Ticker

EIGHT

In Which the Language of Flowers Speaks Volumes

I was dead. That was the only explanation for the flowers that greeted me upon waking: flame-colored dahlias and jewel-toned chrysanthemums crowded next to dainty offerings of lavender asters and deeply purple pansies. Death wouldn’t necessarily explain the candy, though. Striped boxes of caramel creams and apricot jellies were tied up with bows and set between the bouquets. A stuffed bear stood silent guard over a jar of Well-Wishes that brimmed over with calling cards.

Reaching out a trembling finger, I touched the coverlet and realized I was alive. But I didn’t need a doctor to tell me I hadn’t much time left. That was something I could feel, the way another person might intuit they’d broken a bone or twisted a ligament. The header over the Vitesse’s handlebars had inflicted the last bit of damage the Ticker could take. With my eyes closed, breathing shallow and labored, I could travel in my mind’s eye to the clockwork heart of me, see the mainsprings uncoiled, the wheels slightly off-balance. Instead of the precise cadence of marching soldiers, the device wobbled and faltered. A clockmaker would have stopped its hands. Put it out of its misery.

Voices in the corridor proved a welcome distraction, descending in volume as their owners went down the stairs.

“Thank you, Doctor Carmody. I appreciate you checking in on her.” That one belonged to Dreadnaught.

The second was unfamiliar but somber. “I just wish the damage weren’t so extensive. As it is, I’m not qualified to do any repairs to the ventriculator.” The front door opened, and I could barely make out the next bit. “There’s still the possibility of a concussion . . . keep an eye on her . . . any change in her condition, send for an ambulance.”

With great effort, I pushed off the blankets and lifted myself from the heap of pillows. My head felt like a silk balloon, impossibly light, drifting with the wind. If I fell, I’d land with a gentle bump and then deflate, I was sure of it. No harm in getting up.

It took a single step to prove that notion wrong. Crossing the room might as well have been an excursion to Glacia via ice floe. The smallest of movements shot cold arrows of pain up my legs and down my arms. Arriving at the mirror, I took inventory of the rest of my injuries: stitches on my forehead, a purple-blue bruise on my jaw, and more scrapes than I could count with a tabulating machine. My skin felt raw, as though the barest of whispers would strip it from my bones.

But I was more ghost than skeleton, and even ghosts want company.

I forced one foot in front of the other, continuing the painful trek across the room, through the door, down the hall. I passed Nic’s chamber, trailing my scraped hand over the wood paneling. Though there was no one to deny me entry, I still tiptoed inside Dimitria’s room.

Everything was just as she’d left it. A soft blue brocade quilt and a dozen tasseled pillows decorated the bed. Her desk was as neat as mine was messy: her fountain pen sat in the tray on the inkwell; a clear space was left for the stack of accounting ledgers she’d always brought home with her from the factory. Organized, punctual, and poised to work alongside Ambrose Farnsworth as factory supervisor, she had been a far more capable manager than I could ever hope to be.

As though drawn by invisible strings, I drifted to her Cylindrella. Hundreds of recordings occupied an adjacent cabinet. One yet sat on the turntable. The few rotations of the winding arm I could manage caused flares of pain in my shoulders, but that was nothing compared to the ache in my Ticker as music filled the room.

“Come to me, child of mine, rest your weary head,” sang a soprano over faint hisses and pops. “No harm will come to you, child of mine, so long as I watch over you . . .”

I sat upon my sister’s bed, already lost to the memories. She’d been getting ready for her eighteenth birthday party, humming happily as she dressed. A stunning bouquet of bloodred roses sat on her dressing table, richly glowing. We chattered about everything and nothing at all while I pulled on my stockings and adjusted my many ribbons. She laughed, stepped out of her dressing gown, and reached for her party frock.

That was the moment I’d seen it: the white-fire glint of diamanté.

I leapt at her, reaching for the chain hanging about her neck. “Demy, what is that?”

Blue eyes widening, she pulled away from me and clasped her robe to her throat as though hiding some terrible secret. “Oh, Tuppence!”

It was the silliest of nicknames, left over from our days in the nursery, but I wasn’t about to be shoved back into pinafores. Not when there were secrets in the air. “When did all this happen?”

“A few months ago,” she said after a moment, “at the lantern-light party. Do you remember the one?”

