Curio (9 page)

Pain jerked Grey out of numbness. Her head throbbed. Rhythmic flapping broke through the darkness cradling her. The whooshing sound changed into running footsteps.

She had to get up.

She struggled to open her eyes.

Muggy heat filled her nostrils, blocking breath. Her mind swam.

The footsteps slapped nearer, jarring her head. Someone bent over her. Creaking and muted jangling seemed to come from all sides. The scents of sawdust, machine oil, and sweat blended with the sticky air. A rough hand touched her cheek.

Grey's lids fluttered just as another sound invaded—the cadence of many feet. The shape kneeling beside her jerked. Rope-like strands whipped through the darkness and a strange outline came into view. A wing? Shouts rang out and the winged being bolted away.

She strained to hear the flapping noise again, but the thud of the marching feet pounded nearer, sending reverberations through the surface beneath her. Wincing, she lifted her face then eased her upper body off the wet pavestones with her elbows. She lay in a darkened street. A layer of fog overhead gathered light from street lamps and shed a faint brown glow over her surroundings. Vague outlines of buildings lined her peripheral vision.

Grey peered at the approaching figures. They moved as one entity, their clanging steps bearing down on her. Scrambling to a sitting position only sent the shadowy street spinning. When her vision cleared, Grey scooted backward.

She searched for an escape route. At first glance, the structures on either side of her appeared to be connected shops, like the business center of the Foothills Quarter. But a closer look revealed ornate facades, groomed gardens, and decorative iron fences—a residential neighborhood. Grey wobbled to her feet and peeked over her shoulder. The rows of terraced houses stretched on into the night.

She clutched her aching head. Where was she?

The soldiers nearing her didn't belong in the drab ranks of the United States military. Long guns perched on their shoulders and stretched up into the night like a moving forest of stripped branches. The gun muzzles and metallic buttons on their chests glinted in the hazy illumination. Grey squinted. Their long coats reflected light like a tin bucket in the moonlight. Underneath bushy black hats, the men's faces gleamed as well. Metal. Their clothes, their shoes, their faces. All metal.

The group halted. One soldier—an exact replica of the man next to him and the man next to him and so on—stepped forward and bowed at the waist.

A mechanical hum accompanied the opening of his mouth, and a monotone voice spoke.

“Do you require assistance, Mistress Porcelain?”

Grey gaped.

The flat voice continued. “Are you fully animated, Miss?”

“I . . . I . . .”

The soldier next to the apparent leader broke into the same mechanical whirring. His jaw opened and he spoke in an identical voice.

“If I may, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant's head rotated to the left. “Yes, Sergeant?

The second soldier stepped forward to join the lieutenant, but kept his round eyes locked on Grey. His unblinking gaze reminded her of the glass-eyed dolls in her grandfather's shop.

Granddad. The store. Haimon. Grey almost crumpled. She'd been in the shop. Haimon had pressed her bleeding hand to the curio cabinet. Then he'd told her to find
him
and bring him back. Find who? She glanced about the street. Pain and bursts of light accompanied the movement. More streets. More muted orange streetlamps. What was this place?

The two metal figures before her conversed in their unnatural speech. She caught the end of the sergeant's sentence.

“. . . not a porcie I recognize, sir.”

The lieutenant's head swiveled back to examine her. He took another step closer and his mechanized jaw released. “You are correct. And the Mad Tock left her. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Indeed.”

Grey turned from the shiny soldiers. She would run. The metal men were slow, and they'd never catch her. She studied her feet. Why weren't they moving? She pitched forward. The wet cobblestones rushed toward her face.

Something pulled at Grey's hand. Her head ached. She ignored the little tug and drifted back to sleep. Sometime later, a tickling sensation registered on her palm. She flinched as a smooth object pressed into her scraped flesh. Another poke and she yanked her hand away.

A gasp accompanied the swish of her eyelids. Pink. A swathe of pink like the sky at sunset hovered over her head. No. The pink thing wasn't hovering. It remained motionless as Grey focused. The smooth material above her looked soft, but the sheen of the light on the satiny fabric reminded her of the glinting metal men. She opened her mouth to cry out but only managed a cough.

“We gave you water, but you didn't animate. What manner of porcie are you?”

Grey shifted toward the voice, grateful for the cushioning support beneath her head. All the swirling pink faded into the background, and she jerked.

A woman sat studying her. Grey blinked, but the exquisite figure remained. A delicate, heart-shaped face regarded Grey. Large blue eyes fringed with long, black lashes sparkled despite the woman's grave expression. Auburn hair rose from her forehead into a mountain of jewel-studded curls and cascaded down her shoulder in perfect ringlets. But her skin. Grey had never seen anything like it. Translucent. Flawless. The woman's alabaster face belonged in a painting. Her cheekbones bore a faint rose blush, and her full lips were a shade darker than the pink canopy and bedspread. A high-collared gown of blue and gold was cut away from her bosom to create the shape of an upside down heart. Long, pink-tipped fingers wove together on the bedspread. Elbow-length sleeves revealed graceful forearms and wrists. Every
inch of visible skin appeared to be made of porcelain and yet alive, supple.

A tiny frown pulled at the woman's perfect mouth. She looked confused, though no lines marred her brow. “Are you without speech? I can have more water brought up if it would help. You never cooled completely. We saw to that. We've been tending you, my maids and I. I am Fantine.”

