Hearts of Smoke and Steam (22 page)

“What is it?” he said, his voice choked by emotion and tears. “I'll do anything.”

“Protect your sister.”

“Sarah?”

Stanton gripped his shoulder and squeezed, “She knew what was coming, I can see that now. She knew it all along.”

He inhaled sharply and coughed out a small spot of blood. “Darby…in his will. He wanted Sarah to become a Paragon. Can you believe that?”

Sarah, one of them? It was ridiculous, but exactly the kind of idealistic nonsense that the old man would have dreamed up. “But we read the will out loud.”

Stanton coughed. It was a terrible, broken sound. “I had the section removed.”

“You lied.”

Stanton smiled at that. “I thought it was for the best. But you can tell her if you want.”

“I don't even know where she is.”

“She's a part of this, and she's a Stanton. There's no turning back for her now.” The words were getting weaker. Nathaniel could see that he only had moments to live. “I've tried to be a father to you both, but it's time to grow up. There's work to do.” Nathaniel could feel the hand gripping his arm begin to shake.

“Yes sir.”

“You're the last true Paragon. I need you to fight…”

“I'll try.”

“Do more. Win…” Stanton's head rolled back, and he could hear the man's final breath slip free from his lips in a shuddering rattle.

Nathaniel sat there quietly for a moment, hoping for a miracle, but none came.

Holding his step-father's dead body in his arms left him feeling strangely empty inside. He had craved Stanton's approval for so long, and in the moment he had finally gotten it, his step-father had simply given him another challenge. Maybe this time he wouldn't fail him.

He unbuckled the straps that held the Industrialist's gun to his body and pulled it free. As he finished unhooking the ammunition belt, a voice yelled out from across the room.
“Gott in Himmel!”
Nathaniel looked up to see Helmut Grüsser standing just outside the doorway, eyes wide, witnessing the same framed scene of hell that he himself had viewed only a few minutes earlier.

“Help me, Grüsser!” he yelled over to the Prussian as he draped the belt over the shoulder. The gun fit awkwardly into the empty holster at his waist, but it would have to do until he could figure out a way to integrate it with the rest of his costume.

“Vas hast du done!” said the fat man as he staggered backwards.

Nathaniel stood up and reactivated his engines. It was time to go, but he didn't want to leave the Prussian without a warning. “Grüsser, you need to get out of here—now! King Jupiter and Lord Eschaton are the same man. He's killed the Industrialist and done God knows what to the Hall. We need to go. We need to find help.”

Having pushed himself against the far wall of the hallway, Grüsser stood frozen for a few moments without saying a word, the look on his face spelling out his horror and despair. Then he vanished down the corridor as fast as his legs could carry him.

Nathaniel sighed. The man had never been of that much use in a fight, but at least he had been brave. Now that it was bravery that was needed, it seemed he was of no use at all.

He raised his arms and clenched his hands, but instead of powering up, the engines died away. The only sound was simply a strange cackling from behind him that was half laughter, and half a crackling hiss.

When he turned, he saw that the metal-covered half-man had managed to crawl in behind him. Metal columns had grown out from his hands and were attached to the wings on Nathaniel's back. “No fly-y-y-y-y,” it said in a broken voice that, for all its distortion, was clearly that of William Hughes.

“Good God, man,” Nathaniel said in horror, “what have they done to you?”

“He's been reborn,” said Lord Eschaton's voice from somewhere nearby. “My first true child.”

Nathaniel felt only an instant of pain, and then the world went dark.

I
n typical New York fashion, the ferry that Sarah and Viola took back to Brooklyn was the very same one that had been attacked by the Children of Eschaton a few days before.

After the fight at the apartment, all that Sarah had wanted was a few moments for peace and reflection, and when they boarded the ship it had been her intention to simply find a place to sit quietly for the duration of their journey home.

But Viola had quickly discovered the unhappy coincidence, and she had become obsessed with pointing out the poorly patched ceiling that barely concealed where the harpoon had burst into the passenger cabin. She had also discovered a dark mark on the linoleum where the blood from the impaled passenger had stained the floor.

As Viola nattered on, Sarah realized that the Italian girl had many qualities that made her a far more suitable candidate for becoming a Paragon than she would ever be. The Italian girl seemed almost immune to horror and was clearly stronger. She also seemed more at ease in the world than Sarah.

Viola's more “practical” view of men might come in useful as well. The girl seemed to think that all members of the opposite sex existed as either annoyances to be dealt with or objects of desire to be conquered. Sarah imagined that attitude could certainly make it easier to punch a man when the situation called for it.

Lastly, the Italian girl seemed to have an almost limitless sense of curiosity. Once Viola had finally gotten her fill of discussing the battle scars on the boat, she started to pepper Sarah with question after question about Mrs. Farrows.

