The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  “But why?” she asked. “Why would your father want such a thing? Why would anyone?”

  Emmerich stared at the mix of letters and notes spread across his desk, rubbing his brow. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. War for the sake of war lacks true purpose.” He tapped his pencil against the table. “What we need to figure out is how the Guild benefits from a war between Great Britain and anti-­imperialist forces. If we can find the motive behind the war, we will be better able to find the evidence to pin this gross machination on the conspirators and prove your innocence.”

  Petra frowned at him, his gaze fixed on a scrap of paper, pencil held aloft. He was determined to see this through, determined to destroy the automaton designs and reveal the treachery within the Guild council, but she wasn’t certain they could succeed—­not with just the two of them working to uncover the conspiracy, and not before it was too late and the war began. It would take a miracle.

  There came a knock at the door a quarter past five. Emmerich answered, rubbing his eyes after staring at nothing but letters and maps for the past several hours.

  “I said I did not want to be bothered, Kristiane.”

  “I know, sir, but your father sent word from the University.” She passed him a folded letter, which he tucked away. “Also, we have dinner ready for you if you would like to come down to the dining room.”

  “Thank you, Kristiane.” He closed the door and returned to his desk. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he scanned the contents, then dropped it onto the desktop and ran both hands through his hair, a smile slowly lifting his lips.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He gestured to the letter, and Petra picked it up.

  Emmerich,

  I require your presence in the University council chambers to participate in an imperative discussion of the events to come. By my request, Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon has agreed to offer you this opportunity to prove yourself to the council and secure yourself a position within the upper ranks of the Guild offices. This is a chance for you to be a part of a new world order, to have a hand in the future. Our goal is to change the world, son, and I want you to understand what it is we are doing.

  The meeting is at six o’clock.

  There was no signature, only a fine line scratched across the bottom of the message.

  Petra looked up from the letter. “Are you going?

  “We need to gather more information. What better place to do so than at a council meeting? This might be our chance to expose the conspirators, to clear your name. If I can direct conversation toward the planning of the conspiracy, I might be able to goad the collaborators into revealing their treachery from their own lips.”

  It was a stretch, but not entirely impossible. Petra wished she could go with him, but as a wanted criminal, tried by the very ­people attending the meeting, she was stuck in the house. Emmerich would have to fill her in on the details when he returned.

  “What should I do while you’re away?” she asked.

  He took his coat from the coat stand next to the door. “You could look over these letters again, try to find some connection I missed—­or you could take the evening off. We’ve been hard at work all afternoon. It wouldn’t hurt for you to take a break. You are welcome to stay in my chambers while I’m gone, if you wish, but you should go down and have dinner first.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Come, I’ll escort you down.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE IN the kitchen was an escape from the silence in the rest of the house. Harriet, Josie, Biddy, and Kristiane sat around the table, laughing and chatting over a spread of food, waiting for Petra to arrive. When she entered, they ceased their talking.

  Petra swallowed, trying to think of some excuse for being absent most of the day. “Sorry, I—­I was busy this afternoon, cleaning—­”

  “It’s all right, goose,” said Harriet, patting the chair next to her. “We don’t blame you for disappearing for a bit, especially on your first day. It can be a bit overwhelming at first. Sometimes, you need a breather.”

  Petra sat down next to Harriet and surveyed the table. Biddy had outdone herself.

  The shepherd’s pie was deliciously hot, still steaming on her plate. Petra cut into the crispy, mashed potato crust and savored the meaty filling. If she and Emmerich ever did manage to marry and have a house of their own, they would most certainly steal Biddy to come cook for them, even if she was the only servant they could afford. Her cooking was divine.

  After they all finished eating, they cleaned up, and once the dishes were put away and the leftover food stored in the ice box, Harriet bid the girls a good evening and left to visit her sister. Then Josie went off to visit a friend and Biddy retired to her room with a book, leaving Kristiane and Petra alone in the kitchen.

  The housekeeper kept her eyes on the door, listening as the girls’ footsteps faded down the hall, then turned to Petra, smoothing the front of her dress. “I’m afraid that I must leave you as well, Miss Wade, but since you cannot leave the house in your current situation, if you would like me to deliver a message to someone—­your family, perhaps—­I would be happy to oblige.”

  The only person Petra really cared to talk to was at the University, hopefully gathering enough evidence to clear her name, but she supposed Matron Etta would like to hear from her, and Solomon too. She could at least let them know that she was safe. “Yes, thank you. If I gave you an address, do you think you could find my guardian, let her know that I’m all right?”

  “Certainly.”

  Petra penned the address on a bit of paper and made sure that Kristiane understood exactly where the building was in relation to the main thoroughfare. Beyond the main streets, the fourth quadrant was a maze of dead ends and left turns, all the buildings the same except for the numbers printed above the doors—­and those were in no right order or sense. Kristiane slipped the note into her pocket and bid Petra farewell, leaving her alone in the overwhelming quiet of the house—­except for Biddy, who was downstairs in her room.

