The Brass Giant

by Brooke Johnson

  At last Mrs. Goss rose from her seat. “Victoria, belle, fetch your riding attire. The carriage should be here shortly.”

  The carriage was a newly minted steam car, the La Rapide, the latest model from French inventor Amédée-­Ernest Bollée. Petra stared in awe at the vehicle through the window, wishing she could have a closer look. It was a beautiful, monstrous thing, with a base similar to a horse carriage. The driver’s seat was situated behind the engine, and the passengers’ seats were above the rear wheels, curtained and cushioned. She itched to take it apart and study it. She never saw modern vehicles in the city; most of the streets were too small to allow two cars to pass side by side, the citizens depending instead on steam rickshaws for transportation.

  Emmerich stood at the front of the vehicle, deep in conversation with the driver. He had an engineer’s mind, always curious. Mrs. Goss and Victoria directed the footman’s handling of their luggage, placed in a compartment beneath the passengers’ seats. Once satisfied, they both hugged and kissed Emmerich—­Mr. Goss was nowhere to be seen—­and boarded the vehicle, sitting in the rear with their hands daintily folded over their laps and their skirts laid neatly over the seats. Petra was glad to see them go.

  Once they had gone, Emmerich bounded up the front steps and met Petra in the dining room. He took her by the waist and spun her around, unabashedly planting a kiss on her lips, which she gladly returned.

  “Finally,” he said, grinning. “I thought they’d never leave.” He set her down gently and grabbed her by the hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  With the other servants downstairs enjoying the freedom of a mostly empty house, Emmerich and Petra raced up the stairs, giggling and shushing one another as they climbed. Petra enjoyed the frivolity of it. It had been a long while since she had felt so at ease. Emmerich had that effect on her. Just being in his presence felt right.

  At the top of the stairs, Emmerich leaned over the railing to see if anyone had come up from the servants’ hall. Grinning, he turned back to Petra, lifted her in his arms and kissed her. His enthusiasm was irresistible, and she returned the kiss wildly, her fingers roaming through his soft hair, pulling him closer, inhaling the very breath of him, never wishing for their lips to part. Emmerich backed into the bedroom door and hoisted her into one arm as he fumbled with the door handle behind him, never taking his lips from hers. The door finally opened, and he carried her into a dimly lit room imbued with the scents of dusty books, metal polish, and ink.

  Petra smiled widely, ending the kiss.

  Emmerich regarded her. “What is it?”

  “I missed you,” she breathed.

  He lowered her to her feet, and without letting go of her waist, reached around her hair and pulled her bun free, letting the amber curls fall down past her shoulders. “I missed you too,” he said, tenderly taking her face into his hands and kissing her lightly on the lips. Taking her by the shoulders, he slowly faced her away from him and pulled her close, his chest pressed against her back. “Petra, I’d like to welcome you to my study,” he said, gesturing to the room. “My one place of solitude in this house.”

  A desk sat in the middle of the room, littered with pages of schematics and design utensils. Bookshelves lined the study walls, hundreds of books stretching floor to ceiling, a dozen brass tickers gleaming along the shelves in the electric light.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s marvelous.”

  He removed himself from her and crossed the study, plucking a stiff-­legged horse from one of the shelves. “This is the first machine I ever built.” He placed the device on the floor, lifted the hinged saddle, and wound the key within. Immediately, the horse rattled to life, clip-­clopping across the floor as its back legs propelled it forward.

  “My uncle helped me build it when he first brought me to the University,” he said, picking the horse up off the floor, holding it delicately in his hands as if it was something of great value. “He said I had a knack for engineering and helped nurture that talent. My dream was always to bring machines to life, to create perfect imitations of living things, capable of functioning like their real-­life counterparts.” He returned the horse to the shelf and touched a marionette-­sized automaton. “I never wanted to build a weapon.”

  “Tell me about your uncle,” she said.

  A smile replaced the growing frown on his face. “He was a master clockwork engineer, rivaled only by your mother. He taught me mechanics when I was young, only four when he first began lecturing me on gears and pinions, axes of rotation and involute curves. I was seven when he died.” Emmerich sighed. “He was the only person I ever truly cared about, more than my own mother and father, I am not ashamed to admit.” He glanced at Petra, a sad smile on his lips. “Until now anyway.”

  “He died in the fire, didn’t he?”

  Emmerich nodded. “There is a memorial plaque dedicated to him in the portrait hall I showed you. He was never renowned enough to warrant a portrait of his own, but his name is there: Friedrich Goss, Clockwork Engineer.”

  Friedrich . . . Why did the name sound so familiar?

  “I hope someday I can be as great as he was, though I do not think either of us could ever manage to surpass your natural ability. If he were still alive, he would like you, admire you.” He paused. “I cannot help but think how different my life—­how different our lives—­might be if that fire had never happened.”

  Then she remembered. Friedrich—­the name on her mother’s lips, the man who had carried her from the University, the man who had gone back inside to save her mother. Her throat constricted and she gasped, a sudden ache weighing on her chest.

  “Emmerich . . .” she said, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “I didn’t realize.”

