“Because you twitch?”
She shook her head. “No. Long before I was conceived, my ma decided she didn’t want children. A trader’s wife from Cornica told her the best way to prevent that was to insert a pebble into her womb to fool her body into believing she was with child. But my ma didn’t like the idea of using a pebble, so she inserted a piece of clockwork instead. The silent sort—an old family secret—so it wouldn’t keep her awake at night. That’s why I twitch. It’s in my blood.”
Her left eye gave up blinking. She let out a series of clicks with her tongue. Wrinkling her nose, she tapped her forehead again. “When I formed in my mother’s womb, my brain grew around the clockwork. It’s why I’m expert at tinkering.”
Ruk stared at her, unsure if she’d told the truth or had spun a tale to glorify her impediment. Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. If her uncanny story bought her respect instead of ill treatment, then she had every right to use it.
“The problem is,” she added. “People judge us by what they see. They value us for what we might bring. I’ll not sell the secret of my clockwork because once I do that, I’ll have nothing left. But I’ll gladly give it to you because you treat me as an equal. I trust that when the time comes, you’ll understand enough about humans to use it wisely.”
Ruk did not know what to say. He did not believe her trust in him was justified. Even so, when he examined her clockwork he knew that the genius in her handiwork would help him. As she stood to leave, he offered her all the money he had.
She shook her head. “I heard once that shifter magic can be used to heal. Can you still do it?”
“All lies, I’m afraid.”
She frowned and removed the glove from her left hand, revealing a grimy, blood-stained bandage. “It needs stitching, but I won’t stoop to the butcher.”
Ruk gently unwound the bandage. The slash in her palm was deep, already festering. She flinched as he cradled it in both hands and sent her a brief surge of magic. His reserves were low, as they usually were in this body he wore, so he tried not to use too much. When her skin grew warm beneath his, he pulled away.
“Fascinating,” Nell breathed. Her wound flowed like liquid. Its edges merged into a scar that faded and disappeared.
“Do not forget that I’m now human,” Ruk said softly. “You must not tell anyone this happened.”
“You have my word.” Nell froze. From the fear in her eyes, he could tell she was about to screech, like he’d once heard her do in the streets. He guessed she was trying to fight it, but soon it would get the better of her. Like her twitching, it was not something she chose to do.
He caught her in his arms and pressed his hand over her mouth, letting her screech into his palm so outsiders wouldn’t hear. It surprised him how sweet she smelled. His heart skittered having her close to him. He almost felt more human than shifter. How thoroughly he could lose himself. How close to allowing the cycle of emotion and madness to start over . . .
She fell silent. He let go of her and stood back apologetically, the back of his neck prickling.
“Thank you,” she said, blushing. I don’t know what come over me. I’ve always stopped that from happening down here.”
“My magic, I suppose. It must have unsettled you.”
“Maybe. Last week the physicians heard me. They want to lock me up. My boy, Lucian too. They believe we’re possessed by demons.”
Ruk swallowed against a burst of anger. “Demon’s arse you’re possessed!”
“Those men! They call themselves physicians, but act like fools. They’re arranging to listen for our clockwork. But they won’t hear it because it’s silent.” She tapped her forehead. “If you could use your magic to help me, would you do it? At all costs?”
He stared at her, sensing a bargain, not sure if it was the kind he should agree to. Nell wouldn’t cheat him, that much he knew. But she was, after all, human. And humans were notorious for cheating themselves.
“Only if it’s all you have,” he said at last.
She smiled. “Do you know what angels are?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“I suggest you shape your wings like theirs. You should let people see that you are one.”
* * *
It took Ruk weeks to add Nell’s silent clockwork to his wings, but he decided to forgo the angel shape. It reminded him too keenly of humanity and of how he could never return to the pure simplicity of being animal again. With time, he supposed, he would learn to accept that. At least for now he could find comfort in the catacombs, the drip of moisture down the walls, the innocent foraging of rats, the echo of footsteps; but he missed the sun. The dimness had turned his skin sickly. He’d already cropped his hair in preparation for his first flight. Now he needed only to wait for a perfect breeze, a clear sky, a half moon and perhaps a chance to thank Nell and invite her to watch him leave.
