The Clockwork Nightingale's Song

by Amy Rae Durreson

  “Afraid to enter my lair?” Marchmont asked sharply, his smile dimming. “I assure you that, contrary to rumours, I am not building an army of mad automatons to conquer London, nor am I attempting any unholy rites or sacrificing virgins.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Shem said, giving up. He didn’t like the note of defensiveness in the earl’s voice. “Blood would make a terrible mess of the gears.”

  Perhaps the most worrying thing was that Marchmont found that funny. It was hard to maintain proper detachment from someone who laughed at your darkest jokes. Biting back a sigh, Shem stepped into the inventor’s basement.

  The first thing that struck him was the heat and racket: the air rang with the wheeze and clang of pistons. It wasn’t until his second cautious step that he realized he wasn’t in an engine room.

  This was a kitchen. The hobs on the polished black stove were glowing, and spits of steam escaped the chimneys that sprouted from its side. Pots and pans were suspended from a pulley that swung them from the hob, lowering them under taps and onto conveyor belts to be filled with chopped ingredients. At the table, the cook, a sturdy woman in a wide black dress, was chopping carrots with a relentless efficiency Shem only understood when he took a second look and realized that she was made of metal, her arms ending in an array of swivelling tools: carving knives, mixing spoons, whisks, even a gleaming potato masher.

  Marchmont paused for a moment, sucking his breath in. “Damnation, not again. I swear, no matter how I adjust the programming, Cook always makes enough to feed a family. You’ll have supper, I hope.”

  “That’s very kind, sir,” Shem said, eyeing the cook with interest.

  “Excellent. Now, downstairs. These are the old cellars. Medieval in parts, I’ve been told. My sisters insisted I put my workshop here to save the house from any accidents. Demmed inconvenient, when I haven’t started any serious fires in years, but not worth the family row, so here we are.”

  He swung open the door and waved Shem in. There was a note of nervousness in his voice, and Shem wondered again if the inventor’s friends ever visited his workshop. Surely there were other inventors in the great city of London who shared Marchmont’s passion for his work. Or was it just that Marchmont didn’t trust them in his lair? To Shem, accustomed to collaboration when there was a problem to solve, it seemed a sad way to work.

  Unbending enough to smile at Marchmont with some warmth, he stepped inside.

  The ceiling was vaulted, crisscrossed with beams and lines of wire threaded with cogs and gears, nuts, latches, clips, bolts, and clasps, the brass gleaming dimly in the gaslight. Racks were bolted onto the ancient walls, but most lay empty, their tools scattered across the cluttered workbenches: wrenches balanced precariously on tins of tacks; pliers and pencils jumbled together in mugs with broken handles; a drill marking the place in a battered book; saws half-hidden below sheaves of blueprints that drifted onto the floor as Marchmont rushed past. There were half-built devices everywhere, many clicking and ticking. A small tin drummer marched along the edge of one bench as the key turned in its back, and a whole tray of fist-sized glass eyeballs rolled around to stare at Shem.

  A slight sucking sound made him jump, and he looked up to see a brass turtle crawling across the ceiling, lifting one sucker-tipped foot at a time. A small spider dangled off the edge of its shell, spinning busily. The whole ceiling was lightly coated in cobwebs, and Shem wondered if Marchmont would notice before the turtle lost its grip and fell on his head.

  Every tool he had ever wished for was scrambled into this mess somewhere, but he would fire any apprentice who left one of his workrooms in this state.

  Then he recalled Marchmont’s anxious look and bit back his criticism to say, “Magnificent.”

  “Naturally,” Marchmont replied, the arrogance back in his voice. He pushed aside books and papers to make a space in the midst of one of the benches and put the nightingale down carefully. “Let’s get her wings off.” He looked up, blinking. “If I can find the right screwdriver.”

  Shem looked over the chaos and spotted one the right size in amongst a tottering heap of camshafts. He extracted it carefully and offered it to Marchmont without comment, although he suspected his expression said too much.

