Corsets & Clockwork

by Trish Telep

  "That was our father. Our maker," Isabelle says.

  Matt asks the important question. "What are you?"

  Isabelle does reach for him then. "Please come with me, Matt. Let me prove I'm not what you think."

  "I can't ..." Matt winces as the memory of the creature in the rotted house rises to the surface. "I just can't."

  "Father won't hurt you," Isabelle whispers. She brushes sweaty hair off of Matt's forehead, a gesture that ignites the fever he feels for her anew. "He wants to keep you. None of us want to hurt you, Matt."

  "Us?" he rasps. He feels as if he's swallowed glass. Still, he lets Isabelle lead him through the streets, back to the house by the river that is not a house but a nest, a nest of nightmares. The alternative is to burn away to nothing, his mind crumbling like ashes.

  Isabelle stops in the front hall, the hall of whispers. She strokes her thumbs over the back of Matt's hand. "Where we come from, it's cold and silent," she says. "We feed off the living things on the shore, and we speak to each other in dreams."

  Matt has read stories about this, but never written them. He thinks they're creepy. The idea of a thing that drinks blood borders on heretical. "Vampires?" he guesses.

  "We don't feed on the body," Isabelle says. "We feed on the energy, the thoughts and the emotions. It's like drinking warm honey, but it always fades. Except, once in a great while ..."

  She pushes open a door that rolls back on soundless hinges, and shows Matt a boy about his age, strapped to an operating table. Tubes and wires connect to a collection point near his head, and steel pins drill directly into his skull. Electrodes and wires travel back into the larger clockwork. The boy is asleep, and he thrashes a bit before he trembles and goes still.

  "I don't understand," Matt says. He's not brave now. Not the hero of anything. Isabelle is his only ally here and she's one of them. One of the things he saw.

  "There are some dreams that are strong and bright, and some that are dark and terrible. There are some we can feed on again and again, some we can exchange dreams with," Isabelle says. "We need them, especially in this place." She looks Matt in the eye. "We need you."

  "No." Already, he's trying to run, but he can't, transfixed by the eyes of his love. And he does love her. Even though he's young. Even though he can't talk to a girl to save his life. Isabelle is in his blood, and he has to love her, or go insane from wanting to be near her.

  It's not perfect, but it's the closest thing Matt Edison has ever felt to real love.

  "No, you don't understand," Isabelle whispers. "You and I, we can share our dreams, yes. But we want you to share yours with the world, Matt. We want you to turn your pen to us. Make everyone in this world dream of us, so we can feed."

  Matt's first instinct is to refuse. There's no way he can allow the thing upstairs into the dreams of the people who read his stories.

  But nobody reads his stories. His life is going nowhere. He could grow up, meet a girl, marry her and be happy for a while. He could start drinking like his father, grow older and bitter with memories that can never be slaked by the face of anyone but Isabelle.

  "Everyone will know you, Matt," she whispers. "And you will never want for worlds and people and places to write about. That is the bargain. Your role is that you will be one of ours. You and I will have dreams, forever."

  Everyone. Everyone will read him, everyone will know him. He can go to a university and maybe move out of his neighborhood. Isabelle will sustain him.

  Isabelle will love him.

  It's not a good choice, but it's the only choice Matt Edison can make. So he nods.

  "I never want it to be anyone but you, Isabelle. I don't want to know about this. Any of this. I just want to write, and have you. That's all I ever wanted."

  In response, Isabelle stands on her toes, and pushes her lips against his. It is a kiss that Matt will never forget, and the last one he will ever receive.

  The kiss soothes his fever, the whispers in his mind. Fills his brain up with the images of the calm green sea, and him and Isabelle, floating forever with their shared dreams.

  * * *

  This is what happened later:

  The magazine regrets that as of next month's issue, Matt Edison will no longer be contributing serials to our fine publication. We wish him luck in his future endeavors, and will be publishing a final stand-alone tale entitled "Isabelle" in a special farewell edition. Mr. Edison is no longer contactable by letter or telegram. All inquiries about Mr. Edison's work must be directed to the Bureau of Proctors.

