The Girl in the Steel Corset

His face darkened, like clouds overtaking the sun. Suddenly, this was no longer just some seemingly kind, bored aristocrat standing before her, but a young man capable of many dangerous things.

Interesting, she thought, borrowing his own term.

“What I want from you,” he said, and Finley braced herself, “is your trust. Irrevocable and unshakable. I want you to put your life in my hands, and I want to be able to do the same without hesitation.”

Disturbed to her very soul, Finley could only shake her head. “You ask too much.” Put his life in her hands? He was deranged! A bedlamite for certain.

A crooked grin curved his mouth. “Too much? You strange and wonderful girl, that is the least I’ll ask of you.”

Anyone who got within fifteen feet of Sam Morgan could tell the young man was spoiling for a fight. Unfortunately for Sam, everyone in the tavern was either sober enough to give him a wide berth or too drunk to bother indulging him.

He sat at a table in a corner as dark as his mood and as far away from the automated barkeep as he could get. Just the sight of the gleaming brass android caused his left eye to twitch. Thankfully, a human—a young girl—came to his table. She wore a white blouse off her round shoulders, a tight corset that made her waist incredibly tiny and called even more attention to her abundant chest and a short, flouncy skirt that showed off shapely calves in dark stockings.

“Right,” she said, rolling the r in a thick Welsh accent. “What can I gets ye, then?”

“A pint,” he replied brusquely, pushing a half-crown across the scarred tabletop. It was a generous payment. She snatched it up with a grin and hurried off to fetch his drink. Across the gin- and ale-soaked, sawdust-littered floor, a shabbily dressed man dropped a coin into the slot of the automated “Victoria Victrola.” There was a slight clinking sound as the coin hit bottom, followed by a gentle whirring as the torso in the top glass half of the machine stirred. “Victoria” had thick auburn hair and a lovely papier-mâché face with bright blue eyes and painted crimson lips, the bottom of which was designed to open and close, as though she was actually flesh and blood singing a song and not a cheap wind-up doll designed to mime in time to the music. Victoria didn’t bother Sam as much as the shiny creature behind the bar. She was confined to her glass prison, half a woman with no chance of escape.

No, it was the metal behind the bar that set his teeth on edge. Did these people not realize the danger they put themselves in simply being in the same room as that … that thing?

At least he was better equipped to fight them now. Emily had seen to that. He flexed the fingers on his right hand. It felt completely normal. How was that possible when it wasn’t? He couldn’t even discern a difference in weight between his arms, but surely the metal one had to be weightier?

The waitress returned to set a frothy pint of ale in front of him. Some of the foam ran down the outside the mug to pool on the dirty tabletop. “Wanting anythin’ else, will ye be?”

Sam wasn’t dumb. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as Emily and Griff, or even as witty as Jasper, but he wasn’t stupid. He understood things they didn’t, and he understood what the girl offered him. He also knew that no one liked being rejected.

“Not right now,” he replied with a slight smile. It felt forced and false on his lips, but she didn’t notice. She returned the smile, flashing a pretty dimple in her cheek.

“If you change yer mind, let me know.”

“I will,” he promised, knowing full well he wouldn’t.

As she swished away, Sam lifted the mug. Warm ale flooded his mouth, awakening his tongue with its rich flavor. He could swallow three gallons of the stuff and still not be drunk enough to get Emily’s soft brogue out of his head.

“I replaced your heart.”

What did that mean? It wasn’t being kept alive that gnawed at him, or that a machine pushed the blood through his veins. How did this affect him as a human being? Would he live longer? Was it a lie when he saw Emily and the thing in his chest began to beat a little faster? What did a machine know of feelings? Would there ