Ink, Iron, and Glass

by Gwendolyn Clare

  Elsa gave the other girl a scrutinizing look; a hint of fear and insecurity hid in her eyes. “Well, I know it was a risk, so thank you.”

  “Everything in life is a risk. Now,” Porzia declared, changing the subject. She clasped her palms together eagerly. “If you’re feeling well enough for a short walk, I’ve a surprise for you.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Elsa grumbled, half joking. She accepted the support of Porzia’s arm when she unsteadily stood.

  Porzia led her out of Faraz’s workshop into an unfamiliar hallway, reminding her once again how massive the house was. Elsa almost gave up when she saw the “short walk” was to include climbing a flight of stairs, but she leaned heavily on Porzia and huffed her way up one stair at a time. Each breath was something of a struggle, and the effort made her light-headed.

  Finally they arrived at a wide room that looked like a seamstress’s parlor. Heavy bolts of cloth hung from the far wall, and half-finished projects were strewn about on the worktables. Half a dozen mannequins were clustered in one corner, like a grove of pale trees. To Elsa’s right, a pair of open doorways led to two cavernous walk-in closets.

  “Here we are,” said Porzia. “I had a few items altered to suit you. I think the tailor bot finished only one outfit before all the bots went haywire, but one’s enough for now.”

  Tired from even so short a walk, Elsa let herself down on a low settee beside a stand of full-length mirrors. “An assassin infiltrated your mother’s stronghold, and your response is … clothes?”

  Porzia busied herself while she talked, clearing off a table and laying out the items for Elsa to see. “Whether you like it or not, the train incident was your debut into mad society. Someone was watching, and we need to be ready to show that particular someone you’re not to be trifled with.”

  Elsa gave her a skeptical look. “And new clothes will accomplish this?”

  “You already are a powerful madgirl, a polymath with danger in every pocket. Now if only you would consent to dress like one—”

  “Wait, what? How do you know that?” Elsa interrupted.

  “Oh, please.” Porzia gave her a frank look. “If Leo had been the one who stopped the train, he would’ve been crowing from the rooftops instead of stalking around in a foul mood. Process of deduction, darling. I may have never met a polymath before, but I can still put two and two together.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, as I was saying, if you’d dress like a polymath, perhaps you’d project more confidence in your powers. In my experience, your sartorial choices can have as much effect on how you feel about yourself as they do on how others perceive you.”

  Elsa shook her head. “The clothes do not make the monk, Porzia.”

  At that Porzia fumbled in surprise, dropping a boot on the floor and then quickly retrieving it. “Why did you choose those exact words?”

  “What?”

  “That phrase is an idiom. Not one you’re likely to have heard in the short time since you learned Italian. So how did you know to say it?”

  Elsa shrugged, uncomfortable with the intensity of Porzia’s gaze. “I must have overheard…,” she started to say, realizing even as the words left her mouth that she didn’t know how that phrase had popped into her head.

  “You know things you shouldn’t know. You can do things you shouldn’t be able to do. You don’t play by the rules the rest of us follow here in reality,” Porzia quietly said. “They should fear you, not the other way around.”

  Elsa remained doubtful that the way she dressed would change anything, but she didn’t want to seem dismissive of Porzia’s efforts. She abandoned the comfort of the settee to stand and let Porzia help her into the new outfit.

  First came a cream-colored linen work shirt, loose and comfortable. Over this went a leather bustier, which laced up the back like a corset but lacked the too-rigid boning that Elsa had found so constrictive. The bustier was decked out with brass loops and chains, compartments and pouches, all the attachments she would need to comfortably carry an arsenal of gadgets with her. A gun holster to hang at her right side, with a strap to anchor it to her thigh so it wouldn’t bang about. Molded leather cases for her portal device and her books.

  There were yet more pockets in the thick, heather-gray trousers. Trousers! Veldanese women never wore trousers. And even the tall leather boots had secret compartments for stashing tools—or knives, as Leo kept in his, Elsa supposed.

