Ahead of her, Fotheringay walked out into the street, his movements smooth and unhurried. He was the white rabbit pulling her into this Wonderland, his Wonderland. She hurried after him, her feet clattering across the metallic floor, the taste of metal in her mouth, and the hum buzzing in her ears.
Like Alice, she wanted to be home before the Queen of Hearts said, ‘Off with her head.’
Chapter Five
THE CITY PURRED. A monstrous cat that needed to feed...
Berd shivered and pushed the ghastly image from her mind. She scratched her wrists, trying not to look too hard at the shiny surfaces of the computerscape around her in case something stared back.
Ahead, Fotheringay was charging through a dimly lit passageway between two tall copper buildings, hurrying as though determined to leave her behind again. Berd knew she needed to speak, to ask where they were going, and what was happening. Explorers, when in unknown territory, always hired a guide, but then they had a choice of guides. Here she was down to a single entity: Fotheringay or no-one.
Thankfully, he spoke the same tongue as her, though she was loath to use his Christian name. Until now, she put it down to the fact that they did not share familiarity, such as that which existed amongst children who had grown up together. But she knew in her case, there was more to her reticence. Opportunities of conversing with members of the opposite sex, especially ones around the same age as her, rarely happened.
“Where exactly are we go—” Before she could finish her question, a distant roar cut across the humming, so unexpected that it felt as if a skeletal finger had scraped across her shoulders. “Another earthquake?” she asked, peeved when her voice hitched.
Fotheringay threw her a glance; light and shadow flickered across his face, making it difficult to read.
“Data train. Our ride after I set up the batteries.”
He turned and sped on, and Berd stared after him in disbelief. Perhaps he expected her to understand and was disappointed that she did not. But she had cleaned the Engine twice and hadn’t noticed any batteries. Or train. However, batteries meant an energy source and since an energy source meant the possibility of home, it was hard not to get excited.
She sniffed the air, desperate to catch a whiff of the unmistakable odour of smoke created from burning coal which a train would have to have. And though relief filled her at the naming of something so familiar, it didn’t last.
Fotheringay may have acted like a god up in the balloon, but back on the ground, he was behaving as if another earthquake was imminent. If he really was the creator of this space, then there would have been no need for him to escape in a hot air balloon. Surely all he need do was say the word or lift a finger like he had done earlier. It struck her that while he might be the inventor, perhaps his creation had gotten away from him... like he was getting away from her. She was forced to half-run after him. He strode into the open and with lithe, powerful steps, crossed a street then passed under a steel archway that led between another set of buildings.
If only he would slow. She pressed her hands deep into her sides, hoping if she squeezed the bottom end of her corset, that the top might open up a little and allow her to take deeper breaths. But after half a block, she had no such luck, though she was gaining a little.
“Mister- I mean, about these batteries.” She was so close now. “I would like to know-”
Fotheringay turned towards her so abruptly she almost crashed into him. “What do you wish to know about my Engine?”
While he had not been particularly friendly now he appeared openly hostile. The change was so swift she could have believed it was a different person standing in front of her. Why, the very way he was looking at her made her think she was a spy about to steal his secrets.
And that must have been what it was. But he had no right to think so ill of her. She was not some patent stealer, and he should know that. But to confront him with this accusation would be poor manners to all parties.
“The Engine is the reason I am here.” It should not matter to whom the Engine belonged, she convinced herself. Escape should be their top priority.
“That is the truth. But it is my Engine.”
Berd pursed her lips as they stared each other down. If she admitted she had purchased his Engine, he, no doubt, would ask her to return it.
She’d refuse, which then opened up the possibility that he might leave her behind. She decided she would not tell him she owned the Engine, not until she knew what was going on.
“I’m afraid your Engine was sold at auction a month ago.” That much was true.
“I see.” He rubbed his chin carelessly with a finger as he studied her face. “May I ask who was with you when the lightning struck?”
His question caught her so unexpectedly that she muttered, “No one,” before she even had time to think.
Annoyed, she realised his fall into decorum was only a ploy to get information out of her. She met his gaze fully... only to look away.
Something is wrong with his eyes.
“Did you purchase my Engine?” he asked.
The smile on her face died.
He knew.
But then, how else could she have gotten here, unless she had been fiddling with the Engine. Her Engine.
When she pressed her lips into a thin straight line, Fotheringay smiled and stood taller.
“I’m afraid, Lady Elizabeth, there’s been a mistake. Rest assured that you will be amply compensated for whatever monies you have expended.”
The churl, no doubt, would force her to give it up. But the Engine was in her possession, and from what little she knew of the law, her case was stronger than his. Displaying every ounce of her breeding, she tilted her chin proudly. “I understand your distress, but I do not wish to be compensated.”
They were staring each other down when she caught a flash of green in his eyes. Startled, she blinked. She had thought his eyes were blue earlier, but now they were ringed with green. And as she stared they grew greener still. Greenness crept into the centre of his eyes, the colour growing more intense with each moment.
