Marie took the metal top off a glass container with a clawed pewter bottom and opened a spigot behind the tea and coffee station. She poured steaming hot water into the carafe and put in a tea bag.
“This is hardly the time for tea, Marie.”
“It’s not for you, Miss. It’s for the clockwork. Hold it still, please.”
Iris didn’t dignify Marie’s comment with a response. As if she had any control over the whirring thing, and she did want tea once this ordeal was over. Marie held the carafe under the clockwork, and steam enveloped the flying end of the pillowcase. The tug grew less as the clockwork wound down, and Iris rolled her shoulder back and forth to loosen the muscles. Finally, Marie held the now soaked end of the pillowcase containing the clockwork in her hand, and Iris let go, sinking down on the bed. She stretched both hands, her fingers tight and sore. Now that she thought about it, all of her was tight and sore.
“Is it dead?” she asked. “And why the tea, not just water?”
“Professor Bailey would have a better explanation for it, Miss, but I’ll do my best. There are things called alkaloids in most substances, and the ones in the tea break down the stuff that allows the clockwork mechanisms to fly with minimal rubbing of their parts.”
Iris knew some basic science from her time in school, the one class she’d had. “You mean it breaks down the lubricant that allows the clockworks to fly with minimal friction and therefore go longer on the same amount of winding?”
“Yes, Miss, that’s it.” Marie smiled at her. “So it’s not dead, just stuck, but it hasn’t had any sudden force, so it won’t break the part that makes it scream.”
“Excellent. Please bring it to Professor Bailey for him to examine. He’ll need something to occupy himself while he heals.”
“And then a bath for you, Miss.” Marie’s wrinkled nose told Iris all she needed to know. “And while you do that, I’ll work on finding you some more clothes. I believe there was an appointment for you with a modiste this afternoon, but you may have missed it. Either way, first you must bathe.”
Iris didn’t argue.
Edward made it to his room on his own two feet—barely—with Doctor Radcliffe supporting him on one side and Johann on the other. It seemed that whenever one part of him felt better, another started aching or stinging or stabbing and joined the chorus of discomfort. He exhaled when the bed took over supporting his body and floated for a moment in relief before the chorus, now a smaller ensemble, started again. Johann would be proud of his musical analogy, he thought, but before he could tell his friend, he drifted off to sleep.
But not for too long—a crash outside woke him. The hotel room windows stood open to the early summer breeze, and they were high enough to pull in few city smells. The noise below told him they stayed in the middle of a metropolis. The air is something, I suppose. Although he knew he would watch the window for signs of one of those little clockwork butterflies, at least when he was awake. The memory of him shoving the pirate out of the window with his beloved copper globe popped into his mind, and he shook his head to dislodge it.
“Are you hurting?” Radcliffe asked. He sat by the window with a newspaper open on the marble-topped table in front of him and a cup of tea beside him on the windowsill.
“Somewhat,” Edward admitted. In a brief moment with the two of them that morning, Johann had cautioned Edward not to alert the doctor—who showed a strong interest in affairs of the mind—to his anxiety and previous breakdown, so he wasn’t going to admit to his mental anguish at the loss of his materials. The maid Marie had cleared the shattered glass globe shards from his valise, so all he had left of his travel aether isolator were the connections and stoppers. The burner also had to be discarded after it bent and spilled its fuel.
Doctor Radcliffe examined him and said, “As far as I can tell, you’re healing slowly, but it would help if we could get a look inside.”
“Not surgery,” Edward said. “The risk is too great.”
“No, no, I have some colleagues here in Paris who are doing work on ways to look inside the human body without cutting anything open. With your consent, I’ll get in touch with them, see if I can get us an appointment.”
“Very well.” Edward shifted, and his left hip sang a sharp solo. Yes, his mind must be injured if he was thinking in musical, not scientific terms.
The maid Marie entered with a pillowcase, one end of which sagged and dripped. “I have a present for the Professor from Miss McTavish,” she said, her dimples evident.
“Oh, a present!” Edward struggled to sit, and the doctor helped him. “What could it be?”
Marie deposited the bundle in his hands, and he unrolled the pillowcase to reveal one of the clockwork butterflies. It looked smaller now that it wasn’t moving, and he examined the delicate parts, all fashioned of brass, some of which greened in places where it had been nicked or scratched. Oh, thank you, Iris! This is just the thing.
“Marie, is my magnifier intact?” he asked.
“Yes, Professor. You wrapped it very well. Shall I fetch it?”
“Please do. I’ve been wanting to see one of these up close and whole.”
Marie handed him his magnifying glass and asked. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable at the table so you can see the creature in the light? Would that be all right, Doctor?”
They helped Edward to the table and propped him up with pillows. He noticed the fatigue from moving that short distance but also that he felt stronger than the day before. I shall study this device and see if I can make it useful for us.
By teatime, Edward shifted positions every few minutes due to aching.
“You need to rest,” Radcliffe told him and gently pried the clockwork, from which Edward had managed to detach the wings, from Edward’s hands. He thought he’d isolated the winding mechanism.