  Marchmont took it eagerly, his fingers brushing against Shem’s. The touch made Shem jump, as if he’d been caught by static, a warm shudder arching up his arm to make him catch his breath. He wanted to touch Marchmont again, for longer, to see what it led to, but that was a bad idea, a very bad idea.

  “Holloway?” Marchmont was staring at him, his eyes narrowed so he looked both quizzical and intent. He was breathing fast, and Shem realized they were both still holding the screwdriver, their fingers separated by a mere length of polished steel. A step would bring them up against each other, and he’d be able to find out if Marchmont kissed with haughty arrogance or wild enthusiasm.

  Summoning his willpower, Shem stepped back. “Shall I be getting out of your way now, sir?”

  “No!” Marchmont seemed have surprised himself, as he blushed a little and added, “Stay, do. You understand the designs, and some of the work will go faster with some help. I shall probably talk, of course, but you’re not obliged to listen. I shall just be thinking aloud.”

  Shem knew he should not allow himself to become any more fascinated with Marchmont, but it was so hard to resist, especially when he wanted to know what the man had planned for their nightingale. It couldn’t hurt to stay a little longer, and he would almost certainly learn a great deal, skills to help him in his own trade. “May I make suggestions?”

  Marchmont looked a little puzzled. “If you like. People don’t usually…. If you’re interested, of course.”

  “I’m interested,” Shem said, and it came out with slightly the wrong emphasis, making Marchmont’s eyes go dark and intent again. Hastily, Shem sidestepped and picked up the nearest drill bit. “I’ll just tidy this up, then.”

  “Tidy?” Marchmont echoed, as if it was a foreign word. “Whatever for?” As Shem eyed the nearest bench meaningfully, he added, “I suppose it is a little messy. There’s just so much to do.”

  “And think how much more you’d get done if you weren’t constantly searching for your tools,” Shem said tartly and then picked up a fretsaw that caught his eye. “Or replacing them because you haven’t cleaned off—what is this? It’s corroded the blade.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Marchmont said, taking it off him with interest. “Shame. I need a good corrosive sometimes.” He put the fretsaw down on the nearest stool and returned to the nightingale. “Do what you like. I’m going to start by replacing some of the heavy parts with lighter prototypes. Wingspan and body weight ratios are the key, I think….”

  Shem moved around as he listened, slowly imposing some order. It was easy to fall into the usual back-and-forth of problem solving, and he soon found himself matching his comments to Marchmont’s rambling. Shem couldn’t spin ideas as fast, but he could pull Marchmont’s wilder flights of fancy back, and he was starting to learn how to ask questions that would make Marchmont’s eyes narrow with interest. It was a shock when he realized the clocks scattered around the room were striking seven.

  “My shift starts in an hour,” he said, stepping back from where they were both leaning over the nightingale. “I should go.”

  “Fine, fine,” Marchmont said without looking up, which disappointed Shem (which, in turn, made him want to slap himself in the face for pure stupidity). “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I start work at four tomorrow,” Shem told him, not even surprised that Marchmont intended to commandeer his free time without apology.

  “Must you?”

  “Must I work for a living?” Shem asked pointedly. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Fine,” Marchmont said with a note of irritation. “Be here by two, and come in the front door.” He pressed a lever above the desk, and a bell tinkled somewhere in the house above. “The footman will show you the way.” />
  The footman was another automaton, balanced on a pair of ratcheted gears that allowed it to climb the stair rails. Upstairs, it took a photograph of Shem and slotted the resulting slide into a rack behind the front door, and then Shem escaped from the dull and featureless hallway with relief.

  All evening, making his rounds and teaching his apprentice, he turned over what he had learned until it fit into place against what he already knew. The engineering knowledge was easy, but the man was a puzzle. Marchmont was rude to strangers, oblivious to anything outside his own social realm, arrogant and demanding; he was sharply defensive of his work, overflowing with words once he realized Shem was willing to listen, living in a house full of automatons, and flustered by a small touch.

  Perhaps, Shem thought, it was as simple as loneliness.

