“Your father told me what you did for him, about your bravery. You are an impressive woman, Isabelle Hawking,” Gerard said, taking a seat beside me.
“There is nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice for Papa,” I said, looking out into the misty white clouds.
Gerard nodded. “Admirable. I am sure you will make an equally devoted wife.”
“Gerard,” I said, seeking to stop him before he even began his usual devotions.
Gerard lifted a hand. “Please, Isabelle, hear me out. I know you think I am too flirtatious. I am. I have been. But I must confess, the other flirtations were always only for sport. With you, I am quite sincere in my affections.”
“As I’m sure you say to all the ladies.”
“No,” Gerard said passionately. “No. You have been through so much, and I know you are not well, but when you recover, I hope you will give me the chance to show you how sincere I am. Please, allow me to prove to you that I am serious.”
“But Gerard—”
“Isabelle, please. Do you not see?” he asked, motioning to the airship around him. “I have been working with your father night and day to find that strange island. I went through every map. Every archive. Talked to every scholar I knew. To find you.”
I paused. That, at the least, was true. It was the most genuine act I’d ever seen from him.
“I am very grateful for your efforts, for helping Papa.”
Gerard smiled. “It was my pleasure. I admire him greatly,” he said. “And I esteem you more.”
Taking me entirely by surprise, he reached out and grabbed my hand.
At the same moment, a sharp wind blew. The gust, coming from the island, blew so fiercely that it shifted the airship off course.
The crew and captain worked quickly to steady the ship.
But worse.
Even worse.
The moment Gerard thrust his hand into mine, the thin piece of paper I was holding—the tiny note that was the key to everything I needed—was wrenched from my grasp.
Gasping, I leaped up and desperately clawed at the wind in an effort to retrieve it.
The gust blew hard, and on it, I heard menacing laughter.
“No! Oh no,” I yelled, jumping to grab the paper.
But the wind snatched it and ripped it away. It fluttered over the side of the ship and disappeared amongst the clouds.
Chapter 30: 154
There was a soft knock on the workshop door. I ignored it. My magnifying glass in front of me, I filed the last grove on the windup key.
“Isabelle?” Papa called.
I almost had it. I filed down the last slanted groove then set the key in the box with the others. I sat back in my seat and pushed my goggles onto my forehead.
“Isabelle?”
I huffed an exasperated sigh. “Yes? What is it?”
“Doctor Murray is here.”
I frowned then pulled another template key from the box sitting on my desk. Inside the carton were a hundred like it, dummy keys not yet shaped or filed. I opened my journal and looked over my notes. I grabbed a pen, drew a line, and made a new remark: Configuration 154.
“Isabelle?”
“Yes. Yes. Send him in.”
I pulled off my goggles and tossed them onto the table. I rose quickly, my back against my workbench.
“Ah, here is my patient,” Doctor Murray said. “Hard at work, I see. A new sculpture, perhaps?”
My father looked from me to Doctor Murray, a worried expression on his face.
I slid a little to the left to hide my journal and the box of keys sitting there. “Oh, just tinkering,” I said dismissively, forcing a smile.
Doctor Murray gave me a slight nod. “Master Hawking, will you give us just a moment?”
“Of course. I’ll be in the parlor,” Papa said then left.
“Miss Hawking, why don’t you sit? I’m just here for a follow-up. I wanted to give you a quick examination, make sure you are still recovering well.”
I sat but said nothing. He needed to hurry up. I didn’t have time for this.
Doctor Murray dug through his bag. “How are you feeling? Any more headaches?”
“In the morning, yes. They pass by the afternoon.”
“Are you eating breakfast? Some people experience weakness in the morning after a long fast.”
“I... No, not with regularity. You’re right. That’s probably the culprit. I’ll pay special attention to that starting tomorrow.”
“What has you so busy first thing in the morning?” Doctor Murray asked.
