The Clockwork Three

  “Well then, come closer.”

  Hannah glanced around. Not a tiger or spirit in sight. At the moment, it seemed safe. She crossed the room to the couch and bowed her head.

  “I need someone,” the woman said. “Preferably a young girl on the staff who will be my personal attendant. Can you recommend someone to me?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think that’s above my place.”

  The woman lowered the spectacles to her lap. “And what place would that be?”

  “I’m just a maid.”

  “Just a maid. But you’re still a person, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Capable of forming opinions?”

  “Yes.” Hannah looked up. “But I’ve learned that in most cases it’s best to just keep my opinions to myself.”

  The woman laughed, a tinkling, trembling laugh. “Would that everyone were as wise as you. What is your name, child?”

  “Hannah.”

  “Hannah, I am Madame Constance Bernadette Pomeroy.” She said it as if it were a regal title, not a name at all.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame Pomeroy.”

  A moment of silence followed, filled with the ticking of a grandfather clock. The woman stared at her. Not intensely, but it made Hannah uncomfortable.

  “Sit down next to me, child.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Sit down. Right there.” She pointed as the fellow in the gray robe brought up a chair. “This gentleman is Yakov. He was a Russian soldier.” Madame Pomeroy leaned in. “A very dangerous man, mind you. I never really know what he’s hiding under that coat. He travels with me as a sort of bodyguard, my own golem.”

  “A what?”

  “A golem, child. A man made of clay and brought to life by the spells of Jewish rabbis and mystics. Marvelous creations. Like a golem, Yakov lives to serve and protect. But unlike a golem, Yakov will talk from time to time. And he can predict the future.”

  Yakov held the seat for Hannah. “I shouldn’t,” she said. But she was curious and sat down, anyway. “How does he predict the future?”

  “Through dreams and visions. It’s his gift. Just as I am given the gift of communion with the dead.”

  “Oh,” was all Hannah could say, wary now. She imagined a tiger behind her, ready to pounce, and ghostly fingers reaching out to her neck. She held still without meaning to.

  “There,” Madame Pomeroy said. “Now that you’re sitting, I want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She pulled out a stack of cards. Not playing cards. These were larger, and Madame Pomeroy shuffled them. “Tell me, child, why are you working in this hotel?”

  Hannah looked down at her apron.

  “Come, child. What is it?” She began laying cards out on the table and appeared purposeful about where they were supposed to go. She placed four cards in a column. “You can trust Madame Pomeroy.”

  Hannah knew it was wrong to be so familiar with a guest. She could be punished for it. But something about Madame Pomeroy drew her in. Hannah took a deep breath, and then she told the truth.

  “A few years ago my father was struck with apoplexy. He lost his speech and the strength in his legs. He was a stonemason, before. But he couldn’t work anymore, so we had to sell our home. My mother can’t work, because she has to care for him all the time, and there’re my little sisters to look after, too. That left me. Since my father had worked hard for this hotel, I went to the owner, Mister Twine, and I asked him for a job. He took me on as a maid.”

  Madame Pomeroy had frozen with her hand outstretched, a card quivering between her fingers. “How old are you, child?”

  “I’m twelve.”

  “You carry a heavy weight, for one so young.”

  “I manage well enough.”

  Madame Pomeroy set the card in place. She drew another, placed it, and another, and placed it, too, forming a cross of five cards next to the four already on the table. She turned one over, then the next. She studied each, muttered to herself, and said, “Hmm.”

  Hannah took a few glances around the suite while Madame Pomeroy pored over the cards. The room was finer than any Hannah had been in, with inlaid furniture varnished like a mirror, silver clocks forged into clever animal shapes, fine drawings and paintings hanging on the walls in gilt frames. Hannah’s eyes met the blue in Yakov’s, and she smiled at him. He smiled in return, but it was more of an attempt at a smile than a smile itself.

  “Hmm,” Madame Pomeroy said.

  Hannah cleared her throat. “I should be getting back, ma’am. Miss Wool will be cross with me.”

