“What was the minister doing here so late?” he went on, turning toward her. “What were he and his associate talking about?”
Her heartbeat slowed to a crawl.
“You know something about it, don’t you? The way you reacted . . . I’m not blind.”
Petra chewed on her lip. What could she say? When Julian had mentioned machines in France, and Emmerich . . . She swallowed thickly, a pressure rising up her throat. How could she not react?
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said stiffly, her voice breaking. She pushed past him into her room, but he touched her arm, holding her in place.
“You do,” he said gently, releasing her arm. “And I hate that you don’t trust me enough to tell me what it is.”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
He regarded her carefully. “I’m not your enemy, Petra.”
“No? Last I checked, you take your orders from Julian.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
She seethed. “Everything! That’s what you completely fail to understand! That man has taken everything from me. You know nothing of what he’s done, what he plans to do. He—” She bit off the rest of her words, her hands shaking. She could almost tell him everything—about Julian’s plans, the conspiracy, the false accusations against her—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Braith was a soldier. He couldn’t be trusted. Not yet.
He held her gaze, his touch gentle. “I’m not him, Petra.”
“No. You just do what he tells you to,” she snapped, jerking her arm away. “You’re not on my side, Braith. You’re on his, whether you want to be or not.”
“I didn’t realize there were sides to choose.”
Her anger faltered then, and she searched his face, his blue-gray gaze like a bleak morning rain. She wanted to trust him. She did. But he was still a soldier. If it came to choosing between her or his duty to the Royal Forces . . . she knew which one he’d pick.
“There are always sides to war,” she said quietly, the fight gone from her voice. “You’re a soldier, Braith. You should know that by now.”
He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, standing less than a foot away. “And what makes you think we’re at war?”
“What makes you think that we aren’t?”
CHAPTER 9
Just a few days later, Petra received the official summons to begin production of the quadruped prototype—three weeks ahead of schedule.
She should have had more time to prepare, but Julian had plans of his own. Barely a fortnight since the Guild approved the flawed designs, she now stood on one of the upper catwalks of her new workshop, taking in the spectacle of engineers and equipment below. The room was packed full of construction vehicles, crates, toolboxes, and supply carts, the nearest wall lined with rows of desks and cabinets.
“Should we head down to the floor?” asked Braith. He stood rigidly beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He wore his full military garb today—jacket and trousers crisply pressed, boots polished, his hair combed, and face clean-shaven—the perfect image of a dutiful soldier.
Petra wrinkled her nose and headed down the service ladder, her shoes clanging loudly against the metal rungs. She preferred him off duty.
She reached the ground floor and surveyed the busy workshop. Her engineering team unpacked sheets of plating, linkage rods, wires, gears, axles, and pistons from the collection of crates, sorting the machinery by system. Leg mechanisms to the east workstations, electrical and engine parts to the center, control cabin to the west. Yancy Lyndon directed the handling of the weapons, placing the massive cylinders and automatic hoppers against the north wall, where they would remain until the final stages of production.
Overseeing their progress was Professor Calligaris.
Yancy caught sight of her and hurried over. “Glad to see you could make it,” he said, tucking a stack of papers under his arm as he reached out and shook her hand. He glanced at Braith beside her, taking in his spotless red uniform and polished boots. “And you are? I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”
“Officer Cadet Braith Cartwright, Miss Wade’s military escort for the quadruped project.”
Yancy turned back toward Petra with a frown, the furrow in his brow so like his father’s. “He wasn’t the one with you at the last match, was he?” he asked, his voice low.
Petra winced. “About that . . .”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said flatly. “If the other blokes found out you dragged a Royal Forces officer to—”
“You won’t tell them, will you?”
“The fights are supposed to be a student thing. If he tells anyone . . .”
“He won’t,” she said. “Trust me. We’ll both be in trouble if anyone finds out about that.” She glanced at Braith beside her, his stoic posture betraying nothing. His gaze remained on the working engineers, but she knew he was listening to her every word. She turned back to Yancy, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Having him along is the only way I get to fight, and he’s risking a lot even letting me do that. Please don’t tell anyone. I can’t quit the fights, not now.”
Yancy eyed the soldier with a deep sigh. “Fine. I won’t say anything. But I can’t stop anyone else from finding out themselves. You’re on your own there.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He waved the comment away. “If that’s what keeps you in the tournament, so be it. You’re a good fighter. I’d hate to see you quit before you’re beat.”
“Who says I’ll be beat?”
“John, for one. And others. Bellamy isn’t happy with your win against him in the first round.”
“Well, maybe he should have fought better.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But you’re up against Fletcher next, and he took second place last tournament. Just don’t get ahead of yourself. You still have one fight to go before the finals, and I’d bet my stipend that John will be in the final round. He’s the best we have.”
“We’ll see.”
