of Calais’s many petits cafés littéraires, with tall windows, cozy booths, and bright young men and women standing on tables, shouting philosophy while delicate chandeliers dangled overhead. A handful of women were present, prostitutes by the look of them, though Johann admitted he wasn’t well-versed in distinguishing that sort of thing. He’d always been nervous around whores, because they were so pushy and grew more aggressive when they discovered he was shy. He refrained from looking at the women here entirely, hoping to avoid any confrontations.
Cornelius kept hold of Johann’s arm, transforming as they entered the room. He was all bright smiles and winks, and his voice took on the same flirty quality that had so dismantled Johann at the emporium. Everyone who came to greet Cornelius hugged and kissed him, and many kissed the tinker’s cheeks several times before relinquishing him to the next acquaintance. Johann couldn’t catch much of what they said, but it seemed to be largely revolving around, “Where have you been?” and other concerns over Cornelius’s absence.
Finally someone said, looking at Johann, “Who is this?”
Cornelius introduced Johann, touching him a great deal, stroking his arm and his chest and leaning into his side. It was clear Cornelius was incredibly nervous but working hard to hide that fact. Johann wanted to help him, but he knew opening his mouth and letting them hear his Austrian accent would alarm the room.
A young man pushed his way to the front, and even before he spoke, Johann suspected this was the one who’d burst into Cornelius’s room earlier in the day. Valentin Durant, Cornelius introduced him as. The man bowed prettily, never letting his gaze leave Johann.
This was the man to impress. This was the one who needed to believe the lie. So Johann did his best to project pirate and continued saying nothing.
A few gentlemen in the crush surrounding them asked Johann questions—where did you come from?—but Cornelius always answered in his rapid-fire French, deftly keeping them away. Johann began to think perhaps this could work, him standing quietly and Cornelius doing all the speaking.
Then one of the women pushed her way to the front and put her hand on Johann’s chest and spoke. In a man’s voice.
Part of Johann’s brain registered something hadn’t been quite the usual even before she’d spoken, but there was no mistaking she had a man’s voice. She was a man, in a dress.
He’d never seen such a thing in his life. Johann stared at her, having absolutely no idea in the world what was going on.
Cornelius pushed the woman back with a saucy scolding and curled himself protectively against Johann’s chest, putting a proprietary hand on his hip. “Il est à moi!”
He’s mine.
Johann’s cock, which hadn’t entirely recovered from the earlier episode, surged back to life.
Panicking, Johann tried to keep Cornelius from becoming aware of his condition, but Cornelius had already turned around. Drawing close to Johann’s side, he pulled down the brim of his hat and whispered into his ear, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
Then he placed a soft, lingering kiss right on Johann’s lips.
The crowd crowed and clapped, but Cornelius didn’t smile and laugh with them. Under the brim of Johann’s hat, he looked intensely sad and terrified. “So sorry.” He plastered on a smile and took on the flirty voice again as he addressed the crowd of young men watching them.
The young men who had all just watched Cornelius kiss him. And had cheered it on.
Kissed him like a lover. The thought made Johann’s head spin. He couldn’t imagine such a thing in his village. True, he’d seen some men coupling in the camps—not often, because if an officer caught them, they would be dead—but he had always chalked that up to the desolation of war. There were no women present, after all. Here in the café, though, it seemed to be only men and the men-as-women, and everyone was flirting with everyone else. Several men sat in the laps of other men or leaned against them like lovers. It dawned on him that everyone in the café were men who could love men. Who wanted to.
And I arrived with Cornelius, who has just kissed me.
The café abruptly did not have enough air. Johann pushed to his feet, ready to bolt out of the building.
Immediately, Cornelius stood before him. He took Johann’s face in his slender hands and drew his head down to whisper once more in his ear. “Restez calme. It is all right. Faites comme si.”
Johann exhaled in a shudder. “Sie…haben mich geküsst.” He touched his lips in an attempt to translate.
His cock was still hard. Harder, even, than it had been before. He might be unnerved by this turn of events, but his body seemed right at home.
Cornelius touched Johann’s lips too, which helped nothing in the department of Johann’s trousers. “Valentin. He watches.”
But why does that mean we have to kiss?
And why do I wish you would do it again?
Johann couldn’t work out for the life of him why he and Cornelius had to pretend to be lovers. Male lovers? It was indecent. It was scandalous.
Or rather, it should have been.
Johann was absolutely certain the priest in his village would say this was a sin. The mayor would turn red in the face. Decidedly his mother wouldn’t like it. His sergeant commander, either. Except evidently no one here cared what any of those people or their French counterparts would say. They appeared quite happy to be in each other’s arms. Johann did not understand the men-women, but…well, they seemed very happy too. Happier than he had ever remembered being, so who was he to say it was wrong for them to wear dresses and paint? They all carried on in full view of the windows, hugging and kissing and flirting and drinking from delicate, expensive cups. No one came in to arrest them. No one clutched their breast in horror.