  “Miss Wool.” She rolled her eyes. “Let me worry about Miss Wool, dear.”

  Hannah thought that Madame Pomeroy had no idea what she was asking for.

  “Now,” Madame Pomeroy said. “You see these cards?”

  Hannah looked at them. She saw a man hanging upside down by his foot, a wheel, a tower struck by lightning, and a strange figure that might have been a man, or it might have been a woman. Other cards bore numbered pictures with swords, chalices, coins, and staves.

  Madame Pomeroy waved her hands over the table. “These cards hold keys for you, Hannah. Keys to who you have been, who you are, and who you will be, as you experience the journey of your life.”

  Hannah nodded, skeptical.

  “I see you have sacrificed much of yourself, and this has taken its toll. You were once so happy and carefree. Life held such promise. Now you feel trapped. You are full of dark thoughts. Bitterness and sadness devour you like wild beasts.”

  In her heart, Hannah argued with Madame Pomeroy. What did this woman know of her? Hannah was not sad. She had no right to be. Her father lived when doctors said he should have died, and she had her family. Hannah was not bitter or angry. Who could she be angry with?

  She barely heard the knock on the front door of the suite.

  Hannah could not be angry with her father or mother. It was not their fault her father had gotten sick. It was not their fault Hannah had been forced to quit her schooling and work at the hotel.

  Madame Pomeroy sighed. “Such darkness. You lie all the time, to yourself and to others, and also feel much temptation.”

  Hannah squirmed in her chair. She did not like this woman.

  “You are at a fulcrum, Hannah. A balancing point. There is conflict in your future, a challenge to the old ways by new ideas and a possible reversal in the order of things, the creation of something wholly other. You will meet some who can help you, if you trust and help them. You will have the chance to be happy again.”

  “I am happy now,” Hannah insisted.

  Madame Pomeroy smiled. “Hush, child.”

  “I’m happy!”

  “No more lies, Hannah.”

  Hannah stood up. “I’m not lying! What do you know? You’re just a crackpot spiritualist. You don’t know me!”

  “Hannah!” came a shout from behind her.

  Hannah spun around.

  Miss Wool stood in the doorway of the parlor. Yakov loomed behind her, his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. Miss Wool charged into the room. “I should have known better than to send you up here. How dare you speak to a guest in this way!”

  Hannah panicked. “Miss Wool, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Please!”

  “Silence, girl!” Miss Wool turned to Madame Pomeroy. “I sincerely apologize for this maid’s behavior. I assure you she will be dealt with most severely. I can personally guarantee that she will never again show such disrespect to another guest in this hotel.”

  Hannah nearly collapsed to the floor. Her family would be tossed out on the street. What would they do? How would they care for her father? What about her sisters? She felt like sobbing, begging, screaming.

  “It’s quite all right, Miss Wool,” Madame Pomeroy said, her voice lilting. “I’m afraid that I’m to blame for her outburst. You see, I
was doing a reading, and I may have nicked her too close to the bone.”

  “There is no need to protect her, Madame. I appreciate your forbearance, but let me assure you that this maid will be dismissed immediately.” Miss Wool stared down at Hannah.

  Madame Pomeroy clicked her tongue. “I think not.”

  Miss Wool stepped back. “Pardon me?”

  “I want to employ her.”

  “Want to employ who? Hannah?”

  “Yes. I am in need of a personal assistant, and I had hoped to ask you for a recommendation. Having met Hannah, I believe she’ll do nicely.”

  “Madame, there are other girls on my staff who would be far superior —”

  “No need. I would like to have Hannah assigned to me henceforth. I want her at my disposal at any hour, day or night. This means she will have no time for other duties, I’m afraid. I assume you can spare her, since you were about to dismiss her.”

  Miss Wool blinked.

  “Then it’s agreed. Yakov, please show Miss Wool out.”

  The Russian swept the speechless woman from the room. On her way out the door, Miss Wool whipped a hateful glare at Hannah. Then she was gone. Hannah slumped into the chair, stunned. She heard the front door open, and a moment later, shut.

