Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (72 page)

My bones ached.
Her parts turned.

My heart pounded.
Her gears clicked.

My mind raced. Her
love kept its pace.

We moved in the
great ballet of my imagination. I could nearly feel myself spin and swirl the
young lady on an ill-painted stand-in for a ballroom, could nearly see the pose
she’d steal as she bounced from my hips.

The further we
sank into the flow, the smaller my frustrations, my monsters, seemed to appear.

I fell into her,
my body dripping away bit by little bit into her framework. I could hear the
click-ticking of clock gears as I was pulled inward. I kissed her. I drank from
her eyes. Her cheeks blushed, a feat so remarkably, impossibly human that I had
to laugh.

“Don’t laugh at
me, all right?” she said in a whisper, burying her face in my shoulder.

“Forgive me,” I
murmured, stroking the back of her head.

We sank deeper
into the red and, all the while, I sank deeper into her. I began nibbling my
way down her neckline. Her skin tasted like strawberry jam. Again she reddened,
and I squeezed her hand hard for reassurance.

We sank. We held
on. We melted together.

And then darkness
came again.

I nearly choked on
it, cursing and swinging my limbs like mad.

“Bring her back!”
I yelled to the nightmare. “I want her back!”

In my dream, I
spun and thrashed upon my back, beating fists in a tantrum against hard ground.
I howled, grunted, and groaned, demanding anything other than my own detestable
loneliness.

“Dolly!” I
screamed.

And then I was
awake.

It was incredibly
sudden, and I felt as if someone had strolled along and pulled out a plug that
had powered some nightmare-generating apparatus attached to my person.

Awake.

I bent my fingers
in at the joints and felt the small pockets of air that floated over my heaving
chest. My eyes remained shut but conscious as my mouth and nostrils puffed
rapidly, drawing air into my body. I arched my stomach and lower back upward.
The first thing that struck me as I performed this action was that the heavy
rubble that had fallen upon me was noticeably missing. This should’ve been an
immediate cause for alarm, as anyone from a beggar to a company of the King’s
most skilled marksmen could’ve found and uncovered my body while I slept.

But emergency or
not, I just yawned, my eyelids all but glued together as I stretched my arms,
legs, fingers, and toes. I shifted my weight and rubbed my weary back against
the hard floor below me. There was something lying on my chest, and as my hand
dropped upon it, I felt the texture of paper.

My eyelids slowly
peeled themselves apart and looked directly upward at......something dark...and
brown...that was certainly not the sky.

My lips were
cracked, chapped, and near-split. I was clearly alone, so there was no reason
to speak aloud. But despite all of this, I made myself talk, maybe to prove I
could.

“Hello?”

The sound of my
own voice, cutting across the quiet, made me breathe, made me sharpen my focus
a bit.

Papers, I thought,
feeling the slight weight upon my chest. A stack of papers. And above me, a
ceiling. I'm inside.

Ceiling. Yes,
there was certainly one over my head, and I stared at it. I wanted to question
it, drill it for information. For a moment, I felt insulted at its silence at a
time when I needed answers the most.

I was surprisingly
well-rested, a state no one would expect to wake to after falling asleep in a
garbage pile and being transported to a stiff floor beneath an unfamiliar and
noticeably uncooperative ceiling. I offered up one final scowl to it and turned
on my side.

The papers slid
off of my chest and slightly scattered beside me. I scooped them up and brought
them before my cocked head. My eyes ran over the familiar, lavishly-written
script, and I went white.

I dropped the
pages in alarm and backed away, shuffling on my knees and looking upon my
discovery with panic and utmost confusion.

“How?!?” I gasped,
sounding barely coherent to even myself. “Where?!? How is...”

I stood and began
feverishly searching the chamber, clawing the walls as if I thought they were
closing in. The room was barren and lit only by a single candle whose wax had
nearly melted away. I scratched and felt along for a door, an escape,
anything.

And then, in the
dim of that hollow chamber, I saw the writing on the wall.

THE LADY VIOLETTA:

TO WORLDS UNKNOWN

I had, at that
very instant, come full circle. I had wandered blindly for so long that time
had gotten tired of waiting for me to finish and threw me back to the beginning
to try again.

Oh, but time is
not without its flaws. The chamber where I'd been brought was not the warm,
concealed labyrinth of ticking, beautiful innovation I had once known. It was
gnarled and burned and vacant. Gutted out.

But make no
mistake. I had returned. My body may’ve remained in the dark, but my mind had
not. I was not taken away when I slept, I knew. I was taken down. Down beneath
the wreckage and garbage and stink.

