The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  Petra crossed through an alley, following a path dirty with years of grime and neglect. Norris’s house was on the other side of the fourth quadrant, nestled into a row of houses that had once known better days. Sticking to the alleys, she made her way to his door and raised her hand to the knocker, rapping the iron ball hard against the wood. The rain soaked through her clothes and splattered on the brick pavers, coming down harder than ever. When no one came to the door, she felt a twinge of panic rise in her throat. She knocked a second time, and finally the door cracked open.

  Norris peered out from the dark house, his wavy blond hair combed to the side. He looked her up and down, taking in her sodden clothes and bare feet. “Well, you’re a mess,” he said, opening the door wide.

  “Thanks,” she said dryly. Shivering from the rain, she stepped inside.

  She hadn’t been to the Holland home in ages, and it looked no better than the last time she lost her wages at the card table—­smoke-­stained wallpaper peeling away from the edges, sagging and broken furniture, and a mauve threadbare carpet thrown across the dark wood floor.

  “I hear you’ve been sentenced to hang,” said Norris. He leaned against the wall and picked his fingernails. He smelled of cigar smoke. “Is that what it takes for you to come for a visit these days?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding her with an arched eyebrow. “What is it you did? Sol wouldn’t say.”

  “It’s better you don’t know,” she said, running her fingers through her wet hair. Rainwater dripped from her clothes onto the floor. “You wouldn’t happen to have a towel, would you? And something dry to wear? I’m soaked through, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, I noticed,” he said, a sly grin lifting his lips. “And I think I like this look on you,” he added, arching his eyebrows as his eyes trailed down her wet clothes. “It suits you.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Norris,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him as she shielded herself from his gaze. “I’m not one of your dollymops.”

  He laughed. “That you aren’t, love.”

  Petra folded her arms over her chest and waited for Norris to fetch her a towel. She was wet, cold, and alone, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this wretched place. But as much as she despised Norris and his penchant for crude remarks, she knew it was the safest place for her to be. Solomon was right, of course. The Guild knew nothing of her friendship with Norris and wouldn’t think to look for her here.

  Norris returned with a towel, and she started drying her hair.

  “Can I borrow some clothes?” she asked. “Something decent, mind.”

  Norris led her to his bedroom, and she waited in the doorway as he dug through his wardrobe, fetching trousers, some linen underthings, and a shirt. She didn’t doubt he had women’s clothes hidden somewhere in his room—­considering his reputation—­but she did not complain; she had grown to like trousers, glad to not have to bother with a chemise or petticoats.

  Norris handed her the bundle of clothes.

  “You wouldn’t have any spare stockings or shoes, would you?” she asked.

  Norris gave a little bow. “Anything for the lady.”

  He grabbed some stockings from a drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe and plucked a pair of shoes from next to the door. He squeezed into the doorway, almost nose-­to-­nose with Petra, and placed the shoes and stockings in her arms along with the clothes.

  She fidgeted uncomfortably at his closeness and tried to shrink into the door frame. “Norris . . .”

  He smiled his devious grin and chuckled. “You make it too easy, Petra,” he said, leaving the confined doorway and heading into the living room. He plopped down on the sofa and regarded her with a smile. “Should I promise not to peek while you change?”

  She glared. “You wouldn’t.”

  He merely shrugged.

  Narrowing her eyes, Petra closed the bedroom door between them and pressed flat against it, not willing to stake her modesty on Norris’s word. She changed out of the wet clothes, dried her cold, damp skin, and pulled on the dry garments, securing the trousers with a pair of suspenders. The shirt smelled distinctly of tobacco and shaving cream.

  After laying her wet clothes over the broken radiator against the wall, she regarded her appearance in the full-­length mirror. The rain had washed away most of the grime and filth she had accumulated over the past week, as well as the dried blood from her leg wound.

  Norris knocked on the door. “Are you changed, love?”

  “Yes,” she called. “You can come in now.”

