Spare and Found Parts (6 page)

Nell avoided bumping into any of the small clusters of her acquaintances but offered thin smiles to the piques of “Hi, Nell!” and “Oh, look, Nell Crane is here!” and squirmed her way across the room to one of the tall stools at the bar. She lifted herself up onto the gilt and velvet seat and rested her elbows on the dark wood of the countertop. The new whale mirror was surrounded by decorative cabinets full of ornate handmade bottles of spirits and bitters and tinctures. Draft taps with hand-carved heads linked to fat kegs full of beer stood in lines like faithful soldiers. Nell caught her reflection and immediately regretted the eyeliner and painted freckles.

Nell made eye contact with Antoinette Fox, who was always behind the bar on weekends; she was busy but gave Nell a nod. “The lady professor Crane, what'll it be tonight?”

Antoinette was the very specific kind of wild gorgeous that implied she woke up almost exactly in the shape she stood there. She made Nell's throat want to close over. An effortless arrangement of blond locks, wide eyes, impossibly white teeth: she was too good to be true. Even her augmented limb, right arm from the elbow down, was encased in white porcelain with tiny blue flowers painted up the side. New, Nell noted. As she went to answer, she was suddenly interrupted by the deep and affected tones of the absolute last person she wanted to see.

She'd spent too many afternoons trapped next to him at a work desk ever to want to sit next to him at a night out, but here he was. Here he always was.

“Drink, Crane?”

“Not half as much as you, Kelly.” Nell gritted her teeth. “But since you're offering, I'll have a—”

He leaned over the bar to get the barmaid's attention, cutting Nell off.

“She'll have a bathtub gin with two wedges of lemon and a splash of—”

“Elderflower tonic,” snarled Nell. “Good evening, Oliver.”

Y
ou are twelve, and you cannot
believe
Oliver Kelly is still coming here every week. It is bad enough that you have to take Saturday classes without having to take them with
him
. And he still looks around seven. You didn't mind him when he was seven and you were seven, but that was long ago; that was when you didn't have to see him every single weekend. You aren't seven anymore. You are twelve. It is bad enough that you are twelve.

Only half an hour left; then he'll go home. Your eyes are on the clock, and you're convinced it's impossible for a clock to move this slowly. You'd really like not to be sitting beside Oliver Kelly, who apparently has just discovered cologne. Discovering it would be fine; but you're fairly sure he's also been bathing in it, and even your welding mask won't disguise the stench.

You shift uncomfortably, leaning away from Oliver a little more, almost at such an angle now that you might fall off your chair. You don't care if you fall off your chair. You just don't want to sit next to him.

The clock's second hand moves once. You scowl. Your goggles are starting to dig into your face. Another second.

Your father makes very intense eye contact with Oliver when he's instructing. He laughs at Oliver's weak jokes. This is good because it means that Oliver's gaze never floats over to you (your neckline, mostly, and you're never sure if it's your scar he's trying to see through your scarf or if it's your breasts, and either way you hate it). The whole thing makes you want to overturn the entire kitchen table and all the tools that lie out on it, wreck the composition of the skeleton key or whatever it is you're practicing this week. Metal casting and magnets and filigree for detail. It's pointless anyway. You're ready to make things
move,
and you keep
telling him
; but he's dawdling on easier projects because of Oliver bloody Kelly.

You like the tiny blowtorch, though, the raw blue flame. You like the whispery roar it makes. You like the smell of the molten iron as it casts and cools; you like carving away at it with raw heat. You like the shape of the key's teeth, hungry for locks, confident
that it can open anything, get in anywhere. You like its hidden magnets, how it can pull secrets apart.

You like learning. You like building. You just don't like Oliver.

You don't like watching how slowly and clumsily he puts things together; you don't like his earnest questions, his shaky requests to be shown everything twice or three times. You don't like how he keeps dropping his tools and how they clang onto the floor. You don't like how he's here.

You turn the key over and over; you can't do anything else to it. It looks exactly as the blueprints intended. You pop your goggles up onto your head and take off your face mask. Oliver shoots you a jealous look; he'll be at least five more minutes to get the last corner done. You cup your face in your hands. “Da, I'm done,” you offer sweetly, pushing smugness down.

Your father waves you off and continues to hover around Oliver. “All right, Nell, calm down just a moment.”

Calm . . . down?

You seethe. Why should you even calm down? You've done exactly what you were told, no questions asked, got everything right the first time, and are done twenty-four minutes before you're meant to be. You resist the urge to rap your fingers against the table, and
your ticking escalates in that very specific way it does when you're upset. Another furious minute drags itself by. White heat curls behind your eyes.
Tick, tick, tick
.

“Could you”—Oliver turns to you—“do that a little more quietly? I'm almost there. I'm trying to concentrate.”