Down into the
Watchmaker’s basement.

Without second
thought, I returned to the pages I had cast aside. Delicately, I picked them
up, holding them as gently as if the ink were written upon sheets of glass. I
then sat down before the melting candle and read, a bit of my mind restlessly
wondering if I could make it to the end before the fire fell out.

And as you might
have already guessed, the hand who wrote those words was the same that I had
been killing myself to reclaim.

The hand of the
Watchmaker’s Doll.

“So what are you
saying, Pocket?”

“Already this
night, I’ve spoken so much about the girl I love. I’ve told how I have enjoyed
her company, endured her absence...”

“And you’ve shared
her diary.”

“That’s right,
Alan. But not all of it.”

“Pardon?”

“Those pages left
on me in that dark hole, as I slept, made up the Diary of the Doll. Not the
writings I’ve already found, but something new. Something more. A continuation.
Delivered seemingly from the clouds, or from some messenger that grew from the
electric embrace of that final dream.”

“Pocket...you
wouldn’t still...you know, have on you—”

“Yes. And you know
what I’ve just realized, barkeep? I couldn’t finish this story without it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d leave
too many pieces in the puzzle box. So lean in close, friend, and I’ll show you
what I mean. Before this adventure can end, we must walk through it once more
with another set of eyes.”

“Mmm...and a
mechanical set at that, right?”

“Mechanical, yes.
But also the least mechanical I’ve ever seen.”

The nuns are gone
now, and for that I am thankful. How selfish. They have been taking care of me,
though I wish they would not. The colors are enough company for me now, the
bluebirds without those awful voices, and as the moon moves through them, every
moment is a new experience.

As I now have
borrowed pen and paper in hand, there are steps I’ve walked that I wish to
relive for what purpose I know not, other than I’ve had so few and it keeps my
hand busy.

I had no name
before you called me Dolly. Perhaps that is why it is you whose dreams I enter.
In the darkness in the electric carriage, I hear your voice, and it is safe and
it is comfortable and so I follow it. In books it may be called “fate” or
perhaps something else I fear to see printed in my own hand, but as I have no
book to confirm my story, I shall leave that event thus unnamed.

Do you have parts
as I do, Mister Pocket?

I fall into your
dream and the walls are leafed with gold and the flakes stick to my hands.

I hear that most
people dream inside their heads. Am I inside yours now?

The flakes on my
hands turn from gold to red. Like bits of blood on my skin. I want it to be
mine, but perhaps I like thinking that it is yours even more. I know that is
wrong but...

A kitty appears
and he is wearing a nice suit. “It’s a dream,” he said.

“Well, it isn’t
mine,” I said.

“No. It’s the tall
boy’s.”

“No. I can’t—it
isn’t right!” I backed away from the kitty because he wasn’t mine. The walls
splashed into a downpour of red and I fell through them. I felt as though I was
covered in blood, but you didn’t notice, Mister Pocket.

But I am ruining
your dream. I am ruining your story.

“How else would
anybody know I put something there? How would they know I was here?” you said
in front of a blank canvas, my paintbrush in your hand. What a hurtful thing to
say.

But perhaps that
is what I’m attempting now with this ink, borrowed from the tea lady’s house. I
had meant to return it.

“I want you,” she
said, “to express your innermost passions, thoughts, and curiosities.” She
thought about it. “In that order. Ladies of this era are so BOORISHLY silent.
Here!” she said, grabbing my face. “I want you to try tasting your own tongue.”
I’m not sure I know what taste is, but I think I do.

“Well, what does
yours taste like?”

“My tongue tastes
like potions and starlight and mysteries!” she said.

“And tea?”

“And tea!” Miss
Alexia exclaims, clapping. “Use this!” She threw some papers on my lap. “Find a
pen!” And she skipped away.

Maybe Kitt-Kitt
would know.

“Sure, I have one,
but lemme show you something. It’s chess. Well, kinda.”

Kitt-Kitt showed
me a terrible game.

“I don’t really
know how to play chess so—okay. These are the king and the queen, right? So
maybe they need to round up the horseys. Okay, the poles too, ‘cause we don’t
have enough horseys. They have to capture the white horseys and put them back
in the stable, see? But we want to get rid of the black horseys, those are bad,
so we put them over here, off the board. Those are dead.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you
kill them?”

“I dunno, darkness
is evil, right?”

“Evil?! Why?”

“I don’t know, it
just is! Why are you so upset?”

