Beauty and Beastly

by Melanie Karsak

  Tiptoeing quickly and carefully, I headed downstairs.

  My head still ached. It was a miracle I had not drowned.

  I crept across the main foyer. I could hear the lord and one of his attendants in a room just off the great hall. The door was open just a crack. I crept to the door and peered within.

  “I am sorry, my lord. My hand is not as steady as it used to be,” the attendant was saying.

  The lord and his servant were sitting at the end of a long dining room table in a great hall. He had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. His arm lay on the table, the metal casing open. I could just make out the clockwork mechanisms inside the arm. I pressed forward a little for a better look.

  “Do your best. That is all any of us can do,” the lord said.

  The attendant set his tools aside then slid a crystal goblet toward his master. “Try that,” he said.

  The lord attempted to pick up the cup, but it shattered in his grasp. The sound of broken glass echoed throughout the hall. The lord sighed.

  “Widdershins, Mister Flint,” the lord said, brushing the broken goblet aside. “It’s worse than before. The grip must be lessened, not increased. I don’t want any more...miscalculations.”

  “Sorry, my lord. Very sorry,” the servant said then picked up his tools again.

  I winced as I watched, my fingers twitching as the servant applied a bricklayer’s delicacy to a job that required a surgeon’s precision. Once again, the servant worked on the lord’s hand. Satisfied, he pushed another cup toward his master.

  “Try this, my lord,” he said.

  The lord of the castle moved to pick up his cup, but when his fingers flexed, they were far too soft, and the cup slipped from his grasp, crashing to the floor and splintering into a million glistening pieces.

  “Oh, my lord. I am so s-s-s-o-rr-rr-yyy,” the servant said, his voice box fading at the end. The servant went quiet and became still, frozen mid-gesture.

  The lord sighed, if such a thing was possible, then reached into his coat pocket. From within, he pulled out a small metal device. At first, I couldn’t see what it was. He unbuttoned the servant’s old coat and shirt and pushed it aside to show a metal compartment, and within it a keyhole, on the automaton’s back. The lord slipped in a windup key and turning the device, which made an audible click, he wound the mech.

  When he removed the key, the servant activated once more.

  “...sorry. It is difficult to be precise. I say, my lord, what happened?” the servant asked, looking down at his shirt which the lord was rebuttoning with care that seemed out of line with his temperament.

  “You wound down, Mister Flint,” the lord answered simply.

  “Happening more and more these days,” the servant said. “To all of us.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, my lord? Any...luck?”

  “Don’t think of it.”

  “The girl—Miss Hawking—is a tinker like her father. Did you see? She’s wearing—”

  “I saw. Forget it. They’re nothing.”

  “But the girl—”

  “I said, don’t think of it. Now, let’s begin again,” the lord said, extending his arm once more.

  I leaned back. No wonder my windup keys had gotten the attention of the automatons. They needed them for their very survival. Such a strange and ill-omened place. I took a deep breath, quickly tiptoed to the front door, then slowly and quietly slipped outside.

  A soft breeze whipped across the garden. While the trees beyond the walls waved, the garden itself, however, was arrested in its beauty. Turning down a garden path, I walked through the metallic sculptures. I had never seen artwork like this before. Every blossom, every leaf, was made of metal. They were all so perfectly designed. I went to examine a flowering topiary meant to look like gardenia. I was surprised when a butterfly with gossamer silver wings rose from the sculpture and fluttered off. At first, I thought the creature only silvery, but I followed the shimmering creation to its next landing point, a clockwork rose. It rested there, its wings wagging as it adjusted its clockwork antennas.

  I gasped as I looked at the intricacy of the creation. How had it been designed with such small gears?

  The blossom on which the silver butterfly had landed slowly opened. It was very similar to my own sculpture, Love’s Bloom, which featured a rose arbor and the lovers. As this rose opened, however, I was unable to see the levers operating the petals. It was perfectly designed.

  I turned and looked around the grounds.