Johann did his best to write the whole thing off as Frankreich, mein Gott, but there was one stubborn problem with that dismissal, and that was his own misbehaving cock. It liked flirty Cornelius. It very much appreciated every brush of Cornelius’s bottom on his thigh, where he could feel how round and firm and yet still soft Cornelius’s derrière was. It wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the men-women, but it didn’t mind them half as much as Johann’s terrified mind did.
Johann’s cock loved Cornelius’s kisses. The tender ones, the flirty ones along his jaw—but more than anything, it treasured the one time Cornelius had sucked, ever so gently, on the pulse in his neck. The crowd applauded and made lewd sounds—but then, as after every kiss, Cornelius gave Johann that pained expression and another apology when no one else was watching.
No one tried to get Johann to speak further, not even Valentin, who had become distracted by a charming Moor and a bottle of wine. People spoke at Johann, mostly encouraging more kisses, and if Johann waggled his eyebrow and nipped at Cornelius’s shoulder, they cheered and left him alone.
Pretend to be Cornelius’s lover. It seemed he could do this far too easily for comfort.
When the café closed, the men spilled into the streets, heading across the way to a raucous tavern with women and men both leaning out of upstairs windows, catcalling to the herd. Johann girded himself for the transfer, but to his surprise, Cornelius led him away. When their companions complained, Cornelius shook his finger at them. “No, I’m going home.”
Everyone leered and applauded, making it clear they knew exactly what was going to happen when Cornelius and Johann got back to the apartment.
They drifted toward a side street, Cornelius still wrapped around Johann, but the instant they were out of view, Cornelius broke away. Now he chattered in French. Panicked, almost tearful pleadings, too fast and incoherent for Johann to catch more than the occasional fleeting word which out of context meant nothing. Except sorry. Over and over again, Cornelius apologized. And before long, he began to cry.
Johann clomped over on his peg leg and gripped Cornelius firmly by the shoulders. “Nicht weinen.” He wished he knew how to say don’t cry in French. He trailed a fingertip beside a descending tear. “What is this? How do you say this? Water from eyes?”
“Tears,” Cornelius croaked in a jagged whisper. His gaze, still full of sorrow and fear, still streaked with his weeping, never left Johann’s.
Johann didn’t look away either. “No tears.” He grazed Cornelius’s cheek with the knuckles of his flesh hand. “We pretend. No tears.”
Cornelius’s eyes spilled over once more, but some of his uneasiness melted away. “You are a fine man, Johann.”
Johann kissed Cornelius’s hand, then let it fall to his side. “Home?”
They walked in silence through the alleys back to the tinker shop. They didn’t hold hands, but Cornelius kept close as Johann navigated his false leg and his cane. As they ascended the stairs and Cornelius fussed with the complicated lock to his rooms, Johann had a quick consultation with himself.
If Cornelius kissed him again, alone in the room…well, it wasn’t as if there weren’t a ledger full of other sins he could get arrested for in Calais. Clearly taking a male lover wasn’t as scandalous as being an Austrian soldier. Anyway, he enjoyed Cornelius’s gentle touches. He kissed well too, far better than Johann. Certainly it was unconventional, but that was the whole of his life now. He would do this. If Cornelius gave even the smallest sign he wanted more amorous play, Johann would find a way to indicate he was, in fact, willing to do more than pretend.
Except Cornelius made no further efforts to kiss him. In the room, he locked the door, sat Johann on the bed and undid his pirate disguise. No kisses, no flirts, only meticulously checked Johann’s artificial joints and attached his usual calf and foot on his right leg. He smiled an awkward, uncertain smile, then busied himself with remaking his pallet bed before the hearth.
Johann watched him for a moment, then went to the water closet and relieved himself. He glanced Cornelius’s way as he exited, hoping perhaps to catch an invitation, something—but Cornelius had his eyes shut tight.
Johann went to bed as silently as he could, wrapping his blanket around his torso. He told himself it was stupid to be disappointed he wasn’t getting kissed again, and did his best to go to sleep.
* * * * *
Cornelius couldn’t understand why the café hadn’t repulsed Johann, but he didn’t question the reaction. He didn’t bring the episode up in conversation, either, and he didn’t take him back to the café.
In fact, in the month following their initial outing, Cornelius avoided discussing or thinking of many things with many people. He allowed Louise to clean the room once more, but when she gave pointed looks at the hulking pirate practicing his walking along the side of the bed, Cornelius pretended to not understand what could possibly be wrong with this arrangement. Master Félix asked a few questions about Johann, then largely forgot his existence until the faux-pirate walked in front of him. He’d predict Johann would bring trouble, then return to whatever project had him captivated at the moment.
