Gears of Brass

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “Hello.”

  Hearing his meek voice must have been the key to unlocking our eyes because I could finally look away. My chest heaved from a solid intake of oxygen as I rolled a kink from my neck. I didn’t respond with words, just a gentle smile, because something about him was off.

  “The boy here’s new,” said Carrageen to Jensen and then squinted at the boy.

  “Silas,” the boy responded.

  “Silas needs someone to show him the ropes, or threads so to speak. You handled teaching Emma, right?” A thick cough jostled up Carrageen’s throat. Okay, I hadn’t been the easiest to train. But in my defense, I’d known Jensen all my life. Making it easy on him was not my style. “Then this boy should be a breeze.”

  Jensen swayed a glance between Silas and me. Even though he hid his devilish smirk behind one palm, I knew it was there and mentally kicked him in the face. Not lady-like, but I wasn’t dressed as a lady at the moment. He guided Silas over to a vacant machine, which happened to be one over from me.

  “You broke another spinner, huh?” asked Carrageen through a phony grimace. “Move over one machine.”

  Yes! That machine had a seat. I knew he liked me and would take pity on my retched soul.

  Carrageen had a palette fixation for blueberry crumpets. Being the endearing girl I could be—I couldn’t even think that without smirking—I often baked him a batch. By the look of his round belly, I may want to hold off bringing anymore for a while.

  While Jensen fired up Silas’ spinning wheel, I attempted to do the same with mine, but noticed someone approaching.

  “New blood,” snickered Caesar, and tapped the lens of Jensen’s goggles.

  Why couldn’t that mongrel leave people alone?

  “I hear your protégé’s name is Silas,” he continued. “So, where’s he from?”

  “Like you want to make small talk,” I said under my breath.

  “Oh, Emma has something to say.” He huffed, “Like that’s any surprise. I’m merely sizing up Jensen’s new friend, maybe giving him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Despite barely knowing Silas, I was not about to sit and watch Caesar and his buddies bully him. My mouth unhinged, readying to vomit a barrel of insults at him, but another’s voice ate up my response.

  “There she is, dear Peter. Come see.”

  My mouth hung open. What was Step-Mummy doing here? And with the gentleman who’d been courting her tonight? Wasn’t our charade in the carriage meant to convince him she was a good mother?

  The echo of her short strides filled my ears. Her demeanor was as fake as earlier. She should be an actress on stage. Maybe I could hire her for my circus and then fire her sorry…

  “Come now,” Beatrice tugged on my arm. “Peter, Mr. Miller to you, owns this factory and wants to hear all about your generosity of helping others by working here undercover.” She addressed Mr. Miller again. “My Emma has such a big heart. She swore me to secrecy earlier, not willing to confess her good deed to you in the carriage.”

  “Quite remarkable,” Mr. Miller said. “My stepson will surely enjoy her company.”

  I had no desire to spend time with his stepson.

  “I agree,” continued Beatrice. “And she’s an amazing spinner, faster than anyone else in this place.”

  I had to give Beatrice credit. Somehow she’d taken the labor she’d forced on me and turned it into part of her elaborate scheme to trick this poor businessman into marriage. Maybe if I helped her dig her claws permanently into him, they’d send me off to boarding school someplace. At least that would free me of her. My chin dropped, my eyes capturing Jensen’s boots. But then I’d miss him.

  “My dear lady, this shop is no place for you. Even though I own it, I’ll be the first to admit the odors here are atrocious and the clientele, well, you can see. I’m hoping to build the Arrows Park facility with more cleanliness in mind.”

  At the mention of Arrows Park, Jensen and I exchanged our shock.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Peter,” said Beatrice.

  “It shouldn’t be long now,” added Mr. Miller. “I only have a few properties left to purchase.”

  Mr. Miller was the man trying to buy Jensen’s mother’s bed and breakfast located on the outskirts of Arrows Park. It was all they had since the woodcutting accident a few years back left his father dead and his sister crippled.