Grey cleared her throat. “Where am I?”

Fantine beamed, clasping her hands to her expertly displayed chest. “You can speak. Oh, I am so relieved. The glueman repaired the cracks on your hands and leg—such strange cracks!—but when you did not reanimate, we feared some terrible disaster had befallen you. Oh, but as to your location, you are in the house of Lord Blueboy.”

As she spoke the name, her sapphire eyes widened, and her smile conveyed a dazzling blend of pride, pleasure, and secrecy. When Grey said nothing, Fantine nodded, her curls bouncing.

“I know. Speechless is right. He has taken an interest in you. Such a mystery. And you so pretty. Well, in your unusual way, of course. My lord is fascinated. Simply fascinated by your variable skin and the little brown dots on your arms.” Fantine's gaze skimmed up Grey's arm to her face and then down to her body beneath the sheet. Her cheery tone faded. “And your softness.”

A real frown, not the former pretty pout, crossed her features.

Grey tore her eyes from the doll-like woman and took in her surroundings. She lay in a massive bed decked in pink satin and white lace. The room beyond was as big as her whole house. On her left tall windows opened onto a small balcony. Several groups of burgundy-upholstered chairs dotted the expansive floor. At the far end of the room a massive
mirror and a towering wardrobe dominated the papered wall. A low vanity cluttered with an array of beautiful bottles stood in between them. She scrutinized the jewel-toned containers. No potion bottles.

The realization provoked a physical reaction. Grey pressed her hand to her stomach as a sharp pang preceded a loud gurgle.

Fantine coughed delicately.

Grey turned to her astonishing hostess. “I'm sorry. I'm confused. Where did you say I am?”

Fantine loosed a musical laugh. “They should have checked your head twice for cracks.” She arranged her features into a wise mask and spoke in a sing-song voice that reminded Grey of a nursery school teacher. “You are in Lord Blueboy's mansion—the grandest home in all of Curio City. His lordship took pity on you when the platoon brought you in. We summoned the glueman to repair you, supplied you with water, and waited for you to reanimate.”

Curio City? Glueman? It made no sense. Grey rubbed the tender spot above her forehead and winced. She must've broken her head.

“Fantine?”

“Yes?”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Ah, sleep?”

“Um.” Grey searched her foggy brain. How had Fantine put it? “How long have I been inanimate?”

“Oh, let's see then. They brought you here at night. Nettie fetched me a cuppa in bed and nattered on about you while I warmed. The glueman came in the morning—yesterday—so this is your second day with us.”

Two days! What had happened to her father in that time? Grey pushed against the pillows, struggling to sit. She had
to get back, make Adante understand. Or was it already too late? She swallowed the rising panic.

“I have to get out of here. I can't stay.” Grey peeled back the covers then yanked them to her chin. She wore nothing but a filmy gown nearly as sheer as the gauze curtains framing the tall windows. “Where are my clothes?”

“Don't be silly . . . Oh dear, what is your name?”

“Grey.”

Fantine wrinkled her perfect nose. “That's not a very pretty name, is it?” She shrugged. “Don't be silly, Grey. You can't leave. We must have the glueman back to see that you're properly mended. And then we must present you to my lord and hear your miraculous tale. And
then
there will likely be a ball, and various presentations and paintings and the like. The whole house is practically suspended waiting for news. Which reminds me.”

She rose and Grey gawked at her outfit. The extravagant dress with its odd neckline—a mixture of prim and indecent—hugged Fantine's waist in panels of gold-embroidered blue satin. What had first appeared to be a full skirt fell over her hips, but the front of the skirt ended in a lacy ruffle that skimmed Fantine's molded ivory thighs. The rows of fabric and lace tapered to the floor, framing the woman's elegant, bare legs. Fantine turned away, revealing a back section that reached the floor and swished behind her as she walked to a small decorative door in the wall.

As soon as Fantine opened the little panel, the tinkling sound of water made Grey squeeze her legs together. She needed a bathroom. Now.

Fantine reached inside the cabinet, fiddled with something, then withdrew a silver teacup. She smiled as she returned to Grey's bedside.

“Here we are.” She placed the cup on a table at Grey's right. “Drink that up while I share the good news that you've reanimated.”

Grey eyed the silver cup and bit her lip while Fantine fumbled with the curtains tied to the canopy frame at the head of the bed. Her delicate fingers closed around a braided gold rope, and she tugged on it twice.

“There, my own maid Nettie has instructions to respond to this room. She will help you dress.”

Another loud rumble from Grey's stomach halted Fantine's chatter. She turned to Grey with alarm stamped on her polished features.

Grey flushed and picked at the lace ruffle on the coverlet. “I'm hungry, and I really need to use the restroom.”

“Hungry? Rest room?”

Somehow Grey had expected this reaction from Fantine. She closed her eyes, blocking out the strange, gorgeous woman and the decadent room. The dull ache in her head intensified and tears rimmed her eyelids.

She had to find a way out of this place and back home.

CHAPTER

7

G
rey perched on the edge of the bed while wrapped in the pink satin coverlet. Though the mattress was high off the ground, her legs reached to the floor. She tapped a quick rhythm with her toe. With Fantine gone to tell the household of her recovery, now was her chance to escape. Though three things barred her way: A full bladder, an empty stomach, and the fact that the room went black whenever she tried to stand.