Ticker (17 page)

It had seemed to work when Dimitria took the scantest of breaths and whispered something to him. He gathered her up in his arms, tears streaming down his face. I saw her hand reach for his, but it fell slack to the carpet before it found its mark. By the time the ambulance arrived, Dimitria’s lips were blue. Papa pried Warwick away from my sister’s body, but I was the one who dragged him into the hall.

“She can’t die,” he said again, even as the light faded from his eyes.

That night had claimed my older sister. Cygna had been torn from us long ago. And this week took Mama, Papa, and Nic from me.

It seemed as if I might be the only Farthing left.

Dreadnaught found me in Dimitria’s room, holding one of her pillows to my cheek. Without a word, she carried me back to my own bed.

“They took Nic, Dreadnaught,” I murmured as she thoroughly tucked me in. “They put a bag over his head and shoved him in a car.” I couldn’t stop seeing it.

The chatelaine wrung out a compress and pressed it to my sweaty forehead. “The Ferrum Viriae are still looking for him. Mister Kingsley was here, wanting to see you, but he had to leave before you woke up. He said to tell you he has every available unit tracking down the car that ran you off the road.”

“It won’t do any good.” I averted my face from her sympathetic gaze. “Warwick has been a step ahead of us since the very beginning.”

Dreadnaught retrieved a steaming cup from my night table. “Ginger tea,” she said, quite unnecessarily as it filled the room with the aroma of spice cookies. Reassured that I could hold it without dousing the bedding, she went to fetch an invalid’s fare: blancmange, softly white and wibbling on its plate. Dreadnaught
subscribed to
Mrs. Chewitt’s Household Guide
, and I could well imagine the chapter headed “For Delicate Stomachs and Those Recovering from Sickness.”

“Start with that,” she instructed. “If it stays down, we’ll see about something heartier. You’ve only had broth spooned down your throat for the better part of three days.” She hesitated then added, “I hope you’ll forgive the impropriety, Miss Penny, but I also wound your Ticker for you every morning.”

Three days.
Three days I’d been unconscious. Three days Nic had been missing. Had he found his way to Warwick? Had he seen our parents?

“There’s absolutely nothing to forgive, Dreadnaught. Thank you for caring for me.” I summoned a smile as wobbly as the pudding. “I’m lucky to have you.”

The chatelaine gently patted my hand. “If the pain gets to be too much, the doctor left some drops on the side table.” She paused to note the jinglejangle of approaching zippers and buckles.

Violet appeared at the door to my room, wearing her battered brown leather “stealth” jacket, a miniature top hat, and a worried expression. The strap to a SugarWerks Carry-Away Box was looped over her shoulder. “I showed the guards at the door my clearance from Marcus, and they let me in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Dreadnaught trumpeted. “I’m going to recheck all the doors and windows. Make certain she drinks that,” she ordered, pointing at the cup of ginger tea before hastening from the room.

Divested of coat, gloves, hat, and Carry-Away Box, Violet wrapped my hands about the cup and forced me to take a sip. Only when most of the tea was gone did she speak.

“They took him, didn’t they?”

“Yes.” I waited for the usual reassurances, that Nic was a fighter, that the Ferrum Viriae tracked them, even now. “He said . . . he
said to tell you that he was sorry.” Violet said nothing. When the silence stretched impossibly thin, I ventured to ask, “You love him, don’t you?”

Not a moment’s hesitation. “Yes. Are you upset?” A light shone in her eyes more wonderful and awful than tears.

“Upset? Not remotely.” I sat up as best I could, undoing most of Dreadnaught’s diligent tucking in.

Violet reached for my hand, the silver rings she wore only marginally colder than her fingers, her expression shifting to one of fierce determination. “We have to get him back, Penny.”

“We will, Vi.” It was a promise made, one heart to another.

Dreadnaught returned with a silver tray that held a full tea service and a smaller tray that offered up a crisp, clean calling card. “You have another visitor. The Legatus is back. He’s most anxious to speak with you.”

“Send him up, please.”

Dreadnaught hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I’m not at all certain your parents would approve of a gentleman paying you a call in your bedroom, crisis or not.”

I squirmed impatiently against the pillows. “I doubt anything untoward will happen, but should the romance of the situation overwhelm him and he attempt to ravish me before your very eyes, you may knock him out with a tray.”

