She swallowed hard and glanced around the council chambers, a sinking feeling deep in her chest. “Then why does it feel like it isn’t over yet?”
A month later, Petra stood once again in the hallway outside the council chambers, a future ahead of her without Julian standing in her way. The day after the hearing, he had been hauled away to London by the Royal Society for suspicion of his crimes at Amiens, enough preliminary evidence found to suggest an ulterior motive behind the early manufacture of the quadrupeds. Whether or not there was evidence to prove he was guilty of a conspiracy to start a war . . . she had to believe they would find it, that the Royal Society would succeed where she had failed.
Eventually, Julian would pay for what he had done at Amiens. He would pay for all those lives lost, for the failure of the quadrupeds and the bombing of the battlefield. He would pay for everything he had done to secure his war.
It was only a matter of time.
And now, with Julian gone, she faced the very real prospect of a future without his threats, without the constant fear of retribution. For the first time in almost a year, she was free.
Free to pursue her dreams on her own terms.
“I wish I could stay,” said Braith, standing next to her in front of the council room doors. “But the Royal Society wants me at the evidentiary hearing before the Privy Council tomorrow morning, and if I’m to make it back to London in time, I need to leave on the next ship.”
He wore a new uniform now, the jacket crisply pressed and unmarred by the dark smears of blood and soot he had earned at Amiens. That uniform lay at the bottom of the Thames, forever trapped in the thick muck that lined the riverbed, but the scars of that battle still remained, deeper than his uniform, deeper than skin. The memory of it haunted the shadows in his eyes, a weariness that had not been there before.
But they had made it, the two of them.
Together.
And the thought of him leaving now left a deep ache in her chest. For months, he had been there for her, at her side. They had survived a battle together, had stood at the brink of all-out war together, and then they had come back from it, working together to stop Julian’s conspiracy, knowing they would both die if they failed.
That kind of thing changed a person.
For Petra, it had changed everything.
“How long will you be stationed in London?” she asked.
“A few months, I think. For as long as they need me.”
“Oh.” She pressed her lips together and bowed her head, her hair falling across her face. She let out a long sigh. “Then I guess this is goodbye,” she said hoarsely, her throat tight.
“Only for a little while,” he said, taking a step closer. He reached forward and brushed her hair from her eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said. “As soon as I have leave to visit.”
“You’ll keep me updated, won’t you?” she asked, her voice strained. “About the investigation? I want to know if anything changes.”
“Of course I will.” A gentle smile broke through the mask of melancholy that had plagued him since Amiens. “Just stay out of trouble while I’m gone, will you?”
She forced a smile to her lips. “No promises.”
His somber gaze lingered on her face a moment longer as his smile slowly faded. “I should go,” he said quietly, bowing his head. “I’m sure the council is waiting, and I shouldn’t—”
Petra stepped forward and hugged him tight, tears stinging her eyes. She had no words, but she didn’t need them. Some things didn’t need saying.
Braith relaxed and sighed into her hair. “If you ever need anything, just let me know,” he said quietly. “I’ll only be a telegram away.”
She withdrew, her chest tight. She wasn’t ready to see him go. Not yet. Not after everything they had been through. “Braith—”
“We’ll see each other again, Petra,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He pulled her into another hug and she clung tightly to his chest, remembering the last time he had held her like this, caught in the aftermath at Amiens, not knowing if they would live or die. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart turning cold at the thought of him leaving. She didn’t want to say goodbye, but there was nothing she could say to keep him here. He had his duties, and she had hers. That’s how it would always be.
Finally, he pulled away. “I have to go,” he said quietly, his voice strained.
“I know.”
A brief smile touched his lips. “Goodbye, Petra.”
“Goodbye, Braith,” she whispered.
He dropped his hands to his sides and slowly stepped away, his jaw tight as he held her gaze one last time. And then suddenly he was gone, stealing away without another word—back to London and the life of a soldier, no longer bound to the Guild . . . or her.
The world seemed less somehow with him gone.
She let out a sigh and turned back toward the council room doors, a deep ache settling in her chest. There was something there, between them. Something that made the world seem worth living in, that made her feel alive again. What it was, she didn’t know, but maybe . . . maybe when he came back, they could figure it out.
Right now, she had other things to do.
With a slow, steadying breath, she smothered whatever feelings she had for Braith deep in her chest and approached the council chambers once more, her dreams finally in her grasp. All her life, all she ever wanted was to be a Guild engineer, to be respected for who she was, for what she could do with machines. Today, that was going to become a reality.
Standing up a little straighter, she sucked in a deep breath, reached forward, and knocked.
