The Clockwork Three (18 page)

She smiled as he trotted toward her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m coming with you,” he said.

“Where, to my family’s apartment?”

He scratched his head. “Is that all right? Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere else to stay. I just want to make sure you get there safe.”

She relaxed her shoulders. “Thank you. I feel like I’ve seen Mirabel about a dozen times already.”

Giuseppe picked up a stray branch and tucked it under his arm like an aimed rifle. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She knows what this is.” And he prowled ahead like a hunter out for game. Hannah grinned a little at him.

They walked, and evening began to drift among the trees. With the cloud cover lingering after the storm like a threat, it grew dark earlier than it should have. By the time they reached the edge of the park, most of the light in the streets came from gaslight.

“I hope the doctor hasn’t come yet,” Hannah said.

They hastened down the Old Fort Road, turned on the Cottonway, and followed it to Basket Street. It did not seem to be that late in the evening with all the traffic on the street. A week ago, Giuseppe would have picked a corner to play, but tonight he turned his coat collar up and pulled his cap down low. They jostled along the street with the crowd, and then Hannah led him off into the maze of tenements.

Before long, she stopped at a wooden building and started up the stairs. Giuseppe looked around and realized he had played near here before, that first night he had tried the green violin. The memory stung his eyes, but he shoved it aside and followed Hannah up to her family’s apartment.

As soon as they opened the door, a very skinny woman rushed over to them.

“Hannah,” she said, her eyes sunken and red.

“Hello, Mama,” Hannah said. They embraced.

“I’ve been so worried,” Hannah’s mother said. “I expected you back hours ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Giuseppe looked past the two of them into the apartment. There were two beds. A large man lay in one of them, pale and sweaty. He was propped up a little, but he seemed to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Two girls played on the floor with straw dolls. They were looking at Giuseppe and whispering.

“How is Papa?” Hannah asked.

“Not well, the fever is back. Do you have the money?”

“No,” Hannah said. “I have the medicine.”

She pulled the vial from her pocket and crossed to her father. He opened his eyes when she touched his forehead with the back of her fingers.

“Hello, Papa,” she whispered.

He gave her a weak smile.

Hannah pulled the stopper from the vial. “Papa, you need to drink this.”

Her mother came, and together they hoisted him up a little higher and stuffed another pillow behind his back. Hannah held the vial to his dry, cracked lips and tipped the contents into his mouth. He grimaced, but he swallowed it down.

“Say a prayer it works,” Hannah’s mother said. “How did you get the medicine from the doctor? And why are you covered in mud?”

“It’s a long story,” Hannah said.

Giuseppe cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Hannah said. She came over, took Giuseppe’s hand, and led him into the room. “This is my new friend. Giuseppe.”

“
Benvenuto
, Giuseppe,” Hannah’s mother said.

Giuseppe was surprised. “You know Italian?”

“Not much more than that,” her mother said. “Enough to say hello to some of our neighbors. Are either of you hungry?”

They both shook their heads. There did not seem to be much food in the apartment, anyway. “I’m not staying long,” he said, still unsure of where he would go when he left. The family had no room for him here. Hannah’s sisters got up from the floor and came over to him. Hannah introduced them, and Giuseppe shook their tiny hands.

One of them pointed at his back. “What’s that?”

“It’s my fiddle,” he said.

“Perhaps you could play for us later,” Hannah’s mother said. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and Hannah’s sisters leaned on her, clinging to her skirts. “My husband loves music.”

“I’d be honored,” Giuseppe said, and meant it. But he was immediately
reluctant. Here in this apartment, with this sick man and his lovely family, he felt nervous about playing, something he had not experienced in a very long time. He slipped his old fiddle from his back and set it on the table. He would have felt a lot more confident playing if he had the green violin. This family needed its special kind of music.

“Giuseppe has a gift,” Hannah said to her mother.

They all fell into silence after that, watching Hannah’s father. A sleep flutter passed over his eyes. Hannah’s mother felt his temperature with her palm.

“How long until the medicine works, I wonder.”

“I don’t know. But it will.” Hannah played with the end of her braid. “Mama? Do you know anything about a stone Papa carved out in McCauley Park?”

Hannah’s mother nodded. “That was years ago. When he worked for the hotel.”

“You never mentioned it before. Do you know why he made it?”

“One of the hotel guests asked him to. Oh, what was his name, Stout? Stoop? Anyway, he called your father up to his suite on the top floor and said Mister Twine had recommended him for a commissioned work. You know how your father was always taking on special projects for Mister Twine. This guest, Stoop, told your father what he wanted and paid him handsomely for it.” She reached out and felt his forehead again. “That’s how we paid for the new roof …” Her voice dropped. “On our old house.”

“Did Papa know Mister Stroop well?”

