My mind was already weak from the knowledge that I'd completely misunderstood the danger of Koschei, and now, swinging in from the other side, was the realization that intelligent life could exist as metal and springs.
Old Ben had often spoken of the possibilities, that life and metal could be married together and given the spark of mortality. More than anything, I wished he could be by my side to see the proof of his idea.
"Why are you helping?" I asked.
The pangolin scraped mud from its golden jaw with tiny clicking fingers. Its head turned at an odd angle, listening into the fog.
"Morwen, sent to—"
The pangolin sprung over my shoulder in a mighty leap, bounding into the whiteness on an errand, leaving me alone.
With the rope untied, I struggled to my feet, smearing black mud along my elbows. The water was colder the second time, and I nearly tipped over the boat trying to climb in while holding the duck egg.
I waited for a few minutes, hoping the pangolin would come back, so I could enjoy some company on the journey back to Philadelphia. When I could wait no longer, I pushed my fishing boat out of the reeds, using one hand on the oar, and gave it a few strokes until the current caught me and pulled me downstream.
With the shock of the encounter behind me, I collapsed into a quivering mass at the center of the boat, lying on the bottom planks with both hands around the duck egg. My whole left side ached. Two or three of my ribs felt cracked, or at least bruised. A welt the size of a fist had grown where Koschei had struck me on the forearm, and I was covered in mud from head to toe.
Eventually, I was able to climb back onto the seat through sheer will. The last thing I wanted to do was miss the city and get swept out to sea.
The air was chill, and while I shivered, I thought about my brief companion, the golden pangolin. Before it had bounded away, it had mentioned that it had because of Morwen. It seemed that someone else was concerned about her. Did it see me as an ally, or was Koschei linked with the confectioner?
Maybe the duck egg had once been in the possession of Morwen Hightower and she'd planned to use Koschei to assassinate William Bingham. Had Anne Bingham uncovered the plot and somehow stolen the duck egg from Morwen?
I didn't want to give Anne, the well-connected socialite, credit for cunning behavior, but then I remembered that appearances can be deceiving. No one but a select few knew I was a person of royal birth.
These thoughts faded as the morning glow of dawn approached, and like a bad dream, the events on Muskrat Isle seemed hazy and distant. I considered what my tale would sound like if I voiced it to another person: I traveled to an island in the Schuylkill in the middle of the night in a stolen fishing boat, battled a creature of supernatural origins for control of a duck egg, and was saved by a mechanical creature in the shape of a large pangolin.
A bit of broken laughter escaped my lips at this thought. I had to consider, as unlikely as it sounded, that the lack of powder had unhinged my grip on reality and like Voltaire, I was lurching around Philadelphia like a madwoman. What stories would they tell of the Witch of Philadelphia, who carried a duck egg and attacked any who tried to take it from her.
At least my imagination was quite inventive, and I applauded myself for the introduction of the golden pangolin. Though I'd prefer a name for my little rescuer.
He was small and armored, and ferocious in his defense. Having spent much time in the West, I thought of naming him after one of the Knights of the Round Table. I loved the lesser knights, those who’d had adventures not always chronicled by the sages, and imagined my own tales for them. Maybe Palademedes or Bors the Younger would serve as a proper moniker.
But then I decided that as much as I loved the Knights of the Round Table, I loved the knights-errant of my homeland even more, the bogatyrs. Their tales were less noble, more hard-eyed adventurer than moral warrior. That fit my predicament more than the holy warriors of Arthurian legend.
"My little bogatyr," I whispered to the wind. "My Automaton Knight." I chuckled. "Aught."
The name fit the pangolin. It meant both everything and nothing, and it was the first decade of a century, which was right in the time we were living. It was a creature made of nothing that should be living, but was living anyway.
I didn't know who'd sent the pangolin, who I now thought of as “Aught,” but it was at least comforting to know I had an ally.
