“They destroyed everything!” I shouted. “Your machines, your drawings . . .”
For the first time I could remember, Mr. Scant laughed. In all likelihood, it was a false laugh, meant to cheer me, but the sound alarmed me more than anything else—rattly and charnel enough to evoke a skeleton coming to life. I drew back from him with a frown.
“The ‘drawings’ were not important,” he said. “None of them were new, and all the schematics that were worth anything had been sold long ago. You need not concern yourself with those. Machines can be remade. These objects may seem meaningful when we attach memories to them, but when the objects have gone, the memories yet remain.”
“They even took your claw.”
“Ah yes.” Mr. Scant walked away to where his claw had always stood on a table, now destroyed. “That is a shame, but the Claw was not me—and I was not the Claw. Which I mean in a different sense from what I said before. I am sorry for deceiving you. After the photograph, well . . . I realized how careless I had been, to risk putting you in danger. And now I fear it may be too late.”
“It is too late,” I said. “It’s been too late to keep me out of danger for a long time, Mr. Scant.”
“There were other ways,” said Mr. Scant. “Other means of addressing Reginald’s situation. Well, no matter. You are right—it is too late. And for that reason, we must use this opportunity. The Claw is gone, and that must mark the end to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Reginald will have to look after himself now. According to Mykolas, that’s what he wants anyway. Oh, I know all about his part in this. My own brother didn’t even stop them burning Mother’s chair. The Society has sent a clear warning, and it is in my interest to heed it.”
“Who are you?”
“Master Oliver?”
I went up to him and gave him a shove, making him stagger back a little. “Who are you? You’re not the Mr. Scant I know.”
“I understand your anger . . .”
“No, you don’t! Where’s your anger? Look what they’ve done!”
“I know perfectly well what th—”
“Your brother needs you. Now more than ever. I need you. And you talk about running away?”
“It’s the best chance we have of keeping you safe.”
“No, Mr. Scant. The best chance we have is for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and remember you’re the bloody Claw! They’re more afraid of you than you are of them, don’t you understand that? You’re strong. And . . . and all my life, I’ve had people telling me I’m weak. Or worse, not telling me, but making sure I know that’s what they think. I’m small, I’m cowardly, I’ll never be my father. And you’re the only one who ever let me even try to be anything else. And now you want to run away? This is the time to strike, while they think you’re broken. Set your brother free. Who cares what they try to do to you? If they threaten to hurt your niece, you go to France and you take her back too! You can do it. And you know why I’m sure of it? Because you have me to help you. So stop moping around and start getting yourself ready!”
After a long silence, Mr. Scant shrugged.
“When you put it like that . . .”
A new plan of action was born—and grew up fast. Mr. Scant stalked about his wrecked lair, scavenging what he could—a steel cord here, a dented piece of metal there—while expounding upon the task ahead.
“As you know, Reggie is not held in bondage but can come and go as he pleases. What complicates the matter is that he has lived with his wife for many years in what she thinks is a comfortable house provided by a university. They are in fact in an open prison. Their daughter, Elspeth, is the trump card the Society can play to keep Reggie in line. If she is in danger, we can move to protect her, but only when it becomes necessary. On the other hand, we must be sure to free Reggie’s wife, Winifred, at the same moment as we free Reggie, or the Society will use her to undermine our efforts. Reggie will surrender at the least danger to her person, so securing her is imperative. Of course, removing Winifred from what she sees as her home will be no easy task. So do you know what we shall do?”
“What?”
“Make her disappear upwards.”
“Is that really the best way?”
“I promise you that it is.”
“Is this going to be dangerous?”
“Oh, our chances of dying will be drastically greater than before,” Mr. Scant said, returning to his scavenging. “But the chance of exposure to photographers, even those with the Devil’s luck? Minimal.”
“So, erm . . . you’re more worried about photographers than death?”
“If you want to be safe, Master Oliver, please remain at home. If you leave the house with me, it is entirely possible you will not come back. Not even in your coffin.”