I did. The ice on the river had been all the colors of the aurora borealis. Warwick had been adorably awkward on his skates. Sebastian and Nic had bought bag after bag of hot chestnuts for us to warm our hands. Violet’s nose had been redder than a cherry, and Dimitria had had snow in her eyelashes.

“Calvin kissed me behind the oak tree,” she confessed.

There were certain things that sisters were obliged to discuss at great length, one of them being the exchange of affections, proper or improper. So, while I ought to have asked her how it came to pass and whether she enjoyed it, my unguarded response was “Ew!”

With a soft sigh, Dimitria sat upon the bed next to me. “Don’t say that. It was lovely!”

She was embarking on a grand adventure, leaving me behind once again. “What’s it like? Falling in love, I mean.”

Dimitria slipped her hand into mine, and it was colder than expected though color splashed her cheeks. “Like my heart was an anchor dropped from the side of a boat. He’s a very dear man. I knew that from the first day he came here and started tending to you. But he’s so much more than the sum of his work—”

“I hope he at least asked your permission before he kissed you.” When she started to answer, I tugged my hand away and plugged my fingers deep within my ears. “Never mind. I don’t want to know any more of the sordid details!”

“Oh, I think you do.” She lowered her dressing gown by inches until I could see that the glitter-glint I’d spotted earlier was no mere pendant, but a diamanté ring.

That could mean only one thing. “You’re engaged?”

“We’re going to tell everyone tonight at the party,” she said, the radiant look on her face all the answer I needed. “At midnight, just after we have cake. Calvin is so nervous, but I bought him a pocket watch and set it according to the Carillon Bell Tower. He’ll know the very second it’s time to announce the news.”

After that, there had been a flurry of hugging, a few tears shed, and much smothered nervous laughter as we finished dressing and hurried downstairs to the party. Mama had outdone herself with the decorations, and the dining room looked like a sort of fairyland. There were blue and gold banners with ribbon streamers, beeswax candles, bowls of fruit and flowers. I placed a tinsel crown on Dimitria’s head. Nic escorted her to the birthday throne. The butler and ten liveried men delivered course after course to the dining room, each received with applause and appreciative appetites.

By the time we had reached the dessert course, I thought I might burst from all the food, but such qualms were stifled by the arrival of the SugarWerks Carry-Away Box. I caught Warwick surreptitiously glancing at his pocket watch and knew that in a few seconds, Dimitria would make her big announcement. I prepared myself for another round of hugging and happy tears.

“Happy be long years before you, skies a-gleam with sunshine o’er you,” we sang as Mama set the box down before my sister with a smile. “The greatest of things have yet to be seen!”

The clock on the mantelpiece had ticked down to midnight. Dimitria and I exchanged a short, knowing look, and then her gaze shifted to Warwick. He smiled back at her with wonder and light in his eyes, and I felt like a trespasser upon their happiness.

“Ten . . . nine . . .”

Unseen gears within the Carry-Away Box whirred to life.

“Eight . . . seven . . . six . . .”

The vibration shuddered through the table.

“Five . . . four . . .”

The lid to the box slid back.

“Three . . . two . . . one.”

The clocks around the house had begun to sound the first of twelve chimes. Sparklers ignited as they grated across the pyrolant rails inside the box. The cake spiraled up, spitting embers of gold and silver. The towering confection came to a standstill, and there was a hushed silence.

Mama pressed a kiss to Dimitria’s cheek. “Make a wish, darling.”

The greatest of things have yet to be seen.

In the midst of the cheers and clapping, Dimitria had turned very white. I saw the look upon her face. Felt it burn into my memory.

“Mama.” My own heart seemed to block my throat, strangling the word. “Warwick . . .”

Before I could say anything more, my sister had slumped back in her chair and everything descended into chaos. Screaming. The table shoved aside, the cake forgotten, the gold pocket watch dropped on the rug. The servants scattered. I pressed myself against the far wall, watching Warwick trying to revive her with chest compressions and smelling salts.

“Don’t leave me,” he muttered, working furiously. “You can’t.”

It had seemed to work when Dimitria took the scantest of breaths and whispered something to him. He gathered her up in his arms, tears streaming down his face. I saw her hand reach for his, but it fell slack to the carpet before it found its mark. By the time the ambulance arrived, Dimitria’s lips were blue. Papa pried Warwick away from my sister’s body, but I was the one who dragged him into the hall.

“She can’t die,” he said again, even as the light faded from his eyes.

