On the ground level, just below us, a pair of rumbling generators sat against the wall. In the center of the floor, away from the cascade of coiling cables, stood three identical metal frames. Each was about eight feet tall, but they looked distinctly like empty coffins stood on end—albeit coffins constructed by an emotionally troubled metalsmith.
I looked up. Right ahead of us was suspended a curious contraption, hanging from a huge articulated metal arm. Its design was not unlike that of an enormous microscope: a brass canister as big as a bathtub with three smaller cylinders affixed to the bottom. Instead of lenses, each of these was capped with something halfway between a lightning rod and the nozzle of a fireman’s hose. All three were attached to the larger canister by a series of interlocking cogs and joints, as though each could be finely adjusted. At present, they were aimed directly at the metal coffin-like frames below.
“My word,” Jackaby breathed.
“What do you suppose it does?” I asked, but then I realized Jackaby was not looking at the brass device. I followed his eyes up. The landing above housed some sort of platform, although I could not make out what was on it from where we stood. Higher still, fabricated out of gleaming copper and burnished bronze, unfurled a mechanical marvel unlike anything I had ever seen.
It was twenty feet across, its framework butting against the walls around it on every side. It looked like a glorious rose made of living metal, every petal a polished disc, constantly circling in a pattern of inscrutable complexity. The discs on the rim glowed faintly, like an iron just pulled from the fire, and those in the very center were almost too bright to look at directly. It was beautiful, it was brilliant, and it was trying very hard to destroy the world.
Shadows danced in the dark tower as a pulsing beam of warm, golden light issued from the whirring discs. Sparkles of white light twinkled in the golden rays, moving upward, drawn in toward the center of the mechanical rose by the inscrutable forces of the machine.
Where the rippling light illuminated the wall, the tower shredded, stones ripping apart like weathered linen. Emerald light burst through the gaps, and through these I could see not the forests of the Annwyn, but a surprisingly pale sky and a simple country church. It made my insides feel strange—not only because it did not belong in this alien countryside, but because it belonged to a different horizon altogether. The spires of the church stood at a crooked angle, jutting off to the left, the trees beyond it doing the same.
Gears clicked and cogs spun, and the beautiful machine swiveled, its glowing light sliding down along the wall. As soon as the rippling golden beam passed, the rends between the two dimensions began to seal again. The stones knit together, leaving a few chips and spiderweb cracks as the only trace that they had been ruptured moments before. In the light of the pivoting machine, new rips began to form farther down.
“It’s healing itself,” said Jackaby. “The veil is healing itself faster than they can tear it apart. The machine still isn’t powerful enough!”
“No machine is powerful enough to breach the veil.” Serif scowled. She crept along the creaking floorboards until she had reached the edge of our broken landing. The newest split in the veil was only a few feet up from where she stood. Through it, I could see a stained glass window. The glass depicted the Blessed Virgin Mary, upside down, in a mosaic of cheery blues. It felt very out of place inside the grim tower. “This cannot be. The veil is the most powerful force on either of our worlds. This . . . this cannot be real.” She stood on her toes and reached up toward the stained glass window with the tips of her fingers.
That’s when everything went wrong.
The moment the wavering light touched Serif’s hand, she shuddered. Jackaby leapt forward before I could see what was happening. Serif turned her head limply toward us just as her eyes rolled back in her head and her legs went limp. If Jackaby had been a moment slower, she would have tumbled over the edge and to the floor below us. He caught her with both hands and pulled her away from the ledge.
“Is she all right?” I cried.
“It’s drained her,” he answered, pulling Serif farther from the strange light. I helped him prop her against the wall. She was barely breathing. “She was in poor shape to begin with, but that thing sapped her in an instant.”
“Will she live?” I whispered.
With a series of mechanical clacks and clicks above us, the machine stopped swiveling. Cogs whirred to a stop.
“She really won’t,” came a familiar voice from above us. Morwen Finstern stood at the crumbling edge of the landing above ours, black blade at her hip and a smirk on her lips. “And neither will you, in case you were wondering.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Miss Finstern,” said Jackaby. “You’re looking rather . . . villainous. Have you considered not destroying the world, though?”
Morwen sneered. “We aren’t going to destroy the world, you stupid man. We’re going to bring it back. We’re going to make things the way they’re supposed to be again. Your kind have spent far too long alone in an empty arena that was meant for blood. You’ve forgotten what it means to fight for your lives. You’ve grown fat and weak.”
“So kind of you to look out for our best interests. Disseminating some nice pamphlets with advice on diet and exercise might be less trouble for everyone, though. I’d be happy to help you print them up. I know a fellow with his own press. He does marvelous woodcuts.”
“Our kind have grown weak as well,” Morwen continued, ignoring Jackaby. “They have dulled their blades with bureaucracy and diplomacy. They don’t remember what it means to be wild any longer. They live their lives in chains and call it freedom. My father is going to return the worlds to a glorious new age of chaos.”
“Where is that friendly father of yours? Off giving schoolchildren nightmares?”
“He is coming,” said Morwen with a menacing smile. “He is setting in motion the next stage of his plan.”
“And what might that be?” I asked. I was slowly moving toward Serif’s sword. Morwen did not appear to have noticed.
“The final one,” she said with sinister delight. “He will be very pleased you came to see it done.”
“Will he be pleased about this?” I said. I whipped Serif’s sword out of its sheath and swiped it at the pipe climbing up the wall beside me. It chimed like a church bell. My wrist throbbed with the vibration. The pipe was barely chipped.
“About your ineptitude?” she asked. “He might be a little amused.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs behind me, and I turned to see a man with enormous muttonchop sideburns and wild eyes climbing up the second-floor landing. He reached the top and snarled. His teeth looked very sharp.
“Your assistance is not required, Mr. Loup,” Morwen said lazily. The hairy man did not approach, but he did remain locked in place, effectively blocking any chance we might have had at making our exit down the stairs.