by George Mann
Out here, in this fabulous place, she felt alive—more alive than she had in years. Her encounter on the train had changed her, in ways she was still trying to understand. She’d regained her senses somewhere after Hrodna, aboard a smaller, local train.
Much of what had happened in the aftermath of Petunia’s attack was lost in a bizarre fever dream—in which she’d imagined blossoming vines enveloping the entire train, curling through the bodies of all the passengers, with only her left in the middle of it all, untouched by the bizarre growths. It was as if her body had resisted them somehow, had burned them out with a fever. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling that they’d altered her in some indescribable way. She felt better than she ever had—more vibrant and healthy.
Of course, Newbury had found out about the fungus, and Julian Wren, after quizzing the train guards who’d opened up the carriage—or rather, the ones who’d found their fellow guards, who’d bloomed in the passageway after opening the door.
He’d explained that there was no way of knowing how long the effects of the fungus might last—or, indeed, if they might prove permanent. There was a possibility that the parasite had somehow altered the chemistry of her brain; that it had rejuvenated her, and banished her condition for good. Equally, though, there was the chance it might return at any moment, and if so, Newbury no longer had the means to help her—the book had been lost in the conflagration on the train.
All she knew was that the encounter with Petunia Wren had given her not just a new perspective, but also a new opportunity, and she planned to embrace it with all the vivacity she could muster.
Newbury had filled her in on the details of their onward journey. The train had eventually been stopped, and emergency services called to attend the stationary vehicle. The surviving passengers—Newbury and Amelia included—were unloaded and taken by trackless ground train to the nearest town, where they were held in isolation for two days, and received any necessary medical attention. Newbury had seen his wounds tended, and Amelia had been administered drugs to combat her dangerous fever.
She’d been delirious, but not unconscious, and recalled snatches of words and images: Newbury’s concerned face, the flitting view of frozen countryside from her window, the taste of hot broth.
He’d nursed her en route, and when they’d switched trains at Hrodna, she’d been close to recovery, and the fever had broken. She’d grown stronger every day since, gaining confidence, too, and despite everything that had happened, she’d even found herself enjoying the relative calm of the remaining journey, untroubled by cultists, or revenants, or women bent on revenge.
Now, they were here, and it was as glorious and strange a place as she could have ever imagined.
“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” said Newbury, patting his gloved hands together to stave off the chill.
“I have no words,” said Amelia. “Besides thank you.”
He turned to her, and grinned. “Let’s save that for when we’re home, and your sister is sitting up in bed and berating us both for the dangers we put ourselves through, shall we?”
Amelia laughed. “Oh, I never thought I’d say it, but that sounds wonderful.”
“Well then, I see no reason to delay. We’re not here to see the sights—as much as the place intrigues me. We have an urgent appointment, and an equally urgent requirement to return to England.”
“So where are we going?” said Amelia.
Newbury removed a slip of paper from the pocket of his fur-lined overcoat—bought upon arrival at the nearest outlet—and unfurled it, regarding the printed address. “I think we’d better take a cab,” he said, holding out his arm towards the oncoming traffic.
* * *
The workshop of Carl Fabergé was an august residence close to the heart of the city, a soaring townhouse in an expensive district, surrounded by similar properties that Amelia presumed must belong to the exceedingly well-to-do.
During the cab ride she’d felt dizzy with the wonder of it all, sitting glued to the window, drinking in everything from the enormous ice-and-clockwork swans that glided across one of the plazas, giddy children riding upon their backs, to the colourful minarets, which looked to her like gilded balloons, floating just above the rooftops of the city.
Newbury opened her door and helped her down from the cab, paid the driver, and then looped his arm through hers as they crossed the street to the address in question. A press of the doorbell set off a delightful whistle, accompanied by a tiny clockwork bird, which peeked its head out from a small aperture in the brightly painted door, regarded them both, and then retreated.
Amelia found herself grinning. She had no notion of how Newbury had even arranged this meeting; how he had contacted Fabergé in the first instance to commission Veronica’s new heart. She presumed he’d used his royal connections—perhaps even his relationship with the Queen herself—to broker the deal. She couldn’t see how else he could have paid for such an undertaking.
She heard creaking footsteps from inside the house, and then, a moment later, the door opened to reveal a child-sized automaton, dressed in the black suit of a valet. It wore an intricate porcelain mask, comprised of scores of interlocking pieces that shifted with an odd mechanical whir, describing what she took to be a smile. The painted eyes were blue and staring.
She saw Newbury frown. “Good day. We have an appointment with Mr. Fabergé. I am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my companion, Miss Constance Markham.”
The automaton inclined its head, and its features reset into a solemn expression. It beckoned them inside.
Newbury did as requested, and Amelia followed. She felt charmed by the little thing, seeing it as yet more evidence of the wonder of this unusual city, but Newbury seemed somewhat disturbed. She believed she could understand why.
The little automaton rocked unsteadily on its heels, and then scooted around their legs, heading off down the hallway and waving for them to follow. She noted that there were small wheels embedded in the machine’s heels, and it slid easily across the polished floorboards ahead of them.
