The Clockwork Three (27 page)

Frederick felt such affection for the old man in that moment. Master Branch had protected him. Frederick reached out and put a hand on the old man’s back, felt the blades of his shoulders through his dressing gown. “Thank you,” he said again, and a sob caught in his throat.

Master Branch turned to him.

“I have something I need to show you,” Frederick said.

Master Branch merely nodded and followed Frederick into the back room and down into the cellar. The old man gripped the handrail and planted both feet on each step before descending to the next. He kept his eyes down until he reached the cellar floor.

Hannah, Giuseppe, and Pietro stood before the worktable, blocking the view.

“It’s all right,” Frederick said, and motioned them away.

His friends shuffled off, revealing the clockwork man. It had begun to twitch on the table, its remaining good eye fixed on the ceiling.

Master Branch inhaled a sharp breath. “Lad, what have you done?” He crossed the cellar floor and looked down on the table. His gaze fell over the clockwork body from the feet to the head. He bent closer to examine the bronze face and wire hair. “I did not think it was real.”

“I only wanted to study it,” Frederick said, his voice breaking. “I was going to take it back.”

Master Branch placed a hand on the chest plate, the dented coal chute, as if feeling for a heartbeat. “But why?”

“I needed to make journeyman.”

Master Branch nodded his head slowly. “I see.” Then he paused, and sighed. “Frederick, you have more natural talent than any apprentice I have known. You could have trusted me.”

And Frederick knew in that moment it was true. The old man had shown him that so many times. There in the cellar, the clockwork man dying beside him, Frederick realized he had wanted to trust Master Branch from the beginning, ever since the old man had rescued him from the orphanage. He had needed to more than he needed anything. But fear and anger as sharp and deep as a bramble wall had stopped him from reaching out, and had held the kind old man at a distance. Frederick’s desire to become a journeyman clockmaker had only been a way to avoid that need, to hide behind ambition from his fear.

Tears broke from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Master Branch softened, and his eyes glistened. He put his arm over Frederick’s shoulder. “Tell me what has happened.”

And Frederick told Master Branch everything. About the body he had made, and the museum, and bringing the Magnus head to life. About Giuseppe’s capture and escape.

“I didn’t know what to think,” Giuseppe said. “One minute Pietro and I are sitting there in the rat cellar and the next thing we know the clockwork man comes crashing down. He grabs me up and I say, ‘You got to take Pietro, too.’ So he did. Then he jumps up out of the cellar like it’s nothing, and then Ezio and Paolo started pounding on him. That’s when I snatched my green violin back from Ezio.”

“Such damage,” Master Branch said.

“Can you fix it?” Hannah asked.

Master Branch turned to Frederick. “We will try.”

Frederick looked at the clockwork man, and felt a swell of loyalty that lifted his chest. He nodded at Master Branch, and bent over the automaton. “We’re going to turn you off to try and fix you,” he said.

The eye kept spinning.

Frederick reached around to the button on the back of the head and pressed it. The forehead popped open, and the body slowed as if falling asleep. Frederick looked inside and felt a sickening despair settle in his gut. The damage looked horrendous, beyond repair. Gears bent, broken, jumbled. He could not imagine how the clockwork man had continued to operate at all.

“Oh, no,” Master Branch said. “What a tragedy.”

Frederick wiped at the tears blurring his vision. “I need my tools.”

They labored until dawn crept down the cellar stairs from the shop above. Frederick and Master Branch had worked in concert over the Magnus head for hours, in perfect harmony. In the beginning it had been awkward, Frederick having to be the one to explain to his master what he had learned about the clockwork, and how it worked. But before long they had settled into a silent rhythm, and Frederick felt for the first time like a peer standing beside a fellow clockmaker, working together as equals.

Hannah, Giuseppe, and Pietro had all fallen asleep, leaning on one another against the wall. Frederick watched his friends, and their slow breathing relaxed him.

When Frederick and Master Branch replaced the last piece of clockwork in the Magnus head, Master Branch wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Shall we move on to the body?”

“Let’s see if the head is working properly,” Frederick said. “Last time it was able to help me with the rest. Do you think we fixed it?”

Master Branch rubbed his hands in the handkerchief. “Let us find out.”

Frederick pushed the forehead closed.

They had been unable to repair the ruined eye, but the other began to spin, flickering. There was a slight whirring inside, and the jaw slid open.

“Why?” the Magnus head asked.

Frederick almost laughed in relief. “I do not know.”

The Magnus head paused. “I do not know, either.”

Master Branch appeared awed. “Remarkable.”

“There … is something different,” the Magnus head said.