  I loved art. I loved capturing the beauty of nature in clockwork. The grounds were one massive sculpture. My own work, which even the most senior in the London Tinker’s Society considered advanced, dwarfed in comparison. Why had someone created this? And how?

  From beyond the wall behind me, I heard a soft giggle. The wind blew, and the leaves on the living trees on the other side of the wall wagged in the breeze. Once more, I heard the sound of bells and smelled the sweet perfume of new leaves and loamy earth.

  I looked back at the castle. I saw movement through the dining room window and the glint of metal. No one was going to force me back inside. I glared at the castle then turned and followed the path to the gate. It was not the same one through which I’d entered before. Here, there was a small station for a gatekeeper, and the gate was far more elaborate. Massive letter Ls trimmed the gate. This must have been the formal entrance. That meant that the path leading toward the water must have reached a dock. I eyed the guard post. The station was empty. I pushed the ornate gate open just enough to slip out. And I was glad I did so, because a moment later, I heard one of the lord’s clockwork attendants calling my name.

  I glared back at the castle.

  Grabbing the skirts of my dress, I rushed down the overgrown cart path until the gate was out of sight. But even then, I heard someone open the gate behind me. I cast a glance all around. There was no way I was going back anytime soon. I needed to get off this path. I looked into the woods. Everywhere looked the same: thick, deep, dark forest. Well, it was an island. There was no getting lost. At some point, I’d eventually find the beach. Turning off the path, I fled into the woods.

  Chapter 14: Into the Green

  I stopped running when I ran out of breath. My lungs burned, and my head ached. Sitting down on a rock, I inhaled deeply and fought off the black spots before my eyes. My head felt dizzy once more. Reason suggested that I should probably be still in bed. But reason also suggested that I was trapped on an island where automaton sentinels ruled—including a mech who thought he was a lord. I wasn’t sure who had left the clanking menace behind, but someone needed to work on his ethics circuits. I rubbed the bruise on my arm then stared into the forest.

  Everything was so green. Shades ranging from deep emerald green to bright chartreuse colored the canvas. Ahead of me was an opening in the canopy. A single standing stone stood there, slants of light shining down on it from above. Around it, a bed of new ferns grew, their soft fingers uncurling in the sunlight. The sunlight shimmered onto the stone.

  Rising, I went to inspect the ancient structure. It was taller than myself by at least another two feet. On it had been carved many Celtic symbols and knots. I spotted a mirror and comb, a horse, a horned man, ravens, and wolves. Along the edge of the stone were the ancient Ogham symbols. I traced the ancient language, running my finger over the rough stone. I could not stand the idea that there was something to be learned here, something to be read, and I simply could not read it.

  The wind blew once more, and once again, I heard voices on the wind. That overwhelming feeling that I was not alone swept over me.

  “Hello?” I whispered, my skin rising to gooseflesh. My very bones felt the presence of something else in the woods with me.

  But there was nothing.

  I did notice, however, that the stone on which I was sitting had also been carved with a face, much like the stone I’d found not far from the beach.

  “Sorry,
ancient one,” I said, rising. “How very rude of me.”

  The wind gusted. The canopy overhead shifted, and I spotted a lush area in the forest where forget-me-nots covered the forest floor. I walked toward the enchanting scene. Tomorrow, I would find something to write with—first I had to see what condition my journal was in—and then I’d come back to this place. To pass the time, I’d note the Ogham inscriptions, copy the designs on the stones. Something told me it would be awhile before I felt like tinkering clockwork devices again. In the meantime, however, the mystery of the stones intrigued me. When Papa returned—and he would return, I had no doubt, I would not consider any darker alternative—I would find a key to the Ogham language and uncover the message.

  The little patch of flowers, wild and full of color, was almost more than I could stand. The cheery blue faces, the center of the flowers yellow, colored the forest floor like they’d been painted by Mother Nature. I saw hues of pink and purple amongst the tiny flowers, the imperfections of nature which only made the scene more perfect. I sat down amongst the flowers. Everywhere I looked, I saw blue.