“I’m not afraid of dying.”
“You ought to be. It would be a terrible waste, throwing away your future just because you think it would impress your father. There—this will work.”
Mr. Scant held several of the sharp pieces of metal he had scavenged against his right hand, fixing them in place with wires. The result did not resemble the claw he had lost—it looked rather more like a circle of silver icicles—but he seemed pleased. “We may not stop childish rich men from their games of theft and magic, but we can at the very least stop the one who uses my brother as a pawn.”
“So we don’t just go to rescue your brother, we go after the ones who ruined him?”
“Indeed. And perhaps we can use a little magic too. Like so.” Mr. Scant covered the makeshift claw with his handkerchief. Then, after a moment, he said, “Behold!” and pulled it away again.
It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. When I did, I went, “Ah!” Mr. Scant had his original claw, as good as new, perhaps even more polished than usual. “You can’t have just made that from scraps!”
Mr. Scant smiled and held up the makeshift claw, still half-covered by his handkerchief. “Of course not.”
“But they destroyed it!”
“A little good fortune amidst all this destruction,” said Mr. Scant, cycling the blades hypnotically. “With the machines at the Ice House, I can sharpen and tune my little friend—or rather, I could, prior to today—but mending the damage from my last run-in with the Valkyrie required more specialized equipment. Extraordinarily good fortune that during the destruction, I was working on my claw elsewhere.”
“If you have your real claw, why are you cobbling together a new one?”
“All in good time.”
“It’s not for me, is it?” I asked. “I don’t want to be the Junior Claw.”
“If I wanted you armed, Master Oliver, it would be with a pistol or a knife. I very much doubt you would have the first idea what to do with my claw.”
“And far less with a pile of rubbish you’ve got strung together.”
“Then it pleases me to tell you that you shall have nothing to do with it. Now go and fetch your coat and scarf. We’re off to see a man about a balloon.”
The man in question was, as it turned out, Mr. Flint, the valet of Mr. Beards—of Beards and Binns Financial Services and Dirigibles Ltd. Though we were told Mr. Flint’s duties left him indisposed to see us, Mr. Scant left a message at the trade door, which passed from the cook to the butler to Gerty Beards’s governess and thence to Mr. Flint himself, who quickly excused himself and came downstairs. Mr. Flint appeared to have a great affection for Mr. Scant, and even embraced him, chuckling as people do when they see a dear friend after a long separation. The two of them shared a short exchange in hushed tones, and then Mr. Flint hurried off, coming back with a large iron key. He handed it over to Mr. Scant and patted him on the shoulder—and like that, our business was done.
“How do you come to be such chums with that Mr. Flint?” I asked.
“He came into his position at my recommendation,” said Mr. Scant. “The fellow most like me that could be found—that was the unspoken request. And he was just that—once we
hushed up his past as a convicted safecracker, of course. Not that Mr. Beards would be overly troubled to learn that particular facet of the man’s past. Flint served his time and repented more sincerely than any man I’ve ever met. A very good mind in that head of his, and an eagerness to do his job to perfection.”
Though I felt prepared for our operation to begin then and there, Mr. Scant led me home again and told me to sleep well, for he would be waking me before dawn. He had much more to arrange, and when I asked if he wanted help, he said, “I simply wanted them to see your face at the Beards residence.” I knew Mr. Scant would not elaborate, no matter how many times I asked, so did as he said. But on the way up the stairs, I paused.
“Mr. Scant?” I said, looking back down at him.
“Yes, Master Oliver?”
“I just wanted to say . . .”
“Yes, Master Oliver?”
“I . . . would like to accept your apology. For fooling me, and such.”
Mr. Scant gave a smart bow. “Most gracious of you, Master Oliver. In the same spirit, I should like to remind you of your words to me: ‘I’m so, so sorry . . . I couldn’t do a thing because I’m completely and utterly useless.’ If you would allow me, I would like to echo your sentiments and also accept that apology.”
“Don’t be a rotter, Mr. Scant.”