  He closed the distance between them and raised a hand to her face. “Petra?”

  “Your uncle—­I remember him,” she said, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. “The day of the fire . . . He went back for her after he took me to safety. He died trying to save her, trying to save my mother.” She shook her head, feeling her breath seize up in her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know until now.”

  He shushed her. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault.”

  She quieted, finding comfort in his arms. “I know,” she said quietly. “I just—­Emmerich, he saved my life. If it wasn’t for him . . .” She trailed off, realizing what he had done, what her mother had done. Both of them sacrificed themselves for her, a mere child.

  “Thank you,” said Emmerich.

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “For telling me this. It—­” He hesitated, a wavering smile on his lips. “I have always honored my uncle’s memory, but now, knowing what he did, I am more grateful to him than ever before. Don’t let the manner of his death upset you, Petra,” he said, stroking her cheek. “He was loyal to your mother, to the very end.”

  She let herself smile at that. “I wonder if they ever thought we would be standing here, together, if . . .” She let the thought fade into silence, a flush coming to her cheeks as she wondered if her mother had ever thought of her one day falling for the nephew of her dearest friend. If things had been different, had the fire never happened, perhaps they would have courted and married, much to the pleasure of their respective families. But this was not that life. The fire had happened. Emmerich’s uncle had died, as had her mother, and there was nothing either of them could do to change that.

  And yet they had found each other again. There was hope in that, wasn’t there?

  Petra buried her face into his chest and tucked her fingers beneath his shirt, touching his bare skin. “Emmerich,” she whispered, her heartbeat quickening as she dared open her heart to him, as she felt his pulse beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his bare skin. “Do you think that you and I could be together? Do you think that this could work betwe
en us?”

  Emmerich gently drew away, searching her eyes. “Petra—­”

  “I only mean that—­” She pressed her lips together and glanced away, doubt creeping into her heart. “I feel I have nothing to offer you. I am a wanted criminal, a lower-­class, uneducated shop girl. You deserve better than me.”

  “Petra,” he said softly, “you have everything to offer me.”

  Emmerich pressed her face into his chest again, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her. She wanted to believe it was possible—­a future with Emmerich Goss, a future she had never before considered—­and yet it seemed as ridiculous as their plan to unseat the Guild, no more than a fanciful dream.

  Her chest tightened and she blinked back sudden tears. “I want to,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I want to be everything that you want, everything that you need in a . . . partner, but I—­”

  “Petra, you stupid girl.”

  He drew her into him and kissed her—­a kiss full of yearning and unspoken emotion—­and in that moment she felt the love he had for her, so aptly conveyed in the joining of their lips, so true and real, more real than anything else in the world. If she knew anything at all, it was that Emmerich Goss loved her. She returned the kiss, feeding him the same desire, the same expression of raw love.

  When their lips parted, he rested his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses touching.

  She inhaled his vivifying breath, acutely aware of his fingertips caressing her lips and the feathery touch of his hair on her brow. She slid her hands beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his body. His heartbeat hammered against her fingers.

  “Petra, I love you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she drew away with the echo of his words in her ears, her heart pounding against her ribs. She searched his eyes, burning with sincerity. She had dreamed of those words on his lips for so long, his admittance of love, more powerful than any kiss or gesture, and his voice gave the words such weight, such importance, that three words never sounded so beautiful, so natural.

  “Emmerich . . .”

  “I do,” he said, drawing her close, his hands comfortably around her waist. “I love you,” he breathed, pulling her into another kiss.

  She surrendered herself to him, slipping her arms around his neck as he pulled her tighter against him, all worries forgotten. In that moment, everything in the world was perfect.

  When he pulled away, Petra followed, not yet wanting to part.

  Emmerich moistened his lips, regarding her with his blazing copper eyes. “I suppose I should do this properly,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. He took her hands into his and inhaled a slow, deep breath. “Petra, I know it must seem forward of me, but you must know—­I love you with every fiber of my being, and I cannot dream of a future without you at my side.”

  Her heart raced faster, the sound of his words strange but perfect. “Emmerich—­”

  “I know that it seems hasty and maybe even foolish, but I don’t care.” He smiled, his cheek dimpling. “My darling Petra . . . would you one day do me the honor of waking each morning to your beautiful face, to the smell of your hair and the feel of your skin and the sound of your voice? Will you do me the pleasure of one day becoming my lifelong companion, my love, my wife, until death do us part?”

  Petra’s lips quivered into a smile and she felt her breath fall short, her heart unable to do any more than stutter. “You’re serious?”

  “I have never meant anything more.”

  She stared into his eyes, a hurricane of doubt and uncertainty warring against her desire to say yes, to believe that such a future existed for them.

  As if he read her mind, Emmerich squeezed her hands and pressed her fingers hard against his chest. “I know it will be difficult, that we will have to fight for it, that it will be us against the world, but for you, I would weather any storm, any obstacle that stood between us.”

