The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  “You’ll be all right,” she whispered, gently stroking his hair. “You’re in good hands with Etta. She’ll fix you up just fine.”

  He only grumbled in reply, already fading out of consciousness.

  Petra chewed on her lip. If she hadn’t been so foolish, if she had stayed away from the square, stayed away from the destruction, he wouldn’t have needed to shield her from the grenades. He wouldn’t be here now, bleeding all over the place.

  Matron returned with the supplies and a bottle of gin, setting the towels on the mattress and the rest on the nightstand next to the bed. She poured a bit of alcohol into the toy tin and then dropped the tweezers, scissor blades, and needle in. Then, setting the bottle aside, she started tearing the gauze into squares.

  “I’m going to need you to hold him still,” she said, removing the sterilized tools from the toy tin. She dipped her hands into the alcohol and poured some onto a towel before passing the bottle to Petra. “When he wakes, you make him drink a good bit of that. It’ll help him get through it. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

  Gingerly, she cut away what was left of Emmerich’s shirt. Where the metal stuck into his back, the skin was swollen and blood oozed out with each labored breath.

  Matron pressed her hand into his shoulder and took hold of the largest scrap of metal. “God be with you, my boy.”

  Emmerich’s scream pierced Petra like a knife.

  MATRON DROPPED THE final sliver of metal in the tin box and began stitching up the last of his wounds, working quickly with the needle and dark thread. Petra counted thirty-­seven pieces of metal in all, and she had sat there beside him for every hiss and cry of pain, every stitch, every bandage. Emmerich lay on the bed shivering, in and out of consciousness.

  “Help me lift him.”

  Petra washed her hands and carefully lifted Emmerich into a sitting position. She held him steady by his shoulders while Matron bandaged his back, wrapping gauze around his chest to keep the dressings in place. His eyes fluttered open as she wrapped his lower back.

  “Petra . . .” he whispered, momentarily focusing on her face.

  “I’m here, Emmerich,” she said, clasping his hands.

  Matron removed the bedsheet from underneath him and rubbed the bloodstained mattress with what was left of the laundry soap. She stole sheets and blankets from the dresser in the corner of the living room and remade the bed. Petra helped tuck the sheets under the mattress and fluffed the flat pillow as best she could.

  “You lay down, dear,” said Matron, pressing Emmerich into the bed. She poured a liberal dose of gin into his mouth and made sure he swallowed. “You need rest now.”

  “Thank you,” he said, settling into the bed. He quickly drifted to sleep, light snores soon escaping his mouth.

  Matron wiped her forehead and gestured for Petra to sit. Petra slumped against the wall, and Etta sat down on a stool in front of her.

  “Now, tell me what happened.”

  Petra blinked, unwilling to recall what she had seen. The burning . . . the blood . . . the screams . . . So much violence. So much death. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the floor. She felt sick.

  “Petra, focus. I need to know what happened. Tell me everything.”

  She frowned, staring at Emmerich’s sleeping form. “He said—­” Her voice cracked. “He said they—­the Luddites—­ignited the gas lines, infiltrated the University. They had explosives.”

  She swallowed, remembering the smell of char in the air, the stench of blood. Closing her eyes, she imagined the destruction as a far off nightmare, only barely able to relay all she had seen—­the Luddites, the Guild militia firing on the square, the fires, the explosions, the death.

  “He shielded me,” she said finally, her voice low. She turned her gaze on Emmerich again, breathing fitfully in his sleep. “There was a grenade, and—­” A bitter taste filled her mouth, and she shook her head, unable to say any more. Her throat ached from speaking and she was too drained to go on. All she wanted to do was sleep, to lie down and not wake up for a week.

  Matron rose to her feet and cursed under her breath, wiping sweat from her brow. Her hands trembled. “I don’t want to believe that it’s happened again,” she whispered, holding a shaking hand to her forehead. She sat back down and smoothed her graying hair. “It was bad enough the first time.”