  “Peter, I’d like you to meet Emma.” Beatrice squeezed my wrist to make me smile. “Mr. Miller is a philanthropist and pioneer in the workings of energy and time. He’s a very smart man.”

  Not to everyone.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Miller. “Now, let us take your beautiful daughter to my office, where we can speak more comfortably.”

  “Oh, sir, but we’ll still hear all the machinery.” She fanned her handkerchief toward her face. “It might be more efficient if we chatted at your estate.”

  “Of course. Yes, my dear lady,” said Mr. Miller, and extended his hand to her.

  Beatrice was slipperier than a card shark in the pouring rain. There were times I wasn’t sure if I was angrier with my father for getting sucked in by her wiles than I was sad he was gone.

  “But I have work to do,” I said.

  With one swift pivot, Mr. Miller said, “I’m sure these two boys would be more than happy to fulfill your quota for the evening.” My gaze darted to Silas and stalled on Jensen. “And don’t worry,” he addressed Beatrice, “I’ll have a dress readied for your sweet Emma to change into. I’m sure her current attire isn’t to her liking.”

  I loved wearing trousers instead of eight tons of girly fabric draped to my toes.

  Slipping out of my spinner’s chair, I sidestepped my wheel and gave Mr. Miller a dainty curtsy while cringing inside. He waved for me to follow and I did, my pleading gaze dripping over my shoulder at Jensen. As I looked away, I noticed Mr. Miller glancing behind me, his eyes narrowing. I traced his gaze and found it to be on Silas.

  Mr. Miller escaped to his office for a moment, giving Beatrice time to secure her plan with me.

  “Do not mess this up for me, you little brat. Go along with whatever I say. I get this man to marry me, and I’m taken care of.”

  She’d be taken care of. Fantastic. What about other people like Jensen’s family? I knew I’d regret asking. “How?”

  “You’ll see.” A sinister smile tugged up her thick lips.

  Mr. Miller’s estate held more Romanesque flair than the popular mechanical decor of the day. Pillars sheathed in gold trim welcomed us as his carriage rolled up beneath a majestic awning. The horses’ snorts were louder than I was accustomed to, probably because there were four of them. I was used to one.

  Two huge oval-shaped windows arched out between the front facade of the house and the pillars. An inviting porch with intimate seating arrangements circled off beneath each. The front door was more industrial as if Mr. Miller had taken it directly from his factory. Large bolts and screws sewed rectangular swatches of metal together. The hinges were most unique, coils of wires bound by locks, each decorated in charmed timepieces.

  A maid greeted us before Mr. Miller could reach for the doorknob. It had the most perplexing keyhole I’d ever seen, somewhat round and resembling a mouth. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it opened wide and spoke.

  Noticing my curiosity, the maid dipped her chin to me and smiled. Creaks and a squeal fluttered from the back of her neck, and that was when I knew she wasn’t fully human—one of the latest, greatest robo-type house helpers. Sorry, but those things plain ‘ole gave me the shivers. Her mannerisms were meek, though, as she gingerly sealed the door behind us and proceeded to usher us into a nearby study. Or lounge. Then again, it could have been a library from all the books papering the walls. The interior of the estate was so different from the outside.

  “Why, Peter, this is a gorgeous room,” said Beatrice. Her fawn of innocence flicked my nausea button.

  She did make a good point, though. It wa
s extraordinary with red velvet drapes dressing the windows from ceiling to floor and black marbled flooring. Kind of reminded me how I used to live.

  I missed my father.

  “As you can see, I’ve traveled to many distant places,” he boasted.

  “And all in one lifetime,” giggled Beatrice.

  Mr. Miller’s expression changed, partly blanking, yet with another element buried deep within. Devious, cleverness, surprise… I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a suspicious air about this man.

  Beatrice, fully focused on her goal, picked up where she’d left off. “Tell me more about being a successful entrepreneur.”

  “I’ve dabbled in all sorts of fields over the years”—he paused—“industrialism, for one, and time, which is my favorite.”

  As the two flirted away, I familiarized myself with the objects around me.

