Ticker (22 page)

“That does sound like her.” Off came his shirt, and Marcus turned to hang it next to his coat. Scars decorated his arms and chest, ridges and whorls of raised flesh that were the faintest of pinks against his tanned skin.

Stepping closer to get a better look, I murmured, “Careless with a bread knife, are you?”

Caught off guard, he looked down. “Training bayonet got me there,” he said, pointing to one of the ridged lines. “The others happened in field practice.”

The largest of the scars ran from his navel to his left armpit. “And this one?”

“Combat in Aígyptos.” Marcus looked down at me, unashamed of the marks on his body but terribly troubled by something else. “I got off easy in that fight. Lost two soldiers who happened to be close friends.”

Sadness bled through the words, and I couldn’t help but shudder. I knew that sort of pain. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s remorse, Tesseraria, and there’s the resolve to make certain it never happens again.” Reaching past me, he pulled one of the blankets off the bed and draped it over my shoulders. “It’s why I struggle to plan out everything the way I do. Viktor was the one with all the combat instincts. He had trained for it since both of us wore knee pants. I was just the one with the head for schematics. Everything would be different if my brother were still alive.”

Until this very moment, I hadn’t realized how complicated a cipher Marcus was. “You didn’t want to be in the Ferrum Viriae? What did you want to do instead?”

“Mechanical engineering, like your parents.” Looking down, he studied his hands. “Tinkering, my father called it, until he realized where my true talents lie.”

I had an inkling what that might be but wanted to make certain. “And where is that?”

“Weapons,” he confirmed. “Small ones in the beginning, like the MAG and the Superconductive Slingshot.” Marcus grabbed one of the threadbare towels and rubbed it over his head, the muscles in his back clenching. “I thought I would be able to distance myself from the business later. Viktor and I spoke about it many times, and he knew I didn’t want to spend my life developing that sort of technology. But then he was gone, and there was no one to take his place except me.”

Thinking of Nic, I put my hand on Marcus’s.

His fingers turned over to cling to mine, though he kept his face averted. “My father pulled me out of the College of Engineering and sent me to the Ferrum Viriae Academy. It’s been trial by fire, literally, these last six months. So much to catch up on: maneuvers, strategies, history of combat . . .”

“Could you speak with him about it?” Thinking of my own parents, I couldn’t imagine them asking me to dedicate my life to someone else’s pursuits. “Or your mother?”

Marcus shook his head and gave me a rueful smile. “My mother is a third-generation munitions manufacturer. Her marriage to my father was as much a business arrangement as it was a personal one. I’ve never brought it up with her, and I never will.”

“She might understand.”

“A tigress doesn’t change her stripes,” he said.

I thought of another tigress, one who loved me and my siblings beyond reason, who protected us with tooth and claw. And I
thought of what my mother wouldn’t give to speak one more time with her eldest child. “What is it that you want to ask Viktor?”

Marcus stiffened but didn’t pull away from me. “What do you mean?”

“That’s why you’re building the Grand Design, isn’t it? There’s something specific you want to ask him?”

I thought that Marcus might not answer at all. As it was, his next words didn’t address my question. “I doubt you’ve ever seen combat up close, Penny, but it’s a terrifying thing. The first time I was on the field, I nearly turned and ran.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” The words were tight, his throat working as he swallowed. “Can you imagine a thousand guns firing off at once? Searing hot metal screaming past your head only to fell the soldier just behind you? The cries of the wounded? The blood mixed with the dirt? Death all around you?”

“Yes, I can. I do more than imagine it every day.” The blanket slid from my shoulder, taking the strap of my chemise with it. Now the top of my own scar was visible, the one from the Augmentation surgery set alongside the Ticker’s faceplate. “You’re not the only one who’s looked death in the face.”

Marcus didn’t blanch or shrink away from the sight of it, though his was not the detached gaze of a clinician. “Did it hurt?”

“Almost dying hurt a lot more.” I pulled the blanket back up and sat upon the bed.

He joined me, the furniture creaking under his weight. “That’s what I wanted to ask my brother . . . Isn’t there someone else? Someone else better suited to this job?”

Though I’d been cold before, the words were like ice on my skin. “You’re doing the best you can.”

“That’s just the problem,” he said softly. “I don’t think my best is ever going to be enough.”

“Despite
my
best efforts to the contrary, despite Calvin Warwick trying to kidnap me and fléchettes flying in my general direction, Legatus, you’ve kept me alive. You saw me safely off the ship tonight—”

“And straight into the river!”

“A prime example of how you’re learning to think on your feet,” I countered. “I might be able to look after myself, but I’m safer when I’m with you.”

Marcus reached out, sliding slow fingers through my curls, untangling the knots one at a time until he could run his very capable hand through my hair from the soft spot on the back of my neck down to my waist. In return, I sat very, very still until he wrapped an arm about me and leaned back against the wall.

“Not to frighten you,” he said at long last, “but Warwick is just the beginning. There are others who won’t be content to watch you Augment factory workers and repair minor injuries when there’s potential for so much more. They’re going to steal the technology, develop it, exploit it, and destroy everything we hold dear.”

I resisted the urge to set my head upon his shoulder, worried what might happen to my already off-balance Ticker if he were to kiss me right now. But Marcus’s eyes were closed, purple-black shadows smudging the skin under his thick, dark lashes. If this was a seduction, it was the laziest one on record, so I allowed myself to relax against him. “It must get tiresome, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like that.”

His answering laugh was a low rumble in his chest. “It does, indeed.”

Under the scent of river water and wet wool, there was something about his skin that reminded me of lemon soap and sunshine. “So many burdens weighing you down. Can’t you leave off a few?”

