Gears of Brass

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “And so she opened Pandora’s Box.” Clint laughed. He staggered behind me, holding an oil lamp above our heads.

  I could sense from his tone how uncomfortable he was partaking in this crazy plan. I loved him then, and made sure to give him the biggest grin I could muster.

  “It’s too dark to see anything,” he said. “We should come back tomorrow.”

  “Trust me, Clint. Papa works late into the night. He must have a bunch of oil lamps lying around somewhere.”

  “Haven’t you ever been here?”

  I dodged the question. “Give me a minute. I see them.”

  After lighting a couple of lamps, I scanned the room, appreciating the newfound atmosphere. Papa was surprisingly tidy. I expected a pile of dust on the furnishings and floors, but not a speck lay in sight. The counters were buried under books and piles of dishes; a long test-rack ran along the right side. Most of the walls were covered with thick, white drapes. I yanked one cautiously aside, hoping to drink in its secrets.

  “Nothing.” My enthusiasm vanished. “Just rags. And a—mouse trap.”

  “Did you get enough yet?” Clint asked.

  I sent him a look. “We’ve just started.”

  Unfortunately, the search turned more futile by the minute. Jars filled with spongy substances, tin cans with needles, and an assortment of tangled wires. Clint had given up, resting his back toward the wall. He studied me for a long intense moment, and just as I thought he was going to leave, he jerked his head toward the cabinet.

  “What?” I asked.

  “If you were hiding something, would you leave it in plain sight?”

  I shrugged. “I guess not.”

  Clint walked over and gave the cabinet a good pull. I thought the whole thing would crumble—instead a click sounded. Something lay hidden behind the wall. A machine. It was square-shaped with a hard knob on the side. I gave the knob a twist and the whole thing began to hum.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Clint. He pushed my hand away and attempted to shut off the machine.

  It didn’t take long for the whole room to fill with steam. Whatever I had started didn’t want to stop. In the bottom corner, a small light blinked repeatedly, and the whole room became bright like a tiny explosion, but without the outburst or damage. Magically, we were surrounded by a dozen lights.

  “Ugh,” I said, blinking at the illuminated room. “And you thought it would be too dark.”

  Clint didn’t flinch. “Think he’ll give us one of these when we wed?”

  I kissed his cheek. “If you so desire, my love.”

  “Anabel, look!”

  The lights led to another box on the floor. It was made out of copper with cylindrical glass tubes coming out of it. A piece of coal fell inside one of the glass tubes and transformed before our very eyes into gold.

  Clint and I kissed like tomorrow would never come. Never in a million dreams had I imagined an ending like this—Papa, an inventor people could respect, and Clint, a love that could grow without pity or resentment for my penniless state. In a land that revolved around gold, the machine would make us all rich—our worries were almost over.

  We scrambled outside and headed toward Clint’s stable, the hot air welcoming us under the stars. His favorite horse, Topanga, neighed as it saw us come in.

  I rushed to its side, “Shh, don’t wake up the others.”

  “You might convince me quite easily,” said Clint, “but Topanga, not so much.”

  “I’ll take the bet.”

  He raised a bottle of whiskey I had failed to notice from the inside of his long, embroidered coat and took a lengthy swig.

  “It isn’t polite not to offer the lady first,” I said, faking offense.

  He regarded me whimsically while I smiled, all wide-eyed and hyper. I couldn’t help it. This day was full of surprises and I wanted to celebrate. To feel what folks in the village felt when they brought home a pile of gold.

  Seeing as he wasn’t going to release it any time soon, I rested my hand on the bottle. “Come on, Clint Wyatt, don’t be a grouch.”

  He almost chocked. “Alright, but don’t spit it out. This right here, darling, is high-quality whiskey. It might taste bitter at first, but give it time…”

  Before he could preach on, I took hold of the bottle and drank. The alcohol burned my throat like hot ginger soup. My initial reaction was to spit it out, except I remembered Clint’s warning and swallowed at once.

