A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  He couldn’t have been any more stunned if she’d told him Santa Claus was real. “You’re saying…the egg has found another Beth?”

  “I’m saying I’m going to steal it from another Beth, because that’s the kind of monster I am. So while I thank you for the tree, I believe it would be best if I don’t indulge in any of the yuletide season’s celebratory customs. I’ve never been about the spirit of giving; I’m the embodiment of the spirit of taking, and I always will be. I won’t damn myself further by pretending I can be anything else.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The bell atop Faneuil Hall commenced ringing out eleven times as Cornelia tightened the black satchel strapped like a camel’s hump to her back. The wind had picked up, a frigid northern breath that bit at her cheeks and nose until her whole face tingled with the icy sting. Ignoring the discomfort, she strode across the brownstone’s flat rooftop, a black wraith in the night. Roderick was already in the airship’s gondola adjusting the powerful navigational nacelles and rudder fastened to the airship’s black rubber-coated envelope. The envelope was semi-rigid and fully inflated, and as a healthy gust kicked up the dusting of snow on the rooftop, the airship’s tethers creaked in protest.

  “The snow may have stopped, but the winds are going to play havoc with us tonight.” Brass compass in hand and clear glass goggles in place, Roderick checked the spinning wind gauge he had attached to the gondola’s side. “I’m glad I removed the old fuel system from the engine and replaced it with my perpetual motion battery. With all that extra weight gone, we should have more than enough power to get us there and back, even with rough winds and two people onboard.”

  “Which way is the wind blowing now?”

  “South by southeast, but that’ll be a different story a minute from now. It keeps changing its mind on which way it wants to blow.”

  As she squirmed her way into the tight confines of the gondola, Cornelia allowed herself a grim smile. If that wasn’t a perfect description of how she felt about this caper, she didn’t know what was. “Wind-aided or not, as long as we get to Irish Paddy’s at the top of Beacon Hill within the hour, we’ll be fine.” The bell struck eleven, and she reached for the tether lines. “Time to go.”

  “Cornelia—”

  “Absolute silence would be preferable, Coddington.” With a practiced flick of her wrist, she loosened the last tether, and the snow-dusted rooftop slowly fell away. “I’m afraid I need all my concentration at this point, so now isn’t the time to indulge in pleasant conversation.”

  And there was no way she was about to give him an opening to tell her what he thought of her. A thing was what he had first called her, and a thing was what she was—a terrible, odious thing that should never be allowed out to mingle with the good people of society. It was for the best Roderick was reminded of what she was, she decided ruthlessly, while her heart filled with all things dark and hopeless. Now that she’d sketched out the type of person she was in no uncertain terms, they could go their separate ways tomorrow without any regrets.

  Or at least, he could go on his way, no doubt with a sense of heartfelt relief at wriggling free of what could have been a terrible tangle. She, of course, would never be whole again.

  That was all right, she reminded herself, ignoring the sting in her eyes as the gondola dipped and swayed in the frigid wind. Learning what it was to be complete in a man’s arms was more than she had ever expected out of life. A person like herself had no right to even think about everlasting happiness, much less try to hold onto it. It was a miracle she’d been given as much as she had. She’d go to her grave being grateful; grateful he had been daring enough to barrel his way into her solitary life, only to give her the gift of knowing what it was to love. It would be selfish to ask for more.

  She wasn’t about to add selfishness to her many, many sins.

  “Beacon Hill, dead ahead.”

  With all the enthusiasm of a wind-up clockwork, Cornelia reached for her opera glasses and zeroed in on the large fortress that was the egg’s home. “Nice of Irish Paddy to light the place up for us and all his other party guests,” she commented, adjusting the focus. As she’d expected, security was tightest at the gates, but sprinkled throughout the grounds there was a show of muscle in the form of men patrolling the perimeter with tightly-leashed German shepherds at their sides. A few of the dogs were barking, over-stimulated by all the activity on the property, and she couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief. A pack of well-trained dogs might have given away their stealthy approach but, as it was, none of the extra security paid attention to the hyper animals, not even when one alerted straight up to the sky and barked furiously.