  I laughed.

  How perfectly natural and disorganized the flowers were. How unlike the castle garden. How sweet and innocent and natural.

  I laughed again.

  Hard.

  Until I cried.

  “Hurry, Papa,” I whispered, brushing hot tears off my cheeks.

  The wind blew once more. The soft breeze ruffled my hair and caressed my cheek as if to comfort me.

  Sighing, I rose. I wanted to pick a bouquet of the flowers, but they were far too perfect as they were. I would not disturb the natural beauty of the place. Rising, I returned to the cart path once more. This time, I followed it. The trail led to the shore, but as I walked, I spotted a side road. Here, the track had been worn down by carts, trees cleared to force a path through the woods. Curious, I followed the trail. Alongside this lane, I saw where some of the massive oak trees had been cut, but their timbers lay fallen on the forest floor. Where one enormous oak had been felled, I spied a standing stone crushed underneath. My heart seized to see the ancient monolith so mistreated. I moved further along until I approached a hill. Before it, the land had been cleared. A ramshackle building, walls collapsed, and the roof caved in, sat nearby. Pulley systems lay broken on the ground. Carts, their wheels rusted, sat forgotten. There was an entrance to the hill, a crack in the rocks that looked, at least at first glance, like a cave. But when I studied it more closely, eyeing the fallen carts and tools lying around the entrance, I realized it was, in fact, a mine. Rail lines had been worked into the ground and let into the narrow cave. A row of rail carts lay forgotten to the side.

  The woods here were very still, very silent.

  I approached the entrance to the mine and looked inside.

  The mine was, in fact, a cave. Someone had built the mine shaft into the natural formation. As I looked around the entrance of the cave, I saw Celtic symbols and Ogham engraved into the cave opening.

  A breeze blew from within the cave. It smelled of mud and minerals. The denseness of it made my heart feel heavy. No. Not heavy. Something here felt...sad. Desperately sad.

  I stepped back.

  I turned around and looked at all the ruins. How unnatural, how unclean all the axes and rail lines and chains and ropes were. They marred the natural beauty of this place. Suddenly feeling ill at ease, I turned and rushed back into the forest, back into the green spaces, back where I could breathe free again. But most of all, I needed to escape the terrible foreboding that had shaken me to my core.

  Chapter 15: Surely, He Has a Screw Loose

  Reluctantly, I returned to the castle. As I walked, I thought about the lord. He’d asked his servant to correct the grip on the hand that had bruised my arm. What had he said when I’d confronted him: “I don’t know the strength of this machine.” That was an odd way to put it. From what I could see, the repair of his arm could be made easily. I had the tools in my satchel, and it would only take a moment. Maybe I would offer to do the repair. Perhaps it would buy me some goodwill in the castle until Papa returned.

  When I reached the door to the castle, it was already growing dark. The sun burned low on the horizon. Shades of orange, red, and pink illuminated the skyline and made the metal garden shimmer as the materials reflected the haze. How odd that the metals did not corrode under the elements. Bronze always faded to green and—

  The door to the castle opened with a heave.

  “Where did you go? Where have you been?” someone demanded.

  I turned to find the lord standing there staring menacingly at me. In the dimming light, his gray optics glowed ominously.

  “I...I was just—”

  “Never leave the grounds again. Do you understand. Do not go beyond the walls of the garden,” he shouted, his voice box shrill and dark. He took a few steps toward me, his heavy feet clanging intimidatingly.

  I felt my ire rise. I pulled myself up to my full height and stomped to him. “Or what?” I asked sharply, coming face to face with him. “You’ll rough me about again? Your ethics circuits are rusted, you tired old mechanical.” Judging that he would not be able to swivel in time, I ducked and dashed past him into the castle. I slammed the door behind me. Grabbing my skirts, I sprinted up the steps.

  The door opened once more.

