Grit hadn’t met many clams, but she assumed this was pretty happy. “And now?”
Madame Euphemia took another puff of her pipe and blew out more purple smoke rings; this time they were shaped like hearts. One crept over Grit’s head, and she batted at it until it dissipated.
“When a faerie dies,” said Madame Euphemia more seriously, “their heart’s magic goes back into the earth. It goes into the dirt that makes the grass grow, the first spark that lights a fire, a little baby’s first laugh. And most of all, it goes back to the fae themselves; the power circles onto the next generation. This is the natural progression of things.”
Grit nodded; she had never seen a faerie die, but that much she knew.
Madame Euphemia turned over three cards. “But it doesn’t have to be,” she continued. “When the Thorn died, the magic keeping him human was freed again, and he left it to me instead. His gift is what makes my little home bigger on the inside, what gives my puppets life and lets me speak through them. Queen Willowright made me a Friend, but the Thorn’s legacy made me much more than that.”
“Is that what your cards told you would happen, back when you were young?” asked Grit. A faerie not only giving up his magic to live as a human and die a mortal death, but bequeathing his powers to a human as well? It was unthinkable, and up until now, Grit had thought it impossible. She imagined herself giving up her magic to a dolt like Felix Carmer III and nearly laughed aloud. She jumped onto the table and surveyed the three cards beneath her: the Magician, the Queen of Wands, and the Wheel of Fortune.
“Well, they weren’t as specific as all that,” said Madame Euphemia.
“What about these? What do they say?”
The paper Magician seemed to look up at her with a knowing smirk. She resisted the urge stomp on his face with her spurs.
“Oh, these aren’t my cards, Grettifrida.” The old woman grinned. “They’re yours.”
The Mechanist’s secret laboratory was hardly secret at all, a fact Carmer tried to not find too disappointing. Theian Foundry was only a few blocks away from Archer’s town house, but the inventor insisted on taking a circuitous route via the Relerail, which was, according to him, the best way to see the “true scope” of the city. He even explained how the platforms worked. (Carmer had been right about the springs under the plates.)
Like many things in Skemantis, Theian Foundry was a hodgepodge of old and new, a cluster of multipurpose and repurposed buildings nestled between the loose borders of the theater and financial districts—some bustling with activity, others ominously silent except for the regular puffing of their smokestacks. The brand-new streetlamps scattered every few yards were dim now, and though Carmer could see no power lines aboveground, he was willing to bet they were electric.
Solemn white marble columns framed the entryway of the main laboratory, a stark contrast against the gleaming black front door. Carmer remembered the similar columns at the crumbling entrance to the Vallows and suppressed a shiver.
This was the innovation hub of Titan Industries. Inside, orderly rows of lab tables extended from one wall all the way to the back of the building. They were covered with bits and pieces of automata in various stages of completion, dissected lightbulbs in all shapes and sizes, miniature dynamos spinning idly, flames floating in glass mantles filled with multicolored oils, machines with no immediately obvious use churning and clicking away. The walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of glass vials, bottles, measuring equipment, ropes of cables, wires of copper and silver and gold, spare gears and hammers and nails, and even a few jars of pickled things Carmer suspected had once been alive. Serious-looking men, both young and old, worked in clusters at each station. The entire ceiling was one large mirror that made the lab seem to go on indefinitely.
Carmer thought of the shabby room in the Moto-Manse he shared with the Amazifier and felt suddenly self-conscious. All of this equipment was top of the line, the glassware so clean it shined, every gear and cog turning smoothly. This was how a proper inventor should work.
A plain black door near the back marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY with a curious hole in the doorknob caught Carmer’s attention, but Archer shook his head.