That night had claimed my older sister. Cygna had been torn from us long ago. And this week took Mama, Papa, and Nic from me.

It seemed as if I might be the only Farthing left.

Dreadnaught found me in Dimitria’s room, holding one of her pillows to my cheek. Without a word, she carried me back to my own bed.

“They took Nic, Dreadnaught,” I murmured as she thoroughly tucked me in. “They put a bag over his head and shoved him in a car.” I couldn’t stop seeing it.

The chatelaine wrung out a compress and pressed it to my sweaty forehead. “The Ferrum Viriae are still looking for him. Mister Kingsley was here, wanting to see you, but he had to leave before you woke up. He said to tell you he has every available unit tracking down the car that ran you off the road.”

“It won’t do any good.” I averted my face from her sympathetic gaze. “Warwick has been a step ahead of us since the very beginning.”

Dreadnaught retrieved a steaming cup from my night table. “Ginger tea,” she said, quite unnecessarily as it filled the room with the aroma of spice cookies. Reassured that I could hold it without dousing the bedding, she went to fetch an invalid’s fare: blancmange, softly white and wibbling on its plate. Dreadnaught subscribed to Mrs. Chewitt’s Household Guide, and I could well imagine the chapter headed “For Delicate Stomachs and Those Recovering from Sickness.”

“Start with that,” she instructed. “If it stays down, we’ll see about something heartier. You’ve only had broth spooned down your throat for the better part of three days.” She hesitated then added, “I hope you’ll forgive the impropriety, Miss Penny, but I also wound your Ticker for you every morning.”

Three days. Three days I’d been unconscious. Three days Nic had been missing. Had he found his way to Warwick? Had he seen our parents?

“There’s absolutely nothing to forgive, Dreadnaught. Thank you for caring for me.” I summoned a smile as wobbly as the pudding. “I’m lucky to have you.”

The chatelaine gently patted my hand. “If the pain gets to be too much, the doctor left some drops on the side table.” She paused to note the jinglejangle of approaching zippers and buckles.

Violet appeared at the door to my room, wearing her battered brown leather “stealth” jacket, a miniature top hat, and a worried expression. The strap to a SugarWerks Carry-Away Box was looped over her shoulder. “I showed the guards at the door my clearance from Marcus, and they let me in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Dreadnaught trumpeted. “I’m going to recheck all the doors and windows. Make certain she drinks that,” she ordered, pointing at the cup of ginger tea before hastening from the room.

Divested of coat, gloves, hat, and Carry-Away Box, Violet wrapped my hands about the cup and forced me to take a sip. Only when most of the tea was gone did she speak.

“They took him, didn’t they?”

“Yes.” I waited for the usual reassurances, that Nic was a fighter, that the Ferrum Viriae tracked them, even now. “He said . . . he said to tell you that he was sorry.” Violet said nothing. When the silence stretched impossibly thin, I ventured to ask, “You love him, don’t you?”

Not a moment’s hesitation. “Yes. Are you upset?” A light shone in her eyes more wonderful and awful than tears.

“Upset? Not remotely.” I sat up as best I could, undoing most of Dreadnaught’s diligent tucking in.

Violet reached for my hand, the silver rings she wore only marginally colder than her fingers, her expression shifting to one of fierce determination. “We have to get him back, Penny.”

“We will, Vi.” It was a promise made, one heart to another.

Dreadnaught returned with a silver tray that held a full tea service and a smaller tray that offered up a crisp, clean calling card. “You have another visitor. The Legatus is back. He’s most anxious to speak with you.”

“Send him up, please.”

Dreadnaught hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I’m not at all certain your parents would approve of a gentleman paying you a call in your bedroom, crisis or not.”

I squirmed impatiently against the pillows. “I doubt anything untoward will happen, but should the romance of the situation overwhelm him and he attempt to ravish me before your very eyes, you may knock him out with a tray.”

“I’m glad to see neither your spirits nor your powers of sarcasm were injured in your accident.” Dreadnaught opened the doors to the clothes press and pulled out a foamy, frothing concoction of lace and ribbons.

Violet was startled into a hoot of laughter. “By all the Bells, what is that?”

“A bed jacket from my Grandmother Pendleton.” I glowered my hardest despite the lance of pain such a mighty frown caused. “The woman has both atrocious taste in gifts and medieval ideas as to what a young lady should wear.”

“It’s perfect,” Dreadnaught said, handing it over to Violet and hurrying from the room.