  With thanks to all our loyal readers,

  H. Messer

  Tick, Tick, Boom

  BY KIERSTEN WHITE

  THE PROBLEM WITH explosions is they nearly always wreak havoc on one's hair. And when one has to spend one's entire morning having one's hair pinned and curled and twisted just so, having it go up in flames is to be avoided at all costs.

  However, this is not on my mind as I readjust my goggles and lean in closer to the watch casing. It ought to be, but it's not. Instead, my mind is spinning with vitriol, spewing brimstone curses in the direction of one Franklin Greenwood. Franklin Greenwood and his simpering, inane, sycophantic love for my father.

  And his never-ending efforts to extend that love to me.

  Of course, the worst part of all is that his surname lends itself so poorly to manipulation. I haven't yet been able to come up with a good rhyme for it. Thus far the best I've done is Franklin Well and Good, and I'd hardly say it achieves the appropriate level of mockery. It's vexing.

  So vexing that as I lean over the delicate gears to put the wire just right, I scrape my tweezers against the side, and before I blink, the powder ignites and a whoosh of flame burns my fingers as choking smoke engulfs my head.

  I scream and back away, the acrid scent of burning hair assailing my nose. I swat at my head. "Blast it all," I mutter, angry tears stinging my eyes. I pull off my goggles and, trembling, go back to the tiny mirror on the wall of the dim workshop. My face is nearly black, save the two shockingly white circles around my eyes. I raise my trembling and burning fingers to my hair and survey the damage. One curl in the front is burned beyond repair, but with a little tucking and pinning it should be unnoticeable. It could have been worse. At least I hadn't added the chemicals yet, and no lightning bugs were wasted.

  My fingers are a bigger problem. Biting my lip against the pain, I dip them in a basin of water beneath the mirror. "Kitty, you glock. You absolute glock," I whisper. How could I have been so stupid? All of today's work up in smoke. The wires'll have to be dinged, maybe even the whole casing. And the gears are irreplaceable right now; I cannot possibly justify getting more until next week.

  Tonight's buyer will be disappointed. Nothing to be done about it. Probably best to skip the meeting altogether rather than show up empty-handed.

  I pull off my heavy leather overshirt, sighing in relief that at least my dress was spared damage, and scrub my face until it is stinging and pink. Metal shears serve to clip away the offending bit of melted hair, although the action hurts my fingers something terrible. No amount of scrubbing will hide that damage.

  Heaven help me if Father sees. But Heaven may yet be on my side, and I thank whatever saints I can think of that gloves are so firmly in fashion. I pull on my favorite brown leather pair, biting through the pain to do up the row of buttons at either wrist.

  A large grandfather clock that ticked its last tock years ago is tucked up in the corner. I gather my supplies--mournfully cataloguing the ruined pieces--and haul them over there. Three times around with the hour hand to rest at 2, twice around with the minute hand until the clock reads 2:42 and--with a small whirring sound and a gentle click--the face panel springs open. The interior of the clock crackles and sparks with energy from the jar of lightning bugs within, and my hair stands on end from the charged atmosphere. I breathe a sigh of relief that the bugs still have enough food. There is no way I could pry open that lid right now.

 
I hang the various pliers and tweezers in their places, carefully replace the leftover powder in its container, and line up the ruined watch beside its pristine siblings. Only two left. Looks like a visit to the market for more churched pocket watches from my favorite duffer.

  I roll my eyes. I hate having to visit Locksby. And now I'll have to do it tomorrow instead of next week. I close the door, give both clock hands a twist to reset the locks, and my work there is done. The cluttered wooden worktables are left as I found them, my used overshirt hung back on its peg.

  Now I haven't even a single clandestine meeting tonight to justify sneaking out of Father's party. And it is all that big nancy Franklin Greenwood's fault. Well and good, indeed.

  * * *

  "Ouch!" I jump as something sharp is jabbed into the exposed skin of my upper back. Nurse stands behind me, glaring, still holding the incriminating fork.

  "Stop slouching. And smile."