  Petra was certain she had never known such utter silence. At home, with Matron Etta and her countless siblings, there was never a quiet moment. There, she had always wished for solitude, but now, standing in the foyer of the Goss household, with no one to talk to and nothing to do, she felt lonely. She hoped Emmerich would return soon.

  Ascending the stairs, she went into his study. She tried reading, settling herself in the desk chair with a textbook on steam power, but her eyes glazed over after the second sentence. Water and steam didn’t have the same artistry as clockwork.

  There was beauty in a complex array of gears.

  Petra placed the book face down on the desktop. One of the machines decorating Emmerich’s shelves drew her gaze, and she rose from the desk for a closer look. It was a tiny, triangular thing, barely the size of her palm. She wondered what it was supposed to do but saw no schematics or design outlines for it, only a smattering of tiny gears and springs not yet added to the device. Whatever it was, Emmerich had crafted it so beautifully, so delicate and ornate, with a filigree of gilded brass fixed to a clockwork center, that she feared if she touched it, it would break.

  Moving on, she admired the other machines he had built—­the brass marionette and the bucking horse, a musical dancer that moved with incredible precision and grace, a wind-­up carriage, and a mechanical bird that chirped a brassy tune—­all artfully designed, no practicality or purpose to them beyond pure entertainment, merely beauty for the sake of beauty. In that moment, Petra felt a rush of affection toward Emmerich. Here was a man who looked upon a collection of gears and metal and thought only of how to transform it into art—­and the Guild had corrupted that.

  Drifting away from the machines, she dared to investigate the rest of Emmerich’s chambers. She found his bedroom ordinary—­relatively clean, with a few things scattered here and there across the floor. His bed was unmade,
with a ­couple of garments tossed over the bed railing. The room smelled like him, a hint of metal and oil lingering in the air, brought home from his hours of work at the University. Breathing in the scent of him, she sat on the bed and lay back on the pillow, missing his warmth.

  As she lay there, exhaustion fell upon her, only just realizing how tired she was. The comfort of his bed lulled her into drowsy contentment, and she wrapped herself up his sheets and blankets, enveloped in his scent and the daydream of his warmth, wishing only that it was his arms around her instead of mere blankets. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, remembering the late nights they used to spend in the University workshops, designing the automaton that had gotten them into this mess. But as she lay there in his bed, with the memory of his lips against hers and the sound of his voice as he told her he loved her, she didn’t regret a thing.

  PETRA WOKE TO the gray light of morning coming in through the large casement window on the other side of the room. The sun was not yet high enough above the city walls to cast its yellow glow onto the street, leaving the house a bit chilly. She had been dreaming of Emmerich, of his warm body next to hers, whispers of love between them. Even awake, she still felt his warmth, his metallic smell in the air. Her eyes still closed, she inhaled deeply, drinking the air as she held onto the last remnant of her dream.

  Sleepily, she propped herself up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. With a jolt, she realized she had fallen asleep in Emmerich’s bed, and wondered if perhaps the sensation of lying beside him had been more than a dream, but as she blinked the room into view, she saw that he wasn’t there. The clock above his mantel read a little after six o’clock. Perhaps he had already risen, or never returned home. The thought worried her.

  She fell back on the pillow, hoping to sleep a bit longer.

  A sharp rap at the study door spoiled her wishes—­it was probably Kristiane or Josie come to look for her. Her roommate would have noticed her absence the night before. Maybe if she didn’t answer, they’d go away.

  “Emmerich, get out of bed,” said Mr. Goss, his voice booming from the hallway. “We have work to do.”

  Petra’s heart jumped into her throat, and she leapt out of bed, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she searched for a place to hide. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform rumpled and creased from wearing it as a nightgown. Posing as a maid cleaning Emmerich’s room was out of the question. His father would recognize her, with or without a tidy uniform.

  “Emmerich . . .” He opened the door with a growl.

  With no other option, Petra dropped to the floor on the far side of the bed, slowly wedging herself as far under it as she could, covering her head with a bit of blanket that had fallen to the floor. Mr. Goss’s heavy footsteps clunked across the room, stopping just on the other side of the bed. Petra dared not move—­or breathe—­her heart pounding violently against her ribs. She prayed he could not hear.

  “Where is that damned boy?” he muttered.

  “Father?” Emmerich entered the room and dropped his knapsack on the floor with a thud. “What are you doing in my room?”

  Petra barely bit back her sigh of relief.

  “Looking for you,” replied his father. “Where have you been? You are supposed to be at the University in twenty minutes.”

  “Am I? What for?”

  Emmerich’s father snarled. “I told you yesterday. You have a meeting with Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon this morning, at half past six. If you miss it, he will not consider your junior council member application.”

  Emmerich exhaled sharply. “And I told you—­I have no desire to be on the junior council. I’m not interested in the bureaucracy of the Guild. I’m an engineer, not a politician.”