“I’m allergic to fuss,” I protested.

Violet tied the ribbons and fluffed the lace ruffles, enjoying herself far more than the situation warranted. “Don’t be ridiculous. And you could do with a bit of fussing, in your delicate condition.”

“Delicate my arse.”

At that precise moment, Dreadnaught returned carrying yet another tray, this one laden with missives and parcels, with Marcus Kingsley right behind her.

He didn’t appear at all taken aback by my ridiculous frills or my foul language; instead, he made a lovely bow, hat tucked under his arm. “Tesseraria.”

“Legatus.”

“I’m glad to see that you are well.”

“If by ‘well’ you mean I look a right monkey,” I said, “then verily, I am well.”

“You have to admit she looks fetching, Marcus,” Violet said.

“Far be it from me to pass judgment on a lady’s attire,” the clever man replied. A few stiff steps brought him within feet of the bed. “I’m glad you’re going to recover. It was terrifying to watch you fly through the crossfire on the Vitesse. If I find a dozen gray hairs on my head, I’ll know who to blame.”

I studied the military-short haircut, ignoring the temptation to rub a hand over the closely cropped black curls. “Not a one.”

“Yet,” he added. “Give it time and a bit more of your reckless behavior.”

“Without a doubt, driving through a gunfight was the most reckless thing I’ve ever done,” I admitted. “And I’ve done quite a few reckless things in my life.”

He reached for my hand. “I shouted to you when you shot out of the driveway and took off down the street.”

“I heard you.” I stared hard at the place where our fingers met, thinking it better to look there than into his eyes.

He didn’t seem to care that we had an audience of two. “But you didn’t stop.”

Startled by the note of concern, I looked up. “I had to get to my brother.”

Marcus’s grip tightened to the point of impropriety. “You should have waited. I would have gone with you.”

“You were a bit preoccupied at the time, what with all the bullets whizzing past you.” I tried to extract my hand from his, but his gloves might as well have been coated in glue. “You were protecting Violet and Sebastian, too.”

“I’ve never been more tempted to abandon a post.” He let go of me, but only to reach into his jacket pocket to retrieve his notebook and pencil. “I need to know what happened when you went after Nic.”

Without realizing it, I’d braced myself for a lecture. A tirade, even. Instead, he offered me a level of understanding so deep that it was like a gift. It took a moment to recover, another to start giving my report. Some of the details stood out as stark and clear as newspaper typeface. Others had been smudged by three days of sleep and whatever medications the doctors had given me. I described the car. The faces of those inside it. How they’d tried to pull me from the Vitesse. How they’d captured Nic, and what direction they’d fled.

Then it was my turn to pose a question. “Did you investigate the Palmipède while I was . . .”

“Out of commission?” Marcus finished for me. “I’m afraid the good Mister Stirling hasn’t been able to procure a boarding yet.”

Something about his tone suggested unvoiced suspicions. When Violet hitched in a breath, I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

“And?” I prompted.

Marcus closed the notebook and changed the subject. “You’ll be glad to hear we recovered the Vitesse from the scene of the accident.”

“That’s not at the top of my list of concerns,” I said, unwilling to be distracted.

“It’s parked in the carriage house,” he persisted, accepting a cup of tea from Dreadnaught and studiously adding sugar. “Carmichael returned it personally after you were transported to the hospital.”

“Give that man an extra set of bars.” Suddenly tired, I fell back on my pillows and closed my eyes.

“Should we leave?” Violet asked. “You look dreadfully tired.”

“More dreadful than tired, I’m certain.” I forced my eyes open and focused my attention on the heap of mail at my elbow: notes from tailors and hatters, envelopes from various foreign medical universities. It would fall to me to pay them, to answer them, to make explanations.

Deepest apologies for the lateness of the payment, due to the fact that parties in question were kidnapped.

“This is also addressed to you, Miss.” Dreadnaught handed me a thickly wrapped parcel and a penknife. “Careful. It’s heavy and marked ‘Fragile.’?”

Puzzled, I cut the string and pushed aside several layers of brown paper. Inside, daguerreotype slides were neatly stacked and interleaved with thin silver tissue. There was a folded note atop everything, but it fluttered to the floor when I caught the image on the gleaming surface of the first glass.

“By all the Cogs,” Marcus swore softly in my ear, but I couldn’t summon a single word in reply.