  I still couldn’t believe it. We were rich. I no longer had to fuss and sew a dress I would never get to wear. Imagine the Dalton girls astounded dumb faces.

  I drank again, and again, constantly tugging the bottle from Clint’s hands until he let me keep it altogether.

  “Be careful, Anabel,” he said, “you’re overdoing it. We don’t want you to get sick.”

  I laughed at the words. “Be careful! That’s what Mrs. Dalton said last I spoke with her. But don’t you get it, Clint. Taking a risk and going into the laboratory was the best thing that ever happened to me. I feel so… invincible.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, so I took his face in my hands, “Everything is going to be okay.” And then I kissed him. His lips met mine with the same force, moving without thinking, easier than talking. With one swift movement, he untied the bun at the back of my head, letting the brown curls flow freely about my shoulders.

  Soon everything between us began to vanish. My chocker, my gloves, my breath. Clint unbuttoned my bustier in a matter of seconds while I attempted to remove his tunic.

  “I—don’t know how to take this off,” I groaned.

  “To the devil with this. I’ll do it—I’ll do everything. You just relax, my sweet.”

  The last thing I remembered was his kiss on my shoulder as I fell asleep in his arms.

  I woke the next morning with a handful of hay stuck to my hair. A blinding ray of sunlight hit me straight between the eyes, forcing me to stretch out my arms. The only thing that I was certain of was that my head threatened to explode from a tremendous headache.

  “Clint?” I called out, clutching at my skirt. Without another word, I gazed around, but didn’t see him or his clothes, which I suspected had been thrown around on the floor. Could he have left me here alone?

  Impossible.

  Clint wouldn’t do that. Something must have happened. I quickly got dressed and returned to the ranch, not at all surprised to find Papa curled up on the sofa.

  It was still early. The head pains must have woken me up. Clint’s scent lingered on my skin, and I opted to bathe before Papa awoke.

  I walked pass the laboratory to get my toiletries and noticed the door was wide open. Strange, I distinctly remember locking it. I peeked my head inside and reached in my pocket for Papa’s key. I wanted to return it before he realized what a snooper he had for a daughter—but the key was gone!

  “No!” I must have lost it in the hay. I rushed inside; perhaps Papa had a spare, anything that could prevent me from being discovered.

  As I probed the lab, I noticed the wide space on the counter. The exact same spot where Papa’s invention had been. It didn’t make sense. Clint and I had been gone a few hours, but I do remember locking the door. And Clint—where was he—had he vanished too?

  I hurried out the door, startled by how bright it was. The sun lit up the mountains, illuminating the miners as they headed across the valley to their jobs. I ran past them. They needed to find gold; I needed to find Clint. Only he could tell me what was going on. Perhaps he’d moved Papa’s gold maker for safe keeping. Clint was wise like that.

  To my horror, Mrs. Dalton cornered me by the general store. Her hair stood taller and puffier than ever. She glared at me, hands on hips, eyebrows stuck up.

  “Anabel, where have you been?” she snapped.

  I struggled to catch my breath. “I can’t talk at the moment, Mrs. Dalton. Something terrible has happened to Clint, I just know it. Please tell me you’ve seen him.”

  “Just forg
et about that right now. The train is passing through town in the next few minutes. I need those dresses for the store. Hand them over.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  She flinched at my response. Couldn’t blame her, after all, it was the first time I’d been so dry with her. I admit I enjoyed it.

  “Surely you know I don’t give away charity. What an impertinent girl you are not to have the merchandise ready. I specifically told you they were due today. I expect to be reimbursed for every single penny.”

  “Money is not the issue Mrs. Dalton—Clint is,” I said defensively. “I know just what you think about our relationship. I’ve overheard your girls spread the gossip around town enough to know. And I could tell you that you are wrong. Clint loves me, and together we are going to have the most amazing future.”

  I didn’t wait for her usual sarcastic reply.