And just like that, the spark of irritation catches flame.

“Do that a little more quietly?” you snap. You stand up, and your chair clatters to the tiles. “What? Exist?
Exist
more quietly? This is
my
home, Oliver, and you can't just tell me to
exist
quietly in my home. Why are you even here? Why are you even allowed to study with me? You should be back in the morgue, poking away at dead people and minding your own business!” You throw your goggles down and you can't even look at your father and you're out of the room, giving the stupid chair one last good kick as you go. You are a tempest, ticking faster and louder and louder as you storm toward the stairs.

Each step is a protest; you take each one hard, trying to shake the whole damn house. Stupid . . . Oliver . . . Kelly.

The kitchen door clicks closed.

“Penelope.”

Your father stands at the bottom of the stairs, arms
crossed sternly over his starchy lab coat, goggles pushing back his wild black hair. You turn to him, trying to make yourself bigger, more fierce.

“What?” you ask, but any sass you were trying to muster fizzles out under hot tears of frustration and that ugly weak thing crying does to your throat.

“That was quite a display.”

You want to say, “You think?” but know already that it'll come out ugly and warped. You want to tell him you're not crying because you're sad but because you're angry. Really angry. Instead, you just sniff and wipe your face indignantly.

“Look. I know you don't like this. And me telling you it'll get easier as you get older isn't what you want to hear. But it's one day a week. I'm asking you to pull up your bootstraps, kiddo.”

His voice is stern, with hard, pleading edges that make the tears come even hotter and even faster. You don't have any choice with him when he talks like this. You want your ma, to put your head on Ma's shoulder. You want the smell of her hair and skin. You have none of that. Just a flight of stairs and your exhausted father and Oliver Kelly sitting in the kitchen.

“But why? Why is he here?” you sob, stamping your foot.

“I owe his mother a favor.
We
owe her a favor.”

A favor! What favor is worth this? You have never taken anything off either of the Mrs. Kellys. What is worth letting someone else into your apprenticeship
even
one day a week? What do the florist and the undertaker even
have
to give your family?

“Please try to like him. At least tolerate him. Then see what happens.”

Your father's voice is all soft now, all well done, girl. You can't say no to him like this, when that particular desperation hangs on the edge of his tone; how easily it disappears once he has his way, once you do what you're told.

“Fine,” you manage, defeated.

It's not fair. It's not fine. But Oliver Kelly isn't going anywhere.

T
he undertaker's son flashed her a wolfish grin. “How's it going, Nell? I'll take one of those, too, Anto, thank you.”

The barkeep nodded and took off, her beauty gracing the other end of the bar. Oliver Kelly sat down on the stool beside Nell. She kept her eyes on the swaying of the dance floor and tried to look as if she were more interested in that than in the spindly young man who had just imposed himself, as usual, on her evening.

Oliver was taller than Nell, and thinner. His skin was a little lighter than Nell's, and he had a bloom of freckles over his nose. He had teeth that looked too sharp and eyes that were too big in his head, too blue. His hair was black and curly and coiffed in a pompadour. He was all narrow monochrome, black pants and a thin gray cardigan, starched white shirt. Aggressive,
formal. In some lights he was handsome in a way, but that was sharply undermined by the uneasy, greedy energy he exuded.

His mothers were the proprietresses of Kelly & Kelly, a florist and an undertaker. He'd been adopted as an infant out of the orphanage; he had no augmented limbs, nothing visibly missing. Despite this, he received no preferential treatment from the other apprentices—an undertone of resentment at most. After he made his contribution, Oliver's whole, healthy body could be his ticket out into the Pasture. Thing was he seemed intent on sticking around.

Nell wished he'd go. She'd wave him off, throw flowers after him as he left town. She'd seen enough of him for a lifetime. At least the Saturday classes she'd shared with him had ended last year so that they could each focus on their contributions, but he still rattled around the house too often, asking her father questions and making a nuisance of himself.

Those who didn't have profitable enough trades to afford new models of their augmented limbs or those who couldn't afford maintenance or needed a fix in a tick and didn't have the time to go on Julian's waiting list would go to Oliver, down at the morgue, and he would repair them for a discounted fee. This system, when perfected, would be his contribution. And there
it was: he'd have to stay in the city to maintain it. Stay near Nell.

Oliver had taken this upon himself. Julian hadn't stopped him; he was happy to have somebody else cover the things he couldn't. He was happy his machines were getting reused; but he didn't have time to dote on Oliver, and Nell was already technically his apprentice.

“So, how's it going?” Oliver tried again, leaning closer to her.

Nell stiffened; his cologne and the scent of formaldehyde were oppressive. She pulled her scarf higher around her chin.

“I'm grand, Oliver. Same as usual.”

