After Desmarc left, I pored over sample sketches from other designers I’d gathered and skimmed through my design book searching for a spark of inspiration. The scratch of charcoal and the rustle of paper filled my otherwise silent room.
I wanted it to be elegant like the wedding dress I’d helped Geneve make last year with the pleated ruffles and full skirt, yet chic with shorter sleeves. Stylish with a clockwork design to match Desmarc’s engagement necklace.
When the grandfather clock chimed, I jumped, scattering papers into the air, then I glanced at the dark window. It wasn’t uncommon for me to lose myself for hours when designing or sketching, but as I glanced around at the piles of discarded paper, I frowned. I still hadn’t come up with a good enough design to send to Geneve.
With a sigh, I started gathering up my supplies. I was running out of time to send my design in, but I also couldn’t stand the thought of sending it in unfinished or wrong.
Cogsley came in and started to clean up my room with a sigh. I patted her on the head as I walked out the door.
Since Papá was still gone, I took advantage of his absence to go into his room. If I couldn’t get answers from him about Slipping, maybe I could find the answers I needed in his memories. I left the lights off to hide evidence of my trespassing.
A twinge of anxiety went through me. Papá wasn’t usually out this late, and I couldn’t help but think of the murderer who may or may not be after him. But he was rarely alone, meaning he wouldn’t be as easy of a target.
Pushing down those worries, I entered his room. Nothing appeared changed here. It never did—like Papá was trapped in the past even more than I was when I Slipped. Shadows hid the metal beams crisscrossing the tall ceiling. His ornate knife collection hung on the far wall, a glimpse of the man he’d been before politics took over. Only a sliver of light from the hallway illuminated a portion of his dresser.
The veranda doors tempted me outside. I walked through them and studied the city’s outline. The buildings’ dark shadows were a mixture of arches and spires lit, in part, by the brilliant blue glow of aether lamps that sparkled across the Steele. In the distance, a pack of clouds moved in as stealthily as a predator on its prey.
My gaze drifted to the shape of AIR U where the moonlight glinted off the copper dome and large telescope from the science building. Had Detective Atwood found anything else after we parted?
A gust of wind blasted into me, flattening my clothes and mussing my hair. I retreated to Papá’s dark bedroom and studied the portrait of him and Mamá resting in the center of his dresser on a gilt frame with two curved legs. It showed a three-year-old me sitting on Mamá’s lap while Papá stood behind us with a hand on her shoulder. I’d looked at it so many times I could see it with my eyes closed. Mamá’s graceful figure and impeccable posture. Her fair, porcelain complexion with a hint of a flush on her cheeks. Her long black hair, styled in an elaborate arrangement with hairpins shaped like cogs. But what I could most clearly visualize were her eyes—large and expressive with long, dark lashes and arched brows, almost like she was looking at me through the painting.
I traced a finger over the oval frame, wishing Mamá were here now to talk me through my upcoming marriage. To see if it was normal to feel so nervous. To know if she’d also be afraid of my powers or if she’d want me to use them. There were so many questions and no way to ask them. No way to see her again.
Shaking off my melancholy, I pulled my glove off. I didn’t have time to waste. Papá could be home at any minute and I needed answers.
Lightly, I trailed a finger along the joints of the dresser where the smooth wood met the cool metal, then I moved my hand over each of his belongings. First, the single pearl resting on a bowl on his dresser. It was one of Mamá’s, of that I was sure, but I had no idea why it was important. I had so many questions about her that Papá would never answer. I picked it up and rubbed it between my fingers, but there was no spark, no yanking sensation. The pearl was a window to the past, but not one I’d ever get to look through.
I put it back in the bowl and moved to the next object, a spiky metal key that had been there as long as I remembered. When I was younger, I’d taken the key to every door in the house trying to figure out what it unlocked before I’d finally given up. I traced a finger over the key, though I didn’t expect anything from it. I found an old drawing I’d done for Papá years ago—one that I’d Slipped into before but hadn’t realized he still kept. When nothing happened, I also tried a simple black comb, a glass bottle on its side with a miniature airship inside, and a few other items. Over the last few years, I’d already Slipped into some of these objects and drained the memory from them, and touching them now was more of a ritual than anything.
Finally, all that remained was a framed painting of my parents. I glanced at it, then stopped. At some point, Papá had replaced it with one that included me as a baby. I reached for the frame with a shaking finger and opened it up to touch the paper inside. At the contact, a blue spark jumped from my finger to the frame.