“I don’t need to,” Edward told him, but he said the last word through a yawn. A new sharp pain in his arm made him look down to see Radcliffe injecting him with something, and he tried to jerk away, but the doctor held him firm.
“It’s to help the pain, and you need to sleep.”
Edward thought he said, “But I want to choose when I sleep—it’s not time for a nap.” But he wasn’t sure his statement made it out loud before he was sucked into a dream about flying brass horses galloping after the airship as it plummeted to the hungry sea below.
“Did he like it?” Iris asked Marie when she entered. Iris, clean from a warm bath with an extra change of water, stood in her shift, which at least had been rinsed at the inn, and held the soiled dress away from her.
“He was very excited,” Marie told her and took the dress from her. “You don’t want to wear this, do you?”
“Of course not.” Iris squelched the feeling of panic at letting go of the gown and reminded herself the little gold case was no longer sewn in the pocket but hidden in a secret compartment in her valise. She rubbed her fingers together, but the action didn’t clear the feeling of griminess from them.
“I sent for a gown from the theatre. It’s on the risqué side for daytime, but I also have a shawl for you, and it was the only one in your size. You need something to wear to the modiste.”
“So I didn’t miss the appointment with her?”
“You did, but she agreed for you to come to her shop as a favor. We’ve used her before for last-minute costumes, so she’s pretty agreeable. Plus she doesn’t make much money on Sundays.”
Iris tried to remember who the “we” was, probably someone mentioned as part of Marie’s ramblings as they drove into town in the oven-like carriage. She hoped the Gastrons’ neighbor charged Bledsoe extra for their miserable conveyance.
Marie helped her into the corset, petticoats and light green dress, which instead of having a high collar, exposed what felt like a scandalous amount of chest with its square neckline. She’d never seen her br
easts plump like that. Thank goodness Marie pinned a lace shawl around her shoulders, and it provided some discretion. Otherwise men taller than she—and that was almost all of them—would have quite the view. Iris studied the brooch, which held a large peridot inside a stylized “C”.
“Is this yours?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you rather hold on to it? It looks valuable.”
“Not really, Miss,” Marie said. “Now let’s put your hair up.”
Coiffed and dressed, Iris barely recognized herself. She hardly looked the image of the field archaeologist she wanted to be, but she doubted she’d be brave enough to walk around Paris in men’s clothing like one of her idols Jane Dieulafoy, famous for both her archaeological discoveries and scandalous sartorial choices.
What’s the harm in play acting a little?
While Marie changed into a dark blue day dress and removed her maid’s cap, Iris took the opportunity to read the brooch. Disgust flashed through her, as did that feeling between her legs she remembered from her mother’s ring, but no images.
“It’s best I not look like your maid,” Marie said and straightened her stylish hat atop her dark curls. It had silk birds and blue ribbons that matched her dress.
“Why?” Iris asked and went into the salle de bain to wash her hands at the sink. She scrubbed until her fingers turned red but couldn’t clear the slimy feeling from them.
“I’d rather not say, Miss.”
More and more secrets. But Iris said nothing, only allowed Marie to pin a small straw hat swallowed by green and cream-colored silk flowers on her head. She pushed Marie’s hands away—goodness, what was she going to do if she couldn’t bear for her own maid to touch her?—and tied her own chin ribbons before putting on her gloves. Marie gave her a look of mingled sadness and resignation.
Iris and Marie passed Patrick O’Connell in the hotel lobby, where he played two men in cards while others looked on askance. Iris, desirous of not being alone with Marie, remembered her intention to ask Patrick what had transpired in the inn that morning and smiled at him.
He rose and threw his cards on the table. “I’ve taken enough of your money for today, gents.”
“We will find out how you are cheating, you devil’s beard,” one of them sneered.
Patrick put on his hat, turned to the two women, and asked, “Are you ladies heading out? That Bledsoe chap warned me not to let you go without a chaperone.”
“I grew up in this part of Paris,” Marie said. “We’ll be fine.”
Iris looked at Marie, who indeed seemed to bloom under the admiring glances of the men around them.
Will I ever get there? And at what cost?
“Regardless, I’ll be joining you.”
“That’s fine with me,” Iris told him. He held his arm out, and she took it. They walked through the revolving door and into the sunlight. Iris had been too tired, hot and miserable on the way into the hotel to notice much, but now she had to struggle not to stop and look around at everything. Marie wouldn’t slow when Iris entreated her to.
“Best keep moving and not say much,” Patrick murmured to her. “We’re being followed, and the English and Americans aren’t well-liked here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Paris, 12 June 1870
Marie led Iris and O’Connell down the main boulevard past the front of the hotel with its sandstone-colored walls and crystal windows in which every pane was beveled. They walked past shops tempting Sunday afternoon strollers with brightly colored displays, and French spoken too fast to understand wrapped Iris in a shawl of whispers threaded together with the hissing of steamcarts and punctuated by the clopping hooves of horse-drawn coaches. The soft odors of steam and perfume warred with the acrid smells of coal and sweat, all of it over the freshness of the summer breeze and almost-baked scent of sunshine-warmed brick.
