The Brass Giant (8 page)

“I'm fine, Emmerich. Really. And I'll be better the sooner I can get dressed and start working—­so go. I won't take long.”

Petra watched as he stepped through the grate and disappeared into the workshop once more. When he was safely out of sight, she undressed, piling her clothes into a neatly folded stack. Once her corset was removed, she peeled the automaton sketches from her chest and placed the damp pages next to her things. The pencil sketches blurred together with sweat, and the pages had turned translucent with moisture. She would have to be careful not to tear the paper when she unfolded the designs.

She should have drawn copies.

If she had failed to keep the schematics from slipping out of her pocket and lost them to oblivion, she doubted she could have reconstructed the automaton from memory, not without the aid of her pocket watch.

Petra picked through the bundle of clothes Emmerich had brought and dressed, pulling the shirt over her sweaty underclothes. The shirt smelled like him, scents of engine oil and polished metal, with a hint of perfumed soap in the fibers. She buttoned the cuffs and rolled the sleeves to her elbows, reveling in the freedom of a man's shirt—­no corset or lace edges to pester her. She then belted the trousers around her waist and folded the hems back to keep them from bunching at her ankles.

Twisting her hair into Emmerich's cap, she regarded her reflection in the nearest brass pipe. Her pointed-­toe oxfords ruined the masculine effect of the baggy clothes, but as long as no one saw the shoes, she could pass as a student. Better than wearing Solomon's sooty, worn clothes anyway. Satisfied, she put the screwdriver in her trouser pocket, picked up her garments and the automaton designs, and shimmied through the grate.

Emmerich stood over his desk, scribbling notes onto a pad of paper. The automaton prototype sat beneath the desk, propped against a crate.

“Where should I put these?” She held out her pile of clothes and blushed when she realized the corset was on top, but Emmerich didn't seem to notice.

He tapped his foot against a drawer and crossed out the last three lines of notes. Petra opened the bottom desk drawer and found a mismatch of items—­a spare shirt streaked with grease, a Jules Verne novel, a few spanners, and a roller bearing. She placed a piece of paper on top of Emmerich's things and set her clothes in the drawer. Matron would kill her if she got grease on her good blouse.

Emmerich tore the page from his notebook, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it in the trash bin. With his shoulders squared, he breathed deeply and flexed his fingers against the desk. “The Guild wants the proposal on the newly designed automaton on Monday, and I still have nothing to show them. I have no idea where to begin.”

“Why don't we start with what I have?” Petra sat down and arranged the automaton designs atop the desk, careful not to tear the damp pages.

Emmerich ran his fingers through his hair and sat down, scooting his chair close to Petra and resting his arm on the back of her chair. He examined the sketches for the leg mechanisms first. “What's this here?” he asked, pointing to an expanded view of the cable guidance system.

“I thought combining a cable pulley on the ankle joints with the linkage in the hip would provide for the smoothest walking pattern,” she explained.

He scratched his chin and nodded. “But what about rotation at the hip when the automaton turns?” He pressed his pencil to the paper, leaving a graphite dot.

“The crank linkage spins around a rotating frame here,” she said, pointing to the central shaft in the leg cavity, “providing two-­hundred-­and-­seventy degree motion. When the automaton receives the signal to turn, the frame will rotate and lock into a new train. With the specifications you gave me, the automaton will have four gear train systems within its lower body—­one each for walking, running, turning, and crouching. If properly fitted, the automaton should be able to switch between each gear train and execute the next command in a matter of seconds.”

Emmerich reclined and ran his thumb across the stubble along his jaw. “What of the power system?”

Petra eagerly reached for the drawings of the automaton's back and laid them in front of him. He leaned forward and examined the double mainspring schematics.

“How does this work?” he asked, gesturing to the complicated diagrams.

She explained how the mainsprings alternated, powering the automaton in tandem while winding the resting mainspring in the process.

“And when the mainspring is expended, it just switches to the other mainspring?”

“Yes.”

He scratched his brow with the pencil. “Does it work?”

“It should. I modeled the design after my pocket watch, but I have yet to put the theory into practice on such a large scale. The mechanics are the same—­just larger.” She had no doubt it would work.