It was obvious that the housemaid had left quite an impression on the young girl, and Sarah was beginning to gain a deeper appreciation for the technique that Jenny used to transform unruly urchins into crack servants for the Stanton household.

Given a few weeks of exposure, Sarah was quite sure that Jenny would have Viola happily wearing a black maid's dress with a feather duster in her hand.

Just thinking about it had made Sarah realize how much she missed the life she had left behind, whether or not she actually wished to return to it.

Before she had run off, Sarah would have never believed in her wildest dreams—and her dreams had always been far wilder than those of any of the other women she had known—that she would have spent a sunny day in April walking, talking, and fighting with a foreign woman of the streets. Nor would she have believed that she would have found it quite so annoying.

There were, she decided, some very good things about a life that was not entirely punctuated with unexpected adventure.

They had arrived on the Brooklyn docks just before sunset, and used the elevated railway to head north before completing their journey back to the junkyard with a long walk down a dark dirt road. By that time, her back was screaming from lugging the carpet bag full of clothes that Jenny had packed for her. It seemed that Mrs. Farrows had the ability to put people to work without even having to be nearby.

At least the ramshackle building at the center of the junkyard was well lit and inviting. Emilio had created a system of arc lamps and mirrors that flooded the area with a harsh white light that turned night into day. It was an amazing display, and it seemed clear to Sarah that his devotion to electricity was, in its own way, even greater than Darby's.

As they neared the entrance, Emilio flung open the door to great them. He was wearing another one of what seemed to be an endless series of tattered silk robes that almost littered the interior of the house. This one was white, with large red fish running up the side of it. “Sarah! Viola!” He took the bag from Sarah's hand and helped her up into the house.

“Come, come! Sit. Sit!” He pulled open a sliding door and led them into a large parlor that Sarah had, up until this moment, not even realized existed. In the middle of the room, a fire burned merrily in a brazier that hung down from a series of chains attached to a large chimney. There were wires and gears connected to the top of it, and Sarah could only wonder at their purpose.

Tired of thinking, Sarah sat down gently on the couch, taking a moment to sweep her skirts aside. Never one to stand on ceremony, Viola simply flopped herself backwards into one of the sofas and let out a long sigh.
“Fratello, ho bisogno d'una bevanda ed un sigaro!”
She grasped at her boots, slid them off her feet, and threw them behind the couch, where they landed with a heavy thunk.

It was a display that would have been worthy of any upper-class gentleman. Sarah would have found herself even more shocked by her companion if it weren't for the fact that she could no longer muster the energy to continue to be flabbergasted by the Italian hellion.

Instead, Sarah tried to join in with the spirit of the experience by unlacing her shoes and letting herself revel in the fact that for the last few days she had been living a blessedly bustle-free existence.

Emilio walked across to the other side of the room and was preparing something at a small wooden table nearby. “How was the day for you?”

Viola jumped up in her seat with a smile on her face. “We fought
una canaglia.
He was seven foot tall and round like an egg!” She pointed at the marks on her neck and grinned.
“Mi ha strangolato!”

Sarah didn't need a translator to figure out what it was the girl had just said to her brother, but by her tone it sounded as if she were talking about riding on a merry-go-round, and not being nearly choked to death. It was doubly strange considering the murderous rage that Viola had been in at the time.

Emilio turned and looked back at them with concern in his face. “Then Sarah's friend smacked him with an iron! Bam!” Viola said, gesturing with her arm to show how Jenny had smashed the villain. Emilio just shook his head as he picked up the tray and walked back across the room.

“We only knocked him out,” Sarah said.

“And this rich girl let him go!” As Emilio approached, Viola greedily grabbed one of the glasses and the small cigar next to it.

“But you are okay—both of you?”

“We're fine!” Viola shouted, cutting off Sarah before she could thank him for his concern. “And we don't need my stupid brother fussing over us. Now let's drink!” Viola dropped onto the couch a little more gingerly this time, clearly focused on making sure that her glass wouldn't spill in the attempt.

Emilio turned toward Sarah and offered her one of the glasses on the tray. The liquor clung to the sides as it sloshed back and forth.

Sarah reached out to pick one up, and then hesitated. She had been around drink all her life, but she'd never actually tried any before. Beyond the constant muttering of temperance amongst the ladies (although none of them seemed unable to resist a little sip when they thought no one was looking), it seemed to her that the most noticeable effect of alcohol was that it quickly turned perfectly reasonable people into fools.

On the other hand, after the ordeal that she had gone through today, Sarah was beginning to see the appeal of dulling one's senses from time to time.

Emilio nodded at the drink. “Try it! You would like it, Sarah.”

“What is it?” she asked, picking up the glass. After giving it a more vigorous swirl, she brought the glass up to her nose and gave it a sniff. The smell was something like incense, with a strong scent of flowers and perfume.

“It is
vermut
.”

“It's a kind of Italian wine,” Viola added. “Something that old men and my brother like to drink.”