  “Miss Hawking, come back here. You will allow me to explain,” he called commandingly from behind me.

  “I will do nothing. You are not my lord. I want no explanations from you. Go rust somewhere,” I said then rushed back up the steps. I raced back to my bedchamber and closed and locked the door behind me.

  I heard voices in the hall below. Missus Silver and Mister Flint were talking to the lord whose tone of voice seemed to vacillate from furious to capitulating.

  And to think, I’d considered helping the metallic menace. Beastly creature. I’d think about him no more. From now on, I’d occupy my time noting down the designs in the clockwork garden and deciphering the Ogham written on the stones. I lifted my satchel. It was dry, but I worried about the contents.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Go away,” I called, instantly feeling like an impetuous child.

  “Miss Hawking,” the lord called from the other side of the door. “You must allow me to explain. Perhaps... Perhaps you would dine with me tonight.”

  I set my bag down and went to the door.

  I opened it with such sudden ferocity that he stepped back.

  “Dine with you? You’re mad. What, shall I watch you sup on oil and bolts? Leave me alone. When my father returns, I shall leave this place at once and think on you no more,” I said then slammed the door again.

  “Do you really think your father is going to come back? Do you really think he will ever be able to find this place again? You are the one who’s mad, Miss Hawking. No living person has set foot in this place in more than a hundred years. Your father will never find you again. You are trapped here, just like the rest of us,” the lord snarled then stomped back down the hall.

  I stared at the door. That wasn’t possible. What he was saying wasn’t true. Papa would find me. He would return. I had no doubt. I frowned at the door. Meddlesome mech. What did he know? Someone had designed him to make him think himself a nobleman. Crumbling antique, the world outside of this place had changed, evolved. Maybe he’d been trapped here more than a hundred years, but I wouldn’t be. Papa was the brightest tinker in London and had the best minds at his disposal. He would return soon.

  I sat down again at the desk and pulled my books out of my satchel. They had gotten waterlogged but had since dried. The book on Hero of Alexandria was destroyed. The ink on the pages had washed to nothing, the designs mere shadows. The pages were so glued together that any effort to lift them apart would cause them to tear. Pity. Mister Walpole’s book on goblins, to my surprise, was intact. In fact, the pages barely curled at all, and there’d been no damage to the ink. A goblin spell mus
t have kept it safe, surely. The book on mystical artifacts had taken some damage, but the majority of the book was still intact. My journal had survived, but much of the new ink had bled and faded, including the sketch I’d made on the ill-fated Prospero.

  I set out my tools, pens, and the mirror Elyse Murray had given me. I slid down into my seat and stared at the books. My stomach growled hungrily.

  Sighing, I tipped my head back and closed my eyes.

  Papa would find me, and before I knew it, I would be back in London again fending off Gerard LeBoeuf and fashioning my own designs, a prospect that, despite my unending love for the trade, suddenly felt much less appealing.

  Chapter 16: Be Our Guest

  I had fallen asleep, my head resting on my arms at my desk, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Miss Hawking,” Missus Silver called.

  I sat up with a yawn. My head ached, my stomach knotted with hunger.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, the automaton appearing at the door with a candelabra in her hand. She smiled, an odd sort of expression on her face. “Miss, you must be starving. The lord is...has retired. Will you come eat, my dear? Missus Smith, our cook, has prepared you something to eat in the dining room.”

  Frowning, I considered it. The last thing I wanted to do was mix with the lord and his servants, but if he had retired, then there would be no harm. In that moment, I realized my stomach was overruling my wits, which was often the case. But I was ravenous.

  “Very well,” I said then followed Missus Silver.

  We walked in silence down the long hall and stairwell to the formal dining room. A long table stretched out before me. The chandelier overhead had been lit as well as the candelabras on the table. At one end of the table, a meal sat waiting under a gold dome.

  “Mistress,” the automaton who had been working on the lord said, pulling out my seat. “I am Mister Flint. Please, have a seat.”