by S. C. Green
“But tonight you saved me.”
“Yes, one life I have saved,” Maxwell said, letting out a wretched sigh, “for all those I’ve helped ruin. For the ruin I’ve done to myself.”
“Maxwell, no—”
He lifted his cast off his shoulder and unwound the bandages. When Brigitte saw what had become of the bite, her stomach turned.
His arm was completely black. The skin was no longer soft, but burnt and flaking away in crispy chunks. Miss Julie’s careful stitches had been ripped out, and the hole stuffed with balls of lead, the leathery, blackened skin growing over the top of them, sealing them inside his body. She covered her mouth, struggling to keep back the bile rising in her throat.
“The King’s Physician,” he said, giving a wan smile. “He fixed me up good and proper.”
“Maxwell, no.” Tears steamed down her cheeks. She reached out a shaking hand to touch the protrusion, but he slapped her away.
“Tis fitting, Miss Brigitte. For my crimes.”
“You weren’t to know, Maxwell.” She touched his shoulder. “Can we help them?”
“These … they are beyond help. They will gnaw their own arms off to taste the blood again. They are never full, never sated. The King has more such chambers, and every week the dungeon swells with more of their number. Soon, there will be no one left in Windsor Castle who does not crave the taste of metal or the blood of the living.”
“And you, Maxwell?”
He laughed bitterly. “Do not fear for me, Miss Brigitte. You have done me kindness enough.”
“I can’t just do nothing!”
“You must go to your man, Miss Brigitte — your handsome gentleman who writes the notes. You must go away with him, far away from the castle, and never return. If the King lays eyes on you, young and pretty and trembling in fear, I will find you locked away in one of these rooms, and that is more than I can bear.”
“But Miss Julie, and Cassandra and … and you? What will become of you, Maxwell? I cannot leave the castle without you.”
“I will help them. I will try … but your man, he will know what to do.” Maxwell said. “I’ve seen him with the engineer, Brunel. An important man is Brunel. The King trusts him, but Brunel has power over him. Brunel has been in secret to the King’s chambers, late at night, many times, but he has not become one of the Sunken. And whenever he leaves the castle, the King is silent. He does not seek the blood. He sleeps. It is the only time he sleeps.”
“I can’t leave!”
“You must. Immediately. Tonight. Before he calls for you again.”
***
She didn’t even have time to return to her room to pack her things. Maxwell led her to a staircase she’d never seen before, hidden behind a painting in the Crimson Drawing Room. “This leads down to the cellar,” he said. “From there, take the south tunnel toward the gate. It’s locked, but you should be able to break through easily enough. Once you’re outside, go to the town — there should still be someone at the pub — and find a coach into London.”
“My money is back in my room.”
“Here.” He pressed some coins into the pocket of her nightdress. “It’s not much, but should see you safely to London. Be careful, Miss Brigitte.”
“I will. Maxwell, don’t—” Tears stung her eyes.
He gave her a gruff pat on the shoulder, then pushed her onto the stairway. “None of that now.” He slammed the door shut behind her, plunging her into darkness.
She placed a hand on each wall and felt her way with her feet. The stone steps, more crooked and sharp than the other servants’ passages in the castle, which had been worn smooth with centuries of constant use, coiled around in a tight spiral. As she descended, threads of a spider’s web caught on her face, and something fluttered past her shoulder. She cried out, her foot slipping on the step. She grabbed the wall and regained her balance, her heart pounding against her chest.
Finally, the floor levelled out, and she walked into a heavy wooden door. Feeling around for the latch, she discovered it unlocked, and pushed the bolt through and hurried into the cellar.
And then she heard the howling.
She ran. Past the stacks of beer and wine barrels, past the storerooms of grain, barley, and brandy, past the dark corners concealing nests of compies. Blindly, she criss-crossed through the maze of corridors, surrounded by the shrieks of the Sunken.
