picnics were nothing but a hazard,” Miss Rashten scolded as he entered. “Not only have you ruined your complexion, but there are all manner of insects; why, I’ve even heard of a picnic set upon by bandits.”
“Thankfully we seem to have escaped that fate,” Mr. Parry said.
Grumbling, she hustled off and came back shortly with some concoction of lemon juice and rosewater, prattling on about its usefulness while she tried to administer it to Mr. Parry’s nose.
I wondered if I could yet slip away to the automaton.
“Let’s go to the library and see about animals,” Mr. Parry said. We had been talking of elephants and tigers. “I think I may have a book with pictures.”
The automaton would have wound down anyway, I told myself, and I must not begrudge Mr. Parry’s attentions. I was living the dream of all trouser girls who made wishes on stars from their garrets or spun fancies while they mended their dancing slippers.
We gave the whole afternoon over to looking at books and talking of the mourning habits of elephants, the holidays of our respective nations, our dear departed mothers, and the education of women. We were always polite.
I didn’t know what to think about Mr. Parry. Sometimes I was taken with him, his flashing smiles, his dark eyes, his esteem for me and my intelligence. When he spoke to me I never doubted that he thought I had worth as a person; he didn’t just see a trouser girl.
Other times, however . . . I knew nothing of fairies, but I didn’t like how he spoke of them. I thought of the garden fairies on his father’s desk, and wondered how much the son took after the father.
The next morning, I tucked paper and pencil in the pocket of my dress and returned to the automaton. I stood behind him, staring at the silver key for a long time. Knowing he had tried to communicate with me, winding him now seemed a very different matter. I wondered if he could feel it.
Finally, I took a deep breath and slipped the key in its slot. I saw life fill his eyes as I came around to stand before him.
I spoke right away. “I’m so sorry. I met Mr. Parry in the hall yesterday while fetching the paper and he asked me to a picnic. I couldn’t very well refuse. If he knew I’d seen you come alive, he’d send me away like all the rest.”
“Mmm.”
“We don’t have long.” I tore off a scrap of paper and wedged it between two keys. “I’m marking the midpoint of the alphabet here so I can count letters faster. I’ve made a chart of the letters—the first half above this line, the second half below it. Don’t actually play the keys or you’ll make a good deal of noise—just touch them.” I hoped I wasn’t explaining things too fast. I was quite frantic that Mr. Parry might burst in, or one of the maids—especially Miss Rashten. “Can you do that?”
“Mmm-mmm!”
“All right.” I propped the chart of letters up where the piano book would go and stood at his shoulder with my pencil and paper. His left hand jerked to life, sliding to a key. His mechanism clicked and knocked inside his breast. He gently tapped a key, and I checked it against the chart.
“ G, ” I said, writing it down, and as soon as I spoke it, the hand turned to the next letter. Tedious progress, yet I doubt I’d have noticed the moments pass if not for my fear of discovery. Curiosity made my limbs tremble.
G-A-R-V-I-N, I wrote. “Garvin? You mean the old ambassador of magic?”
“Mm.” He resumed spelling. DEAD? He made a questioning noise.
“Um . . . well, yes. They’re saying he was killed by fairy bandits.”
He grunted with distress. TELL MORE.
“There’s a new ambassador now. Mr. Smollings, I believe. I don’t really know any more. Why? Did you know Garvin?”
He made a thinking noise, then an affirmative one. He knew Garvin, but I think not well, I noted on my paper. I glanced at the clock. Already, five minutes gone by for these few questions. I had so many more, but how much time could
“Thankfully we seem to have escaped that fate,” Mr. Parry said.
Grumbling, she hustled off and came back shortly with some concoction of lemon juice and rosewater, prattling on about its usefulness while she tried to administer it to Mr. Parry’s nose.
I wondered if I could yet slip away to the automaton.
“Let’s go to the library and see about animals,” Mr. Parry said. We had been talking of elephants and tigers. “I think I may have a book with pictures.”
The automaton would have wound down anyway, I told myself, and I must not begrudge Mr. Parry’s attentions. I was living the dream of all trouser girls who made wishes on stars from their garrets or spun fancies while they mended their dancing slippers.
We gave the whole afternoon over to looking at books and talking of the mourning habits of elephants, the holidays of our respective nations, our dear departed mothers, and the education of women. We were always polite.
I didn’t know what to think about Mr. Parry. Sometimes I was taken with him, his flashing smiles, his dark eyes, his esteem for me and my intelligence. When he spoke to me I never doubted that he thought I had worth as a person; he didn’t just see a trouser girl.
Other times, however . . . I knew nothing of fairies, but I didn’t like how he spoke of them. I thought of the garden fairies on his father’s desk, and wondered how much the son took after the father.
The next morning, I tucked paper and pencil in the pocket of my dress and returned to the automaton. I stood behind him, staring at the silver key for a long time. Knowing he had tried to communicate with me, winding him now seemed a very different matter. I wondered if he could feel it.
Finally, I took a deep breath and slipped the key in its slot. I saw life fill his eyes as I came around to stand before him.
I spoke right away. “I’m so sorry. I met Mr. Parry in the hall yesterday while fetching the paper and he asked me to a picnic. I couldn’t very well refuse. If he knew I’d seen you come alive, he’d send me away like all the rest.”
“Mmm.”
“We don’t have long.” I tore off a scrap of paper and wedged it between two keys. “I’m marking the midpoint of the alphabet here so I can count letters faster. I’ve made a chart of the letters—the first half above this line, the second half below it. Don’t actually play the keys or you’ll make a good deal of noise—just touch them.” I hoped I wasn’t explaining things too fast. I was quite frantic that Mr. Parry might burst in, or one of the maids—especially Miss Rashten. “Can you do that?”
“Mmm-mmm!”
“All right.” I propped the chart of letters up where the piano book would go and stood at his shoulder with my pencil and paper. His left hand jerked to life, sliding to a key. His mechanism clicked and knocked inside his breast. He gently tapped a key, and I checked it against the chart.
“ G, ” I said, writing it down, and as soon as I spoke it, the hand turned to the next letter. Tedious progress, yet I doubt I’d have noticed the moments pass if not for my fear of discovery. Curiosity made my limbs tremble.
G-A-R-V-I-N, I wrote. “Garvin? You mean the old ambassador of magic?”
“Mm.” He resumed spelling. DEAD? He made a questioning noise.
“Um . . . well, yes. They’re saying he was killed by fairy bandits.”
He grunted with distress. TELL MORE.
“There’s a new ambassador now. Mr. Smollings, I believe. I don’t really know any more. Why? Did you know Garvin?”
He made a thinking noise, then an affirmative one. He knew Garvin, but I think not well, I noted on my paper. I glanced at the clock. Already, five minutes gone by for these few questions. I had so many more, but how much time could
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