by Maia Chance
“How is it you know about all this?”
“The cavalry,” Penrose said vaguely. He fiddled with the top lock. “There is, of course, the question of language. Colifichet is a Frenchman.” He tried a few combinations: MOI, CLE, ECU. The lock held fast. “But he also speaks English.” AGE, RID. No go.
“On the other hand,” Ophelia said, “Monsieur Colifichet is not only a Frenchman, he’s a snob.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do you fancy he knows Greek or something?”
“Latin,” Penrose murmured. He tried a few combinations that Ophelia could not read, and then there was a gratifying, sighing snap, and the top lock fell open.
“What does that mean?” Ophelia squinted at the winning combination: ARS.
“Art. Colifichet does indeed hold his art—or industry—in the highest esteem.”
“By golly, he does. What’s next? Beauty? Science? God?”
“It’s another three-letter word. If it is a sentence, I suppose the next word would be a verb of some kind.” Penrose tried a few words, and then—snap!—it was open. EST. “That means it is.”
“Art it is?” Ophelia frowned.
“Well, there are considerations of syntax.” Penrose studied the third lock, the one with six letters. He fussed and twirled. Ophelia stood; the crouching was too much for her tender toe. She limped around, peered over the professor’s shoulder, and anxiously out into the courtyard—
Another snap.
She darted over. “You’ve got it!” The dials spelled CELARE.
“To conceal.” Penrose was quickly turning the dials of the last lock.
“You know what it says?”
“Yes. A common saying.” Penrose positioned the final dial on M. The lock spelled ARTEM. “Ars est celare artem. It is art to conceal art.”
“Art to conceal . . .” Ophelia’s eyes narrowed. “Aha. Quite the jokester, that Colifichet. He made these locks—they are artworks, in a sense—to conceal the artworks in his workshop.”
“Precisely.” Penrose pushed into the dim workshop. “Well, Miss Flax. After all is said and done, we make rather a fine housebreaking team, do we not? Or, I ought to say, shopbreaking.”
Ophelia hurried through just behind him.
The workshop felt bigger than it had before. Light seeped through tall windows, but the ceilings and corners disappeared in shadow. They picked their way towards the draughtsman’s table. Whatever it was that Colifichet had been laboring over was no longer there. When they inspected the workbenches, there was no sign of any finished projects, or even works in progress. Only delicate hand tools lined up in neat rows or hanging from brackets on the walls.
And those big, shrouded shapes in the corner.
Penrose headed for them.
From somewhere behind her, Ophelia heard an almost-sound. Like another person’s breath in the dark, or the faint rustle a sleeve makes when it brushes against one’s side. She froze and strained her ears.
Nothing. Only Penrose’s soft footfalls and her own wheezy pulse.
Ophelia hurried to Penrose’s side, feeling sheepish.
The shrouded shapes—there were four of them—stood about as tall as Ophelia. Drop cloths covered them from top to bottom. Behind them was a cupboard.
Penrose took hold of one of the drop cloths and pulled.
Something clicked, followed by a soft, rhythmical gear-grinding. The drop cloth swished to the floor.
They stood face-to-face with a man. Ophelia stepped back. No, not a man, exactly. A sort of mechanical person, with ivory-white skin, a curly white wig, and knee breeches. In one hand it held a bottle and in the other a tray with a champagne glass. It grinned, its eyes shifted back and forth, and it lifted and lowered the champagne bottle.
“I don’t fancy the look in his eye,” Ophelia said.
“It’s merely a charming trifle.” Penrose unveiled another of the shrouded shapes.
This automaton was meant to resemble, Ophelia fancied, a man of Chinese extraction. It wore a toggle-buttoned blue suit, a round, pointy hat, and a droopy black moustache. It held a long-stemmed pipe. With that grinding-gears hum, it brought the pipe to its lips.
“Ingenious,” Penrose murmured. “Human-sized automatons. Now I understand what Colifichet was suggesting when he said he’d like to replace the ballerinas with mechanical dancers.” He reached for the third shrouded shape.