She careened around a corner, knowing that she was now completely lost, and found herself in the dungeon. “No!” she screamed, sinking to her knees in horror.
Maxwell had spoken the truth. The Sunken filled every cell, their charred faces snarling from the depths. Blackened limbs flailed through the bars, pawing at the air in their desperate attempt to devour her. They shook the bars with such ferocity she was certain they would tear the castle down.
They can smell me, she realised. They know I’m not one of them, and they’re baying for my blood.
But the most horrific thing of all was the sound. The high, inhuman wail, the desperate scraping as they gnashed their teeth against the iron bars, the cracking of bones as they crushed one another in their frenzy.
But surely, they can’t—
Something clattered against the stone floor. A section of the rotting door to one of the older cells had fallen away. Footsteps pounded down the hall, and two of the Sunken, spittle dribbling from their gaping, blackened mouths, raced down the corridor toward her.
Sobbing, she whirled from the frightful sight, and fled back up the corridor.
I’m dead. I’m going to die and they’re going to eat me and turn me into one of them—
She poured on speed. The south tunnel — she would have to reach it before they caught her. You can lock it behind you.
Think, Brigitte, think. You know where the south tunnel is.
Back to the cellar. Left, right, left. Where is it? She scrambled along another passage, her hands scraping along the bare stone walls. Not this way. She doubled back, dove into the right corridor, and there, before her, was the door to the south tunnel. It was blocked with a heavy wooden door.
Yes, yes!
She grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. She fumbled around the rotting edges, found the latch, and pulled it across. Still nothing.
Behind her, the Sunken flung themselves around the corner, scraping their long fingernails against the stone walls. They saw her and sprinted down the tunnel, pulling each other back in a desperate attempt to be the first to devour her.
She screamed, leaned against the door, and fell backward.
Crying in relief, she heaved the door shut and slid the bolt through, just as the Sunken crashed against it.
She ran on, one hand on the ceiling, one on the wall, feeling her way. She couldn’t see a thing. These tunnels had been dug many centuries before, as an escape route for the King should the castle walls be breached. Unlike the rest of the cellar, the walls were rough rock, which scraped her hands raw. Still she ran, not knowing how long that door would hold the Sunken back.
Her foot kicked something hard, and it screeched and scuttled away. Something warm fluttered past her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing down the panic.
She slammed into something at full speed, sending her sprawling across the tunnel floor and knocking the wind out of her. Gasping for breath, she reached with both hands to feel out the obstacle. Wood, iron hinges, a heavy lock. It was the door. The door to freedom!
She lifted the padlock and dropped it against the wood, the heavy clatter echoing down the tunnel. Locked, just as Maxwell said. He’d also said she’d be able to get through, but how? I can’t go back. Think, Brigitte — there must be a way through this door.
Feeling with her hands, she searched the hinges for signs of weakness. They had rusted at the edges, but were still solidly attached to the wood and the rock. Next, she checked the lock. Sure enough, it, too, had rusted, and, although the bolt still remained solid, a deep gash had been gouged in the
rock where it bit into the wall. She pressed her weight against the door, and the whole bolt slid back and forth.
She emptied the pockets of her apron. Please let it be here … yes! She held a single brass hairpin, the one she’d worn on her first date with Nicholas.
Bending back the pin, she went to work, scraping the rust from the edge of the lock and widening that gap between it and the rock as much as she could.
She pushed and pulled the door some more, relishing the scrape of rusted metal against the soft rock. She nearly had it. More chipping, more wriggling, and it popped free and swung open, revealing a short stone staircase and a shaft of brilliant moonlight.
She raced up the stairs, and along a path that wound through the forested area to the south of the castle. Lights twinkled on the horizon, just visible between the trees. She headed toward them, hoping the villagers would be well-disposed toward her.