* * *
Nell let herself in as usual. She stood blinking in a strip of gaslight in his living alcove, her dark hair dishevelled, her boots sodden, the bottom of her skirt damp and reeking of sewerage. Her son—Lucian—stood beside her, looking barely five years old and not the eight she had claimed him to be. His blue eyes stared out from beneath a mop of ginger bird-nest hair.
“We need your help,” Nell said.
Ruk turned abruptly away, unable to bear the desperation clouding her face. “Nell, I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Please. You’re all we have.”
“I’m not yours. Besides, why not ask the boy’s father?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
Ruk almost added that human business was for humans and that shifters could not risk being caught up in it. But then Nell let out a soft grunt. Ruk stiffened at the sound of flesh and bone thudding against the bare stone floor. He expected Lucian to cry out, but heard only the low hiss of the gas lamp.
Reluctantly—supposing that Lucian’s silence meant he had known too much grief already—Ruk turned around.
The boy stood unmoving, his mother sprawled at his feet. He swallowed, took a deep breath. His left eye twitched rapidly. “She . . . took . . . poison,” he stammered. He dropped to his knees, stroked his mother’s cheek. “She said you’re an angel. Please . . . bring her back.”
Ruk knelt at Nell’s side. He put his hand over her heart and found it no longer beating. “I can’t. My magic’s only strong enough for skin and bone. I can shift flesh to make it heal, but I can’t restore life.” He stood. If he allowed himself to give in to emotion, there would be no getting over it.
Lucian rammed his fist in his mouth and shuddered. His grief was silent, but no less terrible to witness.
Ruk turned away. He paced, allowing himself fury because fury was easier to control than despair. Why in Fate’s name had Nell killed herself? Now her son’s emotions would endanger him. Was this her bargain? That he should look after her boy? How could he fly now?
He turned back to Lucian and contemplated him, wincing at the stoop of his thin, boyish shoulders. “If the physicians wanted to lock her up, why didn’t she simply flee Forsham?”
At first Lucian stared at his feet. Then he looked up, sniffed, blinked, his eyes sunken like the eyes of a small animal hunted to exhaustion. Ruk wondered if Nell had inserted clockwork in her womb before conceiving like her own mother had.
“Lucian,” Ruk said softly. “Can you hear your clockwork?”
Lucian looked away.
“You can tell me the truth. The physicians are my enemies too. If they knew of my existence, they’d . . . ”
Shuddering, Lucian wrapped his arms about his chest. At last, in a low voice he said, “No, I can’t hear it.”
“Ah . . . ” Ruk rubbed his chin. “If the physicians can’t hear it, they’ll believe your mother was lying. They’ll say your twitching is caused by demons.”
The boy looked at him, eyes wide and glazed.
Ruk fought down a surge of temper. Why hadn’t Nell explained? He would have h
elped her for this. “Lucian, you may stay here if it will keep you from the physicians’ asylum. But soon, I must leave. Shifters should not live with humans. Your emotions . . . They’re as good as poison for us.”
Lucian held his gaze, his eyes wet. “My mother said . . . ”
Ruk held up his hand. “Stop. Nell hardly knew me.”
Lucian froze as if Ruk’s harshness had purged the next twitch out of him. He lifted his chin. “My mother said you would help.”
The words stung, bringing with them emotion that threatened to spiral into demonhood. To protect himself, Ruk blanketed it with laughter that came out harsh and cruel. What could a shifter do? To date, his best way to survive humans was to avoid them. What good would a child be except to keep him grounded?
Forcing down anger, he gestured for Lucian to follow him. “I want you to see what your mother gave me.”
Lucian’s face blenched. “I’m not leaving her. Why won’t you help?”
Ruk sighed. “I don’t know how. I can only show you her final triumph.”