From what she knew of the tastes of old men, Sarah imagined that it must be either very weak or incredibly strong.

“Salute!”
Emilio said, clinked his glass against hers, and took a sip.

Not wanting to be rude, and more than a little bit curious, Sarah tipped a small amount of the liquor into her mouth and held it on her tongue. The liquid seemed to be overwhelming her and evaporating simultaneously, filling her head with flavors and scents that had only been hinted at by her nose.

She swallowed what remained, and it seemed to vanish almost before it could finish rolling down her throat. There was a sudden rush of heat, and Sarah began to cough.

“Vergine!”
shouted Viola, and began to laugh.

Emilio clucked his tongue and shushed his sister.
“Fai gentile!”

“You picked a fine girl, Emilio. A tender little blossom to make tin flowers for.”

Sarah put her hand up to her mouth and tried to control her coughing fit. Her face felt warm and flushed. “It would be nice,” she said to Emilio between gasps, “if there was
something
that your sister could feel some embarrassment about.”

Viola's laughter stopped short. “You are braver than I thought, rich girl, but you are still
vergine
.” She grabbed a pillow and flung it in Sarah's direction, narrowly missing her head. Instead it slammed into a vase on the side table and sent it crashing to the floor.

Viola frowned. “If it wasn't for your friend Jenny, we'd both be dead.”

Her coughing had subsided, and Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but once again she had nothing to say.

Viola stood up, her eyes locked onto her brother. “I am going to bed, Emilio. Try not to let the rich girl hurt herself.” She stomped out of the room and disappeared behind one of the curtained doorways.

Emilio sat down on the other end of the couch. “I am sorry. She can be angry.”

“Maybe she's right,” Sarah said, and took another—smaller—sip of her
vermut
. As infuriating as Viola could be, she was beginning to realize that the girl often had a way of revealing Sarah's fears and putting them directly into words.

During all the time that she had dreamed of becoming a Paragon, Sarah had never really imagined what her life would be like, beyond putting on a costume and facing down vicious villains with bravado and flair. Having grown up around Darby and her father, on some level she
knew
that the reality of it would be more complicated, but she was beginning to think that without a steam-powered gun in her hand, her only true skill was being able to put herself into danger on a regular basis. And now that she had been given a taste of the real thing, her desire to be an actual hero seemed more of a fantasy than ever.

When Sarah looked up, she saw Emilio staring straight at her. She flushed as his eyes met hers, and her breath caught in her chest. The idea of being alone with a man was as impossible as it was ridiculous, and yet it was exactly where she was. He had the barest hint of a smile, and no matter how hard she tried, Sarah couldn't seem to pull her gaze away from his lips.

“You no need sorry, Sarah. Both Viola and I, we had a very hard time before America, but I help you because I want to. Is not your fault.”

Sarah finally tore her eyes away and stared at the glass in her hand. “Maybe it is. I think I do hurt the people I care about. I lost my mother when I was a little girl.” Had she ever actually
told
anyone that before? The words felt unreal as she said them.

The rumors of her part in the death Lady Stanton were something that she knew always preceded her introduction to any new acquaintance.

Where the first words most people heard when meeting someone new were something along the lines of “lovely to meet you, my dear,” young Sarah heard phrases like “Oh, you poor child,” or “We're so sorry for your loss.” And once she was too old for direct exclamations of pity, Sarah would still occasionally see a look of sadness and suspicion in people's eyes that meant they knew about her sad past.

“She was killed by a villain,” Sarah continued, trying to fill the silence. When she felt the hot buzz in the corners of her eyes that preceded tears, she pressed her hands against her cheeks to stop the flow. “It was my fault.”

“No.” Emilio shook his head and smiled. “You were a little girl. No fault…”

“I revealed to the world my father was the Industrialist.” Despite her best efforts, a single tear escaped. She quickly rubbed it away with her knuckle. “I was so young, and I didn't know I wasn't supposed to. When the Crucible found out, he took Mother and me hostage.”

Emilio sat there quietly while Sarah took a long moment to compose herself. “My father came to our rescue, but in the end he could only save one of us from the Crucible's trap.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she took another sip of her drink. Where before it had made her cough, now it seemed to help. “He chose to save me first, obviously, although I'm not sure that he didn't come to regret it.”

Emilio moved closer to her, and for a moment Sarah was sure that he was going to kiss her again. When he took her hands into his, she realized how ridiculous she was being. Emilio nodded before he spoke, “I should say…tell you…I was married…in Tuscany. But she is gone now.”

Sarah's eyes grew wide. To her Emilio looked so young, but he was clearly older than she was. And if it weren't for her stubborn temperament and lenient father, Sarah would have been married off, herself. There was no reason to think that a boy—a man—Emilio's age wouldn't have been married, but in that instant he seemed much more mature than he had a moment before. “Did you have children?”