Mechanical Rose

by Nathalie Gray

  “There!” Leeford yelled above the din. “Landing!”

  She tapped his shoulder to indicate she had heard and squeezed him harder as he maneuvered their machine with precision and finesse, entered into a lazy spiral above a large hanging garden where conservatories resembled glass breasts and gravel paths ribbons of satin. The piles holding it aloft above the marshy land disappeared when they flew right over the garden. Above the wide avenue, he brought them lower, circling still, before turning the handles one last time and setting them down along the fence, well away from coaches. These land vehicles would have to take normal roads on their way back from downtown—just as her coach had two days prior. Leeford’s machine would be able to just go off a bend in the road somewhere and glide home. Had no one ever approached him to buy his duo-cycler’s design? She could see a definite use for it, especially here in Aconia, built high aboveground. Other cities perhaps had no use for flying machines, but here, they did.

  “Thank you for not screaming,” Leeford said, smiling as he took his goggles off. Red marks around the eyes and over the bridge of his nose gave him a comical air. “We will have to return before nightfall when the convective movement will make hot currents hard to find over land.”

  She nodded, unsure she understood and not caring. They could find a place at an inn if there lacked sufficient wind to glide back home. Even share a room. She would enjoy that. Perhaps would even make him the offer. Her treat. Eleanor helped him push their machine a bit farther then turn it around so it would be ready and aiming the right way when they returned. She felt vivified, excited. Aroused. Very much so.

  After he removed his gloves and jacket and stuffed them along with her own flying equipment into a valise at the back of the duo-cycler—she made sure he locked it, one could never be too sure—she slipped her arm under his. His eyes flared.

  “I care little what polite society says of me, but someone could recognize you, Miss Violet.”

  “I am a free woman without marital ties. Unless my presence embarrasses you in some way, I intend to enjoy my visit here, and that means holding your arm.”

  Grinning, he glanced around the many people their arrival had brought. A few shook their heads but smiled. Others looked unimpressed. For a reason the logical part of her could not justify, she held her chin high and returned their stares a hundredfold. Stuffy, obtuse, intolerant fools.

  “What a thrill, Leeford!” she added loudly. “Now show me all those flowers you spoke of, especially the orchid collection. Did you know that in Assanidia, such flower is banned from public display because it resembles the female genitalia? Which it does, remarkably. It is the texture, you see.” She added a conspiratorial wink to a group of women standing close together and whispering in each other’s ears. As one, they looked as if their refined little noses had smelled a horrendous stench and, clutching handbags and parasols, they marched off.

  Insufferable idiots.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “If this is the way you handle things, I wager your charity balls are the talk of town the next day.”

  “I am usually more vitriolic than that, I assure you. But I would not want you to think I lack social graces. Even with those.” She snapped her chin at the clump of women ahead whose dress hems swept leaves in their wake. She hoped a dead squirrel or two would find themselves caught in the fabric as well.

  “Social graces? You do remember who you are with?”

  “A man who is both intelligent and of more quality than these sort would ever realize. It is their loss, really.”

  “And your gain?”

  She ignored the question, the mocking lift to his mouth and the way his eyes had narrowed in expectation, ignored it for if she addressed that question—the very notion—she stood to lose a good bit of self-respect when she would have to admit her true identity and the goal of her visit. But had she been able to answer, she would have said a loud and unequivocal “Yes” without a shadow of a doubt. He was her gain. A gift. One she was not allowed to keep.

  “By what should we begin?” she asked, looking forward and not up at him.

  “Did you not mention the orchids?”

  They shared a quiet laugh on their way to the conservatory housing the Largest Collection of Orchids on Terra, or so claimed the brass plaque. As soon as they stepped inside the glass dome, she could tell they were in for a treat. By like-colored clusters, by genus, by native geographical locations, the collection spanned several smaller domes arranged like a pearl necklace strung together with covered walkways paved in granite and slate tiles. The smell of moist earth and the many exotic flowers tickled her nose while the patches of colors and blades of daylight dazzled her in a kaleidoscope of reds, purples and ambers. At one point, she let go of his arm so she could investigate a cluster of black orchids each the size of her hand.

  She felt Leeford stand close behind her. “They are exquisite. And mysterious, just as you are.”

  She cupped one of the flowers, smelled it. “What do you mean?”

  “I have always held the human hand in great reverence. In fact, I have devoted the last years of my studies exclusively on these perfect machines. One can learn much from them.” He took her hand in his, turned it over a few times.

  “And what do mine tell you?” She sounded breathless and hated herself for it.

  “That you do not merely handle charities. Something else occupies much of your time.”

  Her world vacillated. She said nothing because in all honesty, she did not know what to say.

  “See these?” He pointed to small scars on the back of her knuckles—remnants from a recalcitrant target several years before. “I would think they are old and from another life, but when coupled with the strength of your forearms, the way the pads of your fingers do not bear the writer’s calluses, I am tempted to believe they are not so old.”

  “This is all fascinating,” she murmured. Would she have to tell him about the Society right then and there? Before she had secured his cooperation? And what then? She still had to send her initial assessment to Mr. Clarence. “I had no idea one could tell so much from hands.”

