The omnibus is full of half-metals and the working class, grimy from a day in the cafeterias, laundry halls, whorehouses, and construction sites of Paris. The construction sites are everywhere, and the only one complete is Mr. Eiffel’s tower. Everyone else hurries to be ready for the Exposition Universelle, just two months away now. Eva just ordered a whole new set of gowns; she ordered the first set made a year ago, so naturally they’re out of style now. I’m working on pumping even faster so that I can handle more excitement—like meeting Monsieur Edison. I won’t mention it again to the docteur, but nothing he says will stop me from speaking to the wizard himself.
I’m so wrapped up in my dreams of electric hearts that I don’t think twice about jumping off at my stop; only once I’m on the ground do I realize that I hadn’t meant to return until this evening. By then it’s too late to turn back— the omnibus is clattering away, and I know that Marie will be hanging off our balcony as she does every time she hears an omnibus while I’m out. It annoys Eva to no end, as she’s informed me on numerous occasions. Even my parents have scolded Marie for her silliness.
I turn toward our building and give Marie a resigned wave. I can see the relief that I’ve returned unharmed on her face even from here. Then she disappears back into the flat to come open the back door for me. I move forward, dragging my feet, and plunge my good hand into the velvet purse dangling off my belt to feel the stiff paper of the invitation that Eva had given me that morning. An invitation to one of her exclusive salons. It was only the latest of many, but this time it was different—she’d invited planners for the Exposition. Planners who might know Monsieur Edison. I had decided to stay far from the temptation of returning and being forced into a society that prefers not to see me.
The alley between buildings is clean except for the occasional mound of dog dirt. From here I can peer into courtyards around thick hedges and iron gates—courtyards that are invisible from the street, where the buildings appear blocky and impenetrable.
“Mon dieu, you and your omnibuses! Ça va?” Marie repeats the question over and over, brushing imaginary dust from my shoulders while shepherding me through our small courtyard. Once we reach the wide, short stairs, she turns on me.
“It’s already started—we must make you presentable quickly.”
“No, Marie. I’m not going.”
“Bah! It’s about time you entered society. There are ten members of her literary salon; the rest are scientists.”
My stomach clenches. Eva spends time in the company of literary geniuses, complaining bitterly about it afterward; now that I have a weak heart, the only excitement I’m allowed is my weekly visit to the Hôpital.
“But Mother and Father....”
Marie pats my arm. “Don’t worry yourself; they gave Eva their approval. Venez!” She pulls me up the stairs. My parents have taken the day to stroll around the Bois de Vincennes, giving Eva the run of the apartment and the servants. If my introduction to society goes poorly, there will be no one to save me.
This is a fact: The human heart weighs an average of ten ounces. My heart weighs three pounds, nearly five times that of its flesh counterpart.
“Now, this must go,” Marie says, picking at the sleeve of my blouse. It is made of the same free-flowing brown fabric as my skirt so as to look like a dress covered with tiny white and red flowers. It is the height of Artistic fashion, according to Eva’s magazines and my fellow omnibus riders. None of the bourgeois women at Eva’s salon would be caught dead wearing anything similar, with only a loosely laced corset and no bustle.
“Here—your mother had this made up, but she hasn’t worn it yet.” Marie swirls a dark blue dress made of some heavy fabric I can’t even name out of a large box.
“Marie, I couldn’t....” I trail off under the force of her glare, reaching for my buttons. She helps me out of my simple dress and buckles me into a cagelike bustle before I even have time to protest. The ridiculous thing has cream-colored linen ruffles along the bottom, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing at my own silhouette.
Marie sighs and shakes her head. “We need to tighten the corset a little, non? Your bust must balance your bustle.”
“I can do without the bustle.”
“And where would all the skirt’s fabric go then?” Marie shakes her head in amazement at my suggestion. She tightens my corset efficiently, making me cough with the sudden constriction of my lungs, then wrestles the blue gown over my head. My mother is taller than me and has longer arms, so even though there is no lace at the edges of the sleeves, my mechanical heart is easily hidden. Mother and I both favor a high neck; in the end, the dress is close enough to something I would have picked myself to make me feel comfortable.
Marie pulls my hair out of its braid and into a tight chignon, allowing a few strands to frame my face. Then she pins the extra meters of fabric in the skirt’s back up to the bustle, arranging it to look like an oversized bow on my backside and exposing the ruffles on the bustle. I barely recognize myself.
“Beautiful,” Marie pronounces as she powders my face. She shoves the invitation into my hand and opens the door. She gives me a quick, rare smile, then pushes me into the hallway and shuts the door behind me.
I steel myself, shivering with anticipation. There’s still time to turn back. I knock on the door to the study, and our butler opens it. He takes the invitation before I can scurry away, then bows me into the room.
A phonograph is playing under the chatter of voices, and skirts swirl over bustles as two couples waltz. The drapes are thrown open to the view of Mr. Eiffel’s tower, and a group of three men and a woman are looking out at it. I scan the room for Eva and spot her being escorted to the dance floor by a sandy-haired man in a dark suit and top hat. She is stunning in a red gown with a low décolleté that shows off the top half of her scar. I finger my identical scar, hidden under the high neck of Mother’s dress, as I edge around the dancers. How long can I avoid Eva and her introduction?
I go to the one place in our apartment where I feel powerful: the window with its awe-inspiring view. The group standing there is silent as I join them.
“Such a beautiful view,” I say to fill the silence, my hand clenching as quickly as my muscles allow. I wish Marie hadn’t pulled my corset so tight. Or maybe it’s just nerves that make my head so light.
Two of the men turn to me. “Is that so?” the first asks. His accent makes me think of sunshine and lavender.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Of course! Seeing the city spread out before you like a pomegranate....”
The second man snorts. “What, with that monstrosity looming over everything? Eiffel ought to be sent to America, if they like his work so much.”
“It’s as if he wants to remind the world how many metal men there are in Paris,” the first adds. “An abomination!”
“It’s a work of genius,” I say. This grabs the attention of the other two, as well, and they all stare at me. “You must not have read Monsieur Eiffel’s interviews regarding the mathematics and the wind resistance of the structure. Nothing in the world can be compared to it. And if it reminds foreigners at the Exposition of French metal men, then it will also remind them of our medical sciences, which make the metal men possible in the first place. Imagine how many lives would have been lost in the war of 1870 if Docteur Suvi had not understood how to fuse metal and flesh!”
“Bravo, mademoiselle,” the third man says, clapping his gloved hands. His green eyes are alight with humor—and, I think, admiration. “How do you know so much about Mr. Eiffel’s tower?”
“I find the design intriguing and daring, and I appreciate his homage to the metal men. I have visited the Hôpital du Salut many times, and I have seen the miracles performed there firsthand. I know that the technology of Dr. Suvi and his colleagues can do much good in the world.” My hand slows slightly as I calm down, and I hide it behind my back so that my little group of listeners doesn’t notice its compulsive clenching.
“You
see, Raoul and Henri? This tower cannot be all bad if such a pretty demoiselle defends it so! What is your name?”
“Coraline,” I reply before realizing that I can’t tell him the truth. “Devillers,” I add, substituting my mother’s maiden name for my own last name.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Devillers. I’m Jean d’Ivernay, and your sour-faced adversaries are Raoul Davi and Henri Meurier. And this charming lady is my sister, Sophie.”
“Enchanté,” I reply in turn, giving them each a slight curtsy for lack of anything better. Raoul is the one with the accent that makes me think of lavender, and I hope to drive the conversation toward his native region and away from the dangerous waters it’s currently floundering in.
“Your attitude seems unique, Mademoiselle Devillers,” Raoul says, dashing my hopes. “I have heard our hostess speak highly of Dr. Suvi as well, but her opinions of the tower are more…shall we say, normalized.”
“Are people no longer allowed differing opinions, Raoul?” Jean asks lightly. He seems like a kind man, and I wonder how he knows the two other boors.
