He’d known that working with Elliott was risky. Inventing was risky. And he was right.
Somehow he’d ended up imprisoned again, by another madman.
This time, he was locked up with the most infuriating girl. Elliott’s sister, with her fake eyelashes and glitter smeared above her eyes. Kent could barely look at her.
People were dying in the city every day, and this girl wasted precious resources. Like air. Here she was, bantering with him about some imaginary girlfriend. As if he had time for such things.
But then she told him, her voice steady and completely serious, how she planned to watch her father die under Elliott’s sword.
“You should’ve been an actress,” he said finally.
“I know.” Her voice was light again. “My mother trained me well. Too bad the plague closed all the theaters.”
“Too bad,” he repeated, trying to cover his sudden confusion. She was the silliest and the most fearless person he had ever met. The silence stretched between them.
“So, we’re near the harbor, and I’ve freed you from that manacle,” she prompted. “Are you going to escape?”
“No,” he said simply.
“You should. I’d enjoy being rescued.”
He gave her a smile that he hoped was apologetic.
“I can’t,” he said. “The Reverend wants me to set a bomb, but he didn’t tell me where, or what he wants me to blow up. I’m far from the only person who can build explosives in the city, as we both know. I have to figure out what he wants me to blow up, so I can tell Elliott. So we can subvert Malcontent’s plans.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “But then, what a waste of a good hairpin.”
And he could see that she understood everything. That he’d carefully balanced the danger to her against the many people who would die if Malcontent had his way. And he’d chosen to stay because he could save the most lives this way.
He forced himself to stop thinking about the girl before him on the floor. What did Malcontent want him to blow up? What was he missing?
“I’ll have to put it back on if someone comes, but I don’t consider being able to do this a waste.” He stood, his muscles protesting after sitting for so long on the cold floor. And he paced.
Just a few nights ago, he’d seen the damage from Malcontent’s bombs. He’d seen a dead child, buried by the rubble, when Elliott took him to examine what was left.
The traces of the bomb had been negligible. But the despair of the residents of the apartment building behind the church had been overwhelming. The sadness. The expectations that someone would come along and change their miserable lives. Elliott had been perfect, reassuring, comforting. Kent had stood in the background, uncomfortable and mute.
But he could stop Malcontent from setting another bomb. If the madman wanted Kent, cared enough to have kidnapped him, then he must want something huge. An explosion that the city would remember. Unless it was simply because he’d killed whoever made the last round of bombs.
His pacing was controlled; he stepped softly so that any guards who were outside wouldn’t hear the movements. He went over the schematics for his fake bomb once again. At the same time, he imagined the city as though he were looking down on it from above, from the magnificent airship that he’d taken out on only a few fledgling flights.
He and Elliott agreed that for the city to prosper, they had to find other people, had to make contact with other survivors of the plague.
And suddenly he knew where the bomb was to be set. It was so simple . . . the steamship. The Discovery. Elliott’s first great triumph, talking his uncle into this massive project. And Malcontent wanted to ruin everything.
Kent didn’t care if Malcontent and Prospero brought each other down. He did care about innocent lives. He sighed. Figuring out where the bomb was to be set wasn’t enough. He’d have to stay. He could build a fake bomb. If he left the Reverend would get a real one.
“I know where he wants to plant the bomb,” he told April, who was watching him from the couch. “If somehow you do escape, or he lets you go, tell Elliott.”
With his finger he sketched the schematics on the floor. It left no mark, but he’d remember. Just going through the motions of drawing helped him figure out the design. He’d need clockwork and wires and assorted parts. His bomb would be very convincing, so that the Reverend wouldn’t discover it was fake until it was too late.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
“Quick, go back to your corner,” April said.
Kent scurried over to the wall. Putting his wrist back in the manacle took all of his will power. But before he closed the lock a servant came in with food. The man gave April a long, considering look before putting down the tray, but he didn’t even glance Kent’s way before he left. Kent let the manacle drop back down to the floor.
“Malcontent—your father—could have found another pretty girl. Any pretty girl.” He stopped, feeling his face flushing. “I’m not saying there are girls who are prettier than you.”
“No, you’re much smarter than that,” she said. But the retort had no energy. She looked away and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The makeup had mostly worn off her face, but to Kent, she still shone. “Elliott would understand. You weren’t raised in the palace. I’ve been in this family long enough to know that it will mean more when my father sacrifices me. It will show complete devotion to his cause.”
She sat on the couch and stared at the tray of food. The way she was sitting, he forced himself to look away, though he didn’t really want to. She didn’t wear enough clothing. It was scandalous.
“Why didn’t you try to escape when the door was open?”