“Yes, that was his name. Stroop. How did you know?”

Hannah shrugged. “I’ve heard it around the hotel.”

“Well, no, your father didn’t know him well. Stroop called him up to his suite a few times after that to thank him. He had a telescope up there,
and he said he could see the stone from his window. I think he died a very short time later.”

“Did Papa ever say anything about Mister Stroop’s treasure?”

Her mother frowned. “Not that I can remember. Stroop had a treasure?”

“Some people say he did.”

Her mother reached out and felt Hannah’s father for the third time. “Oh, my.” She adjusted her hand and leaned in closer, like she was listening to him breathe. “I think his fever’s come down.”

“That quickly?” Hannah touched his forehead, too.

They looked at each other and smiled. They sighed, and in spite of her mother’s age, in that moment she and Hannah looked very much alike. Giuseppe felt a jolt of joy flash through the room, like a beam of light off a shiny pot, from person to person. Hannah’s little sisters jumped up and danced around, holding hands. Time passed and the fever continued to fall. Color returned to the stonemason’s face.

Then his breathing settled, deep and even, and Hannah’s mother turned to Giuseppe. “Would you mind playing for us now?”

“Of course,” he said, and took a deep breath, nervous again.

“Come, girls.” Hannah’s mother put her arms around Hannah’s sisters. Hannah stood by her father and took his hand in both of hers.

Tonight Giuseppe’s music meant something more than it ever had on the street, or even back in Alice’s cabin. His legs trembled like he was standing on his very first corner all over again, men and women passing by in such a hurry, so tall and unaware of him. He went to the table and lifted the old fiddle from its case.

But what should he play?

“Do you have a request?” he asked, his throat dry.

Hannah’s mother said, “Something to celebrate.”

Giuseppe knew immediately which song they needed. He tucked the fiddle under his chin and let the melody glide through his mind for a few moments before letting it go. He eased the notes out quietly at first, unsure of himself. But the old fiddle sang so true, so tender, he gave it more life, and more still, until it did not feel like he was playing it at all. And in that moment, it did not matter which instrument he held in his hands.

“I know that song,” Hannah said. “I’ve heard that song before.”

Giuseppe closed his eyes and stood in the high pasture with his father. He looked up, but the sun was over his father’s shoulder, and Giuseppe could not see his face in the light. The wind carried the bleating of the sheep they tended, the smell of grass. He ran with the dogs, laughing, chasing his father or being chased. He wanted to get caught and lifted off the ground. In the evening, on their way home, he rode high on his father’s shoulders. They sang together and named the colors in the changing sunset.

“Mama.”

Giuseppe opened his eyes.

Hannah stood by her father, staring at the foot of the bed.

“What is it?” Her mother looked down and gasped.

Beneath the bedspread, Hannah’s father was moving his feet in time with the music.

Giuseppe sensed something happening. He closed his eyes again and gave everything he had to the song.

Her Name

F
REDERICK TRIED TO PAY ATTENTION AS MASTER BRANCH
explained the clockwork he had designed for Madame Pomeroy. It would be a miniature merry-go-round, encircled with prancing horses in gilded saddles, bejeweled and mirrored. There would be a clock on top, and the merry-go-round would turn with the minutes, but on the hour it would pick up speed, play music, and the horses would rise and fall in mock cantering. Frederick nodded along with the old man’s explanation, but he found it hard to concentrate for very long.

“I believe Madame Pomeroy will appreciate the whimsy in this piece,” Master Branch said. “Don’t you agree, Frederick?”

Frederick nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Since the day Frederick had gone back to the orphanage, he had been distracted by thoughts of his mother. He wanted desperately to know about her but was scared to find anything out. It was like waking in the middle of the night to a strange noise out in the shop, when his heart pounded and he stared so long into the darkness it seemed to move; when he held his breath and listened and told himself it was nothing; when his thoughts kept him awake and eventually forced him out of bed, barefoot across the cold floor, to face the unknown that waited for him.

“Would you mind going to the Gilbert Hotel?” Master Branch asked.

“What for?”

“To find out Madame Pomeroy’s taste in gemstones. Perhaps her favorite colors. Mind you, don’t give out any of our plans. Just ask about her preferences.”

“I’d be glad to,” Frederick said. Perhaps he would be able to see Hannah while he was there.

“While you do that, I have an errand to run for the guild.” Master Branch leveraged himself up from the workbench with both arms. “I’ll be back later this afternoon. Please be here so we can begin work on the automaton.”

Frederick nodded and the old man left through the front door. Frederick followed him and locked up the shop. Out on the street, clouds massed overhead, and a wind gathered newspaper and garbage from the gutter. Frederick held his jacket close and walked to Gilbert Square.