“I read the papers, too,” Henri breaks in. “International papers. Papers that claim that Paris has become a metal-loving hotbed, and that Dr. Suvi’s ‘technology’ is in fact nothing more than the black magic that Napoleon Bonaparte brought out of Egypt.”
“Nonsense,” I snap before I can help it. “Look at our hostess! She would not be here without Dr. Suvi’s technology. Can you imagine Eva being under the sway of such magic?”
“Claims about Bonaparte’s Egyptian magic have always existed,” Raoul replies, waving a hand. “What does that matter? It’s the rumors about Paris loving metal that concern me. It’s bad enough that these half-humans are protected as if they were fully human! Can you imagine some foreigner approaching you and asking, ‘Are all Frenchmen metal? Is your wife?’” He shudders. “The day when any man or woman is permitted to marry a metal is the day the Third Republic must end.”
This is a fact: The ancient Egyptians weighed the heart against the feather of truth to determine if the dead soul could gain admittance to paradise. If the heart was heavier, the soul was devoured by Ammit, a demon part hippopotamus, part lion, part crocodile.
Before the surgery, I could go into a flying rage and throw a tantrum that neighbors an arrondissement away would hear. My tantrums always surprised my parents; Eva’s failing heart never allowed for such explosive displays of emotion. Sometimes I wonder if they realized that the operation would calm me down to Eva’s level.
Hearing Raoul’s obscenely ignorant comments, I wish I could still fly into a rage. But I can do nothing more than snarl a tart response and stalk off, my hand pumping as quickly as possible.
I stop near the phonograph, struggling to take deep breaths to calm my pulse. The damn corset makes deep breathing nearly impossible, and the bustle is starting to weigh heavily on my back. Sweat beads my forehead under the powder.
“I feel as though I must apologize for Raoul,” Jean’s voice comes at my elbow, making me jump and my pulse go up even more. This is even worse than the zeppelin!
“He’s from Provence, you know, so he’s not completely comfortable in the salons of Paris, or with Parisiennes,” Jean continued.
“Yes; I heard his accent.”
“I hope you do not judge us for being part of that.” He waves his hand in the general direction of Raoul and Henri. Then he pauses, looking me up and down slowly. “Mademoiselle Malsante told us that her salon would have a surprise; could it be you? I’ve never seen you at a salon before, though you seem to know her quite well.”
I swallow hard. “Do I?”
His lips twitched. “You called her by her first name.”
“We were…childhood friends.” It isn’t a complete lie. We were friends as children. When all I wanted was to help my older sister. When she was grateful beyond words, and promised me over and over that she’d do anything for me once she had my heart. Anything at all.
“I see. Was she much different then? I’ve always wondered…did living with another person’s heart change her?”
“Not as much as it changed the donor, surely.”
“Undoubtedly, since the donor is dead.”
“No, she isn’t.” I don’t stop to think until after the words are out of my mouth. I should run out of the room now, before I say anything more. But something in Jean’s kind eyes won’t let me. If the strange electricity between a man and a woman could be harnessed, ours would power my heart for the rest of my life.
He raises one eyebrow. “No? But surely the donor can’t use Evaline’s heart?”
I note that he’s started calling my sister by her given name, too, and wonder for the first time why he’s so interested. Is he one of her suitors? “No; her heart was too small to sustain anyone. Her donor has a metal heart. So I’ve heard,” I add, realizing that it’s already too late. He must know who I am by now.
His face lights up and he rocks back on his heels. “I had no idea metallurgy had advanced so far! Such an accomplishment should be mentioned in the Exposition; it will change the world’s opinion of metallurgy. I shall mention it to my colleagues at the Exposition Universelle.”
“Oh, please don’t!” I cry in a panic. Dr. Suvi tried to convince me it would be an honor to be paraded around the Exposition like an object, but I refuse to debase myself—or any other metal man or metal woman—in such a way. “If Eva or her donor should ever find out I’ve said anything, why....” I back away from him, right into the phonograph. Its three-legged stool wobbles and falls, and I crash down next to it as the music dies.