“Maybe I can learn something useful, too” she said. “For Elliott’s cause.”
“No. If you get the chance, you go,” Kent told her. “I’ll stay. I’ll learn everything. I’ll tell Elliott.”
“You?” Her voice went up half an octave. “How’re you going to learn any secrets? You don’t even have any eyelashes to bat. At least not as far as I can tell. Come closer.” She beckoned.
Instead he stayed where he was.
“I burned them off during an experiment,” he said, resisting the urge to reach up and touch his eyelids. The accident had been months ago. Had the lashes grown back in? He couldn’t remember and hadn’t checked. It seemed like they should . . . . He shook his head, dispelling whatever madness she had planted there. “There are ways to get information without batting eyelashes,” he said. “Listening. Observation. Logic.”
“I’m sure that all works very well for you.” She smirked. “Now let me see your eyes.”
He shook his head, but he didn’t know whether he was answering her or marveling at her. She had lived in Prospero’s court, and survived. She knew how to enjoy life, in a city where everyone else had lifeless eyes. She could teach him things. And that frightened him.
“If I can see you, then you can see my eyes,” he said, hedging.
“Through those awful lenses.”
She would hate the green lenses he used when he was welding. His lips quirked slightly and she took that for encouragement, standing and coming toward him. Before he knew it, she’d cornered him. He sprang to his feet and she reached up, but he caught her wrist.
“Stop.” It came out more forcefully than either of them expected, and her face fell. As if he’d called her ugly. Would she understand what it was like to be nearly blind? To be vulnerable? Did she know how precious these lenses were? How impossible it would be to recreate them?
He searched for the right words to tell her, but before he could find his voice, footsteps approached once more in the hallway. April fled back across the room, perching at the edge of the couch. Resigned, he placed the manacle around his wrist, though he hid his wrist in his lap, waiting to fasten it until he saw who came through the door. If it was the servant again . . . leering at April . . . but it was the Reverend himself. He was followed by two servants. Kent clicked the manacle closed. Barely moments later the Reverend gestured to one of the servants, who crossed the room and unlocked it.
The man was obviously contagious, with a weeping sore on his arm. Kent stared at it, fascinated by the purple of the bruise, the green infection. It was terrible. And yet, he had to fight the urge to ask the man questions. What were his symptoms? How long had he been ill?
The other guards were also infected. April was pressing her hands to her white mask, as if holding it against her face would make it more effective.
“Are you ready to create my explosion?” Malcontent asked. “I want it to be seen throughout the city. An arc of fire and perhaps. . . . ” He smiled at Kent, his grin feral and free of any mask. “Perhaps a smokestack flying into the air. I want to compete with my brother’s fireworks.”
Kent’s guess had been right, but he felt no pride. Not when the crazy man already assumed he’d figured it out. Not when innocent people were sure to be killed.
“I can build a bomb for you,” Kent said.
“Where shall we find the supplies?” Malcontent asked.
The question took Kent aback. “You don’t have them?”
“You’re the inventor,” the Reverend said. “Take us to your workshop. You can collect the parts there.” It was a demand.
He should have run away with April when he figured out where the bombs would go. He didn’t mind risking his own life, but his workshops were full of inventions that could save the lives of many, and Malcontent would surely destroy anything Kent didn’t need for the bomb. His mind raced. There was the cellar workshop where Elliott had been experimenting with designs for new masks. He couldn’t risk those plans being lost. He had nothing to create a fake bomb there anyway. The room in the Morgue was out of the question. The walls were covered with his drawings. Flying machines. He’d given one to Dr. Worth some years ago. Asked the man, his hero, if he thought that men would ever fly.
His airship itself was on the roof of the Morgue, hidden under a great strip of canvas. He could not lead Malcontent there. He’d slash the balloon to bits before he let Malcontent or Prospero close to it.
That left his father’s workshop. He’d abandoned the house years ago, but the detached kitchen still felt like . . . home. And many of his father’s tools were still there. He sighed. He had to lead them somewhere. That was the place.
The guards held out dark cloaks. April considered hers for a long time, but eventually pulled it over her scanty dress and her long legs. Kent put on his own, and even he couldn’t help wincing as something moist touched his forearm. Who had worn this cloak last? Someone dripping with disease, no doubt.
They ascended to street level. Malcontent was followed by two of his men. April was still with them, he saw her put her hand to her face, missing her protective mask. She stayed as close to Kent as she could. He wished that he was a trained fighter, like Elliott. That he could truly protect her, or hold off these men so she could make a run for it. Kent led them down the wide avenue. Showing this madman his childhood home was an act of resignation. Or perhaps sacrifice. He’d never thought of himself as the type to sacrifice.