PART II: THE ENGINE
1820
Boys lined both sides of the dock, some with parents or nannies in tow. Some who’d purchased commissions into the higher ranks wore new uniforms, pressed and neat. Others, like Nicholas, stood alone in their skivvies, folding and unfolding their papers and staring up at the tall ships with worried expressions. The new English flag flew from every mast — that amorphous hodge-podge of symbols representing the ten new sects earning scowls of disapproval from the older veterans.
Overhead, seagulls circled, their thoughts flitting in and out of his head. They’d been summoned by the commotion on the docks — they knew tall ships and crowds of people meant food.
Beside him, James was so excited he could hardly stand still. His mother kept bending down to smooth his shirt. A stout, stern-faced woman, she’d dealt with a lot in recent years. She was a rarity among Stokers, for she’d married outside the sect and made a good life for herself in the city, until tragedy struck. Her husband — James’ father — was an officer in the King’s Royal Guard, and had been killed during a raid of an underground Anglican service. His family, who had opposed the marriage to one of the “Dirty Folk”, had sent her packing back to the Engine Ward, but not before securing a commission for James as a Naval Volunteer — a fast-track post to an officer’s rank. All he’d had to do was survive two years in the Engine Ward, two years under Marc Brunel’s tutelage, until he was old enough to go to sea. And now here he was, buttons all shiny, about to be an adventurer for real.
Nicholas — who would have to work his way up from the bottom if he had any hope of becoming an officer — watched her fuss over James, and he longed for his own family. His father had thought him unfit for service, being the scrawnier of the two sons, but he would have bought Nicholas a military commission anyway; not in the Navy, but with the 62nd Wiltshire (his father’s own regiment), had he asked for it. But now he would have to make his way without his father’s money and influence.
He gazed up, and up, and up at his new home — the flagship HMS Euryalus, her imposing hull looming overhead — a solid wall of wood and iron, a veritable floating fortress with four decks of guns. He had to lean right back to catch a glimpse of the tangles of rope and sails jutting at all angles from the masts. Fear gripped his chest. I know nothing about sailing. What if I fall?
Isambard stood beside him, hands in the pockets of his green Stoker overalls, his face and sleeves stained with coal. Master Brunel was still being held for questioning regarding Henry’s death, and Nicholas wouldn’t even get the chance to say goodbye, or thank you. But Isambard stood on the side of the dock to see them off, his lithe frame jostled in the careless pushing of the more well-to-do children.
“Look at him.” He pointed to James, who had pulled his sketchbook out and was scribbling a drawing of the nearest frigate. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”
“All he’s ever wanted is to be an adventurer.” Nicholas smiled up at the ships that would bear them across the ocean to America. “At least one of us will have a dream come true.”
Isambard looked away. “Will you write?” he asked, staring at his shoes.
“As often as I am able.” Nicholas wanted to reach out, to embrace Isambard, to cry the tears that threatened to leak from his eyes. But Isambard would not look at him, and Nicholas knew the bond between them stood on a razor’s edge. He wanted to offer some kindness, some words of encouragement about Isambard’s father, but he could find none that bridged the gap that now widened between them. Instead, he too stared at his boots, the guilt in his heart widening ever further.
“Are you ready?” James reached across and squeezed Nicholas’ hand. “They’re calling for us to board. I’m over there on the Cambrian. She’s smaller than yours, but she’ll see plenty of action, I’m sure.”
Nicholas gathered up his small rucksack, as heavy on his shoulders as a boulder, and, with a last forlorn wave to Isambard and James, he clambered up the gangway to meet his new destiny.
***
“Just a little to the left,” Isambard hissed, the tread of his boot shifting uncomfortably into Aaron’s shoulder.
Aaron gritted his teeth. Bracing his shaking legs against the brick schoolhouse, he shuffled a few inches left, his shoulders screaming under the full impact of his friend’s weight.
“Steady!” Droplets of ink splashed onto Aaron’s shirt. He sighed, a strangled sound, his lungs carrying no air. His mother would hang him when she saw the stains.