I gathered all of
the dark pieces in my skirt. “You have no right to kill any piece! Even if they
came from a place in the dark.” I rescued them. They can go back into the
darkness with me. But perhaps I should have let Kitt-Kitt finish his game after
all.

Miss Alexia likes
to know things about me. “Are you and Mister Pocket, by chance...”

I don’t know what
she means. I don’t want to participate. “I have this,” I tell her, and I show
her my waxy cylinder.

“Hmm,” she said.
“Yes!” She calls it a phonograph and she puts my treasure on it. “Just come
down whenever you’re done.”

“No, wait,” I say,
and I don’t know why. But Father is in it. I’ve memorized it now. Do people do
that? He says:

“With
this recording, I, the owner and proprietor of this shop and the individual
property within, do hereby put forward my final will and testament to
whomever’s ear is around to bear witness to it. I will first speak to King
Alexander I, the man at the helm of my dear Britain, God save him. Sire, I have
devoted nearly the whole of my earthly life in servitude to your court. Though
you are in no obligation to do as I ask, I would beg you to allow my wishes to
be.”

He
says a lot of names and I don’t think any of them are mine. Then he says:

“…I
again beg his Highness to let my final instructions be carried out as I would
have them. And now I’d like to say a few words to those who will help close the
underwhelming book of my life. I would speak first to my wife, who has left
this Earth countless years before. Violetta, my love, it seems that I was
ultimately unable to properly live without you, and from that failure comes the
joy of our upcoming reunion. I will take your hand soon, my love, and we will
dance anew upon the rim of the orange sun.”

Father
talks a lot about that lady but not me.

“To
the young one I am leaving behind, I can only say…I am sorry. I abandoned you
without word or warning, and I am about to do it once more. It has been months
since we’ve last spoken, and the loneliness I have known without your shining
eyes has been crushing. But I want you to know that you are my final legacy,
and though my life is ending, you carry within you a remaining piece of myself.
I cannot guarantee what future awaits you now. Perhaps you will sleep as
eternally unbothered as the woman whose face yours mimics. I could wish nothing
more for you. Goodbye, my little darling.”

The cylinder stops
moving and I cannot start. Vi-o-let-ta.

There is a brief
hug. “Let’s have cider now!” says the tea lady. She runs downstairs.

When there was
steam, we dreamed together. Or maybe it was just you. To you, I am a girl with
no reflection. Perhaps that is too generous.

But something
happened between us on the deck of the
Lucidia
. I am not sure if it can
be considered significant if it is not in print, but my modesty prevents me
from printing it. Perhaps such an event is always significant by nature? Or
perhaps it is significant if we agree that it is so, Mister Pocket? Would you
agree to such a thing?

But you were
supposed to be the one to wake me.

My body is stiff
with sleep and I am being bent into a bundle of sheets with some force. I
cannot move. I am pulled to the ground with a thud that somehow leaves you
unstirred. My parts did not spill out of me. Please be grateful for that,
Mister Pocket.

“Remind me in the
morning, Mister Pocket, to tell you something important.”

Perhaps I am not
the only one who has entered your dreams? Is that why you did not care to hear
it?

The muffins and
pomegranate treat was still in the shuttle when we arrived.

Ruined.

Kitt-Kitt
unwrapped me in a clearing like the remains of a picnic. There is oil in my
hair. My dress is soaked in slime. He turns my key and I hit him.

I want it all to
go away. So I run. The forest will hide me. Kitt-Kitt must have tried to clean
me off, but I don’t care. I don’t care at all.

Am I crying? Or is
it the oil? Do I cry oil? No...

The branches are
tearing at my dress but it doesn’t matter anymore. The muffins were a gift. She
made them just for me. I need something that is mine. Mine and not ruined.

A pile of rocks in
a clearing seems right. A ray of light is hitting it just so. I lean against it
and try to go back to the darkness Kitt-Kitt so despises.

“I think that
might be a grave.” He found my rocks. They weren’t mine anymore. Oh well.

He propped my key
up against the rocks and sat down. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say
anything. Sometimes he cleared his throat. Sometimes he moved some leaves. And
then he said those awful words.

“Scrap all except
the desired piece.”

Scrap...?

Kitt-Kitt gave me
a bubblemaker. He said it was made of me. No, of scraps. Well, the bubbles it
makes are mine. If only none of them would pop.

Desired piece.
This hand? My eyes? Why can't I just rip it off and give it to them? Then would
they leave you alone? Then what would be left?

Scrap.

The bubbles are
endless. How do they keep coming? My parts can do this? My scraps?