“Why don’t you leave the other two alone, Professor?” Ophelia swallowed. “We don’t know how to stop them. Colifichet will know we’ve been here.”
“I’m certain there is a crank or something that will quickly send them back to sleep.” Penrose unveiled a third automaton.
Ophelia took another step back.
A bear stood on its hind legs, claws outstretched, teeth bared, eyes rolling. It lurched forward.
“It’s on wheels,” she said. “And I think that’s a real bear hide. And real claws and teeth—watch out!”
Penrose dodged to the side just as the bear bent and took a chomp at the air where Penrose’s shoulder had been.
“Behind you!” Ophelia cried. The footman had wheeled up behind Penrose, holding the champagne bottle high. It brought the bottle down with a jerky swing, narrowly missing Penrose’s skull.
Ophelia heard a sinister little chugging next to her. She spun. The Chinese automaton had rolled close, puffing some kind of steam from its pipe. Ophelia coughed. She took another breath, and suddenly felt woozy. Things went slow and sideways.
“There’s something wrong with this smoke,” she said, doubling over. She could feel the Chinese man’s eyes on her. But how could that be? A mechanical contrivance couldn’t see. Could it? She coughed again, and her eyes streamed.
Penrose drew up his lapel to cover his face and darted around the bear—which was still chomping and tearing the air—and tried the cupboard doors. They didn’t give, and so Penrose rammed his shoulder against them two, three, four times. Wood splintered, and the doors opened. Penrose reached in and rummaged around.
His back was to the footman automaton. The footman had somehow turned around on its wheels so it was just behind Penrose, holding its champagne bottle high.
Ophelia screamed. It came out like a rasp.
The bottle came down with a sickening crunch on Penrose’s skull. He collapsed.
Ophelia staggered forward, away from that sickly puffing smoke, around the clawing, snapping bear. But she reeled too close to the bear and its claws sliced into her shoulder. Pain sang out like a soprano. “Get off, you monster!” she yelled. She shoved the bear over and it crashed to the floor. She crouched down beside the professor.
He was half upright already, blinking and coughing, with some kind of parcel clasped against his chest. He gave her a crooked smile. “I sincerely regret unveiling this lot,” he said.
“The stomacher. You’ve found it!” Ophelia said. The smoke was dissipating. She could think more clearly now.
“Put that down,” someone said behind her, “or I shall shoot.”
Penrose sprang to his feet. Ophelia twisted around.
A slim form was silhouetted in the workshop doorway: legs bowed, back hunched, a large revolver aimed at Penrose.
The figure prowled closer. The hand holding the gun shook a little.
“Colifichet,” Ophelia whispered.
“Don’t be foolish, Colifichet,” Penrose called. “Put the gun aside.”
“I am quite aware, Lord Harrington, that you are accustomed to giving orders. But the Revolution has come and gone in France, and I need not do as you say. And, in point of fact, you must do what I say.” Colifichet adjusted his grip on the gun. “The police are already on their way. Pierre told me you would be here, you see. He is a loyal lad. Now just put that parcel aside like a good boy—oui?—and no one will be shot.”
>
Penrose looked at Colifichet. He looked down at the parcel in his hands and tore off the paper.
“Stop!” Colifichet cried.
“What in hell?” Penrose muttered. He held up, not a diamond stomacher, but a white, rectangular piece of cloth. One of the diapers from the clothesline in the courtyard. Penrose threw it aside.
“Fitting, given your childish meddling, non?” Colifichet said. “I shall shoot the girl, first, mmn?” He took aim.
Penrose lunged in front of Ophelia.
BANG.
Ophelia screamed. Penrose was sprawled facedown on the floor.
“Professor!” Ophelia cried.
Penrose rose to his knees, but something dark was streaming down his cheek. He reached inside his jacket. He stood.
“Pardonnez-moi,” Colifichet said. “I had meant to get the girl—who is she, anyway?” He aimed again.