He saw the Opera House and it reminded him of the evening he had spent with Hannah and Madame Pomeroy at the opera. He smiled when he thought of how involved in the opera Hannah had become. He crossed the square and climbed the hotel steps. The blond porter, Walter, stepped in front of him as he approached the door.

“Seen Hannah lately?” he asked.

Frederick rolled his eyes. “No, not lately.”

“Well, if you see her, tell her no hard feelings. All right?”

“No hard feelings?”

“Yeah. Tell her it wasn’t personal.”

“What wasn’t personal?”

“She’ll know.”

Frederick wondered again how often Walter and Hannah saw each other. How often he offered to walk her home. “Fine. I’ll tell her,” he said.

Walter stepped back and Frederick entered the lobby. The vaulted room smelled of roses and drying masonry. He inquired at the front desk about Madame Pomeroy, and the attendant told him that she lived in the suite on the top floor. Frederick started up the grand staircase. With each landing the hotel grew more refined and pretentious. Frederick wondered how Hannah felt having to wait on all these rich folk, while her family huddled in their tenement.

He reached the top floor and found the door to Madame Pomeroy’s suite. He adjusted his jacket and pulled on the doorbell.

A long moment passed, and then he heard movement inside.

The door opened, and Madame Pomeroy peered out.

“Frederick?”

“Hello, Madame,” he said.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise. Do come in.” She opened the door wide, but her tone was muted, less buoyant, and her smile appeared forced.

“Thank you.” Frederick stepped into the foyer. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“Not at all, child.”

“Master Branch sent me to inquire about some of your color and style preferences.”

“In regard to my commission?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then let’s sit and talk for a few moments.”

She led him into an adjacent drawing room, where she sat and then reclined on a long couch. Frederick sat in a chair near her. He looked around but saw no sign of Hannah or the Russian.

“Now,” she said. “Color and style of what, exactly?”

Frederick smiled. “I regret that I am under strict instruction not to give away the nature of the automaton.”

“For the better, child,” she said, and chuckled. “Oh, but I love surprises.”

“But I can tell you that there will be gems.”

“What kind of gems?”

“That is what I came to ask you, Madame.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I simply adore all precious stones, but I am partial to the darker jewels. Rubies. Carbuncles. Sapphires.” She stopped. “But before I go any further, how long until the piece will be completed?”

“A few weeks. But the design is finished.”

“A few weeks?” she said. “That may be problematic.”

“How so?”

Before she could answer, the front door opened. Frederick turned, hoping to see Hannah, but the Russian stalked into the room. His brow pressed heavy over his eyes, and he frowned when he saw Frederick.

“He’s all right, Yakov,” Madame Pomeroy said. She held her hand to her chest. “What did you find out?”

The Russian held up a slip of paper, a telegram. “New Orleans,” he said.

“How long do we have?” Madame Pomeroy asked.

“Two weeks.”

“And a ship?”

“If we go to England or France, four or five days.”

Madame Pomeroy shook her head. “Somewhere else.”

“A boat leaves for Italy in ten days.”

Madame Pomeroy stood. “Italy, then. Make the necessary preparations.”

Yakov nodded with a kick of his boot, turned, and marched out. Frederick heard him leave through the front door.

Madame Pomeroy inhaled. “I am afraid my stay has been cut short, child.”

“Is everything all right?” Frederick asked.

She smiled. “You are a sweet boy.”

Frederick did not know whether it was proper to ask, but he was curious. “What’s in New Orleans?”

She sighed and rubbed her temples. “An old enemy. He has arrived in America, and will soon find me here. Unless I leave first. Which brings me to the commission. Now I’m afraid I will have to cancel it. I will, of course, compensate him for the time and resources he has already put into it. I only hope your master will not take offense.”

“None at all, Madame. Is there anything we can do?”

“No, child.” She held out her hand and gestured him toward the front door. “But I so enjoyed the opera with you.”

“I enjoyed it, also,” he said. “Madame, where is Hannah?”

“Hannah?” She stopped and Frederick thought he saw her eyes glisten. “Hannah no longer works for the hotel.”

“What? Why?”

“It is not my place to say, child. But if you see her, please tell her … tell her that I would like to understand. Would you do that for me?”

Frederick was more confused by this than what Walter had said. Something had happened to Hannah.

“Is she all right?” he asked.

“I cannot say. But do give her that message.” She opened the door. “And tell her that I am leaving.”

“I will,” Frederick said.

“Good-bye, child.”

Frederick stepped out into the hallway. “Good-bye, Madame,” he said.

She closed the door.

Frederick paced the shop, waiting for Master Branch. The old clockmaker had told him to be there that afternoon to work on the automaton, and Frederick had obeyed. But the commission was canceled now, and Frederick wanted to go to Hannah’s apartment to try and find out what had happened to her. Master Branch was taking a long time in returning.