Mr. Scant’s lips twitched at the edges. Only a little, but that was reward enough for me.
Upstairs, Mother told me off sternly. She had finally found my brown jacket, the one with all the soot on it from the British Library. I had meant to lose it at school, but had forgotten and simply left it in my wardrobe. Mother thrust it at me and commanded me to give it to Penny, who was standing just behind her. For her part, Penny wagged a finger at me before reaching out to take the jacket, amused as ever that I was in trouble. To my relief, Mother didn’t ask how the jacket had gotten into such a state.
I managed to sleep by promising myself dreams of disappearing into the sky in a hot air balloon. But once again, that wasn’t how dreaming worked: instead, I had a strange one about farm animals being hung in a steeple to act as church bells, whereupon I had to pretend to play the church organ.
That said, when Mr. Scant gently woke me, I was ready for him. As though I had been awake and alert all along, I asked, “Is it time?”
“It is indeed,” he whispered. “Bring winter clothes. It gets cold up there.”
XIV
The Theft of a Brother
Scant’s staunch ally Dr. Mikolaitis was waiting for us outside the gates, seated atop something I had certainly not expected. Not a horse-drawn carriage this time but, remarkably, a great steam traction engine, sputtering away all the predawn silence. Even in the dim light, I could see the machine was a beauty—and a familiar one. Words painted in gold lettering lined the canopy behind its chimney, and even though I couldn’t quite discern them, I already knew what they spelled out: Diplexito Engineering & Combustibles (Tunbridge Wells) Ltd. Though I had only seen the vehicle in motion twice before, I knew it well: Father’s haulage machine. Many times I had played on it as a child—while it was stationary—and rather loved the strangeness of the vehicle. The machine looked like a small train, but its large wheels were meant for roads rather than tracks. And instead of pulling a carriage, it towed a large wagon that I could only assume held the hot air balloon borrowed from Mr. Beards.
Dr. Mikolaitis had donned overalls and a cap, looking very much the part, and smoked a cigarette as we approached. “Let’s go and get your brother,” he said to Mr. Scant. “This weather, it freezes my spit before it hits the ground. And this beast makes far too much noise for my liking.”
The doctor helped me up to the little driving space, where, with a bit of stoking and a bit of lever-pulling, he put us into motion. Progress was slow, of course, but once advancing downhill, the engine picked up some speed.
Mr. Gaunt’s house was some fifteen miles away, so by the time we drew close, the sky had turned light. I assumed that Mr. Scant had planned for that. A few curious farmers watched as our traction engine passed, sending its white totem of steam up into the crisp morning air as it chugged on down the crumbly roads on the outskirts of town. Finally, Mr. Scant directed us off the road and up a mud track, leading to a large wooden gate.
“Straight through?” called Dr. Mikolaitis.
“Straight through!” Mr. Scant shouted back.
With his eyes narrowed, Dr. Mikolaitis sent the vehicle into the gate at full speed. The result was somewhat underwhelming: the heavy engine had already struggled to climb uphill, so after the front of the boiler bashed against the gates, a protracted moment of silence followed.
“Was something meant to happen?” I asked, but before anyone could answer, the wood gave way and we were through. Indeed, the gates crunched in a satisfying manner under the engine’s wheels. On the other side, Mr. Scant jumped down and beckoned for me to follow, which I did, letting him catch and steady me on the muddy ground.
“Get her ready,” Mr. Scant called up to Dr. Mikolaitis, with a nod back at the trailer. I felt a thrill of excitement as Dr. Mikolaitis saluted. No matter what happened today, the chance to take flight would be joy enough to make up for anything else. Then I remembered we could all end up dead, and rebuked myself for being so childish.
Breaking into Mr. Gaunt’s farmhouse posed no difficulty—Mr. Scant’s claw pried open a small window, and I was pushed through it. This must be how burglars went about their business, I thought as I landed. I froze as something rushed past my feet—only a small white cat, with a ribbon atop its ugly head. The creature regarded me with suspicion but soon lost interest, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Had there been a vicious guard dog instead, it would have altogether spoilt my day.