“My burdens are the dead who’ve served under my command and the lives of Industria’s citizens,” he answered. “So, no, Tesseraria, I’ll not set down a single one.”

I won’t let her fall, Mama.

The broken memento mori on the floor of my parents’ study. For a split second, it was as though I held it in my hands again. Then I broke out in gooseflesh. “I know where I’ve seen the daguerreotype glass before.”

Marcus followed the sudden shift in the conversation, opening his eyes and sitting up. “Where was it? When?”

“Just after Cygna died,” I said, nearly choking on the memory. “A photographer came to the house.”

The woman had posed Dimitria behind the horsehair chaise where Nic and I sat. Mama had placed the baby between us with instructions to hold her gently and stay very still. Cygna, so named because of the swan-soft down upon her tiny head, was dressed in white muslin ruffles and a pink cap. Her little lips were pursed, ready to be kissed, but death had stolen even the smallest of newborn noises from her.

I won’t disappoint you, Mama. I won’t let Cygna fall.

I’d put my arm about my dead sister and held her for the first time. Nic sat on her other side, stiff and stubborn, the way he always was when trying desperately hard not to cry. Dimitria stood behind us, aloof in her grief.

“It’s the only picture ever taken of the four of us together,” I said faintly. “I knew there was something about the way Nic had
been posed and the quality of the glass that I recognized. Whoever took the daguerreotypes of him specializes in pictures of the dead.”

“There isn’t enough business to support such an occupation outside the city walls,” Marcus said, already deep in thought. “Nic and your parents are still in Bazalgate, then. If the RiPAs resume functioning by the morning, I’ll deploy investigative units to all the photography studios.”

“And if we can’t get a message out, we’ll call upon each and every one of them ourselves,” I insisted.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t be left out of it.”

“You’re learning, Legatus.” I permitted myself a single jaw-cracking yawn before returning my head to his shoulder. “You’re learning.”

TEN

In Which There Is a Mouse of Sorts in the Walls

By the time I woke in the morning, Marcus already had slipped out to the Perpetua Marketplace and returned with clothing and the necessary supplies to tint my copper hair the darkest of browns.

“It’ll help prevent you from being so easily recognized,” he said, sleeves turned up to the elbows and a hairbrush in hand. “No use trying to go black, it would only end badly.”

“And you know that because?” I let the question linger in the air, much like the scent of frying ham and burnt toast drifting up through the floorboards.

All I got by way of reply was an enigmatic half-smile. The intimacy of the previous night had gone the way of the shadows. Our RiPAs had yet to resume proper function, though they sputtered occasionally and caused us both to jump. Testing our weapons to be certain the river hadn’t similarly ruined them, we kept bumping awkwardly into each other. When the time came to wind my Ticker, I turned my back to buy a modicum of privacy as I unbuttoned the collar of my dress and inserted the key into the chest
plate. The clickity-clack of the winding seemed to fill the room; by the time I was done, I was more than ready to escape our cozy confines.

“Come on, then,” I said, heading for the door.

“Wait just one moment,” Marcus said. “You’re not quite ready.”

I paused and peered down at my ensemble. The pearl gray frock and lace shawl were neat, clean, and subdued in both color and style. My newly darkened hair caught me off guard each time I glimpsed a loose strand or two out of the corner of my eye, fastened up as it was at the nape of my neck with a dozen hairpins. “Don’t I look every inch the respectable miss, visiting from Meridia?”

He held out a gleaming gold circle. “Here to take a honeymoon picture.” He already wore a matching band on his left hand.

To gain access to the daguerreotype studios, we needed some sort of cover story. With all our physical differences, it would be difficult to pass as brother and sister. A young married couple made far more sense.

“It is customary, I think, to go down on one knee when you propose, Mister Kingsley.” I reached for the ring, but he twitched it away from me.

“Quite right. Wherever are my manners?” The leg of his dark blue trousers hiked up a bit when he bent his knee and took my hand. “My dearest Miss Farthing, will you do me the unutterable honor of wearing this cheap bit of metal that will most likely turn your finger green, pretending to love and honor me as your husband for the purposes of subterfuge and stratagem?”

“My hearts and stars, that will go down in the history books as the most romantic business proposition of the century, I am certain.” Still, my Ticker thudded in its new, horrible way as Marcus slid the ring onto my finger. Given the number of diamantés winking back at me, it was far from the inexpensive bauble he’d
described. “Fifteen photography studios will make quite a day’s work. Let’s have breakfast and get going.”

“Slowly,” he admonished. Tucking my hand under his arm, he led me to the door. “Young couples in love don’t rush to the streetcar first thing in the morning. They feed each other bits of toast and discuss the morning news.” When I dragged my heels, he turned toward me to add, “A bit of reconnaissance in the dining room is necessary to reassure me we aren’t being watched.”

So I found myself eyeing the other diners, straining my ears to make out the gossip over the rattle of plates and clink of spoons. Across from me, Marcus sipped cold coffee with the appropriate grimaces, rattled his newspaper, and gazed at me with false adoration every few minutes.

“Shocking,” he observed, making no effort to keep his voice down. “This city has gone to the hounds since last we were here. Perhaps we should have taken the steamer to Helvetica instead.”

When he nudged me under the table, I hastened to contribute “Of course, my dearest. We ought to have done that” before I returned the favor to his shin. “On the upside, this porridge is delicious.” Though it was rough and perhaps contained more sawdust than oats, it went down easily enough with a sprinkle of sugar. I followed that with two hot scones clabbered together with jam and pale butter. When I couldn’t find room in my stomach for a third, I wrapped it in a handkerchief.

Marcus peered at me over his newspaper. “What are you doing with that?”