Falling Machine, The (The Society of Steam, Book One)

by Andrew P. Mayer

  They had only been standing still for half a minute, but already a small crowd of onlookers had begun to form down the block. “All right…Miss Stanton. I will take you to your…doctor.” He began to move again.

  “And then what?”

  Tom's shoes, or what was left of them, made a loud rhythmic slapping as they pounded against the sidewalk. “I'm not sure I understand your question.”

  “After you've delivered me to safety, what will you do?”

  “I have retrieved…Mr. Wickham's notebook from his corpse. He had made some…inquiries in his attempt to discover which member of the Paragons it is that has turned traitor. I shall endeavor to continue that investigation.”

  “To what end?”

  “The Sleuth sent me out last night to investigate a…warehouse where he believed I would find evidence of the…conspiracy. I was attacked, but I also discovered evidence that someone has stolen…Sir Dennis's inventions for their own ends.

  “And that was where you were when…”

  “…Mr. Wickham was killed,” Tom replied.

  “But you can take the other Paragons to the warehouse!”

  “Unfortunately it was completely destroyed.”

  Sarah frowned. “Why is it that the Paragons seem unable to enter a building without demolishing it?”

  “I could not…answer that question.”

  Sarah barked out a laugh. “Nor should you! But if that's the case, then who is the traitor?”

  “I still cannot be certain.”

  “I'm not trying to play twenty questions with you, Tom. Who do you think it is?”

  There was a long pause before his reply. “I don't think it is wise for you to become any more…involved in this…affair than you already are…Miss Stanton.

  “As you said earlier, the fact that…Nathaniel will report this…encounter between us will already make things far too dangerous for you once the traitor…realizes he has been found out.”

  “Don't patronize me, Tom. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean that I'm unable to think.”

  “Of course not…Miss Stanton. I have no bias toward your gender. But I am no longer in a position to…protect you.”

  “Protect me? From whom?”

  “The…Paragons, or anyone else who would wish you harm.”

  “My father is the leader of the Paragons!”

  “As was…Sir Dennis.”

  She gripped his arm more tightly. “Do you think he could be next?”

  “No. At least there is no…reason to believe so as of yet.”

  She relaxed slightly, although she was unsure whether she could believe him. “That's some good news, at least.”

  Tom came to a sudden halt. He spun around sharply, then quickly traversed a small set of stairs. “We are here…Miss Stanton.”

  “Perhaps it's time you started calling me by my first name.”

  “If you wish…Sarah.” Tom lowered her gently to the ground. Even after the journey through the winter wind, the bricks were shockingly cold against the exposed skin of her foot.

  “I do.” She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug. His slightly inhuman shape made it awkward, but she held him close against her for a moment, feeling the thousands of vibrations as the machinery inside of him churned. Sarah wondered for a moment if this was how Tom sensed the world, feeling the movements of everything around him. “Thank you, Tom. I know things have been hard recently, but I've grown rather fond of you over the last few years.”

  “I appreciate your trust in me…Sarah.” He put his left arm around her gently and squeezed back. Sarah was surprised. She hadn't expected it. “I will do everything in my power to…prove that your faith in me is not misplaced.”

  “Pish. You have nothing to prove to me, Tom. Or to anyone.” The cold was starting to get to her now. She could feel the shivers rising up, sapping what remained of her strength. Another minute and she'd collapse to the ground.

  “The others may not be able to see it, Tom, but you're more like Darby than any of them care to admit.”

  He let go of her and took her hand. “I found our time together…pleasurable.”

  “Don't give up hope,” she said quietly. “We'll find a way to save you.”

  “I am afraid that after today there are not many…outcomes in which I will continue to exist for long.”

  Sarah let go of his hand and pointed a finger at him. “Don't say that!” She was surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes.

  “But if I am destroyed, I will endeavor to leave whatever…information I gather where you can find it.”

  “I thought you said I shouldn't get involved.”