“I’m glad to see neither your spirits nor your powers of sarcasm were injured in your accident.” Dreadnaught opened the doors to the clothes press and pulled out a foamy, frothing concoction of lace and ribbons.

Violet was startled into a hoot of laughter. “By all the Bells, what is that?”

“A bed jacket from my Grandmother Pendleton.” I glowered my hardest despite the lance of pain such a mighty frown caused.
“The woman has both atrocious taste in gifts and medieval ideas as to what a young lady should wear.”

“It’s perfect,” Dreadnaught said, handing it over to Violet and hurrying from the room.

“I’m allergic to fuss,” I protested.

Violet tied the ribbons and fluffed the lace ruffles, enjoying herself far more than the situation warranted. “Don’t be ridiculous. And you could do with a bit of fussing, in your delicate condition.”

“Delicate my arse.”

At that precise moment, Dreadnaught returned carrying yet another tray, this one laden with missives and parcels, with Marcus Kingsley right behind her.

He didn’t appear at all taken aback by my ridiculous frills or my foul language; instead, he made a lovely bow, hat tucked under his arm. “Tesseraria.”

“Legatus.”

“I’m glad to see that you are well.”

“If by ‘well’ you mean I look a right monkey,” I said, “then verily, I am well.”

“You have to admit she looks fetching, Marcus,” Violet said.

“Far be it from me to pass judgment on a lady’s attire,” the clever man replied. A few stiff steps brought him within feet of the bed. “I’m glad you’re going to recover. It was terrifying to watch you fly through the crossfire on the Vitesse. If I find a dozen gray hairs on my head, I’ll know who to blame.”

I studied the military-short haircut, ignoring the temptation to rub a hand over the closely cropped black curls. “Not a one.”

“Yet,” he added. “Give it time and a bit more of your reckless behavior.”

“Without a doubt, driving through a gunfight was the most reckless thing I’ve ever done,” I admitted. “And I’ve done quite a few reckless things in my life.”

He reached for my hand. “I shouted to you when you shot out of the driveway and took off down the street.”

“I heard you.” I stared hard at the place where our fingers met, thinking it better to look there than into his eyes.

He didn’t seem to care that we had an audience of two. “But you didn’t stop.”

Startled by the note of concern, I looked up. “I had to get to my brother.”

Marcus’s grip tightened to the point of impropriety. “You should have waited. I would have gone with you.”

“You were a bit preoccupied at the time, what with all the bullets whizzing past you.” I tried to extract my hand from his, but his gloves might as well have been coated in glue. “You were protecting Violet and Sebastian, too.”

“I’ve never been more tempted to abandon a post.” He let go of me, but only to reach into his jacket pocket to retrieve his notebook and pencil. “I need to know what happened when you went after Nic.”

Without realizing it, I’d braced myself for a lecture. A tirade, even. Instead, he offered me a level of understanding so deep that it was like a gift. It took a moment to recover, another to start giving my report. Some of the details stood out as stark and clear as newspaper typeface. Others had been smudged by three days of sleep and whatever medications the doctors had given me. I described the car. The faces of those inside it. How they’d tried to pull me from the Vitesse. How they’d captured Nic, and what direction they’d fled.

Then it was my turn to pose a question. “Did you investigate the
Palmipède
while I was . . .”

“Out of commission?” Marcus finished for me. “I’m afraid the good Mister Stirling hasn’t been able to procure a boarding yet.”

Something about his tone suggested unvoiced suspicions. When Violet hitched in a breath, I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

“And?” I prompted.

Marcus closed the notebook and changed the subject. “You’ll be glad to hear we recovered the Vitesse from the scene of the accident.”

“That’s not at the top of my list of concerns,” I said, unwilling to be distracted.

“It’s parked in the carriage house,” he persisted, accepting a cup of tea from Dreadnaught and studiously adding sugar. “Carmichael returned it personally after you were transported to the hospital.”

“Give that man an extra set of bars.” Suddenly tired, I fell back on my pillows and closed my eyes.

“Should we leave?” Violet asked. “You look dreadfully tired.”

“More dreadful than tired, I’m certain.” I forced my eyes open and focused my attention on the heap of mail at my elbow: notes from tailors and hatters, envelopes from various foreign medical universities. It would fall to me to pay them, to answer them, to make explanations.