  I rub my neck, pouting. "Couldn't you have at least stabbed me a little lower, where this accursed corset offers some protection?"

  "Aye, or in your thick head where nothing gets through. Lord Ashbury's been askin' after your daytime activities. If you want your freedom, I suggest you don't draw his ire."

  I bare my teeth at her in my best approximation of a smile and swish my way out of the darkened eaves and into the center of the ballroom, curtseying and batting my eyelashes and demurely holding a fan in my raw, gloved hands. It is a sea of suits and silk, perfume and perdition. My nose stings from the cloying, overwhelming competition of scents, and I look anxiously through a glazed doll-like expression for my father. One curtsey--evidence of my obedience--and I can slip outside where I can breathe.

  A woman cackles, her laughter shrill and grating as she waves a cotton handkerchief in time to her convulsive shrieks. For all their powder and wigs and finery, the upper class is far uglier than all the dirt and sweat of Manchester's workers.

  But there! In the corner, Father, holding court with the local magistrates, their bellies straining at satin waistcoats. One of them sloshes wine all over himself during a particular emphatic gesture. I sidle my way through the crowds until I am close enough to hear the conversation and wait for Father to make eye contact with me.

  "... with the new Factory Acts, the negative consequences to men of business cannot be emphasized enough. And why should we punish the great men among us, the men funding the development of our glorious nation?"

  I sigh and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Anyone who uses terms such as "our glorious nation" is either a liar or a fool. And usually in nepotistic government positions. Regardless, I care nothing for this conversation. It is the same conversation they always have--why it is our right to subjugate the lower classes in horrific working conditions, why the notion of children toiling in cotton mills is not only just but merciful, why men like my father can impede progress in the name of profit.

  My father, Lord Ashbury, looks up and meets my eyes. I instinctively erase my glare and replace it with a dutiful, mildly happy expression.

  "Catherine." All of the men turn as one when he addresses me, tipping their heads and giving paternal smiles. Except the fattest one; his smile has a leering quality that dips far past my face and into the white skin spilling out my corset top.

  Collins. That's his name. I shan't forget it.

  "My Lord," I answer with a curtsey.

  "Are you enjoying yourself?" Father asks.

  "Always."

  And that, as ever, is all the conversation he can muster for his only acknowledged child. I am dismissed with a nod when he turns back to his gaggle of fools. Already my toes twitch in my tiny shoes, anticipating a change to sturdy boots and a quick climb out the library window to the freedom of the night. Maybe I can still get to the meeting place in time to inform the buyer of the delay and set up a new exchange? I have nearly an hour, after all. This is our first dealing, but he came through the right channels, referred to me by the underground network of social revolutionaries that Richard led me to. I would hate to lose his business. And a small part of me hopes that maybe he'll be the elusive Wilcox--union leader, rabble rouser, and general thorn in my father's side. We've never met, but I'd dearly love to make his acquaintance.

  I am almost out of the room and already walking the dark alleyways in my mind when another voice softly speaks my name.

  This time a real smile pulls apart my lips. "Mister Cartwright." He sits in a chair in a dimly lit corner of the ballroom, a book open but unattended in his lap, glasses balanced on the tip of his narrow nose.

  Those glasses always amaze me with their ability to remain perched there no matter what the circumstance. The only time they ever came close to falling off was when, after I studied his plans for a pocket watch-timed bomb, I shocked him with my own design for a bomb entirely contained by the pocket watch itself. He told me he'd never been prouder of a student. I blush with pride now just thinking of it.

  If only I were Richard's daughter, or he were thirty years younger and could be a suitor. What a pair we'd make.

  "Come sit with me, child."

  I take the chair next to him and raise my eyebrows. "I see Father let you out tonight."

  "Oh, yes. He likes to remind people now and again how powerful he is. He can make anyone disappear, he can make anyone reappear. Lord Ashbury is quite the magician."

  "At least you didn't get the boat."

  "There is that, I suppose. I doubt the climate in Australia would agree with my constitution."