  Petra turned back to the mirror, trying to organize her hair into something other than a tangled mess. Behind her, Norris strode into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as she twisted her hair into a bun. Petra was aware that if he wanted to, he had every opportunity to take advantage of her—­just the two of them, alone, in his house, in his bedroom—­and yet, he didn’t. Tolly would have, but Norris was not Tolly. He was worse in some ways, with his whoring, gambling, drinking, and smoking—­not to mention the way he talked to her—­but he never made any advances on her, never took any liberties with their familiarity.

  She finished her hair and then sat down on the low bench next to the wardrobe, pulling on the borrowed stockings and oversized shoes.

  “Going somewhere?” asked Norris.

  “There’s something I need to do.” She stood and fetched the folded note from her wet trousers, Emmerich’s home address scribbled across the soggy paper. She repeated the address over and over in her head, committing it to memory before squishing the note into pulp and tossing it into the fireplace.

  “You’re a wanted criminal, you know,” he said, following her out of the bedroom and into the living area. “They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Not until they find out I left.” It had been a few hours since she escaped, and if they fetched her supper tray untouched, surely they would check in on her. By her estimation, she had a half hour before that happened, plenty of time to let Emmerich know she was safe.

  “Well, as soon as they do, bobbies will swarm the place searching for you. They’ll be looking for a girl in boys’ clothing,” said Norris. “Stay here, love. You’ll be safe with me.”

  “I appreciate the concern, Norris, but I have someplace to be.” She crossed the room to the front door, but as she laid her hand on the handle, Norris gripped her by the arm.

  “Your brother sent you here to stay.”

  Petra jerked her arm free. “I’ll be back soon.” She opened the door, greeted by the rain.

  “At least take my coat,” said Norris, reaching across her to fetch his jacket from the coatrack. He carefully draped it over her shoulders and set a newsboy cap on her head, hiding her hair. With a sigh, he laid his hand on her shoulder, concern in his eyes. “Be careful, Petra, and hurry back.”

  “I will.”

  Turning up the collar of her coat, she stepped once again into the rain and headed for the second quadrant.

  Chapter 14

  PETRA CREPT TOWARD Farringdon Crescent under the protection of the rain, keeping the collar of Norris’s coat turned up against spying eyes. The moment the alert went out for her arrest, every gossiping lady and duty-­bound gentleman would be on the search. She could not afford to be noticed, not even by a door boy. She passed clusters of shoppers, huddled beneath shop awnings and umbrellas. The trolley-­lift whizzed overhead, its wheels pushing water from the guide rails into the street. Men bolstered their umbrellas like shields against the torrent, and women lifted their heavy, sodden skirts above their ankles. No one glanced her way, all too preoccupied with the rain to care about a boy wandering down the street. Petra realized she should have kept her wet clothes on. She was again soaked to the bone, Norris’s coat doing little to buff
er the rain.

  She found the address, a quaint little town house set in the middle of Farringdon Crescent—­white-­washed brick, wrought-­iron accents, and an impressive bay window to the left of the royal blue door. There were no bobbies in sight.

  The dining room beyond the rain-­streaked glass hosted a number of ­people. Emmerich’s father sat at the head of the table, surly and glowering. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Goss sat at his right, her back ramrod straight and porcelain hands poised daintily above her plate. Next to her was a young lady Petra did not recognize, and next to her sat Emmerich, looking rather bored. He shared a polite smile when the girl next to him laughed, but the smile did not reach his eyes. On the other side of the table sat a young gentleman, and two other young ladies Petra didn’t recognize.

  Petra watched Emmerich from outside, hardly noticing the rain splattering against her face. She admired the dimple in his cheek when he spoke and the way his hair fell around his eyes. The girl next to him placed her hand on his wrist—­a light, deliberate touch—­and she demurely batted her eyes at him, a triumphant grin playing on her lips.

  A sudden swell of anger rose within Petra’s chest, and she glared at the girl. “Don’t you dare touch my Emmerich,” she muttered. The sound of her own voice surprised her.