  “You will go, Emmerich, or I swear to you now, when we find your little girlfriend, I’ll be certain she goes straight to the noose for her crimes.”

  Emmerich hesitated, and Petra could feel the weight of his glare, even from her hiding place. “You gave your word that you’d leave her alone.”

  “In exchange for your loyalty,” said Emmerich’s father. “You will go to the meeting.”

  “Fine,” he growled.

  “Don’t be late.” His father stormed out of the bedroom and slammed both the door to the study and the one to the hall.

  The moment he was gone, Emmerich sighed and collapsed on the mattress. “Bastard.”

  Petra carefully crawled out from underneath the bed and sat up on her knees, spying Emmerich lying across the bed, his arms folded comfortably behind his head, his eyes closed. With a lopsided grin, he inhaled a deep breath and mumbled, “It smells like Petra in here.”

  She bit back a laugh and tenderly brushed his hair away from his eyes. “Good morning,” she whispered, stroking his soft hair.

  He blinked his eyes open with a frown and glanced up at her from the bed. “Petra?” Unfolding his arms from behind his head, he sat up with a confused grin, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He had dark circles under his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I fell asleep.”

  “You slept here—­in my bed?” His smile tilted as he said it.

  “A bit,” she said, her face flushing. “I didn’t mean to. I just—­I was just looking around, and I sat down, and—­” She pressed her lips together, disarmed by the smile spreading across his lips. “What?”

  “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

  She blushed even harder.

  He only smiled and reached out his hand. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”

  Petra took his hand, and he pulled her onto the bed, not at all gracefully. She tumbled into the blankets and landed beside him, their faces just mere inches apart. Her focus landed on his lips, acutely aware of his closeness, his warmth, the feel of his breath on her skin, and without another thought she closed her eyes and kissed him. His hand gently fell upon her waist, and her heartbeat quickened. She leaned into him, pressing her body against his, reveling in the ecstasy of kissing him, of lying here in his arms with no worries of the world on her mind.

  Finally, she pulled away. “You’re going to be late for your meeting.”

  Emmerich glanced at the clock and frowned—­just ten minutes until he was supposed to meet Lyndon. He released a heavy sigh. “I would much rather stay here with you,” he said, slipping his hand into hers and lifting her fingers to his lips.

  “Me too.”

  Grudgingly, he climbed out of bed and ran some water at the sink, splashing his face and wetting his hair. He quickly combed his fingers through the damp mess and fetched a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, at least having the decency to change behind a screen.

  Petra sat up on the edge of the bed. “So, where were you last night?”

  “At the University,” he said, tossing his worn clothes aside. “After the council meeting was over, I stayed behind, trying to find evidence against Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon and my father. I ended up staying through the night.” He resurfaced fully dressed again, grabbing his suspenders and looping them into place.

  “And did you find anything?” she asked.

  “Maybe. As I was digging through some communications between Lyndon and my father, trying to find their motive, I started thinking about it, and I might have an idea why they started this whole thing in the first place.” He leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms over his chest, his suspenders hanging limply from his trousers. “Profit.”

  “Money?”

  “Think about it—­if Great Britain goes to war with another country, the Guild stands to profit most. Think of the arms race a technological war would inspire, with the Guild secretly dealing to both sides, making money off their need to build bigger, faster, stronger machines. That’s why whoever framed you sold designs to the anti-­imperialists. It was all part of their plan to incite conflict, to
lure Great Britain into mobilizing.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Not enough.” He fetched his knapsack from the other end of the room and heaved it onto the tousled blankets. “Anything that might implicate the conspirators and expose their plot is in there, but we need more. We need something irrefutable. We should search the other offices tonight, once everyone leaves.” He gestured to the pack. “It won’t be long before this is all found missing, and then we’ll really be in trouble. Also—­” He reached into the front pocket of the knapsack. “I found these.” He held his hands aloft, his fingers clasped tightly around the secret objects. “I thought you might like them back.”

  Petra crawled off the bed, and when he opened his hands, she beamed. “You didn’t!”

  “Under lock and key, but I found them.”

  She took the pocket watch and screwdriver into her hands, holding them as if they were the greatest treasures in the world—­to her, they were. She stroked the intricate C on the pocket watch case, the familiarity of its shape a comfort to her. Now, she had in her possession all three keepsakes of her mother and her past life—­the watch, the screwdriver, and the ring. She touched the ring hidden beneath her blouse, resolving to show Emmerich later.

  He quickly slipped on his shoes and tied the laces. “This meeting shouldn’t take long. I expect my father has already paid for my position, so I don’t much see the point of the interview, but as he seems intent on using you to get what he wants from me, I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.” He stood and glanced at the clock. “All right, I have to go.” He kissed her lightly on the lips and stroked his thumb across her cheek. “I should be back soon, and then we’ll go over our plans.”