  Petra stared at Matron Etta, suddenly wide-­awake. “What happened that day?” Her heart thudded heavily in her throat. “You never told me much about it,” she said quietly.

  Matron glanced up, and there were tears in her eyes. “That’s because it was . . .” She shook her head. “It was terrible. We got a telegraph at the hospital: emergency at the University. We didn’t get more than that, only that it was urgent and there was a fire. We had no idea what to expect, thinking maybe a fire had broken out and we’d need to apply first aid to a few burn victims as they made their way to the hospital.” She shook her head. “We were so unprepared . . .

  “The roof was starting to collapse when I arrived, the whole building ablaze.” A frown wrinkled her brow, and she continued, “I remember standing there in shock, staring at the flames, not ready for what I was suddenly faced with. There were ­people running in and out of the doors, carrying whatever books and papers, instruments and machines they could save from the flames, and . . .” She released a heavy sigh and met Petra’s eye. “And you.”

  Petra frowned. “Me?”

  Matron nodded and went on, “I still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t done anything to help. I just stood there, watching the University burn before my eyes, and then suddenly there was a child in my arms and a young man telling me to keep her safe.” Matron’s eyes fluttered and tears slid down her cheeks. “I clung to you as if my life depended on it—­this beautiful little girl with amber eyes and honey-­brown hair, a pocket watch in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. He told me your name, told me to look after you, and then ran back inside before I could stop him.” She released a heavy sigh. “Not a moment after, the whole building collapsed and went up in flame. Everyone inside died.”

  “And the man?” asked Petra, her pulse racing. “Who was he?”

  With a sniffle, Matron wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know who he was. He didn’t say.”

  Petra stared without seeing, her mind racing with questions and possibilities. A man had rescued her from the fire, but who? Was he her father? A brother? An uncle? She blinked back tears and looked at Etta again, her chest stinging. “You never mentioned him before.”

  Her lips quivered and she closed her eyes, as if suddenly pained. “There’s more.”

  “What do you mean?” Petra asked, her voice trembling.

  “He is not the only thing I kept from you, and I think it’s time you know. You’re old enough and . . .” She opened her eyes and looked at Petra. “You deserve to know the truth.”

  Petra inhaled a sharp breath. “The truth about what?”

  Matron Etta sighed. “In the days after the fire, I tried to find your family, your parents. I know I told you that they died in the fire, but I still don’t know if that is the truth.” She went on, “I searched and searched for anything I could find about who you were, where you had come from, why you were there in the University that day, but it wasn’t until weeks later that I finally found someone who recognized you. Until then no one seemed to know you existed.” She shook her head and frowned. “I can’t remember his name now—­he was an engineer of some kind—­but he told me that you were . . .” She trailed off, worrying at a strand of hair at the nape of her neck. “ . . . that you were Lady Chroniker’s ward, her niece.”

  Petra’s eyes widened.

  “She died in the fire, you see. So I tried contacting your mother and father, but no one knew where to find them. The Guild was in disorder, and I was told t
hat any information they might have had on where to find them had burned up in the fire. I had nothing. All I could do was wait and hope that someone would come looking for you, but no one ever did.”

  Petra stared at Matron, her heart in her throat. “Why did you never tell me?”

  Etta inhaled a deep breath and sighed. “I wanted to protect you.”

  “Protect me? From what?”

  “Remembering,” she said, bowing her head. “You were so small when it happened. I didn’t want to remind you of that pain, of all that you lost that day, and when no one came for you, I decided it would be better not to tell you the truth, that it would be better if you didn’t know who you were. I worried that if you knew, you would never be happy here, that you would dwell on what could have been, always hoping for a different life—­a better life than I could give you.”

  Fresh tears came to Matron’s eyes and her lips trembled. “But you knew, I think, in your heart, that you didn’t belong here. You always knew I wasn’t your real mother.” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. “I was always just Etta to you, and though I knew you weren’t my daughter, I always wished—­” Her words were lost to tears, and she hid her face behind her hand, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Petra didn’t know what to say. She hesitantly leaned forward and placed her hand in Etta’s, a sudden thickness in her throat as her heart wrenched with guilt.