Its voice had awoken the three on the ground, and they stood up, blinking and stretching. Hannah walked over and leaned against Frederick, her hand on his arm. At her touch he felt cold and warm at the same time, anxious and enormously happy.

“There … is —” The clockwork voice halted, the eye skipped, and something in the jaw seemed to stick, hanging open.

“Frederick?” Hannah said.

Before Frederick could respond, something in the Magnus head clanged, and the jaw closed.

“Something’s not right,” Frederick said.

“Turn … me off,” the Magnus head said.

“All right,” Frederick said. “Master Branch and I will try again.”

“No,” the Magnus head said. “I am not … functional. Turn me off. Make it right.”

But what if they could not make it right?

“There is something different,” it said.

Frederick grew angry. “What is it? Why do you keep saying that?”

“I know why,” Hannah said, a whisper at his side.

“You do?”

She nodded, and looked away from him. “I should have told you earlier.” Hannah moved toward the clockwork man. She reached for the panel on the chest plate and opened it. “I’m sorry.”

Frederick was confused. “Sorry for what?”

Hannah put her hand inside the chest and pulled out a lump of something. She held it out in her open palm, and Frederick saw that it was a chunk of dried clay, inscribed with letters he did not recognize.

“What is —?” he began, but a noise from the clockwork man stopped him.

The Magnus head shuddered, and the mouth opened wide. “Why?” it said, and the jaw closed. The spinning eye slowed, slowed, stopped. The clockwork fell silent.

“For its heart.” Hannah began to cry. “I’m sorry.”

Frederick touched the Magnus head, the bronze completely still beneath his fingertips. Dead. “What is that in your hand?” he asked, his voice so quiet he was not sure he had spoken aloud.

“It’s a piece of a golem,” Hannah said.

“A what?” Frederick asked.

“A golem is an artificial man,” Master Branch said. “A protector made of clay.”

Hannah still would not meet his eyes. “I took it from the museum. I didn’t mean to. And then I put it in your clockwork man.”

Frederick said nothing.

“The two were built with different purposes,” Master Branch said. “The Magnus head to think and the golem to act. I would not have thought that a golem fragment could animate a clockwork.”

“But it did,” Frederick said.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said again.

Frederick studied her. Then he put his fingers under her chin and lifted her head so he could look into her green eyes. “Don’t be. I think you made him something more than I ever could have.”

Mister Twine

H
ANNAH DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO SAY AS FREDERICK SLOWLY
and methodically removed the Magnus head. Master Branch tried to assist him, but Frederick held an arm out, barring anyone else from approaching. He sniffed and worked with his tools, and Hannah wanted nothing more than to hug him. He had been so brave, and had sacrificed everything to save Giuseppe.

The two Italian boys waited at the edge of the room, as if they did not feel they were a part of what was happening in the cellar. But they were. They all were, and they had all witnessed the death of a noble machine. It was hard for Hannah not to blame herself for the death, as in some ways she was responsible for giving it life. Somehow, the fragment of golem had animated the body, but was never really part of it.

“There,” Frederick said. He stepped away from the worktable. The Magnus head sat upright, as it had when Hannah had first seen it, looking just as lifeless. “I suppose I’ll take it back to the museum now.”

Giuseppe stepped forward. “Are you crazy?”

“You can’t go back there,” Hannah said, thinking of Mister Clod and Mister Slag.

“I have to,” Frederick said.

“Your friends are right,” Master Branch said. “I do not trust Reginald Diamond, and would not send you to his museum. I will return the bronze head.”

Frederick shook his head. “But, sir —”

“I know you would do it if I let you, and that is enough. I will attempt to persuade Mister Diamond to accept the head and let the matter drop.”

“Do you think he will?” Frederick asked.

Master Branch gave them all a sly smile. “I think so.”

“Why would he do that?”

Master Branch picked up the Magnus head. “My guild would have a legitimate claim to a clockwork of such historic significance, and we have power and influence enough to cause Mister Diamond quite a bit of grief when we decide we want something. If he accepts my offer of the Magnus head, and agrees to forget about this whole incident, I will guarantee him that the guild will leave the head where it is, in the Archer Museum.”

Hannah felt such relief she almost laughed.

“Thank you, sir,” Frederick said.

Master Branch held the Magnus head to his chest. “It’s quite heavy, isn’t it?” The four youths moved aside to let the old man pass as he crossed to the cellar stairs. “I shall dress and go now,” he said. “Sooner rather than later. Will you be all right?” He was looking at Frederick.

“We will,” Frederick said. “Although I probably won’t open the shop today.”

Master Branch nodded. “I shall see you later.”