  A sudden melancholy stole over her, the reality of the world cutting through her chest. “But your family, the Guild . . . I—­”

  “To hell with them. To hell with the world. I would do everything in my power to be with you—­whatever you want, whatever it takes.” He lifted his hand to her face. “I don’t care about them. I don’t care about what anyone says or thinks. All I care about is you.”

  She chewed on her lip, hardly able to breathe in his presence. “Emmerich—­”

  “Petra, do you love me?” he asked, searching her eyes, his hands gentle on her face.

  Her heart stuttered. “Yes.”

  “Say it,” he said, his voice soft. “Say that you love me.”

  With a shuddering breath, she looked deep into his eyes, blazing with a fiery passion. Yes, she loved him—­truly, unendingly, passionately—­for what felt like both an eternity and a fraction of a second at the same time. She loved him with all her heart and wanted nothing more than to share the rest of her life with him, but her want did not change their circumstances. So much stood in their way—­the Guild, his family, her lack of money . . . a war.

  How could she hope to have a future with him? How could he expect it?

  She feared that whatever existed between them, their romance could not last, that it would not stand against the test of battles they would surely face together. She wanted it to last—­desperately—­but something deep within her heart told her that one day she would be without him, whether by choice or by circumstance. Her heart would break, and she would be left far worse off than before she had met Emmerich Goss.

  She bowed her head, feeling the burn of tears in her eyes, her throat constricting.

  Emmerich backed away a step, lifting his hand to her face, his touch gentle against her cheek. “Petra, if I was wrong . . .” He paused, withdrawing his hand into a fist. “I’m sorry, I—­I shouldn’t have said anything, not now when our future seems so dire. I cannot expect you to—­”

  She threw her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck. “Of course I love you,” she breathed. “You unforgivably romantic ninny.” If she could, she would never let go.

  He released a heavy sigh, nuzzling her hair. “I just—­I wanted you to know how I felt, to know my intentions, however far off that future may be.”

  “I know,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears sliding down her cheek. “I just want to have this moment with you—­here and now.” She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t bear to hope and then have it all taken away from me.”

  They stood in silence, arms wrapped tightly around one another, neither of them daring to be the first to let go. Petra could have stood in his arms an eternity and never wanted anything else, content just feeling his heart pulse in rhythm with hers.

  “Can you forgive me?” she asked.

  He hugged her tightly to his chest. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  Petra closed her eyes, listening to Emmerich’s steady beating heart. So many obstacles stood in their way. They had a government to destroy, an automaton army to stop, and a world to save. Maybe when they accomplished all of that, she could consider his proposal. Perhaps she could even accept it.

  Chapter 18

  PETRA AND EMMERICH spent most of the afternoon in Emmerich’s study, laying out their plans for eradicating all traces of the automaton designs and gathering evidence against the conspiring Guild members in order to clear Petra’s name. Already, Emmerich had discovered reason to believe that at the heart of the conspiracy were Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon, his father, and Mr. Fowler—­the man who confronted them the day they completed the automaton and called for Petra’s execution at the trial.

  She mulled over a hand-­drawn map of the University floors, eyeing the Guild offices. “You do understand that if we succeed, your father could be tried for treason in the Royal Court?”

  Emmerich shuffled through a stack of letters and
notes written on Guild stationary. “He understood the risks when he chose to conspire against the Guild and the Empire.”

  “But he’s your father.”

  “And?” Emmerich dropped the pages onto the desk and stared at her. “Because of him, you could have died. He’s the one who insisted you were the spy, went right along with Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon’s plan to lay the blame on you, not caring you were innocent of the charges. Why should we show him mercy? He didn’t show you any.”

  He slumped in his chair, kneading his forehead with his knuckles as he went back to the assortment of handwritten letters, hastily scrawled notes, and intermittent telegrams, searching for whatever evidence he could find against his father and the others.

  “Why do you hate him so much?”

  Emmerich glanced up at her. “I don’t hate him, I just—­” He sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “I merely wish to bring those who would conspire against the Guild to justice. If my father is among them—­as I suspect—­then he deserves to be punished, don’t you think?”

  “He is still your family.”

  “Well he never acted like it,” he grumbled, curling his fingers around a piece of paper and balling it up in his fist. “He never respected me as an engineer—­as a son. I was always a disappointment to him. I still am.”

  “But you’re a Guild engineer—­a brilliant engineer. How could he be disappointed in you? You designed a marvelous piece of technology, one that could revolutionize the world. Any father would be proud.”

  Emmerich scoffed. “Not my father. You don’t understand, Petra. Everything I have, everything I am, was purchased by my father—­my education, my advancement into the Guild, the funding for my projects, my entire career laid out in front of me. For so long, I wanted to believe that I earned it, that my years of study and deliberation, my talent, my skill, led me to this point. But it didn’t. My father’s pocketbook did. No matter how good I am, my father will always see me as a product of his own making, a puppet to do his bidding, nothing more than an investment.” He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “And the further I stray from him, the more he tries to control me. The automaton’s wireless control apparatus was mine, and he handed it over to the Guild under the guise of advancing my career, when all he really wanted was the means to control an army of automatons. Don’t you see? It would not surprise me if he was the one who orchestrated it all.”