Something clicked, followed by a soft, rhythmical gear-grinding. The drop cloth swished to the floor.
They stood face-to-face with a man. Ophelia stepped back. No, not a man, exactly. A sort of mechanical person, with ivory-white skin, a curly white wig, and knee breeches. In one hand it held a bottle and in the other a tray with a champagne glass. It grinned, its eyes shifted back and forth, and it lifted and lowered the champagne bottle.
“I don’t fancy the look in his eye,” Ophelia said.
“It’s merely a charming trifle.” Penrose unveiled another of the shrouded shapes.
This automaton was meant to resemble, Ophelia fancied, a man of Chinese extraction. It wore a toggle-buttoned blue suit, a round, pointy hat, and a droopy black moustache. It held a long-stemmed pipe. With that grinding-gears hum, it brought the pipe to its lips.
“Ingenious,” Penrose murmured. “Human-sized automatons. Now I understand what Colifichet was suggesting when he said he’d like to replace the ballerinas with mechanical dancers.” He reached for the third shrouded shape.
“Why don’t you leave the other two alone, Professor?” Ophelia swallowed. “We don’t know how to stop them. Colifichet will know we’ve been here.”
“I’m certain there is a crank or something that will quickly send them back to sleep.” Penrose unveiled a third automaton.
Ophelia took another step back.
A bear stood on its hind legs, claws outstretched, teeth bared, eyes rolling. It lurched forward.
“It’s on wheels,” she said. “And I think that’s a real bear hide. And real claws and teeth—watch out!”
Penrose dodged to the side just as the bear bent and took a chomp at the air where Penrose’s shoulder had been.
“Behind you!” Ophelia cried. The footman had wheeled up behind Penrose, holding the champagne bottle high. It brought the bottle down with a jerky swing, narrowly missing Penrose’s skull.
Ophelia heard a sinister little chugging next to her. She spun. The Chinese automaton had rolled close, puffing some kind of steam from its pipe. Ophelia coughed. She took another breath, and suddenly felt woozy. Things went slow and sideways.
“There’s something wrong with this smoke,” she said, doubling over. She could feel the Chinese man’s eyes on her. But how could that be? A mechanical contrivance couldn’t see. Could it? She coughed again, and her eyes streamed.
Penrose drew up his lapel to cover his face and darted around the bear—which was still chomping and tearing the air—and tried the cupboard doors. They didn’t give, and so Penrose rammed his shoulder against them two, three, four times. Wood splintered, and the doors opened. Penrose reached in and rummaged around.
His back was to the footman automaton. The footman had somehow turned around on its wheels so it was just behind Penrose, holding its champagne bottle high.
Ophelia screamed. It came out like a rasp.
The bottle came down with a sickening crunch on Penrose’s skull. He collapsed.
Ophelia staggered forward, away from that sickly puffing smoke, around the clawing, snapping bear. But she reeled too close to the bear and its claws sliced into her shoulder. Pain sang out like a soprano. “Get off, you monster!” she yelled. She shoved the bear over and it crashed to the floor. She crouched down beside the professor.
He was half upright already, blinking and coughing, with some kind of parcel clasped against his chest. He gave her a crooked smile. “I sincerely regret unveiling this lot,” he said.
“The stomacher. You’ve found it!” Ophelia said. The smoke was dissipating. She could think more clearly now.
“Put that down,” someone said behind her, “or I shall shoot.”
Penrose sprang to his feet. Ophelia twisted around.
A slim form was silhouetted in the workshop doorway: legs bowed, back hunched, a large revolver aimed at Penrose.
The figure prowled closer. The hand holding the gun shook a little.
“Colifichet,” Ophelia whispered.