  Etta took Petra’s hand and held it tight, seeming to find strength in that small comfort. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath and wiped the tears from her eyes, smiling weakly. “You will always be my daughter, Petra,” she said, patting her hand. “And I don’t need you to call me Mum for me to believe it, so don’t apologize for being smart enough to know the truth.” She pulled Petra up from the floor and wrapped her in a hug, kissing her on the cheek. “I love you, my sweet girl, and I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping this from you. I only did what I thought was best.”

  Petra felt hot tears well up in her eyes, and she let them come. “I know.”

  Etta pulled back from the hug and cupped Petra’s face in her hands, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I should go,” she said, sniffling. “They’ll need extra hands at the hospital, and I need to do my part.” She kissed Petra’s brow and stood, glancing at Emmerich lying on the bed. “You stay here and watch over him. What he needs now is rest. As do you,” she said, smoothing Petra’s hair. “Get some sleep if you can. Constance can watch the children when she gets back, and Esther until then. Send one of the boys if you need me.”

  She patted Petra’s cheek and then was gone, leaving Petra and Emmerich alone.

  Petra sat down beside the bed and gently brushed Emmerich’s hair from his face, her mind racing with thoughts of her parents, her family, trying to make sense of it all. She wondered if it was true, if she really was a Chroniker, the lady’s niece.

  In her heart, she was still just Petra Wade.

  She looked at Emmerich, fidgeting in his sleep. “Did you know?” she asked quietly, her voice timid in the silence. He had recognized her pocket watch, seemed surprised when she did not know who had given it to her. He had shown her Lady Chroniker’s portrait and known that she had lost her family in the fire. “Did you know who I was?”

  She did not expect him to answer, but in the dim lantern light, she thought she saw a flicker of a smile on his lips before he drifted off into a deep, steady sleep.

  WITH THE HELP of the gin, Emmerich slept feverishly until the next morning. Petra stayed by his side, too anxious to sleep. She found solace in his steady breathing, the incomprehensible gibberish he muttered every once in a while, and the quiet rhythm of his snoring. The rest of the city lay silent, the engines shut down and the boilers cold, everyone mourning the deaths of those who had perished in the attack—­students and engineers and Luddites alike.

  Petra had taken to holding Emmerich’s hand while he slept. Feeling the warmth of his callused hands brought her comfort. She didn’t care what her sisters might say.

  Around midday his fever broke. His mutterings became somewhat comprehensible, though he was still delirious and Petra could only guess what he was trying to say. She cooled his forehead with a damp rag and shushed him softly. The day passed, his fever continued to abate, and his cuts showed no sign of infection.

  It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Petra finally dared close her eyes, letting herself rest for the first time since she had brought him to the flat. She drifted off to the sound of Emmerich’s shallow breathing.

  She dreamt of fire.

  Wallpaper curled away from blazing walls. Books and schematics burned to dust. A lone hand clawed through collapsed rafters, stretching to grab hold of something, someone. Tears sizzled on the polished brass floor. Her tears. A polished wooden screwdriver handle, a gilded pocket watch. Both gleamed in the firelight, held amidst the blaze by trembling hands. Tears ran in tendrils beneath dark amber eyes. Words burned away in the roaring fire. Strong arms. Warm arms. The smell of oil and metal polish.

  Petra startled awake to someone stroking her face. She opened her eyes, blinking away the sleepiness of two days without rest. The lantern held only a glimmer of light at the tip of the wick, a smidge above the burner. In the dim orange light she saw Emmerich resting on his side, his right arm tucked beneath his head and his left stretched across the bed, caressing her cheek. She had fallen asleep with her head leaning against the mattress.

  “You are beautiful when you sleep,” he said, his voice hoarse and smelling of gin.

  All the anxiety and sleepless dread that had tormented her since the day outside the University washed away, the terrible nightmare forgotten. Emmerich was alive. He was here with her now, and that was all that mattered.