“We cannot depend on theories, Petra.”

“You said it yourself—­the automaton needs a reliable source of nonelectric power. Why not clockwork?”

Emmerich sifted through the designs. “But designs and theories can only carry us so far. I need something tangible, something I can
show
the Guild.”

“Says the man practiced in electromagnetics.” Petra sat back in her chair and nudged the automaton prototype with her foot. “You asked for my help—­this is what I have. It
will
work.”

“But how do I prove that to the Guild?” He placed the pencil behind his ear and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Look at it from their perspective, Petra. Of all the experts in clockwork engineering over the past century, not one of them has ever postulated the theory of a double mainspring.”

“And what?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You think it won't work because
I
thought of it?”

Emmerich shrugged. “I'm not saying that. Only . . . this is so far beyond anything I've ever seen, and I work with the best engineers in the world.”

“It's not my fault you lot are a load of bumbling idiots with screwdrivers.” That made him frown, but she went on. “Just because I don't have a degree from some fancy institution doesn't mean my engineering isn't just as good as yours. Just because you have the experience and schooling doesn't make you any better than me. I'm not some stupid, frippery-­obsessed female. I may be a girl, but I'm an engineer—­and a damn good one.”

“I never said you weren't,” said Emmerich. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “But you must understand my skepticism. This project will determine my future as an engineer. I cannot afford to make a mistake.”

She chewed on her lip. “I wouldn't have proposed the design if I didn't think it would work.”

“I know,” he said gently, massaging his forehead. “I don't mean to offend you. It's just—­there's a lot at stake here.” He lifted the designs off the desk and peered at the central power mechanism again. “But if you can prove that this design is functional, if we can show the Guild that this
actually
works, this design could revolutionize clockwork mechanics. Forget the automaton. Think about what we could achieve—­the practical applications alone . . .” He shook his head, setting the designs down. “I want to believe you, I do. But until I see it with my own eyes, I don't feel comfortable signing off on an untested design. You understand that, don't you? I just want to be sure.”

Petra nodded, hating herself for being the reason her watch was in pieces and not in her pocket. If she hadn't been so stupid, she could have shown him right then that the science was possible. “What of the rest of the design?” she asked, pointing to the other pages. “What do you think?”

Emmerich slid the double mainspring schematics across the desk and peered at the rest of her sketches. He rubbed his thumb along the line of his jaw, studying her equations and diagrams. “You did this all your own?”

She nodded.

“Where did you learn to design like this?”

“I learned the basics from Mr. Stricket when I was little. The rest, I taught myself.”

“You are a wonder,” he said softly, poring over the sketches. “Petra, there are graduating students—­even University professors—­who couldn't hold a match to your talent. This is Guild-­level science.”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Well, a lot of good it does me,” she said, clearing her throat. “The Guild will never let me join, and without a certificate of endorsement and the financial backing of the Guild, I can't practice high-­level engineering. I can never be anything more than a shop assistant,” she finished grimly.

Emmerich regarded her carefully, a comfortable silence falling between them. “Petra,” he said slowly. “I know I said we must work in secret and that your involvement on the project couldn't be known, but I swear to you now: I will do whatever I can to help you earn a place within in the Guild. You
belong
here.”

The soft sincerity in his voice startled her. “You mean that?”

“If anyone belongs here, it's
you
,” he said, his copper eyes blazing.

Petra glanced away from his intense gaze and bowed her head. “Thank you,” she said quietly, wringing her hands in her lap. She didn't know what else to say.

They spent the next several hours copying the schematics to lined pages, annotating the drawings with measurements and figures, calculating the dimensions with tedious accuracy. A single mathematical error could ruin the integrity of the entire design.

Emmerich signed his name at the bottom of every page. Petra knew she could not openly display her name next to his, but she still left a mark. She penciled her initials in the designs themselves, positioning the letters so that if Emmerich found them and tried to erase them, he would have to erase an integral part of the design. Perhaps it was childish of her, but she didn't care.

They left the designs for the center of the automaton's chest blank. Emmerich still did not trust that the double mainspring would work, but Petra promised him the next time they met, she would have proof.

When they finished copying the sketches, she stretched back in her chair and yawned. With no windows in the lower workshops, she had no idea how much time had passed.