Penrose aimed the revolver he’d drawn from his jacket. “Put it down, Colifichet.”
“I told you that I do not take orders fr—”
In four long strides Penrose had crossed the room and collared Colifichet with one hand. With his other hand, he pressed his revolver to Colifichet’s temple. He shoved him against a workbench. Table legs screeched and tools clattered to the floor. “Where is the marquise’s daughter, Colifichet?”
“You will not get away with this, you—”
“Where is she?” Penrose twisted his collar.
Colifichet choked for air.
Ophelia’s mouth hung open. She had never seen or heard Penrose like this.
“I told you,” Colifichet said, “I do not know of the gi—”
“And the stomacher?”
“The police will—”
“The stomacher.” Penrose pressed the pistol barrel deeper into Colifichet’s temple.
“I know not! I know not! I only came here tonight because Pierre said you meant to break in and steal my work.”
“Why would I wish to steal your work?” Penrose growled. “Toys and trinkets are not to my taste.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Miss Flax. Go, by way of the courtyard.”
“But I—”
“Go!”
Ophelia decided it was best, for once, not to argue with the professor. Some fellows transformed into frogs, but he had somehow transformed into a beast.
27
Gabriel wished for nothing more than to extract a full and detailed report from Colifichet. The little weasel knew more about the stomacher. He had to know more; he’d dressed that frightful little music box doll in a tiny stomacher.
But there was no time.
Penrose swiped Colifichet’s pistol from his trembling hand, removed his own pistol from Colifichet’s temple, and dashed after Miss Flax.
“You will not get away with this!” Colifichet screamed.
Gabriel and Miss Flax’s hired carriage raced past the darkened front of Colifichet & Fils. A police wagon was just rolling to a stop, two horses prancing, and four gendarmes piled out.
And then their carriage had passed.
* * *
Ophelia glanced out of the corner of her eye at the professor, bumping along on the carriage seat beside her. She felt a little wary of him after his beastly performance with Colifichet.
Penrose touched the side of his head and winced.
“Oh!” she said. “I’d clean forgotten he’d shot you. Allow me to look.”
“It’s only my ear.” Penrose dug his handkerchief from his jacket and held it over his ear.
“But it’s bleeding all over—look at your collar! Are you certain it’s only your ear? We ought to find a doctor—did you say they’d call a doctor to your hotel? Come on, turn your head so I might see.”
Penrose turned his head to the side. Ophelia leaned close and peered through the dim light. “Merciful heavens. It is only your ear—but the bullet has removed a bit at the top.”
“One doesn’t really have need for a complete ear.” Penrose turned his head. Now their faces were merely inches apart. His eyes shone, dark and liquid. “Does one?”
“Well, that depends upon lots of things.” Ophelia swallowed. “On the style of hats one favors, to begin with.”
“I have never owned, and never shall own, one of those fur monstrosities with the ear flaps.”
“Well then, there is also the consideration of music.”
“Music?” Penrose touched Ophelia’s cheek with a gentle pressure that seemed, more than anything else, curious. He left his fingertips there.
“Well, yes, because if one were inclined to attend the symphony, perhaps having one’s ear not all of a piece might interfere with the quality of the sound.”
“I have attended the symphony on occasion, but I am not so much a connoisseur that a missing bit of ear would make a difference. In fact, I once had a piano instructor, as a small boy, who informed me that I have a tin ear.”
“If you had a tin ear, this would not have happened.”
“I am rather glad that it has.” Penrose’s hand slid to the back of Ophelia’s neck.
Time seemed to float. The knocking and clatter of the carriage receded. Here they were at the center of things, with every detail sharpened into more-than-real: the half-hidden glow of the professor’s eyes, the white of the handkerchief still pressed against his ear, the weight of his hand at Ophelia’s neck, her own breathing, his curved mouth so very close to her own. And the peculiar urge—no, longing—to simply get closer to him in order to understand what exactly made him, well . . . himself.