The old man started up the stairs. Hannah and the two boys watched Frederick, who never took his eyes off the bronze head in his master’s arms. Once Master Branch had left, he dropped his gaze to the floor.
Several moments passed in silence. Then Frederick shook his head and turned to Hannah. “Well. Shall we go?”

“Where?”

“Up to the Heights. To Mister Twine’s mansion.”

Hannah felt a flutter in her stomach. “Yes.” She turned to Giuseppe. “But you are staying right here.”

Giuseppe held up both hands. “No argument from me. Stephano’s still out there.”

At the mention of that name, Giuseppe’s little friend flinched.

Hannah went to him and smoothed his hair. “It was nice to meet you, Pietro.”

“Yes,” he said. “You very nice to me.”

Frederick waited at the foot of the staircase, and let Hannah go first. She heard Master Branch upstairs as they left the shop and went out into the street. She looked to the north, where gentle foothills rose up to a level bench of earth just above the city skyline. Just high enough for the mansions situated there to look down on the buildings below. Those great homes reminded Hannah of the castles in her fairy stories, with turrets and towers, high windows and lavish gardens, guarded by wrought iron gates and hedgerows. Frederick started up the street in their direction but Hannah hesitated.

This was it for her. Her last hope and only chance to save her family. Even if she got another job, she would never find one that would pay her as generously as Mister Twine had for her meager skills. Her family had far too little as it was. She returned again to the image she could not ignore, the image that had exhausted and occupied her for so long. Her family on the street, huddled in some building stoop, begging for food. Her father …

“What is it?” Frederick asked.

“What if he won’t help me?”

“Then we’ll figure something else out.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something. It’s fine.”

Hannah felt a jolt, like an explosion of swirling sparks from the collapse of burning logs. “But it’s not fine.”

Frederick acted as though he had not heard, just impatient and anxious to get moving. “Things will work out, Hannah.”

That red-hot stove in her chest erupted. “I’m not fine!”

Her shout echoed through the street. A bonneted woman with a small child paused a moment and looked at Hannah out of the corner of her eyes before moving along. Frederick blinked at her.

“I am not fine,” she said, a heat burning up her cheeks.

Frederick nodded. “All right. You’re not fine.” He led her off to the side of the street. “But who would be, Hannah? Why do you pretend you are?”

Something had given way inside her, the stove a flow of molten iron. Her blood had turned to hot ash and ember, her chest ablaze with pain, regret, and rage. Why did she pretend? Why did she lie to herself? She had given up so much, her school, her life. She had taken on such a heavy burden. So heavy she could not bear it any longer, could not stay upright. In that moment she hated her family. She hated her mother, so frail and helpless, always sad and overwhelmed. She hated her sisters for all their childish demands and their whining, their crying and fighting. And most of all, she hated her father. She hated him for simply lying there, for doing nothing, for letting her give up her schooling and slave away in the hotel he helped to build.

Hannah sobbed. She covered her face and fell into Frederick’s arms. He stood rigid as a tree. She pounded his chest with her fist, and he hugged her for a long time. Her whole body heaved, her face wet and hot with tears.

“I hate them!” she cried. “It’s not fair!”

“No, it isn’t,” Frederick said gently.

“I can’t do it all!”

“No. You can’t.” After a long moment he said, “But you do what you can.”

“And what if that isn’t enough?”

Frederick held her shoulders and took a step back. He looked in her eyes. “Enough for what?”

“For my family.”

“What more could they ask for than what you’ve given?”

She bit her lip. She sniffed. “I don’t really hate them,” she said.

Hannah loved her sisters, their laughter, and that no matter how hungry they were or how late it was when she came home, they always wanted Hannah to play with them. She loved her mother, her calm demeanor, her intelligence and compassion. And she loved her father. She loved him so much it hurt, like a knife made of sunlight in her chest.

Frederick was right. What more could anyone ask of her? Her tears subsided, and she found that they had extinguished the worst of the blaze inside, a charred and smoldering landscape left behind. She felt lifeless, burnt up. All she had been was gone. She had given everything.

“Are you ready now?” Frederick asked.

It took a moment for the question to reach her. “Ready for what?”

“To go see Mister Twine.”

She wiped her stinging eyes and lifted them up to the Heights, resting like a crown above the city. A king’s crown, regal, bejeweled, the prize of the treasury. And at the thought of treasure, something quivered inside her. She felt for it, and down among the black cinders she found a patch of green, a tender shoot with pale leaves, somehow spared. Hannah felt the beginnings of renewal.

“I’m ready to try,” she said.

Frederick nodded. “All right.”