  Porzia steered her over to the mirrors, and Elsa inhaled sharply at the sight of her own reflection. She did look different—and feel different—as if she were a distilled version of herself. Her reflection looked like someone who was born for the laboratory.

  “We’ll have to decide what to do with your hair,” Porzia said, brushing a few black strands over Elsa’s shoulder. “Something practical, of course, if you’re going to be crawling around inside machines.”

  “Why are you being so kind to me?” Elsa asked.

  Porzia fussed with Elsa’s sleeves, straightening them. “You don’t have much experience with friends, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not.” There had only ever been Revan. Even if he wasn’t dead, he probably thought she’d abandoned Veldana and him with it. Revan alive and hating her was the best scenario Elsa could imagine. She swallowed, her throat tight. “Not much experience.”

  “Well,” Porzia said primly, “you ought to get used to it.”

  Elsa felt a sudden desire to embrace the other girl. Would Porzia think it improper? She wasn’t well versed in the ways of affection. Just do it, she told herself—she threw her arms around Porzia’s neck, squeezed, and then immediately retreated to a safe distance.

  “Thank you,” Elsa said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks, but Porzia didn’t look embarrassed at all.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Casa, “but a hansom’s pulling up outside. I believe Signor Trovatelli has returned.”

  * * *

  By the time they reached the foyer, Leo was already inside and closing the front doors. He had with him an older woman, tall, thin, and dour-looking in dark-gray men’s clothes.

  Porzia tried to intercept him. “Where did you run off to? And who’s this, may I ask?”

  “She’s here to identify the body” was all Leo said, and then he strode quickly past Porzia, the older woman at his side.

  Elsa couldn’t believe it. After all his prying into her affairs, all the secrets she’d shared, now he wanted to leave her and Porzia in the dark. “I’m alive, by the way!” she called after him, thoroughly annoyed. “Thought you might care to know.”

  Leo stopped, the mystery woman already a few steps down the hall that would lead to the library. He turned to look at Elsa, his expression inscrutable, and then hurried to catch up with his guest.

  Porzia said, “What in the world has gotten into him?”

  Elsa frowned. “And if everyone from his past is supposed to be dead, who’s that?”

  Porzia tugged her skirts straight, as if she were mustering her courage. “Come on, then. We’ll not get any answers out of him if we keep standing around here.”

  When they reached the library, the closet was open, and the older woman was crouched over the body. “Yes, I recognize him,” she was saying. “He’s one of the Carbonari who went missing during the Venetian rebellion. Presumed dead—wrongly, it seems, until now of course.”

  Leo was standing with his back to the door and did not turn at the sound of their footsteps, seemingly unaware they had followed. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “At least there’s no room left for doubt.”

  The assassin’s body drew Elsa’s gaze like a magnet, and she abruptly forgot about being vexed at Leo. The attack flashed through her memory, making her pulse jump and her palms dampen. This man had come perilously close to killing her.

  Porzia planted her hands on her hips and cleared her throat. “Leo, what is going on? Who is this woman you’ve brought into my house?”

  Leo finally turne
d to look at them. His throat worked and his lips parted, but the words didn’t come. The older woman stood, stepped around the corpse, and filled the silence for him. “Rosalinda Scarpa,” she said to Porzia. “I looked after Leo when he left Venezia, before your people laid their claim.”

  Porzia arched an eyebrow. “You sound as if you’d like to stick a flag in him.”

  While Elsa was curious how this woman from Leo’s murky past had suddenly appeared, she was more anxious to know the identity of her would-be assassin. “So the invaders who abducted my mother do have some connection with these Carbonari people?”

  Leo sucked in a breath, as if her words had edges like broken glass. “You could say that. Some connection, all right.”

  “Would you … care to elaborate?”

  “Leo, you don’t have to—” Rosalinda started to say, but he interrupted her.

  “The man named Garibaldi from Montaigne’s journals … he’s my father,” Leo said, his voice cracking. “My father’s alive.”

