She sat in a booth with Emerlie and Abilene and stared thoughtfully out the window to the endless green moors as they chattered, bright and silly as sparrows. Imogen subtly stroked the brooch pinned to her jacket, considering the treasure folded within. She had never had a secret before, and yet she had always felt that she had been forced to keep her true self hidden. The waving grasses and wild copses of the countryside were like a dream to her, born and bred and ensorcelled in the city as she had been, but it felt good to be free from the wills of harsh men. Master Stain as an employer seemed bemused and distant, but Mr. Murdoch was a different beast altogether. Something about him drew her in and piqued her curiosity, as if perhaps he kept certain things hidden, too.
Outside, the sky hung heavy over grasses the same green as Mr. Murdoch’s eyes. Somewhere just out of view was London. And the faster they were out of its range, the better.
5
After lunch, Imogen all but needed a crowbar to extricate herself from Emerlie’s company. The girl was like a vivacious little kraken, her arms as firm and sticky as tentacles.
“Really, my dear, I have an important appointment to keep,” Imogen said in her sternest museum-marm voice, and Emerlie pouted and finally loosed her grip.
Knowing that her next move would be carefully watched, Imogen returned to the wagon she shared with Abilene on the pretense of fetching something. With a push of the button, the orange lamps of the hallway buzzed to life, the color oddly different from the ones in London. Imogen ran a hand along the faded handbills and posters pasted to the wood. Abi had long ago claimed the inner chamber, but at least a brief corridor led to it, keeping her from moving through Imogen’s chamber at odd hours or having access to Imogen’s belongings. She unlocked her own door and turned on the lights, quickly locking the door behind her again when she was assuredly alone.
Her instinct, of course, was to check the security of her trunk, but she didn’t want Emerlie to see her go into Mr. Murdoch’s wagon. She therefore had a few moments to spend, waiting for the inquisitive creature to get bored and plague someone else. Drawn to the lamp’s warm glow, she opened the locket she wore always as a brooch, not daring to touch what lay within but feeling its almost electrical charge nonetheless. She had to wonder if its power had anything to do with her sudden need for freedom and empowerment, her drive to be liberated from meddlesome men and their foolish love of normalcy and propriety. Clicking the locket shut, she told herself it didn’t matter.
The deed was done, and here she was.
A raindrop thumped on the roof, then another and another, until the usual afternoon showers of a Sanglish summer played a trilling song on the flat metal. The slam of the wagon door and Abi’s heavy footsteps signaled the end of luncheon, so Imogen gladly rose and turned off the lights. At the last moment, she remembered to take up her greased parasol before darting out into the storm.
Just as she had hoped, the caravan was empty as the rain hammered down from gray skies. Thanks to the windowless nature of the Pinky wagons, there wasn’t even a way for Emerlie to spy on her as she ran to Mr. Murdoch’s car.
Her boots squelched in the mud, her hems dragging heavily. The rain seemed more ferocious outside the city, and she could feel it leeching into her bones. A wild, green scent rose from the ground, and lightning rattled overhead. In the twist of a second, her exhilaration turned to fear, and she wrenched open Mr. Murdoch’s door without knocking to escape the furor of the sudden squall.
She slammed the door and leaned back against it, sodden and dripping. Mr. Murdoch gaped at her from where he stood beside her trunk, a copy of Withering Heights open in his bare hands. The extreme impropriety of her uninvited entrance crashed down upon her, and her cheeks went hot. In London, a woman would be disgraced for such actions, and he would have been well within his rights to have her fired.
“Won’t you come in, Madam Morpho?” His words sounded cold and haughty until she saw his smile.
She took pains with the boot scraper as she recomposed herself, saying only, “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch.”
“I see you are punctual.”
“I see you are snooping.”
He closed the book, not with the snap she expected but with the gentleness she would use to hold the Common Jezebel folded within. The Monarch still sat on his head, and she was charmed that the creature had taken a shine to him. The butterflies were a choosy lot, she had learned, and it could just as easily have fluttered well out of his reach.
“I think perhaps you mean I’m curious,” he countered. “Which I admit to. It’s a big part of my job, after all. If I don’t question everything, I could never invent anything. Every invention is itself a question, you know, and the inventor himself the answer.”
“A philosopher, too,” she muttered.
“And you’re a criminal.”