The topmost daguerreotype showed Nic in some undisclosed and poorly lit location, propped up in an iron bed. Bandages were pulled back to reveal a surgeon’s handiwork, stitches and swelling ringing the flesh about his eye sockets. The eyes themselves appeared untouched until I looked closer; within the depths of the pupils, there was a hard gleam that was wholly foreign and frightening. Looking at my twin, I felt trapped, a diamanté-headed pin through my clockwork heart.

“Unmistakably him, isn’t it?” I said like a ventriloquist’s dummy, my mouth moving and sound coming out without my say-so.

“What?” Violet placed her cup on the edge of the table. “What’s happened?”

I set down the daguerreotypes and covered them with my hands, wishing I could erase the truth with my fingers. “Warwick Augmented Nic’s eyes.” Only when I said it aloud did my Ticker react, shuddering horribly in my chest.

“What?” Violet faltered.

Marcus leapt forward, catching her about the waist when her legs gave out. Left to my own devices, I clung to consciousness, gripping the coverlet until I nearly tore the fabric.

Don’t you dare faint again, Penny Farthing. Don’t. You. Dare.

The Ticker’s balance wheels righted themselves, but only barely. Enduring the pain was better than the numbness.

“That poor, dear boy,” Dreadnaught said between the fingers she had clasped over her mouth.

“I’m fine,” Violet told Marcus, pushing away from him to stumble to the fire. I waited for the tears, for the screams. Goodness knows I could have shrieked loud and long for the both of us. Instead, an aura of calm settled over her. “I’ll be fine.” This time, the words rang with truth and fury both.

Marcus took two of the slides to the window, using the thin sunlight to study them further. “It’s a wonder the procedure didn’t kill him. These have to be the first ocular implants in the empire.”

“What could Warwick have been thinking?” I breathed.

Dreadnaught retrieved the note from the floor next to the bed. “Perhaps this explains it.”

I opened it with trembling hands, recognizing the surgeon’s handwriting immediately.

Penny,

I wish there was some way to make you understand that all I’ve done was for you. That day at Carteblanche, I held your poor withered heart in my hands. I will spend the rest of my days correcting the weaknesses of the flesh. I hoped you would come to me, but I was able to start with Nic. He’ll never need glasses again.

Please let me do the same for your ventriculator.

Your Devoted Servant,

Calvin Warwick

I tossed the paper away from me only seconds before it burst into flames. Marcus’s shout of surprise took me aback; I’d forgotten he hadn’t witnessed the self-destruction of the last note.

“Nitrocellulose,” I explained. “Sebastian said it’s highly flammable stuff that gets used in the making of moving pictures.”

“That it is,” Marcus said. “It’s also the primary ingredient in black powder. It’s possible Warwick has a connection to the mills just outside of town.” He lifted his wrist and began tapping out commands on his RiPA. “I’ll have a detachment check there and speak with the maintenance crew. If anyone’s been lurking about or any property’s gone missing, we’ll know within the hour.”

“Fast, but not fast enough,” I said. “We need to get to Warwick. I don’t think he’s going to leave well enough alone.”

“You think he’ll keep operating on Master Copernicus?” Dreadnaught blanched even as she posed the question.

“He might. And for all we know, he’s pulling people off the street again.” I tried not to picture a row of beds like Nic’s, each one containing a limp body—like dolls on a nursery floor, their arms and eyes and legs removed by a careless child. Averting my gaze from the daguerreotypes, I focused on the bedside table where another floral arrangement sat, a note tucked in the brilliant greenery. I pulled out the card, which was thickly ornamented with doves and roses, gilded along the scalloped edges, and stamped with silver lettering that read “Get Well Soon!”

No signature.

There’s a hidden meaning in every flower.

“Dreadnaught, who delivered this bouquet?” I asked, turning to the chatelaine.

Discreetly wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, she paused to study it. “It arrived this morning by courier.”

I eyed the arrangement again, searching for any clue it might yield. “I think it’s also from Warwick.”

Marcus peered closer at it, suddenly intent. “What makes you say that?”

“The flowers,” I said, reaching out to touch each bloom in turn. “Gladioli symbolize sincerity and strength of character. Purple hyacinths ask for forgiveness. White roses are for secrecy and silence. I can’t think of anyone else who would have reason to speak to me of secrets.”

Marcus pulled out a spotless pocket square. “Has anyone besides yourself and the delivery person touched this, Miss Dreadnaught?”

“No, Legatus.”