I eyed the keys out of the corner or my eye but didn’t answer.
Doctor Murray studied me closely. “Well, may I have a look?” he asked, motioning to the bandage. The cut on my forehead had required stitches. Doctor Murray, who had come to see me the day we’d come back, now almost a month ago, had done the job.
“Go ahead,” I said.
Anything to get this over with and get back to my task.
Working slowly, Doctor Murray removed the bandage and inspected the wound. Dipping into his doctor’s bag, he pulled out some cleaning salves. I winced when he applied some alcohol. He then smeared a healing balm on the wound.
“It’s coming along well. We were not in time to avoid a scar, I’m afraid,” he said as he began to bandage the cut with a fresh dressing.
I don’t care. What does a scar matter?
Doctor Murray paused, waiting for a reply, but I had nothing to say. It was a scar, a small blemish. It was nothing. What mattered was Rhys. Rhys was dying. I needed to work quickly. And right now, Doctor Murray was in my way.
I sat perfectly still, waiting for him to finish the job.
“So, your work,” he said, looking at my bench as he packed up his tools and ointments. “Your father tells me you’ve been making keys.”
“Papa should not gossip,” I snapped.
Doctor Murray stiffened but said nothing. He removed a small device from his bag. “I would like to examine your eyes if that’s all right.”
“Fine.”
Doctor Murray slid out a stool and sat down directly in front of me. He activated his small tool. Light glowed from the end of it. “Try not to blink,” he said then shined the light directly into my eyes.
With key one hundred fifty-four, I would try a variation on the one hundred thirty series. The second set of grooves might have slashed left then right as opposed to right then left. I could make a series varying the—
“How are you sleeping these days?”
“Fine.”
—angle. I would have another series of ten done by the end of the day Friday. After that, I could begin a variation on the last set of slashes. Once those were done, I could—
“Your father tells me you sleep very little, and when you do sleep, you have bad dreams.”
“Really, Doctor Murray, I am fine. I’m just busy.”
“Miss Hawking, you had two blows to the head in a very short span of time. A single concussion is already a lot for the body to recover from. A second blow—”
“I said I’m fine,” I replied hotly, turning away. A wave of embarrassment washed over me. I hadn’t meant to be rude. I just...I just needed to hurry. And Doctor Murray really needed to leave. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m just...distracted.”
“You are not yet recovered, Miss Hawking. It would be better if you rested. This work can wait.”
No. It couldn’t.
I said nothing.
Doctor Murray rose and put his device away. “Miss Hawking, sometimes when a person experiences trauma, it can have an effect on their mind. Your father and I are concerned that what you experienced on that island has—”
“Doctor Murray,” I said, standing. “I appreciate your concern. I will be sure to eat breakfast and get more rest, but I am not out of my wits, thank you very much. No need to secure me a cell in the sanatorium just yet.”
“Isabelle,” Doctor Murray said aghast. He then coughed uncomfortably. “Miss Hawk
ing, I am not just your doctor. I am your friend. If you want to talk about what happened, I am here to listen. Or maybe you would prefer to talk to Elyse? I know sometimes there are things that are best discussed amongst women.”
Oh good God. “No. No, thank you. I’ll be fine. As you said, I am still recovering. I think I’m just trying to find my footing again, and I’m failing at the moment. It will all come together in time.”
Doctor Murray lowered his chin into his cravat as he considered my words, a move I used to find terribly fetching. Now I just wanted him to leave.
“Very well. I’ll call again on you Friday evening,” he said.
“Good. Thank you.”
We both stood there a moment until Doctor Murray said, “I’ll show myself out.”
I nodded to him them waited as he turned and left. When I heard the door close once more, I sat back down at my workbench. I slid my journal toward me, flipping back to the earlier 130 series, and began making a sketch of the next design.