Antoinette slammed down two short, fat tumblers of spirits, and Nell turned to her to pay. She had a small purse full of clunky plastic tokens; so much of the things they needed they got by trade, but the tokens still went an awfully long way. Ugly blue disks, something from a time long behind them.

“It's fine. The Cranes and Kellys drink for free around here,” said Antoinette. “Remember that when the two of you get hitched and set up shop; I need regular fixes for the amount of action this old girl sees.” She flexed her beautiful, silent augmented arm. She waltzed off before they could thank her and left them alone.

“What does she mean by that?” Nell snapped. “Do we have to go over this again, Oliver?” She wrapped her fingers around the glass. It was full of ice, and it was a relief against the heat of the room. If this conversation was about to go how she thought it would, it would mark the eighteenth time that Oliver had propositioned her to go into business together. Which implied courtship. Which implied marriage. Which implied kissing and sex. It was the sex part that irritated her most because naturally he would expect that immediately; clearly he expected it already. It utterly enraged Nell, and she had told him so. Seventeen times. And here he was again.

Her no always fell on deaf ears with Oliver. Every few months he'd boomerang back to her with a new angle on the proposal. Sometimes it was because he truly loved her; others, because he could make sure they were wealthy. Once he promised that the relationship and marriage could be completely lavender—strictly chaste—as long as she convinced her father to teach him everything he knew. Worse than this, Oliver truly felt that if he kept telling everyone he was going to marry into the Crane legacy, eventually it would happen. At first his enthusiasm was endearing, and Nell and Ruby had giggled over it. But over the past year it had escalated. He seemed to assume that she would
eventually break. Nell, however, was not a girl in the business of breaking.

His eyes kept flicking down to her neck and sternum, covered completely, but ticking at volume, slightly out of sync with the music. Nell imagined little teeth in his pupils, chewing away at her clothing. She clenched her fists.

“Well, you know how it is, Nell. Everyone with an ounce of common sense can tell that we're perfectly suited. I can offer you a lovely time, you know that.” He took out a slim silver case full of hand-rolled cigarettes, removed one theatrically, and lit it up. He offered Nell one, too, and she glared at him.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Oliver smiled, eyes on her neck and chest again.
Tick, tick, tick
.

Nell took a long pull from her drink. It burned but helped. She was also prepared to throw it at Oliver if he made any moves. Kodak was staring straight at him with his tiny bullet hole eyes.

“I'm not having this conversation with you again. Not tonight. Not ever. It's a party. Everyone from all corners of the city is here. Go and dance. Constance Cleary's eyes are just about falling out of her head looking at you,” Nell said flatly.

“I'm not interested in Constance Cleary—” Oliver began, but Nell cut him off sharply.

“Of course you're not. What use would you have with a girl from a family of cobblers and shoemakers, couldn't use them to advance your career at all.”

Oliver pouted at Nell. “Harsh, Crane.”

“Leave me alone, Kelly.”

They sat beside each other in silence, watching the dancers and crowds, occasionally catching glances from passersby, for whom their silent, tense vignette was surely gossip fodder for the coming weeks. Nell sipped her drink and thought about ordering another. Oliver finished his in a single gulp, then turned completely to face Nell and put his hand on her knee.

“Nell, I want to come clean with you. There's something I haven't told you, and I think if you knew, you'd probably want to spend some more time with me.”

Nell looked at his hand. She could see the gray-blue of his veins and the bones of his knuckles, his neat, surgically clean fingernails. She could hear only the steady, escalating clockwork inside of her and the rushing of blood and fury. She had not told him he could put his hand on her.

Oliver was entirely oblivious. He took her intense, furious stare as interest and continued softly.

“Aside from my current operation in the morgue, I've, em”—Oliver's composure dropped a little with his volume—“I don't think I should tell you this in
here. Will you come outside with me?”

Before Nell could answer, the music ended with aplomb. Antoinette and Tomas took to the tiny rickety stage then with a fanfare. They each held a full glass in their hands. The singer handed Tomas the busted-up microphone.

He was handsome and tall, not unlike Antoinette. All blond wavy hair and bright eyes. His right leg was his augmented limb, but there was utterly no way of telling which was which in his fine suit pants and spats and shining black shoes. He passed his sister the mic.

The crowd hushed at their presence. Even Nell listened as Antoinette began to speak, though she hadn't intended to.

“Five years ago the city was a very different place. Many of you here tonight quite literally helped raise this roof. We're only up on our feet, but we've pints of heart. Before the Turn, in our great- or great-great-grandparents' time, this country was sung about all over the world, known for the parties we'd throw. Now, who knows what the rest of the world thinks of us? Who knows what they're even doing out there or if there's anyone out there at all? The world could still be growing, and we'd never know. This bar was our contribution, but it's just a place to keep us looking inward. So, as we raise our glasses, we should look
outward, hope that someday we'll get to dance with the rest of the world, not just each other. I know there are full bars all over the planet tonight.”