“No!” Lucian threw himself over his mother’s chest. “I’m not leaving her.”
“As you wish.” Ruk turned away. Softly, he made his way out of the alcove. Before closing the door, he turned back to see the boy sobbing silently over Nell’s ruined body, a dim silhouette in gaslight.
Ruk’s heart clenched so painfully he wanted to flee.
* * *
His wings were light, even wrapped up in blankets to avoid damage from the impending journey to the clock tower. As Ruk gathered them up, his sense of freedom did not give him the simple joy that it should have. It was Lucian’s fault. Damn Nell. She’d given Ruk the means to escape. Now she had taken it back.
He lowered the wings carefully onto the bench. He looked about the workshop, at the junk strewn against the walls, the discarded machine parts and the original piece of clockwork that Nell had given him all those weeks before. He’d pulled it apart to glean its secret, then reassembled it soon after to keep as a memento. It occurred to him that perhaps its true purpose was to remind him of something else.
His heart leapt. “Sweet Nell. You guessed I was the only one who would understand.”
He pocketed the clockwork, squatted in front of his toolbox and ran his hands over the tools. Nell’s death was still fresh. Although he could not bring her back to life, perhaps if he worked quickly, he could help her.
By the time he’d gathered courage enough to return to her, he found Lucian spread out with his head on her chest. Gently, Ruk soothed him with a warm surge of magic and waited until he drifted into sleep. He picked him up, taking care to not let his head loll, then carried him to the armchair and covered him with a blanket. The boy did not stir, but with his eyes closed he looked too much like his mother, and far too vulnerable.
Keeping his emotions distant, Ruk knelt at Nell’s side with his back to Lucian, shielding him from what he was about to do. He took up his drill, then held it over the exact spot where Nell had tapped her forehead when referring to her clockwork. He pressed the bit into her cold flesh and turned it, grateful that the dead did not bleed. Hands steady, he made ten small holes in her skull, forming a circle the diameter of a teacup.
Next, he took up the fine string-saw he used to cut automata skin, threading it through two holes at a time, sawing through bone until the circle fell free to reveal the surface of Nell’s pale, convoluted brain.
As suspected, he found not a skerrick of clockwork.
Just to be certain, he probed deeper with a screwdriver, twisting it back and forth through soft, yielding flesh. Nell’s blue eyes stared up at him, unblinking, approving.
Ruk leaned back on his haunches, wiped his forehead, surprised to find it damp with sweat. “Damn the physicians,” he muttered. “Damn every one of them.”
Holding his breath, he used a dessertspoon to scoop out a small section of Nell’s precious brain. He placed it in a cup, then promptly hid it in his toolbox. Reverently, he took the silent clockwork from his pocket and eased it into the awaiting hollow, pushing it into place until its silver dome shone like a sunken carapace at the centre of her forehead.
He paused, his hands shaking. Damn humans. They’d be the death of him.
For a long while, he could not bring himself to move, could barely draw breath. Nell’s face was too motionless and too pale. He would give anything to see her twitch again. Perhaps even his wings.
He was about to replace the circle of skin and skull, when a hand clutched his shoulder and struggled to pull him away.
“Leave her alone!” Lucian demanded. “Don’t take it out.”
Ruk held him firmly yet gently back. The boy sank to his knees, covered his face and sobbed.
With the fingers of his free hand, Ruk closed Nell’s eyes. He fitted the circle of skull into place and sealed the skin with a surge of magic. The wound healed, faded and disappeared. Ruk breathed a sigh of relief.
He turned to Lucian. “I’m not taking her clockwork out. A long time ago, your mother asked me to check that it was really there. Now when the physicians look for it, you need not be afraid. You’ll know they’ll find it. They’ll believe that you have it too.”
Lucian’s eyes glistened. He touched his forehead.
“It’ll protect you,” Ruk assured him. “It’s what she wanted.”