  Beside her, Roderick let loose a string of curses no louder than the gentle purr of the compressor, and she reached over to squeeze his hand before she could think to check the move. He squeezed back and more, pulling her against him as the snow-white ribbons of the gaslamp-lit streets gave way to the dark sprawl of Irish Paddy’s walled-off compound.

  “I think I understand why you take such insane risks for your profession,” he murmured against her ear. Her hair was once again under her cap, tightly braided and wound in a knot at the nape of her neck, and his breath was a warm caress against her bared skin. “I can’t tell if I’m more terrified or exhilarated. This is incredible.”

  “Someday I would like to see what the world looks like from this vantage point during the day, the way a bird sees it.” She allowed herself the luxury of leaning into the solid strength of his body and storing up each moment like the precious treasures they were. Then, as they lowered over Irish Paddy’s palatial mansion, she eased out of Roderick’s arms for what every instinct told her could be the last time. “Time to get to work, Coddington. Southwest corner, if you please.”

  “I remember.” He checked his compass one more time before adjusting the navigational nacelles. “How did you learn the third floor’s southwest wing isn’t open to party guests?”

  “Dewars and I can work miracles, if given enough time.” As she spoke, Cornelia tested how well the black rope ladder was anchored to the gondola’s side. “After finding a weak link in Irish Paddy’s staff, I encouraged her to tell me her tale of woe. Come to find out, the poor dear’s workload would have been that much worse had her boss not shut down areas not to be used. No guests in that area meant no cleaning for her, which pleased her no end. What she didn’t know was that it also meant a wide open entrance for me.”

  “Clever.” He worked the temperature gauge like a pro, lowering them foot by foot toward the roof. “Was this the same weak link who told you a sickly child now has the egg?”

  Her hesitation was imperceptible. “Yes.”

  “And you think you can just take it from her?”

  “Like I said, it’s stealing candy from a baby.”

  “You think it’ll be that easy, do you?”

  “Please, Coddington.” She threw the ladder over the side, taking care not to let it hit the roof tiles. “Start the timer. If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.”

  “Leave? What the bloody hell—”

  “If I’m not back in ten minutes it means I’ve been captured, or worse.”

  “This has gone far enough,” he muttered as though to himself before he caught her by the arm. “I need you to look me in the eye and tell me here and now—do you believe yourself capable of deliberately doing to a helpless child what you unknowingly did to Beth six months ago? Are you positive you can inflict that much pain on another without so much as a backward glance?”

  “Don’t doubt my abilities. For better or worse, I’m the best at what I do.” She slipped over the side, catching herself on the rope ladder and moving down it as easily as a monkey. She thought she heard Roderick hiss at her to come back, but she was already in her work mode. The concentration it took to drop onto the steeply slanted rooftop without slipping off was like coming home. All thought came to a quiet, perfect standstill as her body took over, taking the next step, the
next breath, the next move. It was nothing to grip the edge of the roof and roll over to drop on her moccasin-covered feet to the balcony below. A simple sliding of a pick between window and frame swung open a French door leading to a dark and still room that, just as promised, appeared to be nothing more than temporary storage. Within two minutes she was fully camouflaged in her party garb—a forest green velvet dress with batwing sleeves and a gaudy overabundance of black lace. Her leather cap was replaced by an equally over-the-top fascinator frothing everywhere with green ribbon, black lace and ostrich feathers. With a convenient black lace fan at the ready, if anyone did happen to notice her, they would be too distracted by her less-than-tasteful fashion sense rather than her actual face.

  By the time she reached the third floor gallery and sweeping marble stairway, she still had seven minutes to spare. Plenty of time to pinpoint her target, snag it up, disappear into the night and crush a little girl’s heart.