She rubbed her cheeks and smoothed her skirts. “Let’s go.”

Mister Twine’s mansion stood at the top of a series of landscaped terraces. A brick path rose level upon level from the street, bordered by rosebushes, like a long red tongue reaching down from the mansion’s great double doors. Stately oak trees towered over the green lawn. Something about them seemed too perfect and unblemished, having been tamed by gardeners. Not like the trees in McCauley Park, which bore the scars of their long lives proudly.

Hannah turned around and looked down on the city. It smoked and shone, clamored and sang, looking and sounding familiar from this height, but also different. She usually thought of the city in its parts, its neighborhoods and quarters, but from up here it seemed to be one grand thing. The Quay and the docks were the arms, flexing and laboring along the river and the bay. The factories were the legs, pumping and grinding the city along. Gilbert Square lay at the heart, beating with people, sending them coursing down the streets to the city’s far corners. And McCauley Park was the city’s shadow, its other side, as necessary as the city itself.

“Shall we just knock on the front door?” Frederick asked.

Hannah shrugged. “I can’t think of another way.”

They climbed together, smelled the roses, and passed under the too-perfect shade of the trees. Hannah felt winded by the time they arrived at the doors, and took a moment to catch her breath before she reached for the heavy brass knocker. It hung from the mouth of a snarling lion, big as a giant’s bracelet.

Hannah slammed it down one, twice, and flinched at the anvil sound that echoed around them. A moment passed with a ringing in her ears, something rattled in the latch, and the doors parted.

A young man stood before them, wearing a fine suit and a bland smile. If he felt surprise at seeing two children at his door, he did not show it. “Can I help you?”

Hannah scrambled for her wits and spoke. “We’re here to see Mister Twine. Is he at home?”

The man nodded. “Mister Twine is in. But it is not his custom to receive visitors.”

“Please, sir,” Frederick said. “It’s very, very important.”

The man regarded them with his head tilted.

“Yes, sir, please,” Hannah said. She heard the desperation in her own voice. “Mister Twine knew my father. He was a stonemason at the hotel.”

The man sucked on one of his cheeks. “Well. Mister Twine did receive another woman from the hotel yesterday, and she came unannounced. Perhaps he’ll see you.”

Hannah’s body went numb. “What woman?”

“The chief of maids, I believe. Miss Wool.”

Frederick swallowed, and Hannah fell backward a step.

“Wait here,” the man said, and shut the doors.

Frederick craned his neck and looked up at the face of the mansion. “What do you want to do?”

Run. Hannah wanted to turn around and run. But to where? “We try,” she whispered.

They waited. A long time. Hannah stood frozen while Frederick paced around her, and a few timid birds chirped up in the trees.

The latch clicked and the doors reopened. “You are fortunate. Mister Twine will see you. Follow me.”

He waited until they had entered into the mansion before closing the door behind them. They stood in dusty gloom, curtains drawn all around them. Hannah peered into the entryway, and her eyes adjusted, revealing walls paneled with dark wood from floor to ceiling, and a carpeted wooden staircase climbing up to the second floor. Tables flanked the stairway bearing empty vases, and massive portraits of unhappy-looking men and women weighed down one wall. Rafters spanned the vaulted ceiling overhead, fluttering with wisps of cobwebs.

“This way,” the man said, and ushered them toward a series of doors.

Hannah and Frederick fell in behind him, their feet whispering over faded rugs. Everything in this mansion seemed so old, as though nothing had been replaced since the house was built. And yet Mister Twine left nothing alone for long in the hotel. Perhaps his home was the one place he demanded permanence.

The man opened a door and led them into a drawing room only marginally brighter than the entryway. “Mister Twine will be in shortly,” he said, bowed his head, and left them.

Hannah turned to Frederick. “It’s not too late. We could run.”

Frederick smiled. “But we won’t.”

The room they stood in held several chairs in clustered gatherings, as though engaged in whispered conversations about one another. None of them looked comfortable for sitting. They were the kinds of chairs one stood next to with a hand on the back. The cold hearth hoarded what might have been last year’s ashes for all the life that room held. A solitary clock ticked away on the mantel, and more portraits hung on the walls, their subjects’ faces pinched in obvious and constant disapproval. Of everything.

A door on the far side opened, and Mister Twine stepped through. He looked as Hannah remembered him. Short, thin, bent, with white hair that retained just enough rust to suggest its former fiery red. Mister Twine moved toward them with a steady and purposeful gait, as though he practiced in a mirror to maximize efficiency.

“Hannah. I thought it might be you,” he said. He did not extend a hand to shake, but motioned for them to sit in one of the uninviting chairs. “How is your father?”