I could hear Doctor Murray and Papa talking in the foyer. I rolled my eyes, feeling relieved when the front door finally opened and closed, heralding Doctor Murray’s departure. When the sketch was finally finished, I grabbed the dummy windup key, a pair of tin snips, and a file, and began my work.
One hundred fifty-four.
Chapter 31: We Have to Go Back
It was late that night when I finally went upstairs and lay down on my bed. There was a tray with a plate of biscuits sitting on my side table, but the thought of food turned my stomach. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling.
Once again, there was a knock on the door.
“Isabelle?” Papa called.
“Yes?”
“It’s Wednesday. I brought you some books from Mister Denick.”
“Okay.”
“May I come in?”
“Yes.”
The door opened. “Oh, it’s dark in here. I didn’t know you were sleeping.”
“I’m not.”
Papa struck a match and lit a candle. “You’re still dressed.”
“Yes.”
“Shall I set out a night dress for you?”
“No, thank you.”
“Mister Denick sent you three volumes. I told him you’d taken an interest in Celtic lore. He had a good number of books on the topic. Apparently, there is a scholar by the name of S. Rossetti who has written an entire booklet on Ogham.”
“Thank you, Papa. Please set them on the desk.”
“Very well. Do you need anything, my dear?”
“No.”
“Isabelle?”
“Yes, Papa?”
My father exhaled deeply. “Never mind. Goodnight, my dear.”
“Goodnight.”
My father left.
I lay there for a long time staring up at the canopy of my bed. The street outside our workshop was busy. Horse-drawn wagons rolled down the cobblestone street. I heard the roar of a steam-powered vehicle somewhere in the distance. Then there was the purr of airships gliding overhead. All the sounds of home. It should have comforted me, but...
I sat up and picked through the books sitting on the table. One volume was on illuminated Irish manuscripts. Yes, there would be details therein on the knotwork I’d seen. Another volume was a guide to the menhir in England. Disinterested, I set it aside. I picked up the last book, a small, leather-bound journal. With a tired sigh, I opened the book and flipped through the pages. Whomever the author was, they had developed a partial key to Ogham.
Thumbing from back to front, I flipped the pages over and over again. The pages turned quickly, moving before my glassy eyes like a phantasmagoria.
Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
The Ogham lines moved and shifted shapes.
Flip.
Flip.
I was about to flip through the journal again then I paused.
Rather than holding the book with the spine to the left, I turned the spine toward the top and flipped the pages once more.
When I did so, I gasped.
Tossing the book aside, I rushed to my table and pushed aside all my papers until I found the rubbing I had done of the Ogham mark on the stone on the Isle of Annwfn. I then grabbed my journal and turned to the pages where I’d noted the Ogham symbols.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my hands shaking. “Oh my God.”
The Ogham symbols were typically read vertically. Down a single line was a series of slashes that signified letters or phrases. But when turned to the side...
Collecting all my things, the little leather book, and my satchel, I raced back downstairs to my workshop.
I spotted Papa sitting in the parlor reading and puffing on his pipe as I rushed past.
“Isabelle, is everything all right?”
“Yes... Finally, yes,” I yelled then raced to my workshop, slamming the door closed behind me. I dumped all my items on my workbench, wincing when I heard a thud. I had forgotten Elyse’s mirror was still inside.
Setting out all my papers, I looked at the repeating pattern. I then thumbed through the pages of my journal. After I’d lost the slip of paper—let it suffice to say that at that moment, any hope Gerard had of marrying me quickly faded as I called him every colorful name I knew, so much so that the airship crew paled—I’d written down the imprint as I remembered it. My first sketch, I thought, was exact, but in the days that followed, I doubted myself. There was no way I would return to the island without a key that would work. Therefore, I’d been working, making configurations based on the first design. I wanted to have every possible configuration ready just in case. I’d leave nothing else to chance. Nothing. Precision. Detail. Making sure I considered every shape, that was what would save Rhys. Not instinct.