  Unique timepieces of silver, gold, copper, and iron plastered every free space on one wall. Some were jewelry, woman’s pendants and men’s watches. Others were sundials and mechanisms. It appeared that no two pieces held the same time, which baffled me. Some sped time rapidly while some didn’t seem to move time at all. Still others were a mixture of the in between. How could someone catch time with such precision?

  Deep shelves lined in old volumes ushered me nearer the adjacent wall. Tech components from all sorts of motors had been set at strategic spaces throughout the shelves, breaking up the linear book look. I flipped through a few until I found one of interest—The Workings of Time and Space. Peculiar, though, no author or publisher’s name appeared anywhere on or within the hardcover. To my surprise, the book was handwritten; at least it appeared to have been.

  I bumped my fingertips over the words, feeling long abandoned indentations from a writing utensil. Even more interesting was the fact it was written in calligraphy. Most people used the current and more convenient note writers with iridescent screens.

  “It seems you have a love for the written word, Miss Emma.” Mr. Miller addressed me.

  “Emma will do just fine, sir,” I answered, playing Beatrice’s game to a T, and then decided to ditch that. “Could you tell me why I’m here?”

  Beatrice’s eyeballs almost rolled back in her head.

  “In due time, Emma,” Mr. Miller finally answered. He laced his hands behind his back and called for the maid. “Please show Emma to one of our guest quarters and find her something pretty to wear for dinner.”

  Dinner? I was in no mood to eat after leaving Jensen and Silas high and dry to finish my work. Obviously that didn’t matter because the maid began prodding me for my dress make and model, and then she pushed me toward the ginormous staircase.

  The rubber soles of my boots gripped each wooden stair. Dragging my fingertips along the mahogany railings left not even an inkling of dust against my skin. I’d give the guy one thing, he was impeccably clean. Or at least his maid was.

  I paused, letting my view case the first floor. A subtle shift of a shape came from what appeared to be the dining room. Initially I thought it was another maid or a butler, but then I noticed a silhouette standing near the doorway with long, slender fingers gripping the back of a chair. A ring planted itself on the gentleman’s middle finger.

  I couldn’t make out the details, but was able to see hammered copper, a gear with strange teeth, and a purple amethyst as the center. His back was to me, so I leaned over the banister to see more of him. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up both forearms, exposing only their topsides from this angle. Dirty blond strands curled up at the ends and teased the collar of his dress shirt.

  I swiveled round to ask the maid who the boy was, but when I turned back to point him out he’d vanished.

  Once I reached the balcony, I saw more shelves lining a wide hallway with parts from ancient motors displayed behind glass enclosures. Oval-shaped doors of cedar panels rode down the second floor walkway, giving a naval or submarine feel. Puzzled pieces of assorted metals decorated the top center of each door. The latches were five wooden spokes forming a circle. I peeked into each room as we passed. Some were guest quarters, one looked like a sparring room, yet another appeared to be some kind of workshop.

  “If you please, wait in that room,” the maid’s choppy voice uttered. “I’ll go fetch a gown for you.”

  My outward response was a simple nod of my head, which she answered by rounding the far corner of the hallway and disappearing. It was time to act on my inner response.

  Hunching over, I skulked to the next doorway and slipped inside. To my utter surprise, it was completely normal.

  A regular bed was tucked into one corner of the room with a nightstand nearby. The average clock waker and gadgets such as a compass and inkwell, set on top of it. A ring telescope teetered near the edge. A note writer with its flash driver still attached was wedged beneath a feather pillow. Most of the materials constructing this room were metals, but woods like oak and maple were present, too. I wondered if the boy from downstairs lived here.

  Sporting trophies gathered on a wall shelf while medallions hung from their ribbons on a hook. I collected the medallions in my palm and sifted through them, noting that most were for hunting or rowing. Each slid off the next until the very last one sat in my hand. Round and hammered metal was its backdrop, the lettering vaguely familiar, and there was an inscription…

  I paused as something tubular-shaped from the shelf caught my eye. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn it was the missing timepiece to my spinning wheel.

  My head jerked sideways as a hollow sound startled me.