Something is wrong with his eyes.
“My lady, this Engine belongs to me, and to my father. I understand now your reluctance to provide me with information of my father. Simply put, he’s ill. Doubtless, he has expended both time and money in his search for me, and you’ve taken advantage of his ill health to seize our Engine.”
The insult could not have been greater than if he had slapped her. She had been mistaken to have thought him a knight. “I-”
“Please don’t patronise me, Lady Elizabeth.” The muscles tightened around his mouth then he swivelled on his heel and strode away.
She would have willingly forgone her breeding and throttled him. “You mistake my intentions,” she called after him.
“I’m in a hurry to see about the batteries. I don’t have time to argue.”
Blast him, blast him, blast him!
She would teach him to think twice that he could dismiss her so easily. “I can be of assistance.”
“A delicate thing like you?”
It sounded like he truly believed that. And for Berd, who stood behind him in her brother’s trousers, and who had spent the last six months fiddling with engines, his words stung. He was simply another James. She dug her fists into her hips as she fought to contain her anger. “You left out illogical.”
He swung round again, his face creased in furious confusion.
She put on a brave smile. “It’s what my brother always called me.”
To her relief, one corner of his mouth twitched as if genuinely holding back laughter.
“I can help. I can do anything you set me to. Anything at all,” Berd prompted. She could tell him she had dabbled in engines. Well, more accurately one other engine. Her autocar. Trouble was, the Ghost Engine was far more complicated than her autocar. And her autocar no longer worked.
Fotheringay scrutinised her, deadly serious. “What we are ab
out to undertake is a matter of life and death. But while the Engine can do many things, one thing it cannot do is heal itself. For this, the Engine needs hands. I am those hands.” He flicked a caustic glance at the sky, as if arguing with it. “But two sets of hands mean the work gets done faster.”
Berd frowned, convinced she was stuck in the Engine with a mad man. So convinced was she, that when he turned and offered her his arm, she gaped at this unexpected show of manners.
“Suffragette?” he asked, curious. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at her as though seeing her in a different, though not necessarily complimentary, light.
She scowled at the term. He probably thought she would bite. If she did, he deserved it. She needed no sermonising to know what a man thought a woman’s proper place was. Not that she agreed.
“No, though their cause is noble. I have my own method of fighting for equality.”
He lowered his arm. “Of course! I should have guessed. But equality for the sexes,” he mused as if delighted, then in a louder voice, as if speaking to an equal, he drawled, “Come on then, princess. This isn’t London, and I have no time to waste in drawing room conversation. If you want to wear those trousers, make me believe you have the stuff to put in them.”
Berd clenched her teeth. At those words, she expected him to head off without her, but this time, despite the taunt, he actually waited, behaving for once like a complete gentleman.
She eyed him suspiciously, vigilant for conversational tiger traps. Still, it was an interesting thought: to be a princess or a man.
Berd knew which she would rather be.
She had asked to prove herself and he had accepted her offer to help. The price was tradition, its loss for the gaining of equality. If she really wanted to be treated as an equal then she should expect to be treated like a man. Only she had never before had a chance to put it in practise with anyone. Any man.
As she took one tentative step forward, he nodded amiably. They set off. Together.
She inhaled deeply as she mentally prepared herself for the task ahead.
The Engine was his life.
Whatever task he asked of her, she had to accomplish it.
She had a suspicion, though, from the way he was beaming, that she was not going to like it, whatever it was.
***
The air tasted of metal.
It buzzed as if stung with electricity, giving Berd the sensation of being out of her body. Perhaps there was some truth in the Theosophists’ belief of out-of-body sensations, after all.
She grimaced and the silent steel walls of the buildings, like two mirrors placed opposite, reflected it a thousand times, her images shrinking progressively until they vanished altogether. Almost as if it were foreshadowing that if Berd and Fotheringay could not escape, they would disappear into the Engine eternally.
Become energy.
She quickened her steps.
Berd scratched her neck. She had been scratching different parts of her anatomy for at least an hour, baffled as to why she was itching so much. Maybe she could start by asking him the reason she itched, and if he answered truthfully, she could then ask about the Engine.
This now provided her with another problem. If she was to speak with Fotheringay, she would have to use his first name. He had insisted on it back in the balloon. She supposed it was a fair request, for, if she wanted to change the way society thought in the area of equality, she would have to be prepared to change the way she thought, too, especially if it meant progress. Only why was it hard to speak to a man, especially this man.
She exhaled heavily. After her attempts at conversation, which admittedly could have gone much better, she was determined their next conversation succeed. He had offered to let her work on the Engine. In that sense, they were partners, and partners did not fear communication.
“Charles?” To her ears, her words sounded as if there was gravel in her mouth.
She was not alone in being uncomfortable.
His jaw worked, and she was convinced she must have upset him when he cleared his throat and gave the most fleeting of glances. “Forgive me, but I have not heard my name for a year.”