But when I looked at the sketch of the first key I’d drawn, the one I’d noted down from memory, I realized I’d been wrong. I should have listened to my instincts.
I sat my sketch of the windup key alongside the Ogham symbols that had been on the standing stones.
They were a perfect match.
I rose and went to the box where I’d stored the windup keys. I dug through the box until I found the key tagged number 1. I inspected it against my notes and sketches. They were the same.
A soft hand settled on my shoulder.
I shrieked and jumped, knocking over the stool.
“Isabelle,” Papa said carefully. “My daughter, I am so very concerned about you. I spoke to Doctor Murray and—”
I lifted the key. “Look,” I said, motioning from the key to the sketches. “I’ve been trying to make this key. All this time, I’ve been trying to make sure I got it just right. I had to make sure I had the exact configuration. I had an imprint of the original keyhole, but I lost it to the wind. Gerard,” I said, shaking my head with angry frustration. “But I have it now. I have the key. You see! I have it now. We have to go back.”
“Isabelle, what are you saying?”
I stared at Papa. After losing the blueprint for the key due to Gerard’s clumsy show of affection, I had not been able to think straight. I hadn’t found a way to tell Papa about Rhys. I couldn’t find the words. But now, I needed to go back, and I needed Papa’s help.
“Papa, listen to me,” I said. As I spoke, I grabbed a leather band from my workbench and tied it to the windup key which I then strung around my neck. “Please listen and try to understand. The automatons on the island are cursed. They were cursed by a fey creature. I saw her with my own eyes. The lord—Lord Rhys Llewellyn. The automaton is the real lord, the real man. Papa, do you understand me? That mech is a man. All the mechanicals there are people who’ve been cursed. Rhys was turned into an automaton by the faerie. This key. This key will keep him alive. I need to go back. I need to go back. I need to take him the key. I need to tell him I love him. Maybe if he knows, maybe he’ll love me too, and the curse can be broken.”
A tear streamed down Papa’s cheek. “My daughter has gone mad,” he whisper
ed. “Oh Isabelle, what happened to you?”
“No, Papa,” I said, taking him by the arms. “There are more things in this world than mortals like us can ever dream of. The island was a holy sanctuary for the druids of old. Consider how close it is to Angelesy. The druids lived there and protected the first inhabitants of that island, the fey. You must believe me. I saw the faerie woman. She is the one who cursed them. How else can you explain how advanced those mechanicals are? No tinker alive has ever created anything like them. They are not machines. They are people, cursed people. They need our help! I have the key now. I must go back.”
“Isabelle, you are raving. What you’re talking about sounds like fairy tales.”
Fairy tales.
Fairy tales.
Elyse’s mirror!
I turned and opened my satchel, pulling out the mirror. Grabbing Papa by the arm, I turned off the lantern that had been burning in my workshop and led Papa to the window. It was cloudy outside. Rain was coming. But there was still just enough moonlight. This had to work, or I was going to wake up tomorrow morning at Carfax Sanatorium.
“What is this? Is this the mirror Elyse gave you?”
“Fairy tales,” I said with a nod to Papa. “Now watch. Mirror, show me Rhys.”
At first, there was nothing.
“Isabelle, I think we should—”
The handle and frame began to glow blue.
“What is this?” Papa whispered.
The image was smoky at first, but soon cleared. When it did so, I began to see the shapes of the bedchamber in which I had slept at the castle. The images were fuzzy at first, but I saw Missus Silver and Mister Flint standing beside the bed. On the bed, I spotted Kelly. Was she ill? What was wrong?
As the image shifted and cleared, I saw with horror that it was Rhys lying on the bed.
Missus Silver stood weeping at the bedside.
Rhys’s optics had grown very dim. He held Mister Flint’s hand. I could not make out their words, but I didn’t need to. It was clear what was happening. Rhys was dying.
Beauty and Beastly: Steampunk Beauty and the Beast (Steampunk Fairy Tales) Page 14