  It was a quiet night, the fog lapping as high as the edges of the Gardens. The steady mechanical progression of symphonies was underlaid by the distant boom and cry of foghorns on the river. The dirigibles came nosing slowly out of the mist to nudge alongside the wharf, their sides lined with red-and-green lights and their horns sounding steadily. Despite that, there was a quiet to the Gardens tonight, especially in the less frequented corners, where the trees bent deeply over the alcoves and gazebos, their leaves slick and heavy with the damp. He wasn’t surprised when he found Marchmont sitting in their nightingale’s grove after closing, his fingers laced beneath his chin as he contemplated the bird, which had been restored to its perch. It looked different, its wings wider and less adorned.

  “Were you successful, my lord?” Shem asked.

  Marchmont startled, as if he hadn’t noticed they were there. Sighing, he said, “Not yet.”

  He’d shaved since Shem had left him, and found a clean shirt, but there were shadows under his eyes. He clearly hadn’t slept, and Shem’s heart went out to him. Didn’t rich people have faithful old servants to look after them? What about those sisters he had mentioned with such affection? Why wasn’t someone looking after him?

  “Go on, boy,” he said to the apprentice. “Shift’s over.”

  Left alone with Marchmont, he went to sit beside him on the damp bench, grimacing at the cool press of the stone. He didn’t say anything, but after a few moments, Marchmont said abruptly, “I thought there was little point if I didn’t bring it back in time for dawn.”

  “I understand,” Shem said.

  The dim sky lightened so slowly it was barely noticeable. The birds were quieter than usual, but the little brown nightingale sang brightly. It didn’t seem to care that the brass nightingale had new wings, but Shem had to catch a breath when he saw them unfold into the gleaming span of brass rods and thin leather, more like a bat’s than a bird’s.

  It wasn’t until the brown nightingale flitted away that he realized Marchmont had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

  “My lord? Marchmont?” All that got him was a small snore, and shaking Marchmont just made him grumble and slump closer, his hand catching on Shem’s collar.

  “Gabriel,” Shem said softly, swallowing the shiver of nerves and the fear of going too far, of falling over the edge of his secure, orderly life. “Wake up.”

  Marchmont opened his eyes, hunching up his shoulders in protest. Shem offered him a hand up and again felt Marchmont’s touch shiver right through him. As Marchmont paced, yawning, Shem packaged up the nightingale and walked back through the Gardens with Marchmont plodding slowly beside him. They were sinking through the sky now, the slow hiss and ease of the floats sounding through the ground beneath their feet, and the fog was closing over their heads again, hiding all but the dim shadows of the hedges from their sight.

  If they were to step aside now, into one of the hidden alcoves, no one would see them. Shem would be able to slide his hands up into Marchmont’s hair and tip his tired face down to meet his own lips, and there would be no one to witness it or condemn them.

  Reckless men couldn’t keep secrets, though, and society would not forgive Marchmont such a sin, let alone Shem. What was silently tolerated in drunks and foolish boys would be roundly condemned by daylight. He would not take not that risk, not even here in the illusory safety of the Gardens.

  They had to wait for the gates to be unlocked. Marchmont leaned more precariously to the left the longer they stood, and Shem decided that was a good enough excuse to slide his shoulder under the earl’s hand and prop him up. It had nothing to do with wanting to test how long he would keep reacting to Marchmont’s touch, not at all.

  The shivers were almost wearing off when Marchmont moved his hand slightly, his bare fingertips brushing Shem’s throat, and Shem’s whole body tightened in response. When he managed to catch his breath and look round, Marchmont was staring at him. His eyes were still heavy and sleepy, but there was a heat in them that hadn’t been there before. Holding Shem’s gaze, he shifted his fingers again, an almost imperceptible stroke.

  Shem barely bit back a gasp.

  The gates rattled up, signalling the Gardens were safely lodged into their daytime spot, and Marchmont leaned forward to say, straight into his ear, “See me home.”

  Shem wanted to, so much he couldn’t speak for a moment.

  But he knew better, so he took a slow breath and stepped back. “I’ll see you this afternoon, my lord. You should sleep.”