  He propped himself on his elbow and winced. Petra started forward to help him, but he eased her nerves with a stroke of his fingers along the outside of her cheek. She leaned into his hand, thankful that he was all right.

  In the dim lantern light, she followed the smooth curvature of his muscles with her eyes, wishing to run her fingers across his shoulders and chest, to feel the heat beneath his skin. Warmth flooded her cheeks at her own shamelessness, but she didn’t care. She reveled in his touch as he gently brushed her hair from her forehead with his fingers, cool against her flushed skin.

  “Is this a dream?” he asked, a crooked grin on his face. “If it is, I never want to wake.”

  She stared at his lips. How badly she wished to kiss that smile, to put her lips to his. How badly she wished it were a dream, that she could curl up in his arms and forever stare into his eyes. But it was not a dream, and she could not act on her desires, as much as she wanted to. She pulled away, resisting the urge to brush her fingers through his hair one last time.

  If Emmerich noticed the desire in her thoughts or the regret with which she drew away, he did not say. He shifted his arm and nestled his head into the pillow with a faint smile, regarding her drowsily. “You should get some sleep, Petra.”

  She would rather stay with him, but she climbed to her feet, feeling the exhaustion of sleeplessness catching up with her. She yawned. “Good night, Emmerich.”

  Sleepily, she started toward the door, but before she could step away, he clasped her hand, entwining his fingers through hers. Her breath trapped itself in her throat, and her skin tingled at his touch. He pulled her toward the bed, bringing her fingers to his lips, and her heart stopped beating. It seemed an eternity, his lips pressed against her skin, and she felt dizzy and warm, shamelessly wishing it was her lips he was kissing.

  “Good night, Petra,” he said quietly, releasing her hand. “Sleep well.”

  Chapter 10

  PETRA SAT IN the middle of a large room playing with a mechanized toy train. Desks, stacks of gears, and bustling machinery surrounded her. Men towered over her, poring over designs and parts order forms, paying little mind to her as she w
ound her toy train and let it clatter across the workshop floor, following it on bare feet.

  The toy train crashed into a desk leg, and a great blast shook the workshop. Ticker parts fell from their shelves, clinking and clanking against the hard floor. Dust fell from the ceiling, peppering her hair. The men shouted over the hiss of busted steam pipes, unaware of a girl hiding beneath a worktable. A second explosion rattled the workshop, and a cloud of fire blasted through the entrance.

  Books and papers erupted into flame, feeding ashes into the air. Desks blazed. Flames licked the support beams and reached for the ceiling rafters. Men tried extinguishing the fires, but the flames reached the gaslamp lines too quickly. All around the workshop the paneling exploded, replaced with walls of fire, fed by the gas reservoirs below the city.

  Petra heard her name called. A woman, dressed finely but disheveled, hurried around the flaming workshop, dodging the burning timbers falling from the ceiling, pushing fallen desks and tables out of her path. The central rafter creaked above her, and part of the ceiling collapsed on the workshop, obscuring the woman from view.

  Petra ran from her hiding place, bare feet slapping against the hot, ash-­littered floor, burning her toes. Men yelled and rushed past her, some injured. She wandered to the mass of banisters and support beams that had crushed the center of the workshop. Fire leaped across the fallen rafters, reaching for the toppled desks and tables, slowly spreading throughout the workshop.

  She heard crying from under the smoldering beams and tiptoed forward, the heat of the fire singeing her cheeks. “Mummy?”

  There was a gasp, and a burning beam shifted off the pile, pushed out of the way by a heeled boot. Her mother’s face looked out from within the flames, tears streaking her eyes. “Petra, darling. You’re alive,” she breathed.

  A large desk remained yet untouched beneath the burning timbers, sheltering Petra’s mother from the flames, but fire blazed all around, eating away at the fallen rafters, licking the sides of the desk. Her mother’s hand stretched out of the wreckage, reaching for her, but the fire wreathed her arm, and she snatched it back into the safety of the desk.