  The thing I like best about Richard Cartwright is that he is both the most brilliant and the most devious man I know. Brilliant because he never came up with ideas on his own--he simply figured out how to steal other men's plans and improve upon them. Nearly every development in factory machines in the last ten years has come from him (or those he stole from). His latest round of inventions eliminated the need for most workers by mechanizing cotton production. Alas, that had meant that soon everyone else would have been able to compete with my father, who holds a monopoly on all cotton in England.

  My father was not fond of this development.

  Thus, Richard was put under house arrest and declared a criminal, which was technically true but never bothered my father before. Now the only man who has access to his mind is my father.

  I do not get involved in politics; I am merely a supplier to those whose goal is to make my father's life more difficult. It may be that the only man who has access to Richard is my father, but the only girl who has access to him is me.

  "And how are your ... side projects going?" he asks. I pull off a glove and show him my fingers. He tsks. "This is why you should hire people to assemble for you."

  "And give up the best parts? Never. Besides, a secret shared is no longer a secret."

  "Too true, my dear. Too true. Do try to be careful with those clever hands of yours, though. I can't have my smartest protege crippled, now can I?"

  "Of course not. Oh! I have been meaning to ask if you know any churchers besides Locksby. I've bought from him two weeks running and--"

  "Catherine!"

  Were my spine not held so rigidly in place by my corset I would no doubt slump in despair as my visions of dim, mysterious, salamander-lit streets melt away.

  I turn, not even pretending to smile. "Franklin."

  Oblivious to the waves of hatred I am sending his way, he reaches down and takes my bare hand in his to kiss it. He frowns at my angry red fingers, the tips still black.

  "Whatever have you done to your fingers?"

  I pull my hand out of his and hastily shove my glove back on, trying not to wince. "Salamanders. They are such sweet-looking things, I always forget how long they hold heat."

  He shakes his head, his voice its usual dull and even tones. "I shall have my physician send over some salve immediately. We cannot have those delicate fingers of yours damaged."

  "I don't see how 'we' fits into this problem, Franklin, as my fingers are not of your concern."<
br />
  He smiles, his teeth perfectly white under his thin mustache. The mustache is a new development--perhaps an effort to blend in better with my father's men; he's not yet twenty. I hear the maids sometimes, gossiping about him. Alas, not even they can give me any terrible stories of brokenhearted laundresses or hidden bastard children. Franklin is as clean as his immaculate clothing, as upright as his handsome round face and deep brown eyes would imply.

  He is also a complete glock and a half-wit. Any man who thinks my father worth emulating is no man at all. And now I will be his captive for the rest of the night, subjected to idiotic questions about my father's business and inquiries after the health of various relatives whose names I cannot remember, but Franklin seems to have memorized.

  "Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friend?" he asks, glancing at Richard, and my heart leaps at the thought of foisting Franklin on my poor captive friend and making my escape. But at that moment a wincing maidservant whispers something in Richard's ear. He sighs and stands, bowing to me before leaving the room.

  "Perhaps another time," I say, devastated at the loss of Richard. I am now entirely at Franklin's mercy.

  Thus, I am shocked when he bows. "I beg your pardon, but I've a previous engagement. I do hope to call on you later in the week and inquire after your health."

  And, just like that, the man who never misses an opportunity to talk me into a coma of despair walks out of the room.

  Curious.

  * * *

  Breeches are glorious things. Give me a pair of black breeches, sturdy boots, a long coat, cap, and scarf, and the person slinking down the steaming, dark cobblestoned street is a young boy instead of landed gentry. I quite like being a young boy. My vocabulary options expand to include a whole world of vulgarity, and I become invisible.

  I suppose I am invisible in my normal life, but this is the invisibility of freedom rather than that of confinement.

  Behind schedule, I walk faster, keeping to the shadows as I pass the Rookeries, slum homes for the city's factory workers. More lights are on there than usual, and a vague roar of noise floats on the sharp air. I frown, wondering if I'd overlooked some sort of holiday. Nothing comes to mind; usually the workers have drunk themselves into a stupor by now or are home sleeping off their last shift.