  Thankfully, the rest of the run went smoothly. The only lead I had was Clint’s home. Not so long ago, I’d fantasized winning his mother’s approval with my own strawberry jam or an exclusive layered high skirt. But now everything seemed hopeless when she saw my stricken face after banging her door like a call to battle.

  “What’s this about, Anabel?” she asked.

  I pushed my way inside, pacing circles around her as she followed me about the house. “I need to find Clint. Is he all right?”

  “There is no one else here.”

  “Clint!” I yelled.

  “He isn’t here,” she answered gloomily. “He’s gone.”

  “But…?” I paused. As if she could make me feel less empty than I did right now.

  “Go home,” she pleaded. “Forget about Clint. It’s for the best.”

  “Please! I’ve never been this confused in my life. He and I… we—is that why he left? Because I’m no longer pure.”

  Mrs. Wyatt lips twitched like a nerve had broken. Of all the answers for her son’s departure, she’d never imagined fornication. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of the train whistle made her eyes go lifeless. In a flash, I knew where Clint was.

  Once I made it to the railroad station, the departing passengers had already boarded. Agitated and frantic, I paced through the terminal. Clint never took off his top hat. My eyes skimmed one man after another until they found him. I saw Clint through the window. He sat morosely inside a green wagon, a huge covered box on his lap.

  My heart sunk. I knocked on the window and looked at him; he looked at me. It was the end of a chapter. Clint was taking the gold maker—Papa’s gold maker—and was leaving town.

  Without me.

  Regardless of everything that had happened between us, of his promise about forever, Clint had exchanged me for money. The train churned its last whistle and began to roll away with my past, present, and future.

  I coughed up my entire stomach contents beside the train tracks. Some passersby stopped and offered to help me, but I shoved them off. Told one of them to go to the devil.

  It wasn’t enough.

  If anyone deserved a lashing, it had to be me. My life had been intact, filled with hope and dreams, and then it all crumbled because of my impulsive nature. Asking Clint for help, snooping in Papa’s laboratory—if I had controlled myself I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Truth was, I wanted to have it all. Now, I had lost Papa’s hard ride to success.

  Everything looked hopeless as I walked through Death Valley. The streets were dirtier than usual, the people had faceless dull expressions. A courtesan laughed bitterly from a brothel as a man pleaded with his wife. Was no one ever really happy?

  I was barefoot by the time I reached the cliff. It had been too much of a struggle to walk two miles in leather strap boots.

  Looking down, I watched silently as the water flowed by. I belonged there. I believed I could hear the deep blue water telling me it was okay to let go.

  With one last breath, I dived into the jagged rocks.

  I opened my eyes to Papa’s sweet smile. His face glowed as if years of life had been lifted off his shoulders.

  “My Anabel,” he cried. His hand found mine, and if I’d had more strength, I would’ve crumbled to tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Papa,” I whispered.

  “Hush, my child,” he said. “Save your strength.”

  “I didn’t mean to lose your machine.”

  He grabbed a handful of his hair, and gave it a sharp yank. “Is that why you did this—no, Anabel. You didn’t have to dive off a cliff. I could build another machine. I kept the plans.”

  I swallowed a breath. I hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “Besides,” he continued, “that was not my life’s work. I needed the gold for something bigger.”

  Steam blew around us. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was in Papa’s laboratory. The curtains, the pile of books—I recognized it all except for the tubes. Papa eyed them as well. I followed his gaze and found they led to the same place, down, down to my chest.

  “This!” Papa lifted his hands in the air. “This is my masterpiece. An invention that brings the gift of life.”

  I didn’t understand. Why were the tubes connected to me?

  Reading my mind, Papa said, “Let me show you.”

  He brought up a handheld mirror and placed it over my chest.

  I scrunched my eyes shut. “No!”

  But Papa wouldn’t give up. He placed the mirror in my hand.

  Curiosity got the best of me once again. The mirror revealed the truth—a huge hole in the center of my chest, protruding bones and red flesh. There was no blood pouring out of me. Instead, I saw an open cavity, and where the heart should have been, stood a bunch of golden clockworks twisting silently.