Yancy shook his head with a laugh. “Anyway, Calligaris has already briefed the team on the agenda for today, but if you want, I can catch you up on everything.”
Petra scowled at Calligaris across the workshop. Just like him to start without her. “Thanks,” she said. “I’d appreciate it.”
Yancy guided her through the workstations then, explaining the engineers’ initial assignments. “Once we finish unloading the crates, we’ll split into two groups and start on the leg mechanisms. Calligaris estimates a week to build up the frames and fit the inner cables. Then we’ll move onto the base. We’re estimating a month for the first stage of production.”
She nodded, calculating estimates of her own. Assuming the engineers didn’t run into any complications, the quadruped prototype would be completed within three months.
She had that long to find a way to stop Julian’s war, that long to come up with a better plan—or else face the consequences of her sabotage.
They moved on to the north side of the workshop as Yancy explained the latest developments to the quadruped’s weapons—an improvement in the automated hopper mechanisms—but they were soon interrupted by a courier, one of the messenger boys that ran letters and missives within the Guild.
“Message for you, sir,” he said, thrusting a letter into Yancy’s hand. “Urgent. From the vice-chancellor.”
Yancy turned the letter over and tore it open. A small envelope slipped free and tumbled to the floor as he read.
Petra knelt to retrieve it, inadvertently reading the address stamped across the brown paper. She froze, her pulse stuttering in her chest as she reached out and touched the thick black ink.
119 Farringdon Crescent
Emmerich’s house.
“Petra, are you all right?” Braith c
rouched beside her and touched her arm. “You’re shaking.”
She collected herself and nodded, forcing a feigned smile to her lips as she stood, the telegram clutched in her trembling hand. “Of course. Sorry, I—” She hesitantly offered the telegram to Yancy. “You dropped this.”
Yancy met her eyes. “Actually, it’s for you.”
“What?”
He offered her the letter, and she looked it over, the message written in the vice-chancellor’s familiar lean scrawl:
Y—
Please deliver the enclosed telegram to Miss Wade. I understand the matter contained within may be of some urgency to her. Inform her she may use my office telephone at her earliest convenience, should she wish to make enquiries about its contents.
—HL
Curious, she turned her attention to the telegram, cautiously removing the yellowed paper from its envelope, the seal already broken. The telegram itself was addressed to the Goss household, sent from a telegraph office somewhere near Taverny—wherever that was.
The thick letters glared up at her from the crinkled paper:
Urgent information. Phone telegraph office at once. Caution. Uni comms monitored. E.
She stared at the words, her pulse echoing mutely in her ears.
The telegram was from Emmerich. She had no doubt of that. Only he would send her something so cryptic, or go to such lengths to avoid Guild interception, routing the message through someone at his household, then through the vice-chancellor, who had sent it to Yancy rather than risk sending it to her directly, not with Calligaris watching her every move.
But what could be so important? Something he didn’t want the Guild or the Company to know . . . Something about the war? The conspiracy?
“What does it say?” asked Braith, suddenly standing at her shoulder.
She clasped the telegram to her chest. “It’s nothing. I—” She swallowed thickly, considering her next words. If Braith thought she was doing anything to undermine his orders, anything to do with the quadruped or her previous crimes, however indirectly, he would report her to Julian. And if Julian discovered that Emmerich had contacted her . . . “I need to make a telephone call,” she said, forcing her voice flat. “Personal business.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It doesn’t say, but I should go now. I don’t think this can wait.”
“Would you like me to escort you to the public telephones?”
“No,” she said, glancing from the telegram to the letter from the vice-chancellor. Every telephone call in the University was directed through the Guild switchboard, which Julian was certainly monitoring, but if the vice-chancellor had offered his telephone, knowing her and Emmerich’s situation, he must have a secure line out of the University, hidden from Julian and his allies. Perhaps Lyndon was not as submissive as she once thought.
“The vice-chancellor has a telephone,” she said finally, folding the telegram and the letter. She stuffed them in her pocket. “We’ll go there.”
Braith stopped her not far from the door to Lyndon’s office. “Petra, what is this really about?” he asked. “What did the telegram say?”
She looked him in the eye, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. What could she say? She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t risk him reporting her to Julian for this. If Julian found out she had telephoned Emmerich, if he thought they were conspiring against him, it would be her head.
“Petra, who sent the telegram?”
“I can’t tell you,” she whispered.
Braith let out a frustrated sigh. “Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“You realize how suspicious that is, don’t you?” he asked. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on? What are you so afraid of?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But the fear in her eyes must have given her away.
“You’re afraid of me . . .” he said, his voice breaking. “You are, aren’t you? Afraid of what I might do, what I might say.” He drew away from her, a pained look on his face. “Petra . . . don’t you know me better than that? You know I wouldn’t report you to the Guild unless I had to, unless I had no other choice. Have I not earned at least some small measure of trust by now?”