  Damn and blast, don’t think like that.

  Thanks to the information Cornelia had mined from her Dewars friend, the floor plan of Irish Paddy’s mansion was embedded into her brain. The location of the egg all but called out to her as she moved to the head of the stairs, from which the unmistakable sounds of a party in full swing emanated. As she’d expected, a guard with a discreet bulge under his Morning suit coat was stationed at the foot of the stairs. A few party-goers, most of them women, took advantage of what her informant assured her was the magnificently appointed ladies’ comfort station.

  Cornelia paused, as still as a statue behind a carved oak column at the head of the stairs, her gaze trained on the guard. As quiet as a shadow, she fished a stub of a cigar from her velvet drawstring purse along with a silver pocket torch of her own invention. With a near-soundless rasp of cogs against flint, a small flame burst forth to ignite the cigar stub, before she dropped it over the side of the gallery behind a festive vignette of Christmas trees below. Like the pocket torch, the cigar stub was of her own making, a horrendous mix of cheap Caribbean tobacco, an oily Sumatran wrapper and just a hint of petrified horse manure. The dried-out mess began smoking immediately and with it came its odor, a noxious, gag-worthy smell that was caught in less than a minute by a refined lady with her nose wrinkled in profound disapproval. She sounded the alarm to the other women, who eagerly surged forward to give their show of disdain and revel in the mini drama. The guard hustled over to deal with the fuming smoke bomb, which was all Cornelia needed to slip down the stairs and mingle with the crowds, as unnoticed as a chameleon.

  Four doors to the right. Just the fourth one down…

  Though it had been reported the elderly nanny was habitually asleep this time of night in the chambers adjacent to her young charge, Cornelia still had a story at the ready when she entered the child’s room lit by a single corner lamp. But it wasn’t necessary. There was no inconvenient nanny or overly-anxious mother hovering over the child. Instead, there was a large dollhouse and a child-sized table set for tea, complete with a pair of button-eyed bears wearing bonnets and dresses on one side of the room. The other side showcased a white-washed highboy, an empty bedside chair and a frilly canopied bed fit for a princess.

  A sleeping princess to be precise, and that was what Cornelia found nestled among the pillows, a red-haired moppet whose unhealthy breath whistled and wheezed through pale lips. She flicked a glance the child’s way to make sure Irish Paddy’s daughter really was asleep, before allowing her attention to zero in on the center of her universe.

  The egg.

  It was an extraordinary piece of objet d’art, and certainly never meant to grace a child’s room. Covered in pearlescent enamel with 24-karat gold scrollwork threaded along its length, the egg was encrusted with pigeon blood-red rubies, pink sapphires, and clear diamonds. Even a layperson would recognize the piece was worth a king’s ransom, yet here it sat on a stand beside a child’s ruffle-covered princess bed as if it were nothing more than a toy.

  In the span of a single heartbeat Cornelia was at the bedside, the egg cradled in one hand while the other opened the drawstring purse wide.

  Like stealing candy from a baby.

  A cough from the bed froze Cornelia to the spot. Only her eyes moved, flickering to the girl now shifting fitfully in bed.

  Leave now.

  The egg was hers once more. It would take less than a minute to be back up to the third floor.

  Leave. Now.

  It would take another minute to snatch up her bag, shimmy up the rope ladder and get back to Roderick, who would free her from the timepiece. Damn and blast, she had to get free of this timepiece. If she didn’t…

  Leave.

  She would die.

  The girl—Molly, her mind brutally supplied—rolled to one side. Eyes still closed, she reached out a dimpled hand to touch the egg.

  Now!

  Tiny fingers brushed the enameled surface just as Cornelia slipped the egg back onto its stand. Dumbstruck at her own actions, she back-pedaled into the shadows just as the girl opened sleepy eyes and pressed the egg’s cleverly hidden button. With a delicate chiming that was the hallelujah chorus of Handel’s Messiah, the upper section of the egg opened up like the blooming of an exotic flower to reveal the Fabergé egg’s trademark “surprise.” A gold cherub rotated on a bejeweled base, its upturned face exquisitely peaceful, as if it had known terrible suffering that had at last been alleviated.