  He kissed her knuckles then held her hand in both his own. “You owe me nothing, Violet, I hope you know this. But out of curiosity, what is it that you do? What made these hands?”

  The earnestness in his eyes pained her.

  “A life of quiet battles,” she whispered without looking into his eyes. “Quiet battles and quieter wars. Secret meetings, clandestine rendezvous, covert gatherings. Quarrel made these hands, Leeford. Please do not ask me to reveal more. I have already said too much.”

  She expected him to withdraw, to be shocked, horrified, frustrated by her lack of details. Any man in his position would have reacted strongly with animosity or rancor. Manly pride wounded, ego bruised. Leeford Gunn barely reacted at all. He kissed her knuckles again, his lips this time lingering for a few seconds before he let her hand go.

  “Someday, I hope you can feel trusting of me enough to reveal more. For now, I will enjoy what facet of yourself you choose to share with me.”

  Had he reacted any other way—understandable but still—Eleanor knew she would have felt better about accomplishing her mission. She would have rationalized Leeford was just like all the others, consumed by his own experience, his own needs, his own goals and cared nothing for the consequences of his acts or lack thereof. So what if their toxic, overpopulated world toppled into anarchy and chaos? So what if he sold a tool he knew would make a dangerous weapon? But no. He showed patience and understanding when he easily could have decided she was not worth the trouble. Instead he showed trust. In her.

  “Come,” he said, taking a step away. “Let not my curious nature ruin a lovely day. What would you say to tea and cake? I know a perfect little place off the beaten path.”

  Eleanor nodded, thankful he would not push the subject. “I would perhaps enjoy something stronger than tea.”

  He laughed long and hard—received dirt
y looks in the process from those closest to them—and motioned for her to join him. They strode back outside to a glorious afternoon with a fair bit of sun poking rays through the clouds, and left the gardens altogether to cross the bridge into downtown proper. Aconia, built on piles as it was, boasted to many wind-operated drawbridges, lifts and swinging gangways. Leeford navigated them all at a brisk pace. Every time he would walk ahead, Eleanor could not help a quick glimpse at his backside clad in the adjusted riding trousers, and the way his knee-high boots made his legs that much longer. She would love to run her hands over and up his legs. Cup his warm cock in her hand and just lay by his side, still, silent, just listening to the beat of his heart against her ear. Taste him again. Make love to him and let him do the same to her. Not fucking. Lovemaking. If she were lucky enough to enter his embrace again, she would whisper sweet things to him, let him take his time with her senses—she knew he would have up on that lighthouse only she had been too much in a carnal rush to wait. But each facet of his personality that came into the light, each sliver of himself he either shared or let her glimpse, told her this man, this eccentric and gangly inventor with the hand and eye of an artist, was worth the time. He was worth the effort. Leeford Gunn was one of the good men. For once, her duties for the Society would not make her even more blasé with man’s sordid character as a species, but would instead leave her hopeful that good men such as Gunn still existed. One only needed to look a little closer.

  Over a long, graceful bridge of metal beams and flanked with iron flying buttresses, they entered into a crowded but charming little tea shop where the smell of jasmine, rose and cinnamon made her feel warm and cozy. Unfortunately, she needed to send her message to the Society. She had spotted a messenger bureau not far up the street. It would be perfect.

  “While we wait,” she said, rising from the delicate chair. “Would you mind if I went to the messenger bureau? I would need to send a few notes back home.”

  Leeford stood as well. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  She shooed him off. “Of course not, I will be fine. It will only take a minute or two.”

  That half grin of his and the heat it triggered between her legs accompanied her to the door and well beyond the tea shop. Rushing, she twisted a shoulder this way or that to avoid the thickening crowd. Late afternoons in Aconia must have meant the beginning of livelier times.

  She wrote a quick assessment to Mr. Clarence, mentioned crucial details such as Leeford’s ignorance of his sponsor’s identity, his character and her hope of changing his mind before Spark came to claim his prototype. She also made an oblique suggestion about perhaps “taking care” of the man despite the Society’s previous costly failures. Mr. Clarence’s argument would no doubt be that others could take his place and show undue interest in the dangerous machine, thus the more pressing need for an agent to operate inside Gunn’s home. But it was worth the try.

  She sealed it with one of the bureau’s generic stamps and gave the roll of paper to the young man behind the counter. He stamped it, slid it inside a metal casing then tossed it in the bin with the rest to be taken onto one of the dragons she spotted moored below a nearby quay, engines rumbling, crew smoking and sitting with their legs dangling out over the guardrail. She heard a shout of victory and surmised they had been playing a game or other while passing time.

  She was rushing back down the street when she saw a dark-haired man dressed all in gray and sporting a tall hat enter the tea shop where she had left Leeford. She knew that silhouette.

  Her heart in her throat, she jogged to the window and peeked inside. Her gut twisted. Her palms grew slick with sweat. The man had just sat with Leeford, who must have had different ideas since he stood and planted his hands on his hips. After a brief exchange, Leeford’s eyes flared, he seemed to be looking for words as he sank in his chair. His hand trembled when he raked it back in his hair.