They followed the automaton deeper into the house. What had at first seemed like a typical—if grandiose—residential home, full of hat stands and mirrors and portraits on the walls, soon opened out to be so much more. The rear of the property had been significantly remodelled, walls removed and extensions erected, to create a workshop of incredible scale.
It was not that the place was big—Fabergé’s work was about precision and minutia—but more the oddities and marvels it contained.
At the heart of the room sat a balding man with a grey beard, whom she presumed to be Fabergé himself, nestled amongst a bizarre series of black metal arms. They stemmed from him like massive spider legs, attached to a control harness that appeared to be clipped around his waist and affixed to his back. He sat amongst these unusual structures as if in repose, a king upon his throne, whilst—to Amelia’s amazement—the mechanical arms appeared to operate independently of one another, each of them assembling tiny jewelled eggs at innumerable workstations, which were placed at intervals around the edges of the room.
The intricacy of the work was incredible, and Amelia found it hard to believe that Fabergé was somehow controlling it all simultaneously from his seat of power, pulling the strings to make each of his mechanical soldiers march.
As if she needed proof, Fabergé turned his head to regard them, and all work instantaneously ceased, the mechanical arms falling silent and still. The effect was impressive, if somewhat eerie.
“Sir Maurice, I presume,” said Fabergé, in precise, clipped English.
“Indeed,” said Newbury. “It is good to meet you.” He strode forward, offering his hand, and then withdrew it sheepishly when he realised Fabergé’s real hands were otherwise engaged, encased in metal sheaths that—Amelia presumed—served as some sort of puppeteer’s gloves.
“You are late,” said Fabergé pointedly. “Two days late, to be precise. I do not approve of tard
iness.”
“My apologies,” said Newbury. “Our train met unexpected delays.”
“Yes,” said Fabergé, with the hint of a smile. “I heard about the fire, and the revenant outbreak. One cannot help wondering whether you, Sir Maurice, might have had a part to play in that.”
“Let us just say that I was anxious to ensure any delay was kept to a minimum,” said Newbury.
Fabergé laughed. “Very well.” He moved, and his brace of mechanical arms stirred. “Did you bring them?”
“I did.” Newbury reached inside his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “The schematics you requested.”
“Most excellent,” said Fabergé. “Give them to me.”
Newbury held them out, and two of the mechanical arms clacked across the ground towards him, then rose into the air and snatched them out of his hands. They folded in around Fabergé, holding the papers up to the light and rustling through them hurriedly, passing the pages beneath his nose.
Fabergé’s eyes glistened as a smile broke out upon his lips. “Very well,” he said. “You have completed your end of the bargain. Here is mine.”
Another of the arms looped around, this time bearing a plush red cushion. Upon it sat a small, brass, egg-shaped contraption.
“The heart?” said Newbury, plucking it tenderly from the cushion and cradling it in his palm. Amelia could see a number of small valves around the edge of the device, as well as a series of tiny cogs and wheels, whirring quietly behind an inlaid glass panel.
Fabergé nodded. “It is a delicate instrument. Its inner workings are perfectly balanced. You must take care to return it to England without incident.”
“Oh, I think there has been enough incident already,” said Newbury. “I shall guard this with my life.”
“Your ‘Fixer’ will know what to do,” said Fabergé.
“Thank you,” said Newbury. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
Fabergé raised an eyebrow. “I have the schematics I requested. I know what it means to you.”
She saw Newbury frown, and then take a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wrap the heart before sliding it into a pouch in his overcoat.
Amelia started as Fabergé’s arms suddenly resumed their odd, mechanical dance. It was clear they’d been dismissed.
“Good day to you,” said Newbury, but Fabergé was already lost in his work, a hundred mechanical fingers each tending to their tiny, elaborate constructions.
Newbury took Amelia by the arm and led her to the door, and then out into the cold afternoon.
“Is that it?” she said, when the door had closed behind them. “We came all this way, just for that?”
“It’s enough,” said Newbury. “We have the heart. We didn’t come for pleasantries.”
Amelia nodded. “What was it you gave him?”
Newbury took a moment to consider his reply. “Payment,” he said. She could tell by the look on his face that whatever the payment was, it had cost him dearly.
“Well, I suppose it’s back to the train station?” she said. “Although I must admit—the prospect of another long train journey doesn’t fill me with rapturous glee.”
Newbury laughed. “I concur. How about we consider a different mode of transport for the return leg of our journey? Airship, perhaps?”
Amelia squeezed his arm in excitement. “I think that’s the best idea you’ve had since all of this began.”
CHAPTER
31
The waiting room at the Fixer’s house was perhaps the most depressing place that Amelia had ever set foot. It was so clinical and soulless, so neat and immaculate, and not at all the sort of place where one would want to sit and await news of a loved one’s battle for her life.
Not that she could imagine the sort of place where anyone would want to do such a thing.