  Yakov reentered the room, a fraction of a grin on his face. “I enjoyed that.”

  Madame Pomeroy giggled. “So did I. What an odious woman. Now, Hannah?”

  Hannah stared.

  “Hannah?”

  “Yes?”

  “You understand what just happened? You will work for me now, at least for the length of my stay.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Madame Pomeroy glanced at the cards still spread out. “I don’t think we need to go any further with the reading. You got the gist of it, anyway.” The woman sat down and scooped up the cards, riffling them back into a deck. She picked up her book and resumed the position of repose in which Hannah had first seen her. “You’ve had a long day, child. Why don’t you go home early this evening. I’m sure your mother could use your help.”

  “Go home early?”

  “You act as though you’ve never heard the words before. Yes, go home early. But mind you I won’t make a habit of this. Far from it. I can be a harsh mistress if your laziness calls for it.”

  Hannah nodded. “Are you sure I can’t be of some help to you now, ma’am?”

  “No, Hannah. But I’ll see you at sunrise tomorrow.”

  Hannah remembered to curtsy, in spite of her shock, and left the parlor. Yakov walked her to the door. “Welcome to the movable court of Madame Pomeroy,” he said. “May your time with us be pleasant.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  He closed the door behind her.

  In a daze, Hannah nearly tripped down the stairs. She stumbled down the hallways, tracing the walls with her fingers to keep her balance. She left through the entrance used by the service staff, grateful to have avoided seeing anyone she knew on the way out. Madame Pomeroy may have protected her from punishment for now, but Miss Wool would not let such an affront to her authority go unchallenged. She would find a way to retaliate and Hannah would eventually face her wrath, at the very least when Madame Pomeroy left. She put that thought away for now.

  Hannah emerged onto Gilbert Square, breathed deep, and set off for home, down Basket Street and then winding through the side alleys. This early in the evening she crossed streets that were mostly empty, except for the gawkers, gamblers, drinkers, and poor homeless souls who seemed to never leave the streets at all.

  She was a block from home when she saw a boy carrying a coal chute on his back. He sweated and huffed and she wondered what he was doing, since he did not look like a coal man at all. He was around her age, with modest clothing and clean, dark hair. And then he stopped her and asked for directions.

  She joked with him. He did not laugh. In fact, he did not come across as the kind of boy who liked to laugh at all. He seemed to wear seriousness the way a mason wore calluses. Something in his past had hardened him, Hannah thought. She gave him directions, and he thanked her. She continued on her way, until she came to her building, then mounted the steps to her family’s apartment. She reached her landing and opened the tiny door.

  Her sisters fought on the floor, crying. They looked up when she came in and called Hannah’s name at the same time. Her mother leaned over a steaming pot, forehead glistening with sweat, her hair lank, and the skin around her eyes dark and sunken.

  “Hannah!” she said. “You’re home early?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Miracles do happen. Come take over supper. I’ve got to help your father turn over.”

  Hannah met her father’s eyes. “Hello, Papa.” She walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Hannah, please.” Her mother held out the ladle.

  Hannah sighed. She stirred and cooked. They ate together near her father so he could sit up and join them, something Hannah always came home too late at night to share in.

  “One of the guests asked that I be assigned to her,” Hannah said between bites.

  “What does that mean?” her mother asked.

  “I’ll be her personal attendant.”

  “That’s wonderful,” her mother said. “It sounds like you’re certainly securing your position at the hotel.”

  Hannah looked at the food on her plate. “Uh-huh.”

  That night, the straw and the fleas in the mattress itched Hannah, and she tossed, fighting for sleep. Street noise kept her awake for hours: the factory men on their way home, shouting and cursing; barking dogs; a baby screeching. She lay there, remembering the whispered conversation she had overheard, and thought about hidden treasure, a room somewhere on the top floor of the hotel that opened with a spoken word or a spell.