  Divine Graces, no.

  Sitting in front of Leeford, the man took his gloves off, shoved them in his right pocket. Always the right. His sharp profile and aquiline nose, which she had once found so elegant and sophisticated, left her shaking with realization and fear. And horror. This man could ruin everything. He had not been supposed to contact Leeford so soon. And with her long gone by then.

  She would have recognized him anywhere. Aloysius Spark never went unnoticed.

  Chapter Five

  Leeford tried not to stare at Violet as she left the tea shop with the brisk walk he had come to associate with her. The curve of her waist cinched by the dark gray corseted dress accentuated her rounded backside. His artist eye, always on the lookout for beauty and aesthetics, committed each detail to memory, from appliqués in the form of black vines snaking up her rigid bodice to the steel pearls and black lace fringe. A tiny broach like a miniature rose gleamed blood red. For some reason, the broach did not suit her. He found it too harsh, too big and austere. Her exquisite bosom deserved something more feminine, more rounded to fit her figure. Thinking about her body made him hot under the collar. Beneath the table, his hands itched. He wanted to touch her again. Taste her berry lips. Both sets.

  A familiar waiter arrived, nodded a friendly welcome then set their tray on the table. On it had been placed a pretty little tea set hand-painted in a white-and-blue-floral design, tiny silver spoons, infusers and sugar tongs. He prepared both sets, one for her and one for him, put the selection of tea breads, fig cakes and seasonal fruits preserve jars precisely in the middle of the table. Equidistance and symmetry, precision and minutia. He could forget where he had put his gloves or teacup but could guess to within a hairsbreadth the exact measurement of things. Not obsessing and measuring by eye the space between her embroidered napkin and his proved difficult, but he managed by replaying in his head their lovemaking on the lighthouse roof. Sublime.

  While he waited for her return, his stomach grumbled and saliva pooled under his tongue. He may not be a perfect Gunn, but he still had some basis of table etiquette. Plus, he did not mind if she were late coming back since he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her. For the first time in many, many years, he had not needed whisky to fall asleep that morning. He suspected Violet had something to do with that. Not only for the sheer physical exertion of making love to her—such a strong body and heated reception—but for the emotional release of being with her, of sharing himself in every manner possible. She seemed to understand the duality of his character, the inventor and the dreamer, the restless nature, his need to create, build then discard to work on the next project. She had not seemed offended so far by his lack of financial means or his poor manners. Had he not told her he wanted to see the color of her lips? The ones below. Violet was a woman in full bloom, not a silly girl, not a blasé and hypocritical “proper” lady. After making love to her, he had slept like a log and woken that afternoon feeling unbeatable and recharged. What glorious sensation!

  Jasmine-scented steam rose from the pot as he tried to see how the thing had been put together. A tiny dot of soldering at the juncture of the handle—

  A shadow fell across his table. He looked up, grinning as he expected to see Violet’s porcelain-doll face.

  “Good afternoon, Gunn.”

  Leeford felt his grin slide down. Aloysius Spark, in all his handsome, elegant, dastardly arrogant self. A graduate with honors from the prestigious university that had barred Leeford’s application at the request of his parents, forcing him to instead study at a humble country college—which had turned out to be run by visionaries afflicted, like him, with vivid imagination and little ego. He had learned much from those academic outcasts. Unfortunately, no firm would touch him when he graduated.

  Spark. If there was an engineer who gave them all a bad name, it had to be this one. Greed and disregard for human life had cost him his post in the land’s most prestigious firm, which had been commissioned with the erection of a set of bridges to link a brand-new skyport. He had not cared enough about his workers to supply
the most basic safety equipment, or establish decent working hours. Leeford would have sacrificed an arm to work on such project. So many people would benefit from a proper skyport. With every amenity thinkable. Automatic stairs, lifts, cookshops, bathrooms even! Instead, Spark had caused the death of seventy-two workers. Charming fellow. Not counting the rampant rumors about his “research” on cadavers. In fact, he was more Gunn than Leeford. Well, they could have him. They deserved each other.

  “Spark,” he replied, barely tilting his head in salute. “What do you want?”

  The engineer curled his upper lip in what he must have thought was a smile. It resembled the rictus of a dog with rabies. Only detail missing was the foam. Leeford entertained himself for a few seconds with the image of Spark frothing at the mouth despite the pricey clothes and elegant demeanor.

  “Come now, Gunn, that is no way to speak to your sponsor. Have I not been generous with you over the last few months?”

  Leeford felt the blood leave his face and accumulate in his legs. For a wild, outrageous second, he feared fainting dead on the floor. His heart skipped at least one beat. “What?”

  Spark pulled Violet’s chair but stopped when Leeford jumped to his feet. “I am with a friend. You are not welcome at our table.”

  He had sounded shriller than he would have preferred—patrons turned to stare—but the matter remained that he did not want Spark around when his pleasant companion returned. And he was not allowed to spoil the image of her sitting in that chair on top of things.

  “Calm down, man. I only want to share a cup of tea. I have no interest in your friends.” Spark sat and pulled his gloves and hat off. “In fact, I loathe the very word.”