  “When I am…gone you will be the only one who still knows that the…Paragons are compromised. Your honesty and…forthrightness will be needed.” He pulled the pneumatic gun free from his iron arm and held it out to her. A length of tubing trailed after it back into his arm. “You may need this.”

  Sarah waved it away. “A gun? I can't—”

  Tom moved it closer to her. “It is an air-powered weapon. It was created by…Sir Dennis for…Nathaniel.”

  She took it and cradled it between her hands. “It won't kill?”

  “It does not have to. Now please hold the base of the…weapon toward me.”

  Sarah did so, and Tom twisted something into it with his left hand. The tubing dangled free and then retracted into his arm.

  “It uses fortified steam. I have modified it so that it is weaker and safer than it once was, but still powerful enough to protect you.” Reaching under his chest plate he pulled out a small metal sphere. “You will need to find your own supply of…fortified steam once you have used this.” It had a brass nozzle with a grooved fitting along the top of it. He snapped it into place along the bottom of the weapon. With the brass ball underneath the barrel, the weapon had a gangly, otherworldly appearance. “But it will shoot at least…ten times before then.” He flipped it over before placing the weapon back into her hand, grip first. Then he reached out and rapped on the door behind her.

  Sarah lifted up her bustle and shoved the gun in between the hoops. When she dropped it back into place the weapon was invisible. Sarah was pleased to discover that the garment was good for something. “I want one more thing from you, Tom.”

  “What is it…Sarah?”

  She stood up on her tiptoes and then reached her hand up behind his neck. Their faces moved closer together.

  Sarah grabbed the Sleuth's mask and began to tug it up and over his head. “This.”

  He realized what she wanted and used his hand to untie the cord. Once that was done it came away easily. “I think…Mr. Wickham would be happy to know you have it.”

  The sound of someone clambering down the stairs could be heard from inside the house. “But you should be…careful. Sir…Dennis said that when a man puts on a mask he discovers his greatest…confidence and his darkest desire at the same moment.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, her hand tightly clutching her prize. “It's lucky for me that I'm not a man, then.”

  “Stay safe…Sarah Stanton.”

  “You too, Tom.” She gave him a kiss on the side of his face. It was cold against her lips.

  Tom turned and moved down the stairs. “Good-bye.”

  Sarah watched him as he began to run down the street. It was a loping, almost animal movement, like a rabbit or a deer. The mechanical man turned a corner and vanished into the streets of Manhattan just as the door behind her opened.

  She turned to see the doctor's assistant looking down at her with shock and horror. “What in the name of heaven has happened to you?”

  Seeing herself in the woman's terrified eyes she realized just how frightful she must look. “I've been in a fight, I'm afraid.” Then her legs gave out, and Sarah heard the woman scream out her name as she collapsed to the ground, the world turning mercifully black.

  When Jenny Foxbrush had arrived in the Stanton household she had only been nineteen, but alr
eady had the stern temperament of a woman in her forties. She could silence a man at ten paces with a single withering look—a useful skill for a girl who rarely actually spoke to anyone unless she was forced to.

  Gossip had ran rampant among the household staff that she had spent her youth as a child of the streets, left homeless after her father was sent to jail for slaughtering her mother in front of her eyes.

  Whether or not the story was completely true, Sarah did know that Jenny had lived with an aunt—a housemaid who had instilled in her niece the most amazing skills at cleaning clothes—for most of her teenage years. Jenny could find and remove almost any stain known to man. She also had the useful ability to recall the location of any object in the house, even if she had only glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye. This was a talent often put to use by the other members of the household staff, who used the girl to track down things that they had lost or misplaced, when they dared to speak to her.