Berd could have sunk through the ground with mortification, but his explanation made perfect sense. She took this as a good sign to proceed to the next step of her plan and hoped she would not sound foolish as she asked, “Forgive me, but why do I want to ummm, scratch?”
“Scratch?” He frowned, as though momentarily thrown off by the change of subject. Then he grinned. “Ah! It’s your new growth. When I placed you in the river of energy, your wounds were healed. Think of scabs.”
Scabs? This itch was all over. Surely she hadn’t scabs all over. A more direct approach was needed. “What do you do to relieve the itch?”
“Ahh...mmm.” He would not meet her gaze as he answered. “I rolled on the ground.”
Roll on the ground! Now that was going from being a man to being a child. She swallowed, unsure how to respond.
Fotheringay must have sensed her confusion and abhorrence, because he quickly added, “Perhaps you could try this. The walls of the buildings are fairly cool to the touch. Why not press yourself against them? The cold might relieve the discomfort.”
The alternative did not sound much better. She could not imagine how pressing against a wall, even a reflective one, would help.
His face was flushed as though he could mind-read all her objections. He bowed stiffly. “I shall withdraw. Call me when you have finished. Pray do not take long.”
And then he was gone, suddenly, round the corner, his footfalls dying in her ears, and she was alone. The thought that he would desert her to retain ownership of his Engine flashed through her mind. She shook her head. Someone with that much pride wouldn’t desert her on such ridiculous pretences at the very least. Still in moments, she could not hear him and the narrowness of the alleyway only amplified her anxious breathing.
The intensity of his gaze as he looked out of the glass elevator returned, and she peered uncertainly at the rectangle of bright emptiness beyond the walls of the two buildings.
Maybe he was testing her.
She stepped close to the building and looked up. The sky was a ribbon of gold above her head. Then she pressed herself against the wall’s gleaming smoothness. Cold seeped through her clothes, sucking most of the itch straight out of her and replacing it with a sensation of numbness. Her arms sagged by her sides and soon grew weightless. Berd exhaled softly and closed her eyes. Fothering— No, Charles his name was. And Charles was right. This was good; she should have trusted him. If only she could remain like this forever. However, her other side still itched. She opened her eyes and pushed herself from the wall, her pleasure at the relief reflected in the mirror opposite. She grinned.
Her reflection grinned.
She winked.
It winked pleasantly back at her.
She was not alone.
“It was foolish to have been so bothered,” she whispered confidentially to her reflection.
It whispered back obligingly. As did the hundreds of diminishing images before her, only they did so one after the other. Taking it in turns as if there was a delay.
Her skin crawled. That was not how mirrors worked. She shook her head. No, this was impossible, she had to be mistaken. The humming had unnerved her.
She was not alone.
“I have got to get out of here,” she muttered, but even as she took a step back the hum intensified.
The wall shivered, like a cat twitching, as every image of her faded away, blending into the cold, grey steel. A point in the wall to her left bulged as if an elbow had been pressed into it, and then disappeared.
Her heart hammered against her chest. It had to be fatigue. It was making her see things that weren’t there.
She had thought this wall was solid steel, but maybe it was more like the brass cube. Even as she stared, she saw the wall thinning, the centre sagging as if it had gone soft like toffee t
hat had melted in the sun. And then an image pressed itself against the wall.
From the inside!
Berd froze as the image took form.
It pushed itself in frenetic motions against the wall, as if trying to get out. Trying to get to her.
Only the steel wall stood between them. Or what had been a steel wall. The features of the figure became clearer as the wall seemed to melt away. She recognised the face. Charles Fotheringay. But that was impossible!
Then the creature’s fingers broke through. She screamed, backing away rapidly, remembering how they had tightened round her throat, just as hands grasped her.
They closed.
She twisted, struggling to wrench them off, but the hands were too strong.
“Elizabeth? My lady!”
“No!” she shrieked. There was something wrong about all this. The arms were hard, but warm, not cold as she had imagined they would be.
Berd froze and stared down at her sleeves. These were Charles’s arms, not the apparition’s. She had mistaken his arms for the arms of the creature. Then she caught the stink of the real Charles Fotheringay’s leather outfit, of paraffin and more.
Berd blinked, and blinked again. Everything was returned to normal. She was back. Safe. She glanced round the glittering silver alley before focusing on Charles. Her heart-beat slowed a little and her breathing eased.
He stared at her, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”
She closed her eyes, sighed then opened them. When she was steady on her feet, he carefully released her and stepped away.
Charles’s hair was pushed back from his face, the dark circles under his eyes as obvious as the concern on his pale face. “What happened? You screamed.”
“I saw it. Something was trying to pull me into the wall.”
He frowned. “The wall? What wall? Why would anything want to pull you into the wall, if such a thing is even possible? I said to press against the wall. Not merge with it.”
“I am not an idiot. This wall tried to suck me into it.” Even as she turned, she knew the wall would be as it was before.
The Ghost Engine Page 5