I reached the fishing dock without further incident, and tied up to the grommet. My steam carriage was parked nearby. I retrieved my heavy woolen skirt, cream blouse, and riding jacket from the interior, and bathed naked in the river, crouched amid the reeds with the duck egg resting on the bank.
Even with the egg within reach, I hurried through my scrubbings, feeling that my boney nemesis would rise from the dark waters at any moment. When my hasty bath was finished, my skin felt raw, and my side throbbed.
Dried and dressed, I returned to the carriage, placed the duck egg on the dashboard, locked the doors, and tried to find a comfortable position to sleep. Lying on my side with the injured ribs proved impossible, so I had to sleep sitting, leaning against the velvet interior. And when I did sleep, I dreamt of my pangolin knight, Aught, battling the beast-man Koschei atop a jagged mountain beneath an alien sky. Later, when I awoke, I remembered my place in that dream. I was crouched under an overhang of rock, picking bits of fur from beneath my long fingernails, weighing who I would bring my fury down upon: Koschei, or Aught.
Chapter Twenty-one
The next day, it felt like everything that had happened before had only been a dream. Even the supernatural elements of my journey to Koschei's island seemed less fantastic and more born of fear and imagination. By the time I had reached the location of my next task, I was certain that I'd either imagined the whole thing, or that the Koschei I had battled had been nothing more than a hermit living on the island and I worried what I'd done to him in my delusions.
The exchange for the duck egg would take place in Congress Hall. I'd sent a note to Warden Snyder when I awoke from my delirious sleep.
The visitor's balcony above the House chamber served as my lookout. While I waited, I admired the simple furnishings inside the building of mahogany desks and leather chairs. The room held around one hundred and twenty representatives from the House of Representatives when it was in session, and somehow, despite the lack of pomp that I was accustomed to in the royal halls of Europe and Russia, the room carried a weight of noble industriousness. Here were the egalitarian ideals of the Enlightenment made real.
The Warden's echoing footfalls warned me of his arrival. I stepped back from the balcony to get a look at him before he noticed me and to ensure he'd not brought a pistol or rifle. He appeared unarmed, as was I, except for the knife under my skirt.
The Warden wore a buckskin coat and a fur hat, though the weather was still too warm to enjoy that so-American headdress. Even from this distance I knew he smelled of pine trees and open spaces. His jaw pulsed with thought and a weight hung on his brow.
"Simon," I said, softly.
He turned and looked up. The tightening of his gaze wounded my heart.
"Your hair is completely gray," he said. "Almost white. Are you well?"
Well? I almost laughed. The bruises across my ribs looked like I'd been stained with blackberries, the wound on my shoulder oozed with blood and pus, and I was likely turning into a crazed madwoman who had imaginary friends and enemies.
"I've been better," I said.
"You have the duck egg?" he asked.
"I didn't steal it," I said, but his flinch told me he didn't believe me. "But I got it back for you."
"How can I trust you, Katerina?" he asked.
The way he said my name made me smile. It was rough and honest. American. If anyone deserved to be a Knight of the Round Table, it was the Warden. But the Knights only existed in stories, and men like him didn't last long in this world.
I'd rehearsed what I was going to say to him in my hea
d a dozen times, but it still didn't come out the way I wanted it.
"The Binghams are in danger," I said. "Someone wants to kill William to start a war with Napoleon. It might be that woman, Morwen Hightower, who runs the confectionary and sweet shop."
Simon tilted his head. I could see he was taking my news the wrong way.
"Somehow, I think telling me serves your purposes. To what end? I don't know, but I know you're a foreign agent sent here to disrupt this country of mine," he said.
"It's mine, too," I said.
He crossed his arms. "You weren't born here."
I pulled my hands to my chest. "No. But I chose to come here. I..."
I wanted to tell him about the thoughts I'd had right before he'd arrived: how America was all the things that I'd believed in even as a Russian Princess, that it was the ideal of the Enlightenment, a light in the darkness. But he looked at me like a vagrant on the street, the kind of smelly, dirt-smeared beggar than one crossed a busy road to avoid.