“I’m afraid that door is for a time when we are a little better acquainted,” was all Archer said, and ushered Carmer up a grand staircase to the second floor. Another black door with an odd, concave doorknob met them at the top of the stairs. Archer rolled up the cuff of his sleeve, exposing the wristwatch-like band Carmer had glimpsed during the Mechanist’s performance. The small bright orb mounted on the inside of it was a swirling jewel of silver and white with a faint bluish hue. Archer pressed the stone into the door handle; it pulsed with the silvery glow that usually accompanied the Mechanist’s magic, and the door sprang open.
“Welcome to my personal study, Mr. Carmer.”
The first thing Carmer noticed about Archer’s office, other than its extraordinary size, was the books. Every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound volumes. Each section was impeccably organized, labeled with brass tags on every imaginable subject matter from anatomy to history, physics to zoology, even poetry. It was a scholar’s paradise.
The second thing he noticed was that the room had no floor. There was a floor, of course, but it was made entirely of glass, offering a complete view of the laboratory below. The workers there seemed unaware they were being watched—or perhaps they were just used to it.
“A two-way mirror?” Carmer asked. He took a few tentative steps and was relieved to find he did not plummet onto the men below. It was an odd sensation, like walking on air.
Archer smiled. “One of my better ideas, if I do say so myself.”
Carmer glanced up at the black ceiling; there was no mirror there, but Carmer could tell it was made of glass. Perhaps Archer could spy on whatever was above as well as below.
Carmer turned his gaze back to the study. Like Archer’s home, it was sparsely furnished, except for Archer’s desk and a few showpieces—mostly complex automata, some humanoid and some not, that made Carmer’s windup soldier look like a nutcracker. They were polished to a shine, but their stillness was unnerving. Carmer was careful not to get too close as he walked among them.
“Well, what do you think of my little operation, Mr. Carmer?” asked Archer.
“It’s . . . it’s very impressive, sir,” said Carmer truthfully. He noticed the black door was shut behind him, though he hadn’t heard it close.
“Theian Foundry is the leading research and development center in the country,” said Archer. “The first of its kind, really. Here, the brightest minds converge every day, at my personal invitation, to invent and improve the kind of technology people couldn’t even dream of ten years ago.”
“Electricity, you mean, sir?”
“Electricity,” agreed Archer. “And other things.”
Carmer reached a display case filled with butterfly wings, each labeled by species in a delicate hand. He could only hope they all came from butterflies. “Other things?”
“There are untapped resources this earth has provided us with, Mr. Carmer,” said Archer. “Resources a select few, including myself, have only started to unlock the wonders of.”
Now they were getting to the point.
“You mean the telluric currents, sir?” prodded Carmer, harkening back to the Hyperion display at the exposition. But playing dumb wasn’t his strong suit, and Archer knew it.
The older man pressed his lips together in a thin smile. “I believe the currents are an important part of it, yes. Many of them fall along what some of your magically inclined associates might call ‘ley lines.’ Did you know, for example, that the old arboretum right here in Skemantis is a cross section of not two, but three ley lines?”
Carmer shook his head.
“Some superstitious folk here think the ley lines are what power the lights there, that the energy in those currents is what makes our machines go haywire in
the vicinity. They would have inquiring minds keep our noses out, as it were. But at Theian Foundry, we aim to separate fact from fiction, and all old wives’ tales have a grain of truth, if one looks hard enough.”
Carmer made himself meet Archer’s gaze. “Did you find what you were looking for, then?”
“That,” said Archer, “and more.”
They had nearly reached Archer’s desk. Behind it, a picture window offered a spectacular view of the city beyond. The silhouettes of towers, spires, train tracks, and smokestacks pierced the bright afternoon skyline like pieces of a shadow play.
“Have you ever seen what a coal miner’s lungs look like, Mr. Carmer?” Archer asked abruptly.
Carmer stared at him. “No, sir.”
“They look like this.”Archer swung a standing display case covered in maps around—did everything this man owned run on wheels?—and Carmer was faced with specimens much more sensational than butterfly wings. Two shriveled gray lumps were pinned beneath the glass, pockmarked and eaten through with black. “They say Skemantis is the city of the future, and I believe it can be. But these are just some of the consequences of our so-called revolution so far.”