So Ophelia did what she fancied she’d never, ever do. She leaned in the last couple of inches and touched her lips to his.
When that snoozing Beauty of the fairy story was roused by the kiss of Prince Charming, his lips broke through all the languor, dreaming, stiff joints, and crusted eyes of one hundred years. Ophelia had never liked that tale. It had seemed laughable to think that a simple kiss could carry so much weight. But then, she’d never had a kiss. Not a real one, anyway, one not rehearsed with greasepainted and booming actors who, as they kissed her, were surely pondering what to eat for supper.
In the brief moment—three seconds at the most—during which their lips touched, understanding gleamed. This was what everyone was always going on about! This—what was it?
Penrose drew away. “I must not,” he murmured.
“Oh. Right.” Miss Ivy Banks. “I—well, I beg your pardon, Professor Penrose.” Ophelia edged away down the carriage seat.
“No, I beg your pardon. The blame falls entirely upon my shoulders. I should not have taken such liberties, and I assure you it shan’t happen again.” Penrose turned away to look out the window.
The few minutes it took to reach the hotel were just about the longest of Ophelia’s life.
* * *
Later, Ophelia lay curled in a tight ball on the grand four-poster bed. On the floor beside the bed, the turtle swam gently in the washbasin of water Ophelia had set down for him. She’d propped the Baedeker and a cushion against the washbasin as a sort of stairway for the turtle to get in and out.
The smooth bed linens smelled of laundry soap, starch, and geraniums. Ophelia’s toe throbbed quietly. The deep scratches the mechanical bear had made on her shoulder were red and stingy, but nothing serious. She’d washed them with soap and water and applied calendula flower salve.
If one could not be on speaking terms with one’s self, well, that’s what she was right now. She’d kissed another lady’s betrothed. And now she lay in this impossibly plushy hotel suite that had been paid for by that same man, which made her . . . what?
Well, it made her one more actress kept in luxury like a pampered cat.
They were looking for Prue, she kept reminding herself. Prue and Henrietta. But the reminding didn’t help, because there was that confounded kiss. He
r mind wished to roost on the memory, to nestle into it, to return to it again and again like a bird flying home.
It took hours to fall asleep.
* * *
The whole caboodle of nuns walked two blocks to mass every morning. Prue had no choice but to go along with them. They walked in a line like ants, eyes cast down to the paving stones. Prue was accustomed to having fellers stare at her on the street. Staying invisible in her borrowed nun’s habit was a relief.
The church was big and blocky, with huge red doors. Inside, incense swirled through air stained red by the windows. Sad-eyed Mary statues gazed down, oversized baby Jesuses on their hips. Off to one side, hundreds of candles flickered on brass stands.
The nuns silently filed into pews. At the back, Prue copied what the other nuns did and knelt, but she wasn’t sure what came next. She’d never really been to church before.
“Psst,” someone said behind her, just as she was folding her hands.
She tried to ignore it.
“Miss Prudence.”
Prue swiveled around. Dalziel stood halfway behind a huge marble pillar to the back of the pews. He crooked a finger.
Prue glanced around at the nuns. All busy praying. She hoisted herself off the kneeler and tiptoed over to Dalziel. “What in tarnation are you doing here?” she whispered. “How did you find me?”
“You forget that I was present when Sister Alphonsine told you of the pensionnat.”
“Oh. Right. Well I can’t talk now. We’re churching.”
“You must come with me.”
“Not on your nelly!”
“Miss Prudence, please listen to me. I am the only soul in all of Paris who knows where you are.”
“That’s the notion, clever-boots.”
“But I feel responsible for you. And you must leave this place. You aren’t a nun.”
“I could be if I set my mind to it.”
“Miss Prudence!”
“I thought you wished for me to be safe. I’m safe with the nuns, so why would I leave them?”
Dalziel didn’t answer at once, but his aching eyes said it all. He wanted to take Prue away from the nuns because he wanted her for himself.