  Emmerich casually drew his arm away, clasping his hands beneath his chin. The girl visibly pouted before engaging the young gentleman across from her in conversation. Emmerich’s eyes wandered to the window, and even through the rain, his eyes were as fiery as ever, blazing with the warmth of molten copper. Whether or not he could see her through the gray mask of rain, Petra did not know. How she wished to be close to him, to be in his arms again, gazing into those beautiful eyes.

  She lifted her hand, a half wave in his direction. Emmerich stood up so fast he knocked his wineglass across the table, its contents spilling liberally onto the floor. He appeared not to hear his mother’s chiding or the shrieks of the girl next to him as she pointed out a maroon stain seeping into her vest. Petra lowered her arm, and Emmerich came to his senses and sat back down, apologizing to the girl as she dabbed at her clothes.

  She could probably leave now that he knew she was all right, but he needed to know where to find her in case Solomon hadn’t told him the address. She wanted to speak with him face-­to-­face; she wanted him to explain everything he couldn’t put in his letter, everything that had made her doubt him since the trial.

  Petra sloshed toward the front door, stomping up the stairs in her oversized shoes. She rapped three times on the door. Chairs scraped across the floor—­one of them Emmerich’s, she guessed. She hoped he would be the one to answer the door. Should anyone else find her standing there, she would be shunted away or detained until the police arrived. She began to regret her haste.

  Mrs. Goss’s voice rang out in a thick, throaty accent—­French, from what Petra could tell. “Sit down, the both of you. We have maids for a reason. Kristiane, fetch the door.”

  Petra exhaled a sigh of relief and waited for the door to open. Emmerich had said she could trust Kristiane. The door opened a crack and an older woman appeared, wearing a crisp black dress with white cuffs, her graying hair pulled tightly into a bun. With the door open, Petra could hear the dinner conversation amidst the clamor of forks and knives.

  “I say, Victoria, have you found yourself a beau yet?” asked one of the young women.

  “She is just thirteen,” said Emmerich’s mother. “Hardly old enough to have any admirers. I should expect to have a grandchild by Emmerich before young Victoria begins thinking of husbands.”

  Both Victoria and Emmerich cried at once, “Mother!”

  Marriage. Children. Petra hadn’t really considered either before. Always, her mind had been on machines, and as Tolly often told her, no man wanted to marry an engineer—­they wanted a wife—­and she had always assumed that she couldn’t have both a husband and a career. That was the way of things. But Emmerich could marry and start a family and still be an engineer. Why could she not have the same? Her heart thudded thickly in her throat. Could they not both get what they wanted?

  Kristiane’s voice carried over the dinner conversation, snapping Petra’s attention back to the housekeeper standing in the doorway. “As I said, I’m sorry, sir, but the family is busy right now. Why don’t you come back another time?”

  “Kristiane,” she said. “I—­uh—­I know we haven’t met, but—­” She lowered her voice. “Emmerich said to contact you once I was safe.” She lifted the hat from her eyes and brushed her drenched hair aside. “I’m Petra.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened, her eyebrows shooting up. “Oh goodness me. No wonder Master Emmerich is acting so unusual. Come. Get out of the rain.”

  Kristiane opened the door wider and gestured for Petra to enter. She hesitated. Mr. Goss was a member of the Guild council. If he were to step out of the dining room and see her . . . She might as well have walked straight to the police house. Before she could communicate to Kristiane that she was fine standing on the landing, the woman ushered her inside. She grabbed towels from a hall closet and began dabbing Petra’s clothes. “Should I fetch Master Emmerich, Miss Wade?”

  “Yes—­erm—­tell him it’s someone else, anyone else.”

  Kristiane shuffled toward the dining room doors, and Petra listened to the conversation beyond.