Sudden footsteps neared, and the door swung inward, revealing the brightly lit council chamber beyond—the long curved table and attending council members, the Guild seal ticking rhythmically against the far wall, and—
“Hello, Petra.”
That voice . . . so familiar, so real and warm compared to the hollow echo that she had listened to across the telephone, striking her with the warmth of old memories—long nights spent in the Guild offices, stolen moments between fitting machine parts together, the touch of his lips and the feel of her fingers in his air, the warmth of his arms around her and the smell of metal on his skin.
She stopped, her heart suddenly failing to beat.
There he was, standing in the doorway—his copper eyes and dark hair, the curve of his crooked smile, the angle of his jaw . . .
“Emmerich?”
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and haltingly stepped forward, scarcely believing he was here, after all this time. His hair was shorter than she remembered it, that day they parted at the city harbor, not knowing if they would see each other again, but the way he looked at her now . . . there was no disguising the glowing intensity in his eyes, that fervid zeal.
He smiled and suddenly his arms were around her, and hers around him, as if nothing had changed, as if he had never left, as if they hadn’t spent the last year apart. It had been so long since she last saw his face, since she last stood in his arms, and it felt now as if she had been drowning all that time, scarcely breathing since he left her standing on the beach that fateful day. A weight fell from her shoulders—a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying—and she shuddered in his arms, his steady heartbeat thrumming against her cheek.
“Oh, God . . . it is you.”
He laughed, and she could almost believe nothing had changed.
And yet . . .
Everything had changed.
She pulled back and gazed into those familiar copper eyes. The sight of him transported her to a different time, a different life, when nothing else mattered but the touch of his hand, the feel of his lips on hers . . . But this wasn’t that
life anymore.
He’d left that life behind.
And so had she.
“Emmerich . . . what are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were still in Paris.”
“I was until about a week ago,” he said. “I came as soon as I could, but after what happened at Amiens, it was near impossible getting passage out of France.” A smile broke across his face again, and he took her hands into his, the warmth of his fingers spreading deep into her bones. “But I’m here now. Petra, I’m here.”
The sound of his voice wrapped tightly around her heart, threatening to never let go, and she bit her lip, studying his familiar face, every freckle, every dimple, remembering how real it had been, loving him—the touch of his lips against hers, the feel of his breath on her skin, the way she lost herself in his arms, the rest of the world falling into oblivion.
But that was a lifetime ago.
And now that he was here again . . . How could they pick up the pieces of a life that no longer existed, a life they both left behind? Now, when she had finally begun to heal?
“I have something for you,” he said suddenly, retrieving a small unsealed envelope from his pocket.
“What is it?” she asked, taking the parcel from his hands. There was a single piece of folded paper inside.
“You remember the last time we spoke, on the telephone? When I contacted you from Taverny?”
Petra swallowed hard and nodded, her chest suddenly tight as she slipped the paper free.
“It was her,” he said, those words lighting up a part of Petra’s heart that she hadn’t realized was there. “I found her . . . your mother’s sister. She was there the day you were born. She claimed you as her own to protect your mother’s reputation, never telling anyone that the young girl Adelaide Chroniker took with her back to Chroniker City was actually Adelaide’s daughter.” He gestured then to the paper in her hands. “She kept that secret for eighteen years.”
She glanced down at the paper in her hands, her fingers shaking as she slowly unfolded the paper, carefully smoothing out the creases as she realized what this was.
There, written in her mother’s looping handwriting, was her name, her real name, the name her mother had given her at birth:
Petra Sofia Chroniker, born April 19th, 1864,
to mother Adelaide Francine Chroniker, aged twenty,
and father (undisclosed),
in the commune of Taverny, France.
The paper trembled in Petra’s hands, and a tear splashed onto the page.
“She knows about you now,” Emmerich went on. “She knows that you’re alive, that you survived the fire—after believing for so long that you died with your mother. When I told her about you, that you were an engineer with the skill to match Adelaide Chroniker herself, she laughed, and it was . . .” He smiled then, a dreamy look in his eye. “It was what I remember of your mother’s laugh, so full of life. So unrestrained. She wasn’t surprised. She said engineering was in your blood, as it was your mother’s.”
Petra touched the familiar handwriting, as if she could reach through time and watch her mother’s hand write the words across the page eighteen years ago.
“Do you realize what this means?” he asked. “We have proof now—proof of who you are, of your heritage, your legacy. If you want, you can take her place now. You can take her name.”
Petra glanced up and met Emmerich’s eyes, blazing with that familiar molten fire she had gazed into a thousand times before, achingly raw. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as she considered what he was saying.