  Rosalinda brushed his shoulder as if to remove a fleck of dust from his waistcoat, and she leaned in close. They shared a brief, muttered conversation, Leo’s expression somewhat glassy-eyed. Then he left the library without another word to anyone else. Elsa exchanged a look of disbelief with Porzia, who also seemed to be wondering exactly who this woman thought she was.

  When Leo was gone, Rosalinda turned to them. “The boy has had quite a shock. You should let him rest. There will be time enough for hunting down Garibaldi once Leo has adjusted to the idea.”

  Elsa herself could hardly believe it—Leo’s father was alive, and connected to her mother’s abduction. She narrowed her eyes at Rosalinda. “You’ve had the information we needed this whole time? How long have you been keeping this from him?”

  Rosalinda pursed her lips. “Don’t judge what you don’t understand, child.”

  Beside Elsa, Porzia folded her arms angrily. “I think you can judge how you like the feel of the night air after you walk yourself back out of my house. I’ll even show you the door.”

  Elsa—who was so accustomed to standing alone in every conflict—grappled with the surreal feeling of having someone else defend her. How strange, to find herself shielded behind Porzia’s words when only a few days ago those same words had had their sharp points aimed at her. Was this what friendship meant, standing unified against common foes?

  After Porzia bid Rosalinda a rather perfunctory good night, she and Elsa went looking for Faraz. They found him in a long, windowless room deep in the bowels of the house. A large engine chugged and huffed at the far end, and the walls on either side were lined with small alcoves, some occupied by house-bots and some standing empty.

  Faraz looked up as they came in. He had a thick black rubber glove over his right hand, and a brass bug struggled in his grip. “What are you doing up and about? You should be resting.”

  “Leo’s back,” Elsa explained.

  He zapped the bug with an electrical prod and tossed it, still smoking, into a bucket of deactivated bugs. “Ah,” he said. “And?”

  Elsa told him about Rosalinda’s visit and related what Leo had said about Garibaldi.

  Faraz pulled the glove off and tossed it in the bucket. “Just to be clear, we now believe Leo’s father—who’s supposed to be dead—is somehow connected to, or perhaps even responsible for, abducting your mother? Doesn’t anyone else find this situation troubling?”

  “This was always the situation,” Elsa said. “The only part that’s changed is now we know.”

  Faraz pressed his lips together. “I barely remember my own parents.… To think I used to feel jealous of how close Leo had been with his family, how well he’d known them.”

  Porzia shuffled her feet, her usual confidence drowning in doubt. “Perhaps we should let the Order handle this, after all.”

  “Because they’ve done such an outstanding job so far,” Elsa said. “What precisely have they accomplished? Had a bunch of meetings?”

  “Garibaldi has already made two attempts on your life!” Her voice rose an octave, shrill with distress. “What if he succeeds the third time?”

  Faraz shook his head. “We can’t tell the Order about Leo’s relation to Garibaldi—it would call his loyalty into question.” He set his hands on his hips, exhaustion showing in the slope of his shoulders. “On the other hand, the house is effectively defenseless now, thanks to these damned bugs infiltrating Casa’s systems. Burak is still evaluating the extent of the damage, but I’d guess we’re in rather sore need of Gia’s assistance.”

  Casa’s disembodied voice harrumphed. “I am not defenseless. This is merely a … a setback.”

  “I meant no offense,” Faraz said soothingly. “You’ve been through an ordeal, and we simply wish to see you restored to your full glory as soon as possible.”

  Porzia rolled her eyes at the word glory, but the house seemed mollified. “Oh, my dear humanlings, flattery will get you everywhere,” Casa said.

  Elsa had a thought. “Porzia, could we get a message just to Alek or your mother in Firenze, without the rest of the Order finding out?”

  Porzia bit her lip, considering. “We’d have to send a telegram instead of using the Order’s Hertzian machines. And it would be best if the contents were vague. Something only one of them would be able to correctly interpret.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do first. Come on, I need paper and pen.”