  But then she heard the pure sound of a violin over the top of it all. One note, as if calling her name, and then it was gone. Hannah sat up, waiting.

  The violin returned, birthing a folk song she had heard before, but never like this. It reminded her of walking to school on a fresh spring morning, of playing in the garden outside their old home. But more than a memory, it was as if she were there again. She smelled the lilac growing against the house and felt the warm dirt between her toes. Her mother smiling from the kitchen window, ruddy and plump, and telling her to get back to weeding. The song stopped.

  Hannah listened for another tune, but none came. The warmth left behind in her chest reminded her of the hope she had felt earlier. She worked for Madame Pomeroy now. What was it the woman had said? That Hannah stood on a balancing point, a reversal in the order of things.

  Hannah glanced across the room and saw that her father was awake. He stared at the ceiling, and she saw glistening tears trail down his temples. He had also heard the violin, and she imagined it had freed him for a few moments from his weakened body. She wondered where the music had taken him, and then felt a pressure building inside, a rising swell of grief. Monstrous in size, it licked her toes and threatened to overwhelm her, drag her down and drown her.

  She hit the mattress at her side as if to beat it back.

  No. Everything was fine.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Boat Ticket

  GIUSEPPE KNEW THAT STEPHANO WOULD BE WAITING. STEPHANO watched the front door of his den the way a rattlesnake might watch a mouse hole, poised, patient, and cold-eyed. Giuseppe strode through the door with all the boldness he could muster. No sense cowering when he knew what was coming. He shut the door, and before he had even turned around, Stephano was there.

  He gripped Giuseppe’s shoulder. “Have a good day, did you?”

  “No.” Giuseppe fought the urge to recoil from the man’s touch.

  “No?” Stephano bent down to look Giuseppe in the face, his skin as brown and dry as bark beneath a granite-colored beard flecked with food. “And why is that?”

  “Ezio took it all.”

  “So you’re a rat.” Stephano stood up. He wore
a thick vest of woolen lambskin and a wide-brimmed hat stuck with the tattered feathers of a peacock. A huge knife hung from his side on a leather belt. “Rats are vermin, boy. I crush vermin with the heel of my boot. You want to feel the heel of my boot?”

  A few of the other boys hung about the room, trying to watch without being noticed. Little Pietro was not among them. Neither were Ferro or Alfeo. They must have already gone into the kitchen for their suppers or upstairs to sleep.

  Stephano took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. “How much do you have, Giuseppe?”

  Giuseppe laid his old fiddle on the floor. “None. I don’t have anything.”

  A couple of the other boys whispered. Stephano looked around at them. “You hear that, boys?” He hung his hat on a hook near the door. “Nothing.”

  “I told you, Ezio took —”

  Stephano punched him in the gut. Giuseppe doubled over, fell to the ground, and gasped for air.

  “Didn’t you hear me, boy? I kill rats! If you were careless enough to lose all your money, then you should have gone back out and made more! Get up.” He yanked Giuseppe to his feet and breathed alcohol in his face. “And what’s this I hear from Paolo? You have something you want to show me?”

  Giuseppe could only shake his head.

  “You sure about that?” Stephano tossed him to the floor. “’Cause I hear you somehow got yourself a new violin.”

  Giuseppe tried to speak, choked, and tried again. “Paolo’s a liar.”

  “You’re all liars.”

  He seized Giuseppe by the collar and dragged him down a dim hallway. He wrenched open a small, low door. “You want to be a rat? Fine.” Stephano kicked him into the darkness. Giuseppe fell several feet and landed hard on a floor of packed clay. Stephano’s silhouette seemed to swell above him, framed by the light coming down from the doorway, as if hanging in the air. “Live with the rats,” Stephano said. The door shut, and all the light died.

  Giuseppe rolled onto his back and coughed. He rubbed his stomach. That could have been worse. At least he had kept his shirt on and avoided the whip. In his mind he imagined taking that whip to Ezio and Paolo, shredding their clothes and the skin on their backs. He would even let little Pietro take a swing at them.