  “My golden Anabel,” Papa exclaimed.

  he spider was almost at my feet before I saw it. Normally I’d have yelped and jerked away—the creature was sizeable—but instead, I tucked my feet up onto the chair I’d been dozing in and watched it complete its journey toward my father’s mattress in peace. Were it not for the spider coming so close I’d swear I hadn’t slept a wink. It was too early, not even dawn, but the promise of light seeped over the curtain-tops and I couldn’t ignore it. Weak and grayish, sleep-banishing, that half-light meant the dreaded day had arrived. My first day alone.

  I lowered my feet to the floor and stood stiffly, wishing I’d tried to get a proper night’s sleep. But I couldn’t have left my father alone in the parlour. And anyway, time stood still after he died. I work for Dr. Holmgren and some of his investigations on the nature of time must be rubbing off on me, because between my father’s final breath and the jerky journey of that spider, time stretched. Dr. Holmgren might say it lost its linearity; I’d say it curdled and bent all around the room. I won’t even say it seemed to stretch; I maintain that it really did.

  I lit the lamp. I found myself almost liking the spider, crouched now in the folds of my father’s blanket. It kept me a strange kind of company while I prepared his body. The first hour was slow. The parlour filled with the smell of pine sap and camphor. I couldn’t see very well through my tears, and I let them fall without wiping, on myself and on my father. On his body. So hard to think of him that way, even though the stiffness had now come over him and changed everything. That must have happened in the night while I wasn’t sleeping. When I rubbed the salve into his face, the skin was waxy and his cheeks were hard. The parlour felt empty for the first time since he’d passed. I kissed him goodbye anyway, as always. “Till later.”

  I thought about that goodbye as I queued in the Coroner’s office and watched the steam-powered monsters churning up the earth on Tilbury docks to make more airship mooring masts. That probably really had been our last decent goodbye. After all, would I be able to say goodbye while my father’s body was desiccated and fragmented away to compost? They only call it “cremation” for the sake of tradition. Our last words had been almost trivial. I’d told him to sip his tea while it was warm. He’d said, “Autumn seems to have come.” Before that, he
’d said something like, “All is very quiet now,” but I’d been fussing about his linctus and trying to keep the fire stoked.

  The queue was short, thank goodness. At eight-fifteen I was one of the earliest, and I found myself within sight of the notary’s desk very quickly. She sat in a tiny, wooden booth at the far end of a room overflowing with cabinets and stacks of ledgers. She seemed quite young for her status: twenty, at most.

  “I’d like to register a death, please.”

  “Name and address of deceased?”

  “William Bell.” I did it. I spoke his name without breaking down. The notary was an officious little piece and couldn’t have cared less, but even so, I didn’t want to lose control in front of her, or the people queuing behind me, the murmuring, feet-shuffling ones. “Fifteen Harcourt Lane, Kennington.” I focused on the pen that formed the words that represented my whole world, on the slim, white fingers manipulating that pen, and on the glistening, coal-black ink.

  “Name and relationship to the deceased?”

  “Elisabeth Bell. Daughter.” I tried to make my reply as business-like as the question as my father must have done seven years ago when he’d registered my mother’s death. I could smell the slightly oily odour of the franking machine, and mixed into it, a flowery perfume from the lady standing behind me.

  “Cause of death?”

  “Emphysema, but he’s had pneumonia for a week, so I think—”

  “Three o’clock collection.”

  My lungs felt too narrow, suddenly, to hold breath. “Oh,” I said, swallowing, “but I might not be able to get off work then. I was hoping it would be nearer six.”

  “They’ll be round for the body at three o’clock. That’s your slot. Cremation will be Friday week, Lambeth Community Cremation halls at dawn. Next.”

  She pushed a slip of paper under the window toward me and that was it. I was clearly expected to stand aside, to leave, and the dread in my heart—and surely painted all over my face—was of no more importance to her than the leaves piling up in the gutters outside.