"I love this country," I said finally.
He held a sigh in his chest, but did not release it. I could pluck him like a lute string.
"Promise me you'll protect them," I said.
"Promise you? To protect the Binghams?" he said incredulously.
"I do not fancy that woman one bit," I said. "But war is worse."
"What do you know of war?" he asked.
I lifted my chin. "I know enough that it should be avoided. Better our sons labor to build a better country than be dashed onto foreign shores."
"I never thought you a pacifist," he said. "Shall we disband the military?"
"That's not what I mean, Simon. To show weakness is to invite war. Every country needs a strong military," I said.
"You've nothing to worry about there," he said. "The Continental Army is stronger than it was when we won our independence from the English. We own the skies with our fleet of airships, and the new steam tanks outmaneuver and out-gun even what Napoleon can put on the field."
His words pushed me to take a step back. Suddenly, I knew I had to see the airship yards across the Delaware.
"Do you want the duck egg, or not?" I asked.
"I'd like to get this over with," he said. "I've more important things to do."
He started to move to the stairs.
"Wait," I said. "I'll send it down to you."
He looked skeptical until I produced a basket with a string on the handle and put the duck egg in it. The basket made it to the Warden's hands without incident.
He pulled the egg out, a curious look on his face. "How do I know this is the right one?"
"You don't," I said. "But I suspect that Mrs. Bingham will. You'll have no quibbles from her."
With one hand cradling the duck egg, the Warden rubbed his forehead. He mumbled something under his breath.
"Farewell, Simon, I wish you a good day."
I left Congress Hall quickly, by the back exit. My steam carriage was idling in the alleyway. I didn't want to give Simon any chance to apprehend me.
The docks at the end of Market Street provided me with a good view of the airship yards in Camden across the Delaware. On the Philadelphia side, a mix of wind- and steam-powered ocean-traveling ships were in various states of arrival and departure. The flags of other nations flew on at least half the ships, as Philadelphia was an important port for America. I saw at least three ships, all iron steam ships, with the symbol of the Dutch East India Company flying high.
A westward wind cooled the sun-lit streets, bringing with it the scents of burning coal. At the Camden Yards, airships collected on the field like silvery beads of dew on morning grass.
The yard held new ships that I'd not seen before: massive transport airships that looked like they could carry two hundred men in their holds, sleeker ships bristling with cannons, and twin-blimps connected by a flexible spar with a purpose I could not fathom.
And upon the field, like the crown jewel, was the airship Brave Eagle. Typically, airships used leather bladders for their gas bags. The Brave Eagle was a newer design, with a metallic shell protecting the interior gas bag. The shell had been painted with the wings of an eagle. Except for the transports, it dwarfed the other airships.
The yard was filled with enough ships for an invasion, and that was the beauty of a large aerial force. The airships ignored the landscape, choosing a place to strike, rather than leaving it to the enemy. If there was a war, the United States looked ready to strike and strike hard.
After I'd had my fill of watching the airship yards, I returned to the Franklin Estate. There was one mystery that had eluded me thus far, and that was the nature of the strange cauldron in his front parlor. The last time I'd tried to investigate it, I'd been interrupted by Morwen Hightower. I wasn't going to let that happen a second time.
As soon as I entered the parlor, I knew something had changed. I walked around the room three times before I allowed myself to come to a conclusion.
The cauldron had been moved.
The first two times I'd come to the Franklin Estate, first with the Warden and then with Morwen Hightower, the cauldron had been on the left side of the expensive rug. I confirmed my suspicion that it had once been located there by examining the imprint pressed into the threads. Now, it sat on the right side.
Staring at the cauldron brought that same vertigo I'd felt before, but I willed myself to keep my gaze on it, trying to see it for what it was, rather than what I thought it was. As I'd thought before, it didn't really look like a cooking pot. The sides were too slender and elongated, more like an alchemist's pestle.