  He carried the memory of Marchmont’s puzzled disappointment away with him as he trudged through the breakfast hall and then on to his narrow and lonely bed.

  He was expecting it to be awkward when he arrived back at Marchmont’s workshop, but Marchmont merely greeted him with, “Weatherproofing?”

  “Could we add caulking and a protective coating without changing the weight distribution?” Shem asked, coming over to the bench. The workshop already looked messier than it had when he left the day before.

  They fell back into yesterday’s rhythm easily enough, though there were a few moments when Shem looked up to find Marchmont staring at him with a faint frown, as if trying to work out a puzzle. Neither of them mentioned the previous evening, and Shem knew he should have been relieved that Marchmont dropped it easily. He just felt sad, though, and a little more conscious of how easy it was to be alone in this world. It didn’t help when their hands bumped over their work and sent another pang through him.

  An hour didn’t seem like very long, and Marchmont was clearly irritated when he left. It was no surprise when Marchmont appeared in the Gardens again, bringing the nightingale home to sing out its heart. He wasn’t as tired tonight, or maybe just more guarded, but Shem walked him back to the gate anyway, neither of them saying much.

  There was no easy solution to the challenge posed by the nightingale: it had never been designed to fly. Marchmont continued to work on it with an intensity Shem didn’t quite understand. He knew there were other projects waiting for the inventor’s attention, but this one seemed to have become an obsession.

  By the end of the week, they had a routine, and something that, if it wasn’t for the class divide, Shem might have termed a friendship. He learned his way around Marchmont’s workshop and ventured the odd comment about his own life in response to Marchmont’s babble. He managed to make Marchmont fall quiet and think a few times too, by challenging the little sneering comments Marchmont made about people less brilliant or educated than him. Shem was fairly certain there was no real unkindness in the man; he had simply never bothered to think about society in the same way he did about his designs. It must be nice to have that freedom.

  The summer turned sweltering. At least the air above the permanent veil of smog was cooler, and Shem was always awed by the nights when lightning crackled across the skies and caught at the tips of the firework towers, even though it was bad for profits. His work settled back into its usual pattern, and he gradually entrusted the boy with more independent work.

  Marchmont appeared in the nightingale’s grove before every dawn. Sometimes he stalked straight off home again, but often he stayed for breakfast, addressing most of
his conversation at Shem, but learning the names and skills of some of the other mechanics too. They all regarded him with a wary interest that slowly changed to a careful tolerance. The rich were odd, everyone knew, and geniuses even more so, and if his lordship wanted to eat with them, that was just another eccentricity.

  Shem was beginning to feel comfortable, when it suddenly became obvious he had been neglecting at least one of his duties. He hadn’t been watching the boy well enough.

  His mood was black when he reached the grove that dawn, and Marchmont immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Shem choked on it, his fury and disappointment tangling with what could and could not be said aloud. Closing his eyes didn’t help, because all he could see was the boy’s face, head thrown back and mouth hanging open with delight as he was fucked over the side of a fountain by a man old enough and, by the few items of clothing he was still wearing, rich enough to know better.

  Some semblance of what he’d seen must have stumbled out of his mouth, because Marchmont went still and calm. “Was he willing?”

  “He’s a child,” Shem said. “It doesn’t matter if he was enjoying it.”

  “He’s well past the age of consent,” Marchmont said, giving Shem that puzzled frown again. “You keep teaching me not to judge on first appearances. Shouldn’t you ask—”

  “He’s been told,” Shem said flatly. “Time and time over. Stay away from gentlemen.”

  “He resents that,” Marchmont remarked. “Everyone’s stupid at that age. There’s little harm in it.”

  “That shows how little you know,” Shem snapped and stomped across the grove to scowl at the nightingale, yet again restored to its pillar, rebuilt but still essentially whole. He’d waited until the boy and his fancy man were done and then sent the boy running back through the hedge paths with tears on his cheeks. It hadn’t made him feel any better.

  Marchmont’s hands landed softly on his shoulders, not clutching but simply there. “Shem.”