This is a fact: Aristotle and the Roman physician Galen were wrong. The seat of emotion is not in the heart.
Even before Jean can recover enough to disentangle me from the phonograph, I hear Eva shriek, “What is this?” Her face is flushed beneath her powder, and her scar blends into the redness of her upper chest as she pushes to the front of the crowd. “Oh, Cora!” She smiles, though it trembles, and puts a hand over her heart. “Are you all right?”
In the years leading up to the operation, Eva and I used to play guessing games about how we’d change once I had a metal heart and she had mine. I was convinced that she’d understand me completely once my heart was safely inside her. I feared that I’d lose who I was. As the operation drew nearer—Dr. Suvi refused to perform it before my heart was fully developed and its pulse had stabilized with adulthood—Eva’s main concern was that my heart would change her feelings for certain men.
My heart did nothing but stabilize her pulse and gave her full range of normal activities that had been denied her for twenty-four years. That was enough for her—for all of us. Dr. Suvi had cautioned our parents with tales of rejected donor organs when it first became apparent that Eva’s heart would only get worse as she aged. She was eighteen then, and I twelve. We tested our servants. Our entire extended family. Ourselves. I was the best match. I love my sister, and wanted to do anything to help her. With my parents’ francs, Dr. Suvi developed the metal heart, promising them that they’d keep both their daughters.
Jean helps me up. Eva sweeps toward me and takes my right hand. Jean’s hand is still on my left arm.
“Mesdemoiselles and messieurs, allow me to introduce my surprise in her first entrance into société: my sister and donor, Coraline Malsante.”
There’s a quiet murmuring, a polite smattering of applause. I’m not sure what I expected, but certainly not this feigned interest. Then Raoul elbows his way forward.
“Donor?” Raoul spits the word. “But how does she live?”
Jean laughs quietly next to me. “You will eat your words, Raoul. The demoiselle has a metal heart.”
I try to flinch away as the salon gives a collective gasp, but neither Jean nor Eva lets me go.
“Coraline,” Jean murmurs. I look at him, my pleading eyes boring into his bright green ones. I’m suddenly short of breath. If he asked me to show him what was in my hand, I would. If h
e asked me to stop pumping, I would try. All for those eyes.
His hand moving down my arm sends electric tingles throughout my body. Is this how Eva feels when she sneaks off with her latest beau? His fingers find mine and lift my hand up, pulling away the sleeve and exposing the spasms of my hand for all to see. “It’s all right,” he says, his voice deep and oddly seductive.
I can only nod. His hand caresses mine, then pries my fingers apart. So gently. “Incroyable,” he whispers. My fingers clench and unclench around metal, clench and unclench around metal and flesh, clench and unclench around flesh, and I cry out as he pulls my heart out of my palm. The salon erupts into shouts as people push and shove toward me, jostling to see the girl with the metal heart. Their words spin around my light head like confetti.
Just when I’m about to faint, my vision black, Jean crams my heart back into my hand. I gasp and pump frantically, the edges of my vision slowly clearing. Eva is staring at Jean, her face pale. She must have forced him to return my heart.
“Cora, please,” Jean says. “You simply must be part of the Exposition. I can introduce you to everyone—Eva has already agreed.”
“Jean could get you a meeting with your dear Monsieur Edison,” Eva adds. She winks at me.
I try again to pull away. “I already told Dr. Suvi—I will not be put on display for people such as him.” I point to Raoul.
“This is about science, not about people,” Jean says. “You, of all people, should understand that. You helped revolutionize science.”
“Only so that I could help my sister. Not for the sake of science. For the sake of my sister.” I look at Eva.
“I didn’t ask for your heart,” she whispers.
“You didn’t have to. I’m your sister. What else could I have done?”
“It was willingly given,” Jean says, speaking over me. My hand unclenches in shock, and he catches my heart as it tumbles away. “We’ll keep it safe for you, Coraline,” he tells me. “I’m sure Monsieur Edison will come to see you in the exposition hall.”
Steampunk III: Steampunk Revolution Page 8