The skeleton of a clubbed foot, a rubbery enlarged heart, and a few other gruesome souvenirs completed the board. Carmer couldn’t help it; he looked away.
“Every man who dies with an invisible weight crushing his chest from the inside,” said Archer, “every child who loses a finger working long hours with merciless machines, every street that remains dark in order for another to be lit thousands of miles away. They are left behind.”
Much to Carmer’s surprise, Titus Archer actually sounded . . . sincere. It was certainly the last thing he’d expected to hear from him.
“I admit to being a crusader for the tide of progress, Mr. Carmer. I cannot pretend otherwise. It is what made me the man I am today.”Archer sighed and settled himself in the throne-like chair behind the desk.
Carmer stood, but it didn’t keep him from feeling small all the same.
“But I was once a boy like you, Mr. Carmer, with nothing to my name except a burning desire to understand how the world works. And because I was that boy, I know it can work better. It must work better, if any age of progress is to be a real one.”
For just one moment, Carmer was almost caught up in Archer’s spell. The man really seemed to believe in what he was saying. And if it was true, if he really had come from nothing and gotten this far, become this successful, then maybe someone like Carmer stood a chance, too. Archer honestly seemed to care about the people he was inventing things for, which is not something Carmer could say about a lot of the men of science he’d studied, or even (if he was being truthful) about himself.
Then Carmer remembered that Archer’s idea of the world as a better place most likely involved the enslavement of an entire species.
“How would you like to help me?” asked Archer.
Carmer nearly jumped. “What?”
Archer steepled his long fingers together.
“I, um, sorry. Sir.”
“I see a lot of promise in you, Mr. Carmer,” continued Archer, as if Carmer had not spoken. “I see a lot of myself. With a proper education, you could do very well on my team. We even have a boarding house for the young men here. Imagine working each day with peers who actually shared your interests?”Archer raised his eyebrows knowingly. “We both know you’re no magician, Mr. Carmer. Leave that nonsense behind you, and leave the Magickal Symposium to me. When the dust settles, you’ll have the apprenticeship of a lifetime waiting for you.”
“I already have an apprenticeship, Mr. Archer,” said Carmer quietly. He remembered how Archer had yelled at Gideon Sharpe in the dressing room when he thought no one was listening. Whatever face Titus Archer showed to the world when he thought it counted, it was as much of an act as his performance as the Mechanist.
“Do you?” The teasing malice in his eyes was unmistakable now. Archer would find a way to stop the truth getting out, whether Carmer joined him or not.
“I do. And I should be getting back. But thank you for the offer, sir.”
Archer’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, Carmer had a horrible vision of all of the automatons springing to life and dragging him away to whatever grisly fate usually awaited those who discovered the inventor’s secrets. But they stayed still and quiet as the grave.
Carmer bowed with more respect than he felt.
“I encourage you to think carefully about the side you have chosen, Mr. Carmer,” said Archer, voice cold. “I will not ask again.”
Carmer nodded, and turned to leave.
It was over twenty minutes later, while Carmer was on the Relerail back to the edge of the city, when he thought of the perfect reply.
Sorry, Mr. Archer, but I’m afraid I’m allergic to cats.
14.
MEN IN BLACK
Grit finally managed to bargain her way out of Madame Euphemia’s claustrophobic sitting room with the promise that she would go straight to the Moto-Manse, but there wasn’t much to do there besides wait for Carmer to return. She entertained herself by making the model train zoom around the room until sparks flew out from the tracks, shooting the little bolts of energy that flowed, almost naturally now, from her fingertips through its insides. She tried coming up with ideas for the third and final round of the Symposium, but it was impossible to settle on anything; she didn’t know enough about Carmer’s kind of magic to put together something magical and plausible on her own.