She bit her lip. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Braith,” she whispered, a knot stuck in her throat. “It’s just . . . It’s better you don’t know.”
“Because it’s something to do with my orders?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Braith combed his fingers through his hair. “Damn it, Petra . . . Think about what this looks like. If anyone found out about this, if they suspected you of conspiracy or sabotage . . . There’s only so much I can do.”
“You could choose to trust me,” she said. “I never said this went against your orders, only that I couldn’t tell you. That’s not a crime.”
He turned away with a shake of his head and let out a deep sigh, slowly kneading the center of his brow. “Sooner or later, Petra . . . there’s going to come a time when I have to choose between you and my responsibilities as a soldier. Don’t force me to make that choice. Please.”
She started to say something in reply but then stopped herself. She could make no such promise, and he knew it as well as she did. There would always be that dividing line between them, the threat of that choice—and they both knew which one he would choose, as blatant as his red uniform.
“I have my orders,” he said. “If you say anything suspicious, anything at all about the quadruped, I will have to report it.” He stepped aside and gestured down the hall toward the vice-chancellor’s door. “Just remember that.”
“You’re letting me use the telephone?” she asked.
“You asked me to trust you,” he said. “All I ask is that you afford me the same courtesy in the future.” He softened then. “You have enough enemies here, Petra. Don’t make me into one too.”
She nodded without speaking, the sincerity in his gaze achingly clear. She had no idea what awaited her at the other end of the telephone call with Emmerich, if it had anything to do with the quadruped or his father’s conspiracy, but in her heart, the last thing she wanted to do was make an enemy of Braith Cartwright. She needed someone like him on her side.
“Just be careful,” he said. “For your own sake.”
“I will.”
Braith gestured toward the door again, and Petra turned toward the vice-chancellor’s office, her heart pounding fast at the thought of contacting Emmerich after all this time. It had been too long.
Exhaling a steady breath, she walked up to the door and knocked.
“Enter.”
She turned the handle and went inside.
Vice-Chancellor Lyndon glanced up from his desk as she walked in, his brows drawing together as he spotted Braith behind her. “I gather Yancy delivered my message?”
She nodded. “Can I use your telephone?”
“Of course,” he said, standing up from his desk. “Let me connect you through. Do you have the address?”
She withdrew the telegram from her pocket and handed it over.
The vice-chancellor glanced at it briefly and picked up the handset from the telephone box on the wall, turning the crank to ring the switchboard. He waited a moment and then smiled. “Hello, darling. Yes, the reserved channel, if you please.” He looked down at the telegram again. “A telegraph office in Taverny.” He recited the address. “Bypass the congested channels if you can. Thanks, Maude.”
He lowered the telephone receiver and glanced at Petra, his gaze flitting suspiciously toward Braith. “She’s connecting us through now. It shouldn’t be long.”
Petra nodded, nervously twisting the stem of her mother’s pocket watch, the familiar motion a comfort to her. It had been m
onths since she had last spoken to Emmerich, months since she had last heard his voice. Would she even recognize it now? So much had changed since he left. Had he?
Finally, Lyndon spoke again into the telephone, first in French, then English. “Yes, I received a telegram from your office this morning and I believe there may be a young man expecting a telephone call in return?” The vice-chancellor paused and then gestured for Petra. “Yes, she’s here.”
Petra stepped forward and took the handset from Lyndon, her hands trembling as she raised it to her ear. “H-hello?”
The line crackled in response, and a familiar voice emerged out of the hollow static. “Petra?”
She weakened at the sound, as if time and distance were nothing, the sound of his voice soothing an ache in her heart she had long tried to ignore. “Emmerich . . .” She touched the side of the telephone box with trembling fingers, wishing she could see his face. “I’m here.”
“Are you alone?” he asked.
The directness in his voice sobered her, and she glanced over her shoulder at Braith, now leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “No,” she answered softly.
“One of my father’s?” asked Emmerich.
She met Braith’s cold gray eyes across the room. “Yes.”
Emmerich cursed. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “Perhaps we should—”
“No, don’t,” she said, fixating on the telephone again. “Please don’t go.”
“The last thing we need is for my father to find out I contacted you. I know I shouldn’t have risked it, but—” He sighed, the sound of it a crackle in her ear. “It was worth it just to hear your voice again. I know it’s been a long time, but . . . I’ve thought of you every day.”
She bit down on her bottom lip. “Likewise.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to telephone until now. I suspect my father has—” A high-pitched ringing sound cut through the telephone speaker, and his next words were lost in the pop and snap of the long-distance connection. Petra held the receiver closer to her ear, trying to hear through the noise, when his voice suddenly returned. “—realized he must be contriving to keep us apart.”
The Guild Conspiracy Page 13