Thunderclouds had begun to shower the city, and through the shopwindows Frederick watched pedestrians rushing to get out of the storm. The streets turned to moving sheets of water, gutters full of floating debris. Frederick liked the rain. After a good storm the air felt crisp and light, and the city looked as though it had taken a bath, scrubbed and polished.

Someone flew up against the shop door, holding a newspaper over their head. The door opened, and Master Branch fell into the room. A shiver shook his whole body, and he threw the sodden paper to the floor.

“Dreadful storm,” he said. “I’ve caught my death, I know it.” Water hung from the end of his nose, and his thin hair looked glued to his head one strand at a time. “Help me out of this.”

Frederick stepped behind him and pulled off the old man’s coat. He shook it and hung it on the hat rack by the door. Master Branch sneezed and stooped toward the staircase. “I need a pot of coffee,” he said. “Come up with me, lad.”

Frederick looked outside. He would have to wait for the storm to let up before going to Hannah’s, anyway, so he followed the old man upstairs.

After lighting a fire in the stove and setting the kettle to boil the coffee grinds, Master Branch removed his shoes and dropped into his chair. Frederick blew on the embers in the fireplace and tossed in a couple of logs. Before long, Master Branch had his bare feet propped up, his wet socks hung over the fire screen to dry.

“Come here, lad.” Master Branch pointed at the chair opposite him.

Frederick took a seat and folded his hands in his lap.

“I need to tell you of the errand I ran today.”

Frederick leaned forward. “Oh?”

“Yes. I told you I went on guild business, but that was not true.” He moved his lips as if working them up to say what was waiting in his mouth. “You can probably guess what I’m about to tell you.”

“I really can’t,” Frederick said.

“I went to the orphanage.”

Frederick sat back in the chair. “You what?”

“I went back to the orphanage. I thought if I —”

“You had no right,” Frederick said.

“I know you told me you wanted to do it on your own, but after you came back that day without any answers I figured I could help.”

“Help? How?”

“By finding out what you wanted to know.”

Frederick leaped to his feet. “But what if I don’t? What if I don’t want to know?”

Master Branch let out a low growl that was mostly air. “If you would just be honest, I think that underneath it all you do want to know.”

“I don’t! I don’t want anything. Not from you or anyone else!”

Master Branch pounded the arm of his chair with his fist. “Sit down, boy!” He immediately winced and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Frederick. I’m sorry. Please. Sit.”

Frederick had never seen such an outburst from the old man. He slid back into the chair.

“Lad, listen to me. I have given you privacy. I have given you time — years, in fact. Now, I know that I will never be a father to you, or a paternal figure. I know I may never even be your friend. But I hope that one day I can be someone whom you trust.”

Frederick felt a warm knot in his stomach. It hurt and soothed at the same time. He did not know what to say. He wanted to tell Master Branch that he did trust him. But the clockwork man in the basement said otherwise.

Master Branch pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was damp and the ink had run, but he handed it to Frederick. “Her name was Maggie. Margaret.”

The name struck Frederick’s memory like a bell. He stared at the paper, read the name again and again, then each blurry letter one at a time as if there were a secret about his mother hiding between them.

“She was ill,” Master Branch said. “Consumption. She had nowhere else to turn, and could no longer care for you. She left you and went to a hospital.”

“Where?” Frederick asked.

Master Branch shook his head.

The kettle on the stove whistled. The old man let it go for a few minutes, but soon went to pour himself a cup of coffee. Frederick watched him move about the kitchen. He knew he should tell him. Confess his secret ambition and show Master Branch his creation. But Frederick could not make his jaw work. He could not form a single word.

Master Branch came back to his chair. He held the coffee cup in front of his mouth and stared over it into the fireplace. The steam curled around his nose as he sipped his drink, and neither of them spoke for a while.

“I’ll need to pick up some more coffee beans tomorrow,” the old man said.

A log popped in the hearth.

“Master Branch?”

“Yes?”

“How did you get this?” Frederick held up the piece of paper.

Master Branch hesitated. “I bought it.”

Frederick felt guilty. Master Branch lived a comfortable life, but was not wealthy. The old man had already paid Mrs. Treeless once, to take Frederick from the orphanage, and now he had gone back and paid her again. Frederick struggled to understand why.

Master Branch drained the last bit of coffee from his cup. “Ah. I feel much better.”

Frederick folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Her name was Maggie. “I feel better, too,” he said. But upon learning her name, Frederick found he needed more. Much more. What had happened to her after she left him?

“Hospitals keep records of their patients, right?” Frederick asked.

“I should think so.”

Frederick listened for the rain. It had stopped.