The space had been dressed to resemble a comfortable living room, with a crackling open fire, a chesterfield sofa and matching armchairs, a drinks cabinet—but the stark white marble floor gave the place a clinical air, and the clacking of Newbury’s shoes as he paced back and forth was beginning to drive her to distraction.
She was tired and emotional—she knew that—and all she wanted was for this terrible wait to be over. They’d been there for hours already, having come directly from the airfield, their luggage sent home in a cab. The journey had proved blissfully uneventful, and as the days had passed—and her strength had not ebbed—she had even begun to enjoy herself. Unbeknownst to Newbury, she’d even risked mingling with the other passengers on the airship’s observation deck, fearing that if she didn’t, she might never have put that particular demon to rest. She wasn’t yet ready to believe that everyone in the world was out to get her—and she was independent enough, and stubborn enough, to ensure she didn’t start.
Newbury had kept to himself during much of the flight, and while he was clearly healing—the effects of the ritual were beginning to ebb, and his wounds were closing up nicely—the reality of Veronica’s situation was becoming all too real to him. Amelia had felt it, of course—while they’d been fighting their way across the Continent to reach Fabergé, there had been something they could do, some means to assist in her recovery. Now, they had done all they could, and all that was left was hope.
Newbury had never been one to get by on hope alone—she knew that. He needed to be active, to be out there, helping people, doing his bit. That’s what made him the man he was. And so, unable to do anything, a fug had settled upon him, and she could see the results of it now, in the way he hung his head and ground his teeth, how his fingers picked nervously at the hem of his jacket, or his incessant pacing. She knew it was testament to how much he cared for her sister, but she wished he’d allow himself just a moment of respite. He’d done all he could; now it was in the hands of the Fixer.
She looked up from her lap. Newbury was at the window, peering out through the net curtains. “Where’s Charles?” he muttered. “He should be here by now.”
They’d sent word to Bainbridge, of course, almost as soon as they’d stepped off the airship, but they’d yet to hear word.
“I imagine he’s been detained by important police work,” said Amelia. “He’ll be along when he can, I’m sure.”
“Hmmm,” said Newbury. He resumed his pacing.
“Of course, he’s in for a bit of a shock when he does arrive,” said Amelia.
“Because of Veronica?” said Newbury.
“Well, yes, hopefully. But I was referring to me.”
Newbury seemed to take a minute to catch on. When the thought finally struck, he stared at her, wide eyed. “He thinks you’re dead.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, considering their options. “Perhaps it’s best we keep you in one of the side rooms for now,” he said. “Out of his way.”
“No.” Amelia shook her head.
“No?”
“That’s right. No. I’ve been dead long enough, Sir Maurice,” she said, “and I refuse to remain dead any longer, at least to Veronica’s immediate circle of friends. My condition is … apparently in remission, and I feel the time has come to show my face to the world again, even if I must do so under an assumed identity.” She straightened her back and met his gaze, defiant.
Newbury smiled. “Well, if you expect me to argue with you, you’d be wrong. But I’ll allow you to take it up with your sister.” He glanced towards the sound of footsteps from the hallway. She saw him swallow.
The door creaked open on hinges that were well overdue an oil, and a man in a leather smock stood in the opening, a stern expression on his face. Blood was smeared across his shirtfront and arms, and Amelia could see horrific-looking tools poking out from little pockets in his apron. “She’s awake,” said the Fixer.
“Then it worked?” said Newbury.
“Of course it bloody worked,” said the Fixer. “Why do you think I’m standing here smiling?”
“But you’re…” Newbury trailed off, shaking his head. He glanced at Am
elia. “Go to her.”
Amelia nodded. She got to her feet, suddenly anxious. “We should go together.”
“No. This is your time, Amelia.”
“Very well.” She followed the Fixer out of the room, and along the hallway to another small room.
“In there,” he said. “But remember, she’s weak. It’s going to take some time before she’s back on her feet. If she’s tired, let her rest.”
“All right,” said Amelia. She had no idea what to expect. She took a deep breath, and stepped through the door.
Veronica was lying in bed at the far side of the room, propped up on what appeared to be a small mountain of pillows. She was wearing a white linen nightgown, with the blankets pulled up to cover her wound. Her hair was tied back in a taut ponytail, and her cheeks were flushed. She turned as Amelia entered the room, and her mouth parted in a broad smile. “Amelia! You’re here!”
Amelia ran to her side, wishing she could sweep her up in a tight embrace, but instead took her sister’s face in her hands and kissed her brightly on the forehead. “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”
“Well, from what I hear, halfway across the world having all sorts of adventures!” said Veronica.
Amelia offered her a wry smile. “So you’ve heard.”
“Some of it. The Fixer’s quite a talkative chap, really, when you get to know him.”
“Humph!” said Amelia, rolling her eyes and laughing. “Well, I hope he didn’t spoil all the best bits.”
“Oh, only that you and Sir Maurice went gallivanting to St. Petersburg to fetch me a new heart, and that you encountered a little trouble on the way.”
“A little trouble…,” said Amelia.