The breath stuck in her throat, her collar suddenly choking her. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He set the book down gently in the trunk and crossed the space between them in a few steps. The door was solid and cold against her back, and she felt sincerely trapped. He stepped closer than he should have, his spring-green eyes boring into hers and his hands in his pockets. He was taller and more heavily built than she had guessed, his shoulders wide beyond his vest. The sharp tang of metal rose off his skin, mingled with smoke and sandalwood, and she felt herself hypnotized like a mongoose facing a cobra.
“I didn’t invite you in,” he said. “And yet here you are.”
“I simply opened the door, sir, to escape the rain.”
“My point exactly. That’s unlawful entry.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other. She understood that in such a silence, a woman was expected to explain herself, to confess or make excuses or lie. She did none of these things. Schooled among jealous and dishonest men of science and inquiry, she knew how to hold her tongue and her ground. She had thought he had guessed her secret, but now that she looked closely, she realized he was baiting her, playing with her, possibly even flirting. Under his beard, his mouth was quirked up in a lopsided smile. Despite the chill she should have felt, soaked as she was, Imogen was overtaken with an unexpected heat.
“Your eyes are the color of antique bronze,” he said, the soft warmth of his voice catching her by surprise. She blinked, and he stepped back. “And your parasol is leaving a puddle on my boot.”
“Oh,” she said, the spell broken. “I am sorry about that. Have you a rag?”
“No. Who are you, really?”
She scoffed and shot back, “Who am I, indeed? Who are you?”
“I’m sure Miss Fetching has told you as much as anyone knows of the Mysterious Mr. Murdoch.”
“Which is practically nothing, as you have ensured through your penchant for reclusiveness and your refusal to answer simple questions.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest as if trapped there, and he took her parasol and jabbed it into a metal umbrella stand crafted to resemble an elephant’s foot.
“Did you make that yourself, and am I truly the first person besides Vil to enter your wagon?”
“Yes, and nearly,” he answered with a nod. “Master Stain has been in a half-dozen times since I’ve been here, but the man is unusually forgiving of my quirks. I simply do not have the time or patience for ridiculous people. Or, really, people at all.”
“How very odd.” She shook out her skirts and settled her hat. “I find you reasonably temperate.”
“But you are not ridiculous.”
“Indeed not. There is little room for tomfoolery in the scholarly arts. And speaking of which, have you achieved your plans? If not, I can come back later.”
“Yes. No. Stay,” he said brashly, then chuckled again and ran a hand through his hair. “I mean to say, yes, I have completed the sketches and would be glad to discuss them. May I take your coat?”
Her hand flew again to the brooch. Her instinct was to trust him, but her instincts had often failed her. She would be sure not to leave her jacket in his wagon when she departed. And considering that no one else came into his quarters, her belongings would probably be safer here than in the car she shared with Abilene, where Emerlie would surely be snooping about. She gave him a curt nod and began gingerly to unbutton the dull black coat. Feeling the peculiar man’s eyes on her, she very nearly allowed herself to flush again and moved closer to the hearth just in case. With her back to him, she gazed into the fire and absorbed its warmth as she drew her arms from the heavy, sodden sleeves.
“Let me take that,” he said, and before she could protest, he added, “I do have a proper coat rack. Well, perhaps not proper. But functional. I improved upon the original design.” She handed him the coat without turning, and he murmured, “Ah. Your coat, like your wards, keeps the brightness hidden. I approve.”
Imogen looked up, pleased and caught out at once. He stood beside a metal coat rack designed along the lines of a many-legged octopus, admiring the Monarch-scarlet lining of her outwardly drab jacket and fingering the thick silk within. A wave of unfamiliar intimacy overtook her; surely it was still warm from her body. Before she could comment, he hung it on an elegantly curling tentacle and strode purposefully into the workshop.
“Come along!” he shouted, and she hurried to follow, wet skirts leaving a trail behind her. “The original designs were both elegant and practical, to be sure.” He leaned over a long roll of parchment pegged to the table. “But we can do better. The musical instruments, for example, were powered by a hidden calliope. But why can the butterflies themselves not play real instruments? Using a combination of wood with metal strings and monofilaments, I believe they could be coerced to flap in the correct time.”
She was speechless, and he spoke faster to fill the void.
“And the feats of strength. Abominable fakery. The barbells and kettlebells were made of paper, which would be evident under magnification. What if we actually constructed metal weights and a series of pulleys and simple machines to lift them?”