“Is this enough to prove it?” she asked. “Would anyone believe me?”
“It’s enough for me. And for Lyndon.”
“You showed him?”
Emmerich nodded. “He will support you, whatever you choose.” He stepped forward and took her hand, his touch warming her through to the bone. “And so will I.”
She glanced at the council room doors. To take her mother’s name, to claim herself a Chroniker . . .
Was that what she wanted?
“It’s your choice, Petra. And you certainly don’t have to make it now. If you would rather—”
“No,” she said, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “It’s time.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure? Are you ready?”
“They need to know, Emmerich . . .” she said, her voice quavering. “They need to know my mother isn’t gone, that the things she believed in aren’t gone, not while her daughter still lives and breathes, not while the Chroniker name is mine to carry. They need to remember her, to remember her vision, a world of scientific prosperity—not one of war.” She swallowed thickly, staring at her mother’s name on the birth certificate, written just below hers. “If I can remind them of that . . . of her . . . then maybe I can be a daughter she would be proud of.”
Emmerich squeezed her hand. “Then let’s go make her proud.”
Vice-Chancellor Lyndon sat at the center of the council bench, glancing up as they entered the council chambers. “Are we ready to proceed?”
Emmerich turned toward Petra, and she nodded, handing him the envelope with the copy of her birth certificate inside. “We are,” he said, leaving her side to approach the council bench. “Though there is to be a change of formal identification.”
“Indeed?”
Petra stood in the center of the room, her chin held high. She watched, hardly able to breathe, as Emmerich passed the envelope to the vice-chancellor. No turning back now.
Lyndon opened the envelope and stopped. “This is your wish?” he asked.
She sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “It is.”
“Very well.” The vice-chancellor stood and cleared his throat, addressing the present councilors. “Today, after a formal review of her work with the Guild, it is with great pleasure I present to you our newest member.” He paused for breath, lifting the copy of her birth certificate for all to see. “With written confirmation of her true identity—verified by Lady Isobel Chroniker Fontaine, the recently rediscovered holder of the Chroniker estate—I now introduce to you the only daughter of the late Lady Adelaide Chroniker, heir to the Chroniker name and rightful beneficiary of all the honors and titles deserving of her station: esteemed engineer, Miss Petra Sofia Chroniker.”
Petra couldn’t help but laugh, her heart full to bursting.
“Welcome to the Guild, Miss Chroniker.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book has its challenges, and this one ran the gamut. It took me nearly five years to write this novel, from conception to finished manuscript, with many drafts in between, and if not for a lot of different people, this series might have died before the story ever got a chance to see itself on the printed page. First, a big thank you to Kelly O’Connor for taking the book on with Harper Voyager in the first place and forcing me to continue the story I began in The Brass Giant. If not for my publishing contract, this story might have never been more than a half-finished draft on my hard drive.
Second, massive thanks to R. J. Blain, who helped me revitalize my love of this story by pushing me past my ambivalence and giving me the character I needed to do it. Braith owes his entire existence to her incessant wheedling, and this book would not exist as it does if not for her help.
Additional thanks to my earliest readers, BFFs Jaime and Rachel, for helping me stay sane during the writing and editing of this book, and to Gabe, for helping me polish the final draft (even if not all of his suggestions made it into the finished book—sorry, Gabe!).
Of course, I must thank my editor, Rebecca Lucash, for helping me iron out all those fuzzy plot details I managed to overlook in my own revisions, and for convincing me to stick to my guns in my vision for the story and its characters. Throughout the writing and editing process, I doubted myself a lot, both my writing ability and th
e actual story I was trying to tell, but in the end, Rebecca helped me shape this into a book that I am immensely proud of.
And one final thank you to my husband, Aaron, for ignoring the heaps of laundry and dishes and the ever-growing collection of clutter that manifested over the several long months of writing and editing this book, for taking over toddler-watching duties when I needed to grab a few hours at the library to meet my deadlines, and for being the most supportive partner I could possibly ask for. You’re the best, sweetheart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BROOKE JOHNSON is a stay-at-home mom and tea-loving writer. As the jack-of-all-trades bard of the family, she journeys through life with her husband, daughter, and dog. She currently resides in Northwest Arkansas but hopes to one day live somewhere more mountainous. You can find her on Twitter @brookenomicon.
brooke-johnson.com
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Also by Brooke Johnson
The Brass Giant
The Mechanical Theater: A Chroniker City Novella
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE GUILD CONSPIRACY. Copyright © 2016 by Brooke Johnson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
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