Antoinette's voice caught in her throat for a moment, and the beat of silence had a pull to it. Members of the crowd shot one another glances; eyebrows lifted; fingers tightened around glasses. Tomas motioned to take the microphone, but she waved him off. “Sorry, hold on.” She took a deep breath and then a long drink from her glass. The air in the room was thick.

Nell felt a tug at her sleeve. Oliver was nothing if not persistent. She rolled her eyes.

“Oliver, I'm not going outside with you,” she whispered, drawing the attention and a few hushes from the patrons around her.

“I can't go into it in here, and I really, really think you'd be interested in what I have to say. Ruby was anyway.” His voice was urgent and low.

Nell froze. “What has you talking to Ruby?”

Shushed again. Antoinette was continuing her speech. Nell tutted in frustration.

“Maybe Ruby was the one doing the talking to me, thank you very much. I'll tell you if you go outside with me.” Oliver ran his finger around the edge of his empty glass. Nell watched and shuddered.

She took a deep breath and adjusted her scarf up
around her chin. If this was something to do with Oliver's apprenticeship, surely she should know about it. She drained the last floral dregs of her gin and tonic and thought, well, what had she to lose?

Antoinette finished her speech, and the crowd erupted with cheers and confetti. Nell scanned around for Ruby amid the kaleidoscope. Not a sign of her. Typical.

“Fine. You have until I've unlocked my bike. Start now.”

They left the ballroom, the big gilded doors swinging shut behind them, and padded down the carpet toward the door. Janey had left her post; the corridor was empty; the night air was almost upon them. The undertaker's son could barely keep up with her but began to talk anyway, his tones hushed and urgent.

“Look, Nell, I've been stepping a bit outside my bounds with what I've been doing. I—this sounds really bad, but I went into the Gonne Hospital around six months ago and did some looking. What you and Ruby do at the water. I found some really, really amazing things, things almost too good to be used by people.”

Nell slowed to listen. Too good to be used by people? She hadn't realized the Gonne Hospital had been safe enough to go inside. The great ancient building
presided over what would have once been a main street; before the Turn it had been a department store, a strange urban landmark crowned by a great clock. But after the first toxic pulses rattled through the island and the epidemic struck, it had been converted into an emergency hospital. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people had died there. The old building had become so contaminated that the council had decreed it unsafe and ordered that it be burned. Ostensibly this was to kill the ends of the virus and stop outbreaks during aftershocks: but the whole city donned gas masks and gathered to watch it, a terrible red ceremony. It felt like an exorcism, the ghosts of their sick past scorched out. Nell was only very small when it happened; Cora had held her hand as they watched the terrible blaze.

“And lo and behold, there are rooms in there untouched by the fire, and they're just full of old safes and boxes of, well, of early robotics. Of prosthetics from before your father's inventions. I'd never seen the like of them. Old porcelain arm plates that survived the blaze. Some are wooden, I've even found a whole case of
glass
eyes; they're so delicate!”

They exited to the outside world, and the night air was barely a touch cooler than the heat inside the building. The sky was black and clear and pocked with a clatter of white stars. Nell didn't stop, despite her
curiosity. She headed straight for the bike racks, taking Kodak in her arms so as not to dislodge him from his perch as she marched.

“Oliver, I've seen glass eyes before. So you found a whole load of old limbs. You—you shouldn't even be in the hospital; you have no idea what's still in the air. You're healed, and you're taking stupid risks. What is the point in telling me this?”

“Nell, I'm going to start selling them. I'm going to test them to see if they're contaminated, clean them up, then run them as a special service. Roll them out as vintage. A lot of them are beautiful, with handmade casings. They'd be worth a fortune, especially to folks who don't like machines. I'm going to—”

Folks who don't like machines
. Nell busied herself placing Kodak safely into the basket on her bike, threw away the question. “Have you been talking to Ruby about an eye?”

Oliver went quiet for a moment. “Yes. And—”

“She didn't tell me.”

Nell held the chain lock from the bike in her hands and squeezed, the metal pressing into her flesh. She breathed steadily. She wasn't going to show Oliver she was upset; the ticking gave her away enough as it was.

“She also said”—Oliver was desperate—“that it would be good for me to tell you; that the time's
coming up for your contribution, and you don't have one; that you're on a straight track to end up halfway up Kate's stony armpit. Look—”

Nell cocked her head to the side. “When did she say this to you?”

“Oh, we went for a drink last night to discuss pricing—”

Nell's surprise crystallized into something that rang deep like hurt but had all the volatility of rage. She was just about ready to storm back inside and pull Ruby from her tangle of friends and give her a piece of her mind.