  “A cat. And who might you be?” I asked almost expecting an answer. Instead, he cleaned his orange face with one paw.

  I glanced at the small barreled-pistol attached to the back of the leather harness he wore. The gun’s gripper rounded his belly. “With you wearing this, I’ll guess you’re a boy. So I’ll call you Musket.” I chucked and immediately cut it short. What was it about this room that made me act silly? Silliness was not a trait I possessed. That was Jensen’s job.

  Jensen, I thought, my shoulders sluggishly folding forward. The smell of warmth and home floated up in an invisible cloud as I sat down on the mattress of down and cotton. I scratched Musket on the underside of his chin. His inner motor purred like the quiet beginnings of a storm, revealing that he, too, was not fully alive.

  He lifted his head to gaze at me through the introspective lens tied to his face. People who couldn’t see well at night usually wore those. I’d never seen them on an animal before.

  “Did your owner make these?” I asked the cat, being unfamiliarly silly again.

  “Actually, he didn’t. I did, my dear.”

  I leaped off the bed with so much force the cat bounce off and onto the floor. “Mr. Miller! Oh gosh, I’m terribly sorry for—”

  “Nonsense, girl.” He made his way in from the hallway.

  “I was just patting what I assume is your stepson’s cat.”

  “Yes.” His grin oozed malevolence. “You’ve proven to be as clever and intelligent as your mother suggested.”

  “Um, yes… my mother.” I cleared by throat, but mentally cringed.

  “She’s mentioned your talent as a spinner.” His words were plain, but their meaning was not. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was digging. “Faster than most as well as ambitious.”

  “I suppose.” What else could I say?

  “Have you ever spun substances other than fibers?” he asked.

  What a strange question. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir.”

  “Just gauging how freely you work with a spinning wheel.” He fingered a wristwatch on the boy’s desk. “I’ve been working on a new project, one I think you might be perfect for.”

  “A new project?” I asked. “Does it have to do with the new factory you’re hoping to build?”

  “Oh, there’s no hope involved here.” The wristwatch wobbled as he pulled his hand away. “The factory is going to hap
pen. I just need to make a few minor adjustments to some properties there.”

  It was official. This man was as much a piece of work as Beatrice. They were perfect for each other.

  “I already found one subject who’s agreed to work on this project with me—”

  “Your stepson?” I interrupted. That must have been the boy downstairs.

  His eyes scanned over me as he edged up to the trophy shelf on the wall. The moment he reached for the shelf I knew what he was after—the missing piece of my spinning wheel.

  Turning toward me, he gripped the tube in one hand and slapped it into his other. Anxiety latched onto me with a grip that wouldn’t let go. He erased the space between us by stepping cautiously as though I were a mountain lion ready to pounce. I was confused at his reaction to me.

  “You’ve done well, spinning on a broken machine. Have you not?” That sounded more like a statement. “And unbeknownst to you, you have been spinning more than just fibers.”

  I was terrified to ask what I’d been spinning. I wanted more answers, but the maid was suddenly there, a gown draped over one arm.

  “She won’t be needing that now.” He waved her away.

  The maid bowed and then was gone.

  Before I knew it, Mr. Miller wrapped his arms around my torso, his cigar breath suddenly buried by my ear. Tools from my gauntlet jostled loose and clanked to the floor as he squeezed my back into his chest and picked me up. I squirmed and kicked, but his grip was cutting off my airway. He carried me down the hallway and tossed me on the floor of a different room. My head bobbed up and down like a broken neck in a noose.

  “You were supposed to wait for me to tell her.” Beatrice slithered up to Mr. Miller. I was scarred for life—whatever life I had left.

  Scooting to sit up on the floor, I asked, “What do you want with me?”

  “Nothing just yet,” said Mr. Miller. “I must finalize the workings of my new project first.”

  “And we must introduce her to her co-worker,” giggled Beatrice, then spun around, her honey-toned eyes sparkling with excitement. “Mr. Miller’s stepchild is a talented spinner, spinning more than mere fibers and threads. You and the boy will work together. Between your speed and what he can do, we’ll all be rich.”