But Iris couldn’t enjoy it because she sensed someone watching her. When she glanced behind her, she saw a familiar-looking young man, but he disappeared into the crowd so quickly she couldn’t place him.
They turned onto a side street so narrow Iris wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise. The light-colored brick and wide stone gave way to cobblestones and the weathered gray walls of a medieval neighborhood. Iris blinked to clear her vision from the after-images of the wide, sunny boulevard. The darkness of the stone emphasized the gloom, and the close walls concentrated the formerly pleasant breeze into a gusty chill.
“Is this safe?” Iris whispered and pulled the fichu higher around her shoulders. Noises seemed muted in the false dusk. If the air were still, I could believe this was a tomb.
“No one will bother me here,” Marie said. Now she walked beside Iris with Patrick behind them. “This is an old neighborhood, one of the few that escaped the reforms of Monsieur Haussman. Is our shadow gone, Mister O’Connell?”
“Aye, although it won’t surprise me if he’s waiting for us when we return to civilization.”
“There are many exits to this area, including underground. I will find one for us. And appearances can be deceiving—in spite of the architecture, this neighborhood has its modern conveniences, and we are safer here than we were on the main Rue. Ah, here we are.” She stopped at a wooden door set in a wall. It appeared to be the same as all the other doors in the area without a house number to distinguish it, and gaslight flickered in the small windows.
Marie knocked in a complicated pattern on the door, and it opened wide enough to admit them.
Are we here for dresses or for a secret society meeting?
Iris didn’t voice her thoughts, however, for fear of being left. This was certainly the strangest shopping trip she’d ever been on, but somehow also the most enjoyable.
A young woman about Iris’s age greeted Marie with kisses on each cheek and spoke French to her. “Fantastique. What a surprise!” She switched to English. “Madame will be so ’appy to see you.”
“Is she here?” Marie lowered her voice and used rapid-fire French that Iris could barely follow. “And don’t call me that. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Ah, and what character are you today?”
Marie sighed with French flair. “Someone for Cobb.”
The young woman nodded and turned her attention to Iris. “Ah,” she said in a thick French accent, “you dressed her in the Juliet. That’s suitable.”
“Yes,” Marie turned to Iris with a smile that made her next words an insult. “She does have the look of a virginal heroine, does she not?”
O’Connell coughed to hide a laugh.
“Oh, and this is our escort, Mister O’Connell.”
“And will you need clothing for both of them?”
“For her and me. We lost ours in an airship incident.”
The shopgirl wrote something on a pad of paper and went behind a narrow desk. “Madame is at the theatre. She is bringing samples to your mother and hoped to ’ave returned before you came. I’ll send her a message to see how she would like me to start.”
The sound of a drawer opening and closing was followed by a whoosh and thunk.
“Is that the pneumatic tube system?” Iris asked. Her fingers itched to test it out. Of course she knew Paris had such a thing—installed with the new sewers, which must run under the neighborhood—but she wanted to see and try it.
“Thank you, Claudia.” Marie stripped her gloves. “Do you mind if I make something to drink? I suspect these two have never had Spanish coffee. Meanwhile, you can start. The budget is generous, as it always is with Monsieur Cobb.” Her mouth twisted around the title.
When Claudia went into the back of the shop, Iris noted, “Your accent has become more French since being here. And Mister O’Connell’s Irish brogue is thicker.”
Marie didn’t look up from where she boiled water on a small burner behind the desk. “I can’t help it—it always happens when I’m in Paris, especially
in this part of the city. It’s just as well. As Mister O’Connell mentioned, the English and Americans aren’t loved here.”
“Yes, would you tell me why?” Iris asked. “I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve not kept up with world events as I should have with my mother’s death and my father’s illness and work to preoccupy me.”
“Well, you know the States are at war with each other,” O’Connell said. “The Northern ones thought they had the Southern ones beat, but France jumped in. They wanted the cotton in the South for their mills here to compete with what England is importing from India. Plus a fight with England was too tempting.”
“So the war between the states is a proxy war between England and France,” Iris said.
“Aye, but the French people don’t care much this time around. They’re more concerned with how it’s draining their treasury even if they do get good quality cotton for their clothing and the supply has allowed their manufacturing to keep pace with England’s.”
“What it means for you, Miss McTavish, is that you need to say as little as possible and not draw attention to yourself,” Marie said. “The French will always take a tourist’s money but will easily take offense, and the people have been in a mobbing mood. They say the Empire is in trouble again and the Prussians pushing at the border.”
Another whoosh and thunk made Iris bite her tongue over the retort she wanted to make, that she could handle herself, but she also had to remember she was in a tomb-like neighborhood in a strange city where she barely spoke the language, and it was potentially dangerous.
And I thought France was safe.
Claudia returned with her arms full of dresses. “I am afraid this is all I have. Did I hear the tube?”
“Yes, it sounds like you got a response.”
Claudia opened the drawer, extracted the message tube, and shook out the roll of paper. “Ah, Mademoiselle Marie, I am sorry, but your mother wants you to come to the theatre, and Madame says I am not to help you until you visit your poor mère and bring the English stranger with you for dinner. She will fit you both there.”
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