“I can’t hold much longer,” Aaron winced. The skin on his right shoulder pinched between his collarbone and Isambard’s boot. He leaned his whole body into the wall of the schoolhouse, hoping the lesson wouldn’t go overtime.
As Stokers, they were expected to learn their duties from their parents, and weren’t permitted into the engineering schools. That was how they had met — Aaron used to sit on the overpass behind the Stoker camp and watch the children of the other sects lining up for classes, their satchels and slates tucked under their skinny arms. One day, he showed up to his usual spot, only to find it occupied by a boy a little older than he, his gaze fixated on the students, tears running unnoticed down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” said Aaron. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He turned to depart, but the boy spoke.
“Why did you come here? To watch the students?”
Aaron backed away, not wanting to answer. He didn’t want to get in trouble. But the boy didn’t scold him. Instead, he sighed. “That’s why I come here, sometimes. I used to go to school, you know.”
Aaron glanced at the boy’s green overalls, two sizes too big and identical to his own, wondering how he’d been able to attend a school. Suddenly, he understood. “You were one of Master Brunel’s students? My brother Henry went to his school. I wanted to go too, one day, but Henry has gone and got himself killed and they locked Master Brunel away—”
“Marc Brunel is my father.” The boy looked away.
“Oh.” Aaron didn’t know what to say to that. The boy patted the space on the girder beside him, and Aaron sat down. “I’m Isambard,” the boy said, offering his hand.
“I’m Aaron. I work in the western furnaces.” He didn’t mention that he was still only a coal-boy — he was so clumsy around machines he couldn’t be trusted with any other task.
“I’m on maintenance team C. Stephenson’s church.” Isambard spat out the Messiah’s name as if it were poison in his mouth. “Sometimes I hide in the broom cupboard and listen to his lectures.”
“Why would you do that?”
Isambard stared at him, his gaze fixed and unnerving. “You cannot tell a soul, Aaron.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m going to make a locomotive, just like Stephenson. Only I aim to make mine better.”
Afterward, the pair found each other on the overbridge each day, and they would sit and watch and talk and dream. As much as Aaron wished he could cast aside his coal shovel and enter those walls to learn about arithmetic and biology and geography, Isambard wished it more. He cursed his lineage with such ferocity that Aar
on at times feared he hated their people.
It was not the Stokers, but the church for which Isambard reserved his ire. After all, it was the conservatism of Great Conductor’s priests — appalled at Marc Brunel’s radical school — that had demanded his father’s arrest. And the church certainly treated the two boys like a pair of pariahs: Aaron with his head in the clouds and his clumsy hands would have made a better farmer than a Stoker; and Isambard, with his surly indifference and unflattering habit of pointing out the mistakes of priests much older and more powerful than himself … well, no one quite knew what to do with Isambard. Even the Stoker children avoided them, when they weren’t chasing after them, hurling rocks and cruel words.
And so, they found comfort in each other, though in many ways they didn’t understand each other at all. Isambard — like his father — tested the boundaries of Stoker society. His mind connected ideas, toyed with tangents of thought, and although he knew he wasn’t supposed to and he was constantly being beaten for it, he couldn’t help inventing. He would take a machine apart, figure out how it worked, and put it back together so it worked more efficiently than before. He had a natural way with machines, as if his very mind worked on gears and pistons.
Aaron, on the other hand, spent his youth trying to stay as far from machines as possible. He had only to glance at a mechanism for it to seize and break down. He found the heat and steel stifling, pushing in on him so he couldn’t breathe. Sometimes with Isambard, but often alone, he would slip unnoticed through the fences and wander through the city. He often found himself meandering around the many public gardens, ducking between the rose bushes at Kensington or sitting by the duck pond in Hyde Park.
It was here, in these parks, when he first heard — truly heard — the voices of the animals. He spent hours following the ducks inside his head, mapping their relationships and thoughts. Far from crowding his head, the voices calmed him. They eased the headaches caused by the constant pounding of pistons and roaring of furnaces.