My spirit Slipped from me as easily as pulling off a layer of clothing—well, not a corset. Those were nearly impossible.
Time rushed around me in a blur, conversations, smells, voices, and sights. Snatches of life too quick to pick out. I jolted to a stop and my spirit form slammed into the ground, disrupting the swirling black smoke that slowly settled back into place. Like a heartbeat breathing life into my dreary surroundings, the paper thumped in my hand. It sent out an echo that went off like a sound wave in the black smoke, then Mamá appeared next to me.
This was Mamá’s memory, not Papá’s! The thought made my heart skip a beat. I rarely got to see anything to do with Mamá these days.
She appeared just like she did in the photograph, young and beautiful. Which made the sickness that took her life so much harder to believe. Papá’d always said it had been so unexpected. She must’ve thought of this moment a lot when looking at the painting for the memory to have been imprinted on it.
The paper thumped in my hand, but I wasn’t ready for it to count down my time. I could stay here forever if it meant staying with Mamá. I stepped closer and breathed in her vanilla and rose scent.
Mamá stared down at a small bundle in her arms with a soft smile.
I moved closer to peer down at the bundle, careful not to step on the train of her elegant pink day gown. It was me, a few months older than the baby from the image in my hand.
Young me cooed, and Mamá started humming. The familiar lullaby, like a memory from a dream, tugged at me, and I swallowed past the tightness in my throat as she began to sing.
Hush now, dearheart, let your fantasies fly,
As airships carry your hopes to the sky.
Dreamscapes of slumber await in the deep.
Steam-whispered lullabies guide you to sleep.
Mamá smiled as a deep voice joined her lilting alto, and the frame continued its relentless countdown.
Pass the night gently as clocks tick along,
While starlight and cogs blend into a song.
In a world full of wonders, goggles, and lace,
Rest peacefully, love, in my clockwork embrace.
Heavy footsteps sounded, then a man materialized in the smoke—a young Papá, who lacked the wrinkles and bags under his eyes. The black wisps wrapped around him until they became a white button-up and a gray vest with a pair of trousers. “Your voice is as beautiful as ever.”
“And you’re as late as ever,” Mamá scolded.
“I hurried home as soon as I could.” Papá kissed her, then leaned down and placed one on my forehead too.
Young me squealed and raised a tiny fist in the air, while I blinked rapidly to fight off the rising tears.
“How were things today?” Mamá rocked me in her arms.
Papá loosened his tie and walked off into the darkness, though his disembodied voice carried back to where the current me stood a few feet from Mamá. “Dreadful, as they have been. The Revolutionists are getting more out of control.”
“The Prime Meridian will do something about it.” Mamá walked over to the darkness where Papá’s voice came from, and the surroundings blossomed under her feet like she was the sun.
We were in the old nursery—a room now filled with dust and cobwebs. There was the rug I’d played on as a child and the crib with the mobile of the airship Papá had made for me.
The photograph thumped so quickly it was like holding a hummingbird’s heart in my hand. Any moment now I’d get pulled out.
“Did you and Geneve finish your runs?” Papá asked.
“Yes.” Mamá sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Papá came back and wrapped an arm around her.
“The Lower Chimes still need so much help.”
Papá kissed her forehead. “You do more than anyone I know.”
“Yet it’s never enough.”
I watched them for a moment, my thoughts returning to Detective Atwood’s comments. He and Mamá were more similar than I’d thought.
“Did you open the vault for Kyra like I asked?” Mamá rested her head on Papá’s shoulder.
“Of course. I’ve got the key right here.” He took out a small metal key with pointy edges—the same one that I’d just seen on his dresser. That was why I’d never been able to find what it went to at home. It was for a vault.
Mamá leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, but when I started fussing in her arms, she began humming to me once more.
“You know I’ll make sure Kyra is well taken care of, right?”
“She needs to be able to take care of herself. There’s no way to know when something might happen to us,” she said. “Besides, what if she marries and her husband isn’t as wonderful as mine?”
Papá wrapped his arms around Mamá from behind and nuzzled into her neck. “You think I’d let just anyone marry her? I’ll only accept the best of the best for our little girl.”
“What’s best for her now is a nap.” Mamá laughed and sidled free of Papá’s grasp. “So stop distracting me.”