“You carry within
you a remaining piece of myself.” Father's piece. Is it what makes my other
parts special?

“Alexander will be
disappointed if he finds you,” the tea lady said. Why?

I don't want to
find out. It is all upsetting. But now you are involved, Mister Pocket, so I
should find out what part to remove. Then you can have my scraps and you won't
have to worry anymore.

But what now? Find
the tea lady, I guess. I don't know where I am, but she isn't here so I have to
walk.

I walked until I
was I in the city. It wasn't far. I smelled bread. I should replace the
muffins.

Two bread ladies
are outside. They are shaking broken glass out of a rug. They used unpleasant
words, so for the sake of my femininity, I shall neglect to print them here.

“I've 'ad enough a
them Magnates trashin' me store,” said the first bread lady.

“After yer muffins
again, are they?” the second said.

“Well they say
they're after that missin' doll or whateveritis, but there was a whole tray
missin' this mornin'.”

“A whole tray! And
all for that walkin' blueprint. I hope that electric plough she's got printed
in 'er makes the king enough money to pay for the lost muffins!”

Electric...plough?

“Dun know why the
king would make such a fuss over a blueprint, but's 'is kingdom, not mine!”

And that is how I
learned the truth, Mister Pocket. You may disregard the previous information
about dreams and such, seems it is irrelevant. I suppose I am a canvas of
sorts. The Red Priest must have put a lot of mixture into that device.

Well then, if a
blueprint is all, I will have to remove it.

The woods are
quiet and I retreat there. The Priest's stitches are strong so I find a sharp
rock and work until I see gears, but nothing like a blueprint. I think some
pieces hit the dirt. Oh well.

I am tired, and I
think I am in pain. How ordinary.

I miss you, Mister
Pocket.

Rather than
dissolve into the dirt, I am collected by nuns. My sleeping spot intersected
their stroll.

“Oh you poor
dear!”

“What happened to
you?”

“Gears? Oh, she
must be that missing doll! Oh, do pick up those pieces, we should fix her up.”

I should be happy
to receive kindness, but I am not. I am more clockwork than ever.

My loose parts are
stuffed back in “so that they won't be lost” and I am wrapped tight with linens
around my middle. My attempt to sleep on a pew was hindered by this, so when
the moon came out, I asked a nun for directions. I want to go back in my case.

“The watch shop?
Oh dearie, you don't want to go back there. They've been looking for you, you
know, and the place is...”

I need my case.
Only the case.

She tells me and I
embark on a moonlight stroll—no, I walk. The streets are empty and I am glad
for that.

When I arrive,
Father's house is ruined.

Fire, it seems.

A garden of shiny
metal bits stick out from the rubble. A pretty little leaf—no, not a leaf—

A...spoon.

A spoon with
holes, and oh, what's this? A hat attached and—

Covered with dirt,
it's you, Mister Pocket. You can sleep through anything. I am envious. I dig
you out of the dirt and your arms reach out to hug me. How you do talk in your
sleep. Talk...

Don't laugh at me,
all right?

I shouldn't write
everything.

I hid with you in
the basement and you slept. Your face is exhausted and dirty and sad and you
won't wake up. Maybe you're not dreaming.

Days pass, I
think. You need your rest.

It's all my fault.

Final kisses on
your forehead. It is time to retrieve my bubblemaker from the nuns. All of my
parts, together.

I write these
words on borrowed paper scavenged from the cathedral. I am surrounded by
bubbles. Turning the crank between sentences keeps them coming. I still have
not run out. I will need their beautiful colors to give me strength to write
what follows.

To the King who
seeks me, you may not have Father's blueprint. This is purely for spite. I
would like to continue believing that I am not scrap, though I know this to be
untrue. You have upset Mister Pocket, and I hate you. If you shall not give up
this pursuit, I have but one option.

When the sun
rises, I shall end this life. I shall climb to the roof and plunge to my
greatest sleep.

Please do not be
sad, Mister Pocket. Your sleeps may now forever be peaceful. Unlike the one you
are having now.

Is it terribly
selfish of me? I couldn't bear to spend my final night alone without seeing you
one more time. I hope I haven't put you in danger yet again. But you still
won't wake up.

So, I close this
brief diary by borrowed candlelight, next to you. Thank you, if you are reading
these words, you have helped me to pass my final night.

To Mister Pocket,
thank you. I am sorry, and I love you.

I will see my
final sunrise upon the tall place with the bluebird shape in the colored glass.
I hope that it will be a pretty one.