He plucked the flowers from the vase and set them to one side, then poured the water into the wash basin. “It’s been quite some time since I sent flowers to a young lady.”

“You ought to study floriography before attempting it again,” I said, telling myself I didn’t care a whit if Marcus sent flowers to anyone, young lady or not. “You don’t want to send the wrong message.”

He made a thoughtful sort of noise far in the back of his throat. “Let’s say I wanted something to serve as a reminder of new friendship. Hypothetically, of course. What sort of flowers should I select?”

Violet poured herself another cup of tea and answered his leading question when she saw I wouldn’t. “I suggest blue periwinkle.”

“That is certainly good to know. May I?” Marcus indicated my desk. Perplexed, I nodded, watching as he ground the tips of several lead pencils into fine powder between two pieces of paper. “What if I wanted to suggest the flower of friendship might be blooming into something greater?”

I knew he only wanted to distract me from the dreadful situation with Nic, and yet my suggestion was a faint, “Honeysuckle? For devoted affection.”

“Or salvia,” Violet added. “For thinking of you.”

I hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but Marcus had other ideas. Taking the lead dust, he applied it to the vase with a horsehair brush.

“What if I wanted to tell a certain young lady that she was in possession of my most ardent affection?” he asked. “What ought I send her?”

“Roses,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t crack under the strain of remaining detached. “Red ones.”

When next Marcus spoke, it was as though he and I were the only people in the room. “I think I will study this language of flowers a bit further.”

“Will you?” I met his gaze, refusing to play the coquette. “To what purpose?”

“So that when I send the girl of my heart a bouquet,” he said, so softly that I had to strain my ears to the utmost, “it will tell her everything I want to say. But for now, Tesseraria, we will have to make do with hard evidence.”

He held the vase so I could see the fingerprint plainly standing out on the surface.

“It might belong to the delivery person or the florist,” I said, realizing why he’d gone through so much trouble.

“Either of whom might have some clue as to Warwick’s whereabouts.” Marcus passed the vase off to Dreadnaught. “Give that to one of the guards on duty and tell him to have it transported to the Flying Fortress for processing.”

The chatelaine nodded and rushed from the room. Violet went to fiddle with the tea service, and I could have cheerfully strangled her for leaving the conversation. Alone with my frills, my bows, my worries, and Marcus, I stared with great determination at the coverlet. The clatter of his RiPA was a welcome distraction for us all, despite the message being encoded.

He listened thoughtfully before tapping out a brief response. “That was Sebastian. He’s finally arranged a boarding on the Palmipède.”

“You see?” I said. “And the very moment I awakened. Fortuitous timing.”

“Fortuitous indeed,” Marcus said with a rueful shake of his head. “Until you consider the fact that you have stitches and most likely a concussion.”

“If you go to the Palmipède, I’m coming with you,” I said. “I’m the one they want.”

He exchanged a long look with Violet, then ventured, “Perhaps we’ll see how you’re feeling come this evening.”

When I sat up, I set my lace flounces aflutter. “A clever dodge from someone wholly unfamiliar with my recuperative powers. What sort of firepower are we taking?”

“Everyone who is going,” he said with a pointed look, “will do so with hopes for the best and prepared for the worst. In other words, armed to the teeth and carrying a few extra surprises.”

“I want a gun,” Violet announced, jerking on her gloves. “A big one. I’m going home to get a frock, and then I’ll return. I expect you—” she jabbed a finger at Marcus, “to see to it that she—” her attention shifted to me, “eats the contents of that hamper.” She slapped the Carry-Away Box. “Watch out for the salted caramel tarts, though. They’re very sticky and won’t do the bed linen a bit of good.”

Marcus caught her at the door. “I’ve assigned a guard to escort you wherever you might go. Check in with us every hour. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. We don’t want anyone else disappearing.”

Stompy boots made their way along the hall and down the stairs. Watching Violet go, Marcus didn’t glance at me when he said, “She’s very much in love with him.”

“Yes.”

“Does he love her in return?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That will keep him fighting.”

“He’s a Farthing. We fight to our last breath and then defy logic to take another.” Realizing we were alone, I suddenly gave thanks for my ridiculous bed jacket. “There’s more tea on the table. And blancmange.”

“You’ll never get back your strength eating that.” Opening the lid on the Carry-Away Box, Marcus pulled out the salted caramel tarts and several molten-middle chocolate cakes before he spoke again. “Penny?”