  But her plans to remain quietly hidden from the attention of the Stanton family had been undone when the four-year-old Sarah had decided she would follow the young maid everywhere she went. It was certainly not conversation she was after, and the young girl was quite content to sit quietly and watch the maid do her washing work for hours at a time. Considering that the young Sarah had gained a reputation for her epic tantrums, it was considered something of a miracle when a few stern words of reprimand from Miss Foxbrush had put a stop to her unpleasant displays once and for all. The two of them had maintained their odd friendship ever since.

  But fifteen years later Jenny was no longer simply the quiet little housekeeper with a gift for laundry. She had filled out and turned into the head of the maid staff, managing to find her voice, as well as the time to also become the bride of Mr. Jonathon Farrows, the handsome footman from the house next door. And Sarah was now a young woman, older than Jenny was when they had first met.

  The two of them were together in the kitchen of the Stanton house. Sarah leaned back on a stool, her neck resting against a towel on the edge of one of the large porcelain sinks, her ruined hair dangling over a pool of warm, soapy water.

  Mrs. Farrows's fingers were shoved deep into the tangle of young Miss Stanton's locks. She scrubbed furiously, a large white bar of soap at her side, stopping only to pick out the occasional shard of glass. “Look at your face! You're supposed to be a young lady, not a hooligan! What were you thinking, getting into a fight?”

  “I got into the middle of someone else's fight,” Sarah replied with a sniff. “Which is a very different thing.”

  “Don't try and squirm out of it—there are six stitches in your forehead! And the doctor said that you were lucky not to have lost your foot to frostbite.”

  “Dr. William thinks every cut and bruise is either fatal or can only be cured by having something sawn off.”

  “Well, this is more than that.” The matron pulled her hand out of the mass of soapy hair, pulling a clump of long blonde strands with it. “I'm not sure if we're going to be able to save much. You may need to wear a wig for a while.”

  “Maybe I'll just chop it all off and wear a hat.”

  “Sarah, getting hurt may seem funny to you, but—”

  The smile melted away from her face. “No, Jen, it isn't funny. I know that.”

  “I was going to say,” she said with a stern note of anger in her voice, “that your father isn't going to see any humor in it.”

  “I'm already sure of that.” And while there might be tears, there would certainly be no hugs.

  “And they say the Darby mansion is gone—burned to the ground. And young master Winthorp was badly hurt.”

  Sarah's eyes flared. “Badly hurt? Who said that? I saw Nathaniel when I left. His only real wounds were a raging hangover and a badly bruised ego.”

  Jenny put one soap-covered hand on an ample hip and wagged the finger of the other hand at Sarah. “I know that you're not telling me that you don't care what happened to your stepbrother.”

  Sarah jerked her head up, sending out a spray of soap and warm water. “You didn't see him, Jen! He was a self-righteous monster, accusing Tom of everything! It was his foolishness that caused me to get hurt!”

  The maid frowned and lifted up a corner of her apron to wipe a foamy blob of soap from the corner of Sarah's eye. Then she gently pushed her back down toward the water. “Well, that's not what they're saying upstairs. The word is that the mechanical man attacked you.”

  Sarah pursed her lips, and a wave of red spread across her face. “Of course that's what they're saying. People always seem to find a way to blame Tom for everything that's gone wrong since Sir Dennis was killed.”

  Jenny pushed Sarah's head back into the water and resumed her work. “Young lady, you need to get ahold of yourself. Your father was extremely unhappy when he discovered you were involved in this mess.” Mrs. Farrows grabbed the tap and swung it wide, sending a fresh deluge of steaming water into the tub. “Greeting him with an attitude is only going to make it worse.”

  “I'll try to keep my mouth closed, then.” Sarah let out a sigh. “But it's never going to work. How angry is he?”

  “I don't really know.” She fanned out Sarah's hair, checking for any hidden pockets of soap or glass. “He locked himself in his study this afternoon.”

  “That's not good.”

  “No, it isn't. You don't remember what day it is, do you, Sarah?”

  “Day? It's the sixth of February….”