  “Now Emmerich, we all know your parents wish you to marry a woman of high social standing,” said one of the young women. “She makes no secret of that, nor do any of our parents. And, of course, who wouldn’t wish to see their daughter on the arm of esteemed Guild engineer Emmerich Goss?”

  “You are quite blunt, Charlotte, if you don’t mind me saying so,” said Emmerich, saying her given name without the slightest hint of hesitation. Petra could almost see the smile on his lips as he spoke.

  “Honesty is a virtue,” she replied. “I see no reason to disguise the truth, especially not in the company of friends. Because we are friends, are we not, dear Emmerich?”

  At that moment Kristiane disappeared into the dining room.

  “What is it?” snapped Mr. Goss.

  “A Mr. Roland, sir, to see Master Emmerich.”

  A chair scraped across the floor.

  “Oh, sit down,” said Mrs. Goss. “Kristiane, we are having dinner. Do tell Mr. Roland to come back another time.”

  “I am sure it will only take a moment,” said Emmerich.

  “And be deprived of your company?” said Charlotte. “I think not.”

  “Sit,” said Emmerich’s father firmly.

  “Perhaps I should take a message?” asked Kristiane.

  “That would be kind of you,” said Emmerich, scooting his chair back toward the table. “Thank you.”

  Kristiane returned to the foyer, her mouth contorted into a frown. “What is it you would like me to tell him, Miss Wade?”

  “Perhaps I could write it down,” said Petra.

  Kristiane fetched a pad of paper and a pen from the desk and placed them in Petra’s hands. She began to scribble her message, though she had no need to write anything down. She only wanted to stay a moment longer, to hear Emmerich’s voice again, perhaps catch a glimpse of him, see his smile.

  Emmerich spoke. “Charlotte, if I may, let me be a bit frank as well.”

  “Oh, please do.”

  “As the purpose of this dinner seems to be in the interest of procuring spouses, I must be honest with you and say that I have no interest in marrying either of you, and I mean that with the utmost deference to your character.”

  “Chéri, how can you say such a thing?” asked his mother. “Miss Bordeaux and Miss Louis would make fine wives.”

  “I have no doubt they will make fine wives for someone, but not me, Mother,” said Emmerich. “I did not mean to offend. I only meant that neither of them encompass the kind of woman I wi
sh to commit myself to.”

  Petra stared at the pen and paper in her hands, her heart racing. He must know she stood in the foyer, dripping water onto the floor, listening to his words.

  “Are you spoken for?” asked the other young gentleman.

  “A secret lover, brother?” said Victoria. “How scandalous.”

  “Do tell us her name, Emmerich.”

  “Enough,” said Mr. Goss, slamming his hands on the table. “This conversation is over. We will continue our dinner without such familiar chatter. Miss Bordeaux, Miss Louis, I apologize to you both on behalf of my son’s indiscretion. He should know better.”

  Silence followed his voice, like the opposite of an echo.

  Petra remembered the note and looked down at her short message:

  I am safe. Staying with a friend, Kristiane knows the address. We need to talk.

  She tore the page from the pad, folded it in half, and handed the note to Kristiane. “When Emmerich wishes to speak with me, you take his message to Norris Holland, fifteen Tilling Close, the north side of the fourth quadrant. I’ll be there.”

  A racket of scooting chairs rose from the dining room.

  “Emmerich, if you will join me in the parlor,” said Mr. Goss.

  “You should go, miss. I will deliver the message,” said Kristiane, clutching the folded note to her chest. She opened the door and shoved Petra out.

  Petra glimpsed back into the foyer. The French doors to the dining room swung open and Emmerich stepped into the hall, followed by the other gentleman. She could not help but smile at the sight of him—­a tall, muscular figure, with his sharp jaw and dark hair, a striking profile in the light of the wall sconces. He glanced toward the door and their eyes met. He ran his fingers through his hair, a grin playing on his lips as his eyes took in the sight of her, drowning in her oversized clothing, soaked through with rainwater. His companion, admiring a painting on the wall, did not see her.