Some sort of electrical current ran up my spine when he used my name, but I wouldn’t have let on for a million golden aureii. “Yes?”

“When you begin to plan something . . . and I know you will . . . I want to know what it is. Full disclosure.”

“I haven’t any plans yet.” I pointed at the iron bracelets, sitting in a pool of light on my desk. “I will keep you abreast of any future plotting, though.”

“So long as that plotting doesn’t include handing yourself over to Warwick.” Marcus took a napkin off the tea tray and settled it in my lap. “That wouldn’t do either of us any favors, would it?”

I found it very hard to concentrate. My every thought was a Butterfly battering against my skull and wheeling about to fly in tipsy circles behind my eyes. “I don’t know. It might be better for everyone if I did.”

“Don’t ever say that.” Marcus issued the command and followed it by handing me a caramel tart. “Now eat this.”

I smiled, relieved that I could focus my attention on anything other than his hands, his face. “Only if you take half.” I broke it messily in two and gestured that he should sit down. My Ticker gave a lurch when he obliged, not in the adjacent armchair but next to me.

“Will Dreadnaught have a fit if she comes in here and sees me sitting on your bed?” he queried.

My stomach suddenly realized how long it had been since I’d eaten, and I eagerly bit into my half of the tart. Shortbread crust crumbled to sweet sand on my tongue, and the saltiness of the caramel coated the roof of my mouth. “Are you afraid of our chatelaine, Mister Kingsley?”

“Of all the threats I’ve faced this week, she does seem the most formidable.” Remembering something, he pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from his other pocket and handed it to me. “This is for you.”

“Handcuffs this time?” I guessed. “Surely you’re going to arrest me for criminal stupidity, among other things.”

“That can wait until you’re able to walk on your own.” When he fell silent, there was nothing for me to do but unwrap his gift.

String untied and paper removed, the bundle revealed itself to be a carved wooden display box. Under glass, the elusive Brimstone Butterfly fluttered sulfur-yellow wings at me with the whirring of tiny gears. It was one of the few missing from my collection, the very one I’d been determined to capture that day at Carteblanche. I could hardly believe Marcus had handed it to me like it was no more than a paper bag of Meridian taffy.

“I know you collect things of this nature.” He paused. “This particular specimen is from my personal collection. I hope it pleases you.”

I would have never imagined him hunting Lepidoptera mechanika; the good Legatus had taken me quite by surprise this time. “It’s lovely. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assured me.

“I oughtn’t accept it,” I said, splaying my fingers over the glass. “But I shall. It’s a treasure, as well you know.”

“I do.” He reached up, trailing his fingers along my jawline before cupping my face in his hands. “But some treasures are more important than others.”

Wishing I could trade my Ticker for a single kiss—what good is a clockwork heart if I never give it to anyone?—I closed my eyes and tilted my head back.

With a small, strangled noise, Marcus pulled away from me. My eyes flew open, and if I’d been pink with embarrassment before, now I was surely the color of the fire department’s Combustible engines.

He saw the stricken look on my face and caught hold of my hands. “I want whatever this is, Penny. More than anything I’ve ever wanted before. But when I swore you into service, I promised there would be no secrets between us.”

Something stuck sideways in my throat. “Yes?”

“There’s a piece of information that wasn’t in any of the files.” Though Marcus spoke with visible reluctance, there was nothing cowardly about how he met my gaze. “Something you need to know before anything else happens.”

The hole in my middle opened up again, dark and bottomless. “Do you know something more about Nic’s condition?”

“No, not that,” Marcus reassured me. “But I’m not certain you’ll think this any better.” He cleared his throat and stared at the ceiling, trying to find the words he wanted to use. “Calvin Warwick’s illegal experiments were funded by a private investor.”

The very idea caused my stomach to clench until I thought the bit of tart I’d eaten might come back up. “Someone knew what Warwick was doing and didn’t stop him? Knew, and paid for it?”

“I had no idea that people were dying, Penny,” Marcus said quietly. “I promise you.”

Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room, enough space between us. I wanted to scramble away from him, but I was trapped by my broken flesh and his hands and the sick desire to understand why he’d done such a thing. “You paid for Warwick’s research?”

Marcus stared at me as though facing a firing squad. “Yes. He came to me for investment capital. In exchange, he said he would develop battlefield Augmentations for the soldiers. I never had reason to believe he was doing anything else. Certainly not killing innocents he kidnapped off the streets.”