  Elsa quickly settled on the contents of the message for de Vries: Ran the experiment you told me not to. Complicated results. How should we proceed? Porzia wrote a message for her mother as well, saying Casa needed maintenance, though of course not mentioning why. It was late, but Faraz agreed to take the notes to the telegraph office first thing in the morning.

  What they would do after that, Elsa didn’t know.

  * * *

  Leo sprawled on the roof of the veranda below his balcony, staring up at the stars, the terra-cotta roof tiles cool against his back. He ought to try sleeping—oblivion would be a welcome change from the roiling of his emotions—but his thoughts refused to settle.

  Soft footsteps shuffled across the floorboards inside the bedroom, and then Faraz’s silhouette appeared over the balcony railing, upside down from Leo’s perspective.

  “I thought I might find you here,” said Faraz.

  “Why don’t you join me?” Leo joked halfheartedly.

  Faraz, who wasn’t fond of heights, said, “I think not.”

  “Oh, fine.” Leo picked himself up off the roof tiles and vaulted over the railing to join Faraz on the balcony. “Look at all those stars. They make our problems seem insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, don’t you think?”

  Faraz shrugged. “Our problems don’t have to be significant to the universe—it’s enough that they’re significant to us.” He casually shifted the subject. “I told Elsa about Venezia, by the way.”

  “You what?”

  Faraz gave him a steady look. “She wanted to know. You expect her to trust us not only with her secrets but with her mother’s life, yet you withhold your own history—your own secrets—from her?”

  “Lies can carry as much truth as facts, sometimes.” The words left his mouth, and Leo immediately thought of Rosalinda’s deception. He laughed harshly. “I never thought I’d be on the receiving end of that particular lesson.”

  Faraz pursed his lips and chose his words carefully. “I’m glad you know because we need that knowledge right now, but … it’s a terrible thing, to be unwanted. This is one commonality I wish we didn’t share.” Faraz’s own father had sold him into an apprenticeship in Tunis when he was six years old, and Leo knew he had not seen his birth family since.

  “Mm,” Leo grunted, not yet ready to voice how he was feeling.

  Faraz, patient as ever, allowed a companionable silence to settle over them. Leo was grateful his friend knew him well enough not to pry, and not to ask him if he was all right when he clearly was not. Above, the
stars wavered, light bending through atmosphere.

  Eventually Leo offered, “I think I hate him.”

  “If you’re hoping to be dissuaded from adopting that particular view, I’m afraid I’m not the man for the job.” A rueful smile pulled at the corners of Faraz’s mouth.

  “I don’t know what I’m hoping for,” said Leo. “An explanation that will somehow make all of this okay? Doesn’t seem likely I’ll get one.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Faraz said.

  What his father had done still didn’t quite seem real in Leo’s mind, as if the cognitive dissonance threatened to erase his memories. “He kidnapped Elsa’s mother. He put an entire passenger train in mortal danger just to, what—test my skills as a mechanic? He sabotaged Casa and sent an assassin into a house full of children!”

  “None of that is your fault.”

  “Of course it’s not my fault!” Leo snapped.

  Faraz raised his eyebrows at Leo’s reaction, and Leo let out a frustrated huff. The truth was, he did feel guilty—he felt guilty because it was his father who’d done all these horrible things. And he felt guilty because there was still a part of himself who loved his father and yearned for his approval, and wanted nothing more than to be reunited.

  “You’re a good friend,” he said, by way of apology.

  Faraz snorted, then gave Leo’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Somebody’s got to keep you out of trouble. Now, get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try,” Leo agreed. Faraz was right—he would need to be rested, to rally his strength. The knowledge of his abandonment felt like a barb beneath his ribs, a sharp pain making it difficult to breathe.

  Now, the anger brewing inside him was about more than Elsa’s mother. Leo needed to face the man who had thrown him away, the man who had shattered his childhood like porcelain hitting the floor. His father.

  13

  CLARITY OF MIND MEANS CLARITY OF PASSION, TOO; THIS IS WHY A GREAT AND CLEAR MIND LOVES ARDENTLY AND SEES DISTINCTLY WHAT IT LOVES.