Deepest apologies for the lateness of the payment, due to the fact that parties in question were kidnapped.

“This is also addressed to you, Miss.” Dreadnaught handed me a thickly wrapped parcel and a penknife. “Careful. It’s heavy and marked ‘Fragile.’ ”

Puzzled, I cut the string and pushed aside several layers of brown paper. Inside, daguerreotype slides were neatly stacked and interleaved with thin silver tissue. There was a folded note atop
everything, but it fluttered to the floor when I caught the image on the gleaming surface of the first glass.

“By all the Cogs,” Marcus swore softly in my ear, but I couldn’t summon a single word in reply.

The topmost daguerreotype showed Nic in some undisclosed and poorly lit location, propped up in an iron bed. Bandages were pulled back to reveal a surgeon’s handiwork, stitches and swelling ringing the flesh about his eye sockets. The eyes themselves appeared untouched until I looked closer; within the depths of the pupils, there was a hard gleam that was wholly foreign and frightening. Looking at my twin, I felt trapped, a diamanté-headed pin through my clockwork heart.

“Unmistakably him, isn’t it?” I said like a ventriloquist’s dummy, my mouth moving and sound coming out without my say-so.

“What?” Violet placed her cup on the edge of the table. “What’s happened?”

I set down the daguerreotypes and covered them with my hands, wishing I could erase the truth with my fingers. “Warwick Augmented Nic’s eyes.” Only when I said it aloud did my Ticker react, shuddering horribly in my chest.

“What?” Violet faltered.

Marcus leapt forward, catching her about the waist when her legs gave out. Left to my own devices, I clung to consciousness, gripping the coverlet until I nearly tore the fabric.

Don’t you dare faint again, Penny Farthing. Don’t. You. Dare.

The Ticker’s balance wheels righted themselves, but only barely. Enduring the pain was better than the numbness.

“That poor, dear boy,” Dreadnaught said between the fingers she had clasped over her mouth.

“I’m fine,” Violet told Marcus, pushing away from him to stumble to the fire. I waited for the tears, for the screams. Goodness knows I could have shrieked loud and long for the both of us. Instead, an aura of calm settled over her. “I’ll be fine.” This time, the words rang with truth and fury both.

Marcus took two of the slides to the window, using the thin sunlight to study them further. “It’s a wonder the procedure didn’t kill him. These have to be the first ocular implants in the empire.”

“What could Warwick have been thinking?” I breathed.

Dreadnaught retrieved the note from the floor next to the bed. “Perhaps this explains it.”

I opened it with trembling hands, recognizing the surgeon’s handwriting immediately.

Penny,

I wish there was some way to make you understand that all I’ve done was for you. That day at Carteblanche, I held your poor withered heart in my hands. I will spend the rest of my days correcting the weaknesses of the flesh. I hoped you would come to me, but I was able to start with Nic. He’ll never need glasses again.

Please let me do the same for your ventriculator.

Your Devoted Servant,

Calvin Warwick

I tossed the paper away from me only seconds before it burst into flames. Marcus’s shout of surprise took me aback; I’d forgotten he hadn’t witnessed the self-destruction of the last note.

“Nitrocellulose,” I explained. “Sebastian said it’s highly flammable stuff that gets used in the making of moving pictures.”

“That it is,” Marcus said. “It’s also the primary ingredient in black powder. It’s possible Warwick has a connection to the mills just outside of town.” He lifted his wrist and began tapping out commands on his RiPA. “I’ll have a detachment check there and speak with the maintenance crew. If anyone’s been lurking about or any property’s gone missing, we’ll know within the hour.”

“Fast, but not fast enough,” I said. “We need to get to Warwick. I don’t think he’s going to leave well enough alone.”

“You think he’ll keep operating on Master Copernicus?” Dreadnaught blanched even as she posed the question.

“He might. And for all we know, he’s pulling people off the street again.” I tried not to picture a row of beds like Nic’s, each one containing a limp body—like dolls on a nursery floor, their arms and eyes and legs removed by a careless child. Averting my gaze from the daguerreotypes, I focused on the bedside table where another floral arrangement sat, a note tucked in the brilliant greenery. I pulled out the card, which was thickly ornamented with doves and roses, gilded along the scalloped edges, and stamped with silver lettering that read “Get Well Soon!”