She finally lay down on top of Carmer’s desk, watching the planets in his model solar system make their slow journey around the plaster sun, and just for a moment, she let herself feel homesick. Staring at the colored spheres until they blurred in front of her eyes, she could almost imagine they were the colors of the Arboretum—the lush green of the grass in spring, the blue roses in full bloom, the fiery leaves at their autumn peak just before the real cold of winter set in. Everything would be nearly brown and sleeping by now, though. (Humans might even say “dead,” but the fae knew better.)
There were things Grit didn’t miss about living in the castle, of course. Like her mother’s constant scolding, or worse—the times when Ombrienne ignored Grit, retreating into cold silence and disappointment. Grit would climb to the very top of the Great Willow, where not even the armored crickets or Bressel would follow her, and look out into the kingdom—her kingdom—wishing for nothing more than to be able to fly away from it all.
Grit had thought her outings with Ravene and Remus were exciting adventures, but now she was in the middle of a real one, and it was far more dangerous than she’d ever imagined. The fate of her kingdom was in her hands and the hands of a strange human boy, and her people had no idea.
But she’d faced the Wingsnatchers—poor, “defenseless” little Grit—and survived. She and Carmer could best the beasts yet, she was sure of it now. She’d discovered a power she didn’t even know she possessed, all because an oddball human boy thought she could work miracles.
Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III. His social ineptitude and frequent thickheadedness baffled her, but she had to admit that if she couldn’t have run into a Friend of the Fae in the alley that day, she was glad to have run into him. He’d come in pretty handy against the Autocats, after all. Now he was walking into the dragon’s lair . . . but Grit refused to admit that she was worried about him. Wallowing in homesickness was quite enough wasted feeling for one day, thank you very much.
Grit blinked, bringing the spinning planets once more into focus. She heard a footfall on the stair and scrambled off Carmer’s desk. She didn’t want to be spotted, and she needed to conserve her energy for magic in the final round of the Symposium. She ducked into a slightly open drawer in Carmer’s filing cabinet just as Antoine the Amazifier shuffled in. She peeked out and watched him fiddle with a few fizzing mixtures and scribble notes in his untidy scrawl, all while humming absently to himself. She hoped he wouldn’t decide that tonight w
as a fine night to spend hours in his study.
A great chime suddenly rang out, like someone striking a gong. The entire Moto-Manse shook from the sound. Startled, Grit let go of the edge of the drawer and fell inside the cabinet, crushing papers beneath her. She cringed, but the Amazifier was more preoccupied with the thunderous chiming.
“Kitty!” he called down the stairs. “Would you get the door, my dear?” He mumbled something about guests running away before he could answer the door, and how he should really get around to adjusting those acoustics, before he toddled off, shutting the door behind him.
Grit exhaled. She extricated herself from the crumpled papers, swearing. She’d torn one sheet with the spurs of her boots. Great, thought Grit. As if Carmer needed something else to complain about. Grit clambered out of the drawer, pulling the file with her. She smoothed it out on top of the cabinet as best she could—and then stopped, hands frozen in mid-motion.
The drawing on the paper was a diagram of a wing, and not just any wing: a faerie wing. And yet it wasn’t. Instead of joints and tissue, there were gears and plates and wires. Notes in Carmer’s handwriting were scribbled in the margins—“Weight of glass?” and “Aerodynamic functionality?” and “How to control—manually? Depends on muscle strength.” He’d even designed a pulley system attached to the wrist that would (in theory) allow the wing to open and close.
Grit backed away from the paper, a flush rising in her cheeks and bile in her throat. Her heels left scorch marks as they skidded across the drawing.
So this was what Carmer had planned for her. When it came down to it, she was no more than a science experiment to him, another creature to stick in a jar and prod at, another pet project, like his stupid soldier. Another machine to fix. He’d told her she was powerful, that her magic could be different, that he had faith in her. But just like her mother, just like the street fae, he didn’t really accept her. People just couldn’t accept an impossible thing, however much they pretended to try.
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