The sides were not smooth either. Gears, rods, and other contraptions adhered to the side made me think it was a machine of some kind. I approached it cautiously, holding my hand out. When I was within touching distance, a slight pressure formed around my hand, like a hundred icy fingers probing me, until the feeling popped as if it had been an invisible bubble.
Once I stood directly in front of the cauldron, the gut-wrenching vertigo disappeared. The field that surrounded it could be magnetic or some other scientific phenomenon designed into the machine. I took a deep, cleansing breath to clear my head.
Peering over the edge, I looked inside the cauldron, realizing that before, neither the Warden nor I had done so. At the bottom were two half-spheres made of brass. It looked like there was enough room to put two feet at the bottom.
Pulling my woolen skirt up, I climbed over the side and into what I now thought of as the machine. My feet fit perfectly into the half-spheres, as if they were stirrups.
Previously, I wouldn't have thought that I could fit into the center of it, but now that I stood inside, it seemed the machine was taller and wider than its outer dimensions suggested. The edge rested against the back of my thighs, caressing my bottom, but there was ample room in front of me.
Though I had not seen it before, a brass lever protruded from the bottom. The end had etched lines like a handle, so I grasped it. The lever moved in my fist, and after tugging, it telescoped to a comfortable place at my waist.
I was not certain what I did to engage the machine, but one moment I was shifting my weight forward to get a better look at what appeared to be a control lever in my grasp, and then next moment, the machine was flying across the parlor.
The dainty side table covered in porcelain objects exploded upon impact, throwing ceramic shards and splinters across the room and into my hair. I yanked on the control rod, pulling it towards me, and the cauldron flew in the other direction, slamming into the wall, cracking plaster and leaving chalky smears across the gears on the machine.
The smell of ozone filled the room and the gears and pistons on the outside of the flying machine whirled and clicked like a beast gone mad.
I ricocheted about the space, trying to control the machine, succeeding only in destroying each and every item in the room, including the picture frames on the wall. When I was able to calm the machine and land back on the carpet, I released the control
lever.
It looked like a war had been fought in the parlor. Nearly every wall had been damaged, including the ceiling. Only the window had escaped destruction by pure chance.
Miraculously, I was unharmed, which seemed less fortuitous and more design of the machine, though I couldn't be sure. My ride around the room happened so fast I barely had time to register any one singular event.
As I climbed out of the machine, I was careful not to engage the lever. Back on the carpet, my legs trembled with exhaustion. During my ride, every muscle in my body had tensed for impact.
Curiously, I found once I stepped away from the flying machine that the vertigo did not return. The meaning of this escaped me, but I filed it away for later consideration.
More importantly, I needed to know who the owner of the flying machine was and what purpose it had in the greater schemes. The level of technology seemed greater than anything the Great Nations had reached, which left only one conclusion: that it operated by the arcane principles of magic.
But it wasn't my task to understand how it worked, only to figure out why it was in Ben's parlor and if it had anything to do with Morwen Hightower, the Binghams, or the assassin Koschei. Since nothing suggested itself towards any of the suspects, I decided I would retire from the Franklin Estate to meet Djata at the docks to resolve my obligations.
Chapter Twenty-two
Reaching the Merry Meadow Dock house took the rest of the afternoon. I had no intention of letting Djata Mahmud see me exit the steam carriage, in case he'd had some hand in its design. I couldn't trust that he wouldn't turn me in to the military for stealing one of their vehicles.
The bright red dock house glowed from within with the light of gas lamps. The sun had set, leaving a pale nimbus on the horizon. The wind had turned brisk, and gusts turned the fountain in the oxbow lake into sheets of spray.
Inside the boathouse, five steamboats floated in wet docks. These were the personal crafts that the rich utilized for hunting trips up the Schuylkill. The cabins allowed them to take long journeys without sacrificing comfort.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 15