By early May, Conny couldn’t avoid his father’s increasingly insistent demands he visit the magistrate, and so one bright and sunny Tuesday afternoon he secured Johann with instructions to stay in the room and speak to no one, then hired a carriage to the other side of town.
The magistrate, Baptiste Tremblay, was a measly mouse of a man, and he was firmly in the archduke’s pocket. Most city officials were, since they were installed by political favor, but Conny had always resented having such a simpering mewl as a minder. This visit was worse, since it wasn’t simply Conny and Tremblay having awkward conversation over sherry. The tinker Cornelius had been avoiding the night he found Johann was also visiting the magistrate. Worse, once he’d introduced the two of them, Tremblay left them alone in the salon to have their discussion.
Dr. Martin Savoy didn’t look like a tinker. His clothes were too neat and too plain, and the wrong style. He wore a high-necked jacket mirroring an officer’s uniform, a style popular only with the most elite, politically minded set in Paris, which no tinker Cornelius had ever met would consider wearing. Some of their kind were tidy, yes, but Savoy was drawn with four pins. Tinkers would never set so much store by fashion, and they’d never waste their money on gold piping. If they wanted sparkle on their clothing, they’d use copper filament. Even his spectacles were wrong—small and round, the glass slightly tinted but highly reflective, making him appear to have no eyes. Possibly he dressed so because he was, as Tremblay had whispered in the hall, also a physician, and therefore he moved in higher social circles than a mere surgeon. But even if Savoy had been in proper plain trousers, he would have left Conny feeling uneasy. He regarded Conny like an old billy goat who didn’t much care if Cornelius wanted to be mounted.
Savoy sat still and focused on Tremblay’s sofa, holding a cup of tea before him as he regarded Conny with a discomfiting smile. “Your father speaks very highly of you. He says you will soon surpass your master in your skill at both clockwork prosthetics and clockwork surgery.”
Conny sipped at his sherry and smiled thinly. “How kind of my father to notice my skill. I hope someday I will excel enough he might deign to praise me in person.”
“Your father is well aware of your talents.” The physician’s reptilian smile curled into something Conny assumed was meant to be flirtatious but made him want to retch. “He isn’t the only one noticing you, either, my little rabbit.”
“Attracting attention has never been an issue for me.” Conny crossed his legs and dusted lint from his shirtsleeve as he reclined in his chair.
“Your father would like you to work with me in Paris. I should like this as well.”
Conny, who had been sipping his sherry, nearly choked on his laughter. “How wonderful for you both. And how tragic, as I have no intention of leaving Calais.”
Savoy’s smile became brittle. “I’m afraid it isn’t a request, child. Though don’t think of it as a command. Think of it as an opportunity.”
Conny set the sherry aside, and his nonchalant façade as well. “If Archduke Guillory wishes to incarcerate me, he will need to send someone more adept than an unwashed bear to flash his lapel and drool onto my sleeve. Should either of you think you can by any mea
ns cajole me into helping your war effort, you are both so stupid I could cry.”
Unfortunately this candor didn’t erase Savoy’s leer. “Such spirit. Mmm.” He sipped his tea in a manner that managed to make Conny’s skin crawl, then set the cup on the table between his sofa and Conny’s chair. “Enough of what will be. Tell me instead about working with Félix Dubois. They say he has many inventive clockwork prosthetics, some which are downright miraculous.”
“Master Félix is a genius, yes. He is currently attempting a clockwork liver, and his mechanical spine was sold for a handsome sum to the King of Sweden, who wanted it for his young son afflicted with palsy. Every day another letter comes from a university begging him to teach, or a factory offering an emperor’s ransom for his skills. But he wishes only to remain in Calais. Which is where I shall stay also.”
“A liver? That would be something to see, certainly.” Savoy laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his greasy smile back in full force. “Has he shown you any other organs? A stomach? A lung?”
“Of course. Lungs are entirely commonplace. Stomachs less so, but there have been a few.”
“And what of a clockwork heart?”
Conny should have seen it coming. But he’d been too busy being revolted by Savoy, and when the question came out of nowhere, he wasn’t ready. He startled, then quickly tried to steel himself, worrying it was too late. He did his best to channel his mother, hoping at least some of her acting ability was genetic. “Are you making a joke? Of course he doesn’t have a clockwork heart. We don’t have the technology for such a thing.”
“We’re closer than you think. And the rumors are wild that Dubois has cracked the code. That he keeps it hidden and moves it from place to place so it can’t be discovered.”
This was, of course, exactly the truth of what Master Félix had been doing. “Good God, you make it sound as if he is some kind of spy.”
“How interesting you should bring that up. Because the rumors say he is that too. A spy for England.”
Clockwork Heart: Clockwork Love, Book 1 Page 4