* * *
As Ruk climbed the clock tower, he hoped that Lucian and his new guardian would meet him at the top to watch him leave. When they did not, he supposed he should at least take comfort that, when the physicians had dissected Nell, they’d believed her clockwork was hereditary. “Her son has every chance of becoming a genius tinkerer,” they’d said. “We’ll ensure he has access to training.”
But the price . . .
As always with humans, the price had been too high.
Ruk raised his arms. His steam pistons hissed, barely audible above the mechanical hum of the city below. His wings opened out and their leather pinions rustled as soft and silent as their clockwork. He leapt, soaring skywards, alone on the breeze, leaving Forsham and Lucian behind him.
The Raven and her Victory
Tansy Rayner Roberts
I recognised the woman in the poem. Perhaps no one else would have done. My name (for once) was not present, carefully couched in floral language or complex metaphor. There was no Victory or raven-haired Viceroy, no grey-eyed Victoire in russet skirts, not even a sly dig at Victoriana.
Still, I knew that the woman in the poem was me. The woman in the poem is always me.
* * *
I first met Ida May at a charity dance benefit for war widows and children. My aunt, Mrs Grayson introduced us, as young ladies with something in common. “Victoria, my dear, have you met Miss Midas of Baltimore? She’s a writer, like yourself.”
Miss Ida May Midas was an intense sort of woman, not pretty, with a pronounced brow and twitchy fingers. She wore brown, a striking gown if rather out of fashion, and she spoke in bursts, not used to polite company.
“Mrs Grayson exaggerates,” I apologised. “I pen the social pages in our local paper. Hardly a celebrated poet like yourself.”
Miss Midas gave me a dark, almost angry stare. “But you want to write. Real words. Real stories. You have a passion for the craft?”
I was unaccustomed for young unmarried ladies like myself to talk about passion, or indeed much of anything. “I have a great desire to write history,” I found myself confessing. “But no one will let me do that, will they? I suppose I’ll teach.”
“You can do better than that,” said Miss Midas, and something inside me unfolded like a crepe paper rose.
* * *
It was a mistake, I know that now. A scandalous, ridiculous mistake. And yet I hardly noticed it at the time, hardly thought about anything except the light in Ida May’s eyes as she explained a particular story of genius, or took apart some lesser work with scathing, critical words.
We went about together for weeks, a
rm in arm. Visiting museums and tea houses, talking of history and politics and all manner of grand things. Words, all words. We filled the world with them. And then, in my aunt’s garden at the end of a long and vibrant day, we dropped the pretence that we were merely girls being chummy with each other, and I let her kiss me.
Her mouth on mine was warmth and sunshine, even as the light faded in the garden. We clung to each other like trembling leaves, and then parted. I wanted nothing else in the world so much as her, that night, in my arms.
I opened my eyes for a moment and saw the lawn behind us flare up for a moment in so many colours that I was dazzled, and afraid. The world was all of a sudden a daunting and overwhelming place. So I ran from her.
It has been many years now, and I am still afraid.
* * *
Ida May sent me letters at first, scolding me for cowardice and scorching me with all manner of rebukes. Sometimes she enclosed downy white feathers in accusation, or dried flowers that fell to powder in my hands.
Every letter made my skin prickle with fear, for with it would come a dreadful portent of some kind. Draughts might blow suddenly behind my neck, or water might drip through the ceiling to wet my hair. Once, the fine Persian rug beneath my feet unaccountably burst into flames, and smouldered for hours no matter how much we soaked it with water.
After that, I left my mother’s house for college, determined to train as a teacher and to leave my fears and Miss Midas long behind me.
She found my address soon enough, and though she no longer bothered to write whole letters to taunt me with, she continued to send feathers and flowers and occasional locks of her hair, each of which tormented me anew with small but impossible horrors.
If this was love, I wanted none of it.
* * *
Eventually, the letters stopped arriving. I learned to breathe again in a world without magic. There was a gentleman who courted me for a short time, though we parted as friends before our names were joined upon the tongues of our acquaintances. He was not for me, nor I for him.
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