Mr. Gaunt had left the front door key on a hook just next to the lock. When I let Mr. Scant in, he moved like a vengeful ghost, surging through the house and up the stairs, a sight that prompted a troubled yowl from the cat. I followed, and when I reached a small bedroom, I saw Mr. Scant had already begun shaking his brother awake.
“No, no, no . . .” Mr. Scant’s brother was saying. “Why are you so bloody predictable?”
The commotion had roused Mr. Gaunt’s wife, who put on her glasses with a look of annoyance. “Language! What’s going on?”
“Heck is being insane, as usual,” replied Mr. Gaunt.
“Please pardon the intrusion, Winifred, but we have to leave now,” said Mr. Scant. “You are in very grave danger.”
“No, you are in danger,” his brother answered. “Have you lost your wits?”
“Now is the time,” said Mr. Scant. “We’re getting away, whether you like it or not.”
He reached out, but Mr. Gaunt slapped his hand away. “We are not going anywhere,” Mr. Gaunt said. “This is where we’re safe.”
“You are not, and you know it. Now come, get dressed.”
“Reginald, what is going on?”
“Nothing, my darling, nothing, nothing.”
“Don’t tell me it’s that business come up again . . .”
“No, it’s . . .”
“I thought it was all over and done with!”
Mr. Gaunt winced as his rather short wife drew herself up in her bed, as much as she could manage.
“What have you been keeping from me?”
“Winifred, please, let me speak with my brother.”
“Go right on ahead, as you please! But don’t expect me to hold back from sticking my oar in!”
“Heck, this is ridiculous,” said Mr. Gaunt. “You know they won’t stand for it. I can’t go anywhere without them knowing.”
“Of course I know.”
“Well, then, why are you here?”
Winifred Gaunt readied one of her oars. “It is true!” she cried. “Isn’t it? Oh, no wonder you never liked my idea to go and live in France! Have they been here, watching us all these years? What about Ellie?”
“Elspeth will be quite safe, my darling. Please! I
need to think. She’s safe as long as we’re here.”
“Oh, you know that for sure, do you?”
Mr. Scant attempted to hold up a reassuring hand, but his mechanical claw made Mrs. Gaunt shriek.
“You brought that thing into my bedroom?” his brother barked. “You think you’re going to be fighting?”
“Not if you listen to me.”
“They’ll come for us, and if they don’t find us, they’ll come for our Elspeth.”
“You should know that if I’m here, I’ve thought of all that already.”
That seemed to derail Mr. Gaunt’s train of thought. He squinted at his brother’s face. “You’ve thought it through properly?” he said. “Not . . . not some half-baked thought-about-it-in-the-bath demi-plan?”
“There’s an air balloon outside waiting for us.”
Mr. Gaunt held his brother’s gaze, which I knew from experience was a nerve-wracking ordeal. Then he let his head drop. “A balloon, he says. Madness. Fine. Give us ten minutes to get dressed.”
“Five,” said Mr. Scant and beckoned me to the door with his claw.
Dr. Mikolaitis was smoking again when we found him. He had stationed himself near a barn of sorts—more a shelter for hay bales, open on three sides. The balloon was not a heartening sight, not yet even half-full. What made it inflate, I could not say, but a hose connected it to the now-detached trailer.
“Are we surrounded?” Mr. Scant asked.
“Of course,” said the scarred man.
“Is it ready?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes more.”
“Tricky.”
“Now who’s this?” said Mr. Gaunt, catching up to us.
Dr. Mikolaitis ignored him. “This hydrogen business is not quick. Perhaps I go to cause a ruckus, if you need it.”
“No. We need you with us.” Mr. Scant thumped his comrade on the shoulder in an encouraging sort of way.
“That’s Dr. Mikolaitis,” I told Mr. Gaunt, as no one else had made the introduction. “Don’t be scared by his face. He’s a good man.”
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