  Mrs. Farrows squeezed out what water she could, then helped Sarah up. “Maybe that explosion rattled your brains more than you realize. It's the seventh.”

  Sarah's eyes widened. “Their anniversary…” Ever since her mother's death seven years ago, Alexander Stanton had honored the memory of his wife on the day of their marriage rather than the day of her death. He had explained to Sarah, “It is far more fitting that I celebrate our life together rather than the miserable existence I have had to endure without her.”

  Sarah was pulled out of the sink and found herself smothered under a stiff white towel. A feeling of nostalgic calm settled over her as the maid used it to blot the water out of her hair.

  Jenny wrapped the linen around her head, carefully avoiding the stitches, and then twisted it until it gripped Sarah's skull like a vise. “Seven years may seem like a long time, but to your father it's still a fresh wound.”

  “I loved her, too!”

  “Of course you did, but you're old enough now to understand the difference between the bond shared by a mother and her children, and that of a husband and wife.”

  Sarah realized that she understood the idea of that kind relationship, although the practicality of it still escaped her for the most part. Still, it was clearly the wrong time to explore philosophical questions of love with her housemaid, no matter how close of a confidante she might be.

  After a bit more twisting, Jennifer unwound the towel and let Sarah's hair fall in a damp, stringy mess all around her head.

  Sarah looked up with a hopeful smile. “How is it? Do I still need to get out the clippers and a hat?”

  Mrs. Farrows tilted her head and clucked her tongue. “It looks like someone has set fire to a rat's nest, and then left it in the street.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small handful of hairpins. “But perhaps you won't need a wig.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes as Jenny pulled and pinned her wet locks.

  At first Sarah tried to relax, but in the quiet, thoughts swirled around in her head. When she spoke again the words seemed to almost burst out of her. “What would you do if you found out that someone you loved wasn't actually the person you thought they were at all?”

  The maid stopped her work and pulled out the remaining pins she had been holding in her mouth. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “If it turned out that your entire life had been a lie, and that someone you thought had been honorable was actually despicable—what would you do?”

  �
�Oh, Sarah, such melodrama,” Mrs. Farrows said, stepping in front of her former charge and looking her straight in the eye. “I know you're a forward-thinking girl, but up until now you've lived in a world of privilege and wealth that's kept you apart from a lot of the cra…bad things in this world.” She put her hand up to Sarah's face in a compassionate gesture. “I've told you this before, but you need to know that life can be dangerous no matter what your station, especially for a pretty young girl like yourself. And you can only be as willful as the people around you are willing to put up with, especially if you're a woman.”

  “What about right and wrong?”

  “Nice luxuries when you can afford them.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “You're saying I should apologize to my father.”

  “I'm saying that despite any misgivings you have about Master Stanton, he has given everyone in this house a very good life. Perhaps not always an easy one, but no one who lives under his roof, no matter who they are, should take him for granted.”

  “He'd never throw me out.”

  Jenny lifted up some hair hanging in front of Sarah's face, pulled it outward, and then pinned it back roughly. “Never say ‘never,’ girl. Nathaniel was once a second son to that man, and he hasn't been allowed to set foot in this house for the last two years.”

  “Allowed? Nathaniel chose to move out.”

  “So everyone told you.” She held out her hand and helped Sarah up from the stool. “But what you don't know can fill volumes.”

  Before Sarah could ask another question there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Jenny said, looking up. “She's ready.”

  The kitchen door swung in to reveal the house butler, O'Rourke. He always spoke in a metered and deliberate tone, as if he were announcing a funeral. “If the mistress would come with me…”

  “We'll talk more later,” Mrs. Farrows said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “And just remember that he's still your father no matter what.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.”

  She followed behind the old Irishman as he trundled down the woodpaneled corridor, the gas lamps doing their usual futile job of effectively lighting anything but the ceiling. Sarah thought back to the marvelous electric lights from Darby's laboratory and imagined how much less ominous everything would appear in their full and friendly glow.