Numbness spread from my head to my Ticker. “It never came out at the trial or in any of the papers. You hid it.”

“I didn’t. As soon as I realized what was happening, I notified the appropriate authorities. The Ferrum Viriae was cleared of any wrongdoing, and our involvement wasn’t revealed at the trial, for public safety.”

All this time, I had believed I was the one to blame for the carnage. For the lives of twenty people, most of them children, all of them dead at Warwick’s hands. But the knowledge that I wasn’t alone in my guilt didn’t comfort me.

“I’ve done my best to make restitution to their families,” Marcus added, eyes still trained upon me.

“No amount of money can bring loved ones back from the dead!”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that every day since the killings came to light,” Marcus said, voice tight with regret. “I did it to protect the men and women serving this country. I did it for Viktor. If he’d been Augmented, he might have survived.”

“Is there anything else you’ve kept from me?”

“No.” There was a quiet plea in the single word.

In that moment, the connection between us was a sheet of glass. I had the choice: grip it and safeguard it with forgiveness, or let it fall. Full up with secrets, lies, betrayals, and unwelcome revelations, I made my choice. “Perhaps you ought to leave now.”

His expression shifted, so the look of loss traveled all the way up to his eyes. “If that’s what you want.” Giving me the tersest of nods, Marcus gathered up the daguerreotypes.

I wanted to smack his hand away from the slides, but I was afraid one might get broken. “I suppose you’re confiscating those as evidence?”

Carefully, delicately, he rewrapped them. “You don’t need to sit here and stare at them all day. I’ll have them analyzed for source of origin.”

“You will not. They’re my property, and I’ll analyze them myself.”

Ignoring my wishes, he tied a sturdy knot in the string and tucked them under his arm. “Tesseraria, I understand why you are angry with me, and I wish to take my leave before either of us says anything we might regret.” With that, he exited the room.

Sliding out of bed, I hobbled after him and shouted, “Come back here and get your damned Brimstone!”

Finally losing his temper, Marcus bellowed from downstairs, “It was a gift! Keep it!” Then he slammed the front door to Glasshouse so hard that the windows rattled in their frames.

“I won’t be ordered about.” I would send for a courier and specify that delivery included ramming the box down his throat. Carrying it to the desk through a haze of pain and heartache, I stumbled over the tiniest of wrinkles in the rug and landed hard upon my knees. Flying from my hand, the box smashed against the decorative tiles of the hearth. A tinkle hung in the air for several seconds, followed by silence. I crawled over to inspect the damage and found the glass shattered and the box cracked along one side. The Brimstone dangled from its diamanté-headed pin, but it had escaped unscathed. I extracted the mechanical creature, watched it flutter in the palm of my hand, then crossed to the open window.

I’ll not hold you captive.

I held out my hand, and the Brimstone took flight on the next gust of air, dipping and twirling like the autumn leaves that rained down from the trees. Soon their bare branches would be frosted over. The city would don the ice-sequined cape of winter. I could already feel the chill of it in my bones. But, for now, there were golden leaves and Butterflies winging their way free of the city.

I desperately wanted to crawl back into my bed and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I downed the entire bottle of painkiller the doctor left upon the side table and tore off the bed cape, unwilling to suffer its frills a second longer. Stripping down to my bloomers and chemise, I pulled an ancient woolen sweater over my head, wincing as I jostled my bruises, then matched it with a belted uniform kilt in gray wool. So ironic that an unprecedented sale of Ferrum Viriae surplus garments had sparked a brief military fashion craze this spring! It meant that, for the first time, I looked the part of Tesseraria.

“Marcus wants a proper soldier?” I said, setting my hands on my hips. “Let’s show the Legatus what kind of warrior a girl with a clockwork heart can be.”

In his haste to depart, he had overlooked a daguerreotype half-hidden by my bedding. Handling it with the utmost care, I went to my desk and adjusted the lamp. There was something familiar about the glass, something that teased around the edges of my mind. I’d seen pictures like this before, but where? Try as I might, I couldn’t bring the memory into focus.

Probably due to malnutrition.

I reached out and lowered the filigree mouthpiece that funneled my words downstairs. “Dreadnaught?”

On the wall above me, a wafer-thin speaker labeled “Kitchen” vibrated with the chatelaine’s reply. “Yes?”

“I think I’m ready for something more substantial than blancmange. And I need a frock to wear tonight aboard the Palmipède.”