  It was an expression mirrored by the little girl as she watched the cherub move. In that moment of time, whatever suffering she had known in her young life was gone. The egg held a magic for her that transcended her physical ailments by giving her beauty and peace and hope. With that in her life, there was a will to live which Cornelia could all but feel radiating from the girl’s serene smile.

  The egg gave her life.

  Then the egg vanished, and along with it, Beth’s smile. And shortly thereafter, her life.

  The child’s eyes drifted shut as the egg wound down, and with the last of the notes of Handel’s hallelujah chorus covering her movements, Cornelia was through the door, up the stairs and out onto the rope ladder without being fully conscious of how she got there. Still dazed, she half fell into the well of the gondola, and as a pair of glittering aquamarine eyes filled her world she at last understood how life could be inspired by an external force. Beth and the girl Molly had had the egg. For her, she had Roderick.

  She was just sorry she couldn’t give him the completion he craved.

  “Cornelia.” A hard kiss crushed her lips. Only then did she realize her lips were numb. “I swear to all that’s holy, I will not go through something like that again. Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of here in no time.”

  No time. She had no more time. “Coddington.”

  “Look at you, you’re shivering.” A coat fell upon her shoulders as he fired up the navigational nacelles and moved them away from Irish Paddy’s home—and away from her last chance at life. “You must be freezing.”

  The tremors were coming from deep inside, as though the walls she surrounded herself with were shaking apart. “Coddington, I’m sorry.”

  “For shivering? Don’t be silly—”

  “I’m sorry I killed your Beth.”

  Silence greeted her apology, but Cornelia expected no less. Apologies were worse than useless, her mother had taught her well. People weren’t capable of forgiveness, no matter how sincere the apology might be. It would only be viewed as an admission of guilt.

  But she was guilty. Guilty as sin.

  Roderick hunkered down to where she huddled and cupped her cheek. “Cornelia, you didn’t kill Beth.”

  “I did. I took her one last reason for living, and I’m so sorry…” A sob burst from her before she could stop it, and it shocked her no end. Crying wasn’t allowed. Remorse, compassion…none of it was allowed.

  What was happening to her?

  “Cornelia.” Taking just enough time to consult the compass and set their course, he rejoined her i
n the well of the gondola. With calm efficiency he pulled her onto his lap to save on space, positioning her knees to straddle him as he hugged her to the warmth of his body. “Sweetheart, tell me what happened.”

  “I had it. I had it right in my hands. I wanted to get that part of Beth back for you so you would be happy again. I know you’re not complete without it, but… I don’t know what happened. The girl seemed to need it just as much, and before I knew it… I…”

  “Yes, love?”

  She cringed, expecting the worst. “I put it back, Coddington.”

  A breath punched out of him. At first she thought it was out of heartbreak or rage. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of his laughter. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  For a moment she was sure she hadn’t heard him right, and she backed up just enough to search his face with disbelieving eyes. “What?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, when I first started this endeavor I wanted that egg back like I wanted my next breath. But just as much, I wanted to punish the heartless thief who stole it.”

  “Yes, I know. I deserve it—”

  “You’ve been punished enough, Cornelia. More than enough, which is why I now have to tell you something vital, even though I know…well, you might hate me forever after this.”

  She stared at him and wondered if he understood that the rest of her forever could be measured in minutes. “What is it?”

  He hooked a finger around the timepiece. “This advent timepiece is completely harmless. I was going to tell you about it when I came home with the tree,” he went on when she simply stared at him. “But then you changed my plans when you swore you were so evil you were going to intentionally do to a little girl what you unknowingly did to Beth. That was when I realized you needed this timepiece in the worst way.”