“It's almost midnight,” said Emmerich, checking the clock on a nearby desk.

A shot of adrenaline jolted her chest. Matron would kill her. She hadn't meant to stay out so late.

“If you collect your things, I can escort you home,” he said. “We can leave through the main entrance this time. Wearing my clothes, you can pass as a student if anyone happens to notice you, though we are unlikely to meet anyone at this late an hour.”

He offered her a knapsack to put her clothes in, and she fetched her garments from the bottom drawer of Emmerich's desk.

As they turned down the lights in the workshop, he dipped his hand into his pocket. “I nearly forgot.” He handed Petra a single pound note and a handful of shillings. “Your first week's wages, Miss Wade.”

She grinned. She had done it.

Petra Wade was officially a paid engineer.

 

Chapter 6

P
ETRA SPENT THE
next few days repairing her pocket watch in the brief moments between sweeping, filing parts orders, and avoiding Tolly, who suddenly remembered he had a job. When he wasn't breathing down her neck or giving her things to do, she closed herself up in the workroom, fixing the watch and transcribing the double mainspring to fit the needs of the automaton. Two days had passed since Emmerich submitted the written proposal. Once the Guild approved the project, Emmerich would need to supply the completed schematics, which meant she had very little time to convince him that the double mainspring design would work.

She had nearly finished sketching the automaton's chest cavity when Tolly knocked on the door.

“Petra, I need you to sort last month's stubs.”

She folded the designs. “Just a minute.” She replaced the movement within her pocket watch, adjusted the face hands, and snapped the back panel into place, once again hiding the inscription away. With a deep breath, she wound the mainspring and crossed her fingers, hoping she hadn't reassembled the watch incorrectly—­she'd never repaired a watch so complex—­but when she released the winding stem, the watch ticked perfectly, a brassy echo of gears and ratchets clicking forward precisely one second at a time.

Petra opened the office door and stepped into the storage room. Tolly was gone, a box of paperwork in her path. She picked it up and shuffled through the mess of unsorted pawn stubs, a scowl forming on her lips. It would take the rest of her shift to go through them. The bell above the shop door tinkled, and she set the box on a low table, resigned to spend the rest of the day sorting pawn stubs and taking inventory. There was a brief exchange between Tolly and the new customer, and then Tolly raised his voice.

“Yeah? And who the bloody hell are you?”

“Just a friend,” the customer replied. Emmerich. “Is she here?”

“As if I'd bloody well tell you.”

Petra stepped around the corner and leaned against the doorway, trying to hide her smile. “Is that any way to speak to a customer, Tolly?”

Tolly sat behind the counter, arms crossed. He glared at her, his eyebrows fused together. “He says he's come to see
you
.”

“And so what if he has?” she said, leaving the storage room and turning toward Emmerich with a simple curtsey. “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Goss.”

Emmerich smiled broadly at the sight of her and inclined his head. “Miss Wade.”

She squeezed between the stacks of broken tickers to meet him, but Tolly propped his feet against the boxes, blocking her path.

“Your shift isn't over for another two hours.”

She scowled and roughly shoved his legs aside, nearly knocking him into the floor. “I'll only be a minute.” She marched past him and met Emmerich on the other side of the counter. “Best we talk outside.”

Emmerich followed her out the front door to the landing, where they stood and enjoyed a passing breeze, the crisp, salty air lifting the stagnant humidity of the muggy street. The low streets of the fourth quadrant were often in a state of constant dampness—­if not from rain, then from the steam blasts used to keep the air clear of smog—­but every rare once in a while the wind off the sea breezed into the quadrant, freshening the air.

“The Guild accepted the proposal,” said Emmerich, leaning against the railing with a frown.

“You don't sound too enthusiastic about it.”

“They moved the deadline—­it's four months from now.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't know.” He pressed his lips together in a firm line.

“But that gives us hardly any time to build, much less to test and make adjustments. They can't expect a workable prototype in so short a time.”

“Clearly, they do.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his brow. “We'll need to supply the parts order as soon as possible. Can you come to the workshop tonight?”

Mercifully, it was her night off. She nodded.

Emmerich relaxed. “I know it's short notice, but it will go quicker if you're there to help—­and the sooner we send in the orders, the sooner we can get started.”

“Not a problem,” she said.

He grinned his lopsided smile, and Petra found herself smiling back. It had been a dull few days without seeing him around. But the moment was short-­lived. Mr. Monfore appeared up the street, his massive frame bouncing in rhythm with his steps. If he were to see Emmerich loitering about the shop again, detaining her from her work, he might strangle one of them—­likely her.

“You should go,” she said, stepping away from the railing. “I need to finish my shift.”

“Meet you right after?”

She nodded, heading toward the door. “Sure. Now, I really must—­”

Emmerich shamelessly grasped her fingers, effectively startling her into silence, and planted a delicate kiss on the back of her hand. “Until then, Miss Wade.” With a crooked smile on his face, he turned down the stairs and walked down the street.

Petra watched him go, rubbing her hand where his lips hand touched the skin. When she slipped back into the shop, she was thankful he left before seeing the scarlet flush of her cheeks.

She slowly shut the door behind her, and Tolly haphazardly landed in his chair, a look of forced disinterest upon his face.

“You spied on me,” she said, her throat unusually thick.

Tolly shrugged, not admitting to anything, but she knew he must have seen the kiss.

The kiss. She bit her lip to stop from giggling.

The bell above the door tinkled behind her, and Mr. Monfore stepped in, stomping dirt and soot from his shoes. Petra couldn't muster the trouble to be annoyed. She plucked the broom from its usual spot behind the door and absentmindedly swept the dusty mess, unable to keep her mind from wandering to Emmerich.

When her shift ended, she escaped to the back room, and after closing the door behind her, changed into a spare set of Solomon's clothes. His fit her better than Emmerich's, even if they were a bit worn and soot-­stained. She tucked her change of clothes into the knapsack she had borrowed and then peered into the front room. She could hear Tolly and his father arguing at the counter.

“I'll be off now,” she called.

The men's conversation paused, but neither of them answered her. Just as well. Petra picked up her things and crept out the back door. Stepping into the narrow alleyway between the pawnshop and an abandoned bail bonds building, she tucked her hair into her hat to complete her masculine disguise and then made for the University.

H
UDDLED OVER THE
automaton designs, Petra and Emmerich drew up the extensive parts order for the machine. They could forge most of the custom pieces on-­site, but for speed and efficiency, they would divide the workload between manufacturers and send for the more common pieces to be made in the Guild factories located on the mainland. While Emmerich summed up the cost of materials, Petra pushed her shoes against the edge of the desk and reclined, balancing on the back legs of her chair.

A few students still lingered in the workshop, too consumed by their own projects to bother Emmerich. She understood the disinterest. Give an engineer a project, and the rest of the world fell by the wayside.

“You will fall doing that,” said Emmerich.

Petra leaned forward, slamming the chair to the floor, and he chuckled softly. She checked her pocket watch—­nearly six o'clock. Her absence from dinner would probably go unnoticed, and if Matron
did
notice, Solomon would cover for her. She needed to come up with a good excuse for being out so late, something that didn't involve being out alone with a boy until the late hours of the night. With the deadline just four months away, she'd have to spend nearly every evening helping Emmerich finish the automaton.

Petra snapped the watch shut and moved to slip it back into her pocket, but Emmerich's hand suddenly closed over hers. A shiver ran up the length of her arm.

“You fixed it,” he said, carefully prying open her fingers to examine the watch.

She swallowed thickly and nodded, trying not to think of the warmth of his skin or the gentleness of his touch. “Just today.”

Relinquishing her hold on the watch, she let Emmerich carry it into the light. Her heart pounded in a discordant rhythm, making it hard to breathe. Why did she let him have such an effect on her? The intensity in the way he spoke to her, the way he touched her so intimately, as if . . . She shook her head, clearing the thoughts from her mind. She refused to let herself be so affected; she wasn't some fainting damsel trying to win his affections—­she was his colleague, his partner.

Frowning, she stabilized her leaping pulse with steady breaths and looked on as Emmerich examined the watch. She half expected him to take it apart, to study the double mainspring she had worked so hard to convince him would work for the automaton, but it seemed the watch had enchanted him. He rubbed his thumb across the intricate
C
that decorated the front of the case, a curious smile on his lips.

“I've seen a watch like this before.”

Everything stilled. The ticking of the pocket watch beat like a drum in the silence, the rest of the world frozen in time.

“You have?”

Emmerich nodded. “I am certain of it.”

“Where?” she demanded. “When?”

He glanced up at her with a calculating stare and offered her the watch. “It was some time ago, when I was but a child. It would have been before the fire.”

Petra's heart thundered in her chest, a demand for answers in her throat. “The University fire?”

“Yes.”

She stared down at the watch in her trembling hands. “Do you—­” Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes, tightening her fingers around the watch. The decorative
C
pressed hard into her palm. “Do you remember whose it was?”

Only his silence answered her, but then he leaned forward in his chair, his voice low. “Do you truly not remember who gave it to you?”

“No,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I don't remember anything from before the fire.”

“But you were there that day,” he said. It wasn't a question.

She nodded. That was where Matron Etta found her, rescued from the burning building and left crying in Matron's arms, with only the watch and a wooden screwdriver in her pockets. Petra stared at the watch, seeing the hidden inscription in her mind, the only proof that someone somewhere had loved her.

She pried the back of the watch from the rest of the case, and the engraved brass fell into her lap. Whoever had written the inscription, whoever had given her the pocket watch, had loved her enough to forever carve their love into the casing. She yearned to feel that love again, to feel comfort, to belong. She wanted someone to hold her, someone to believe in her, to be there for her when no one else would.

She swallowed the ache in her throat.

With Emmerich, she felt that.

“Petra?” He leaned in, cupping his right hand around her face, his thumb lightly caressing the width of her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice soft.

She blinked, and wetness splashed the tops of her cheeks. Were they tears? Lifting her eyes, she saw Emmerich staring back at her, his eyes full of concern. Her skin blossomed with warmth beneath his callused fingers, hardened by years of turning a screwdriver and fitting gears to tickers, and she fought the desire to lean into his hand, to revel in the touch of his fingers upon her cheek. Too soon, he drew away, and a cold chill settled on her skin.

“I—­I am sorry,” he said, refusing to meet her eye. “I shouldn't have—­ It was thoughtless of me to—­” He cleared his throat. “If I have offended you—­”

“No,” she said quietly, wishing he would look at her. “It's all right, I . . .” She paused, wiping away her cooled tears. “Thank you,” she said finally. “Thank you for your concern.” Her voice sounded hollow and ungracious, but what else could she say?

She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the pocket watch in her lap. The heavy thrum of her beating heart filled her ears, and she was certain she must be blushing. “Is there—­” She cleared her throat. “Is there any other work to be done tonight?”

“Work?”

She glanced up and met his confused gaze. “On the automaton?”

“Oh, right. No,” he said. “No more work tonight. We have to wait until the materials are ready before we can begin construction, and until then . . .” He shrugged.

“And when will that be?”

“Two weeks, perhaps, maybe less.”

“Is there nothing else we can do between now and then?”

“I'm afraid not,” he said.

Petra slumped in her chair. Two weeks without work. Two weeks sitting in the pawnshop dealing with Tolly and his father, Mr. Monfore. Two weeks without seeing Emmerich. Two weeks of sitting around, doing nothing.

She did not look forward to
that
.

Emmerich smiled, still as charmingly handsome as ever. “We'll begin soon enough,” he said. “In the meantime, would you like me to walk you home?”

Home was the last place she wanted to be, but she nodded all the same, grateful to spend just a little more time with him, even if it was in awkward silence.

P
ETRA AND
E
MMERICH
walked slowly down Medlock Cross, enjoying each other's silent company. The sun still sat high in the summer sky despite the evening hour, and the air was sticky hot, clinging to Petra's skin and clothes. She hated summer. There was no escape from the summer heat, nowhere cool to hide in the machine-­powered city, the streets warmed by steam and exhaust. The only respite was eating shaved ice in Pemberton Square, but Petra usually didn't have the money for such frivolous things. The thought of the cold, crunchy ice sent her mouth watering, and an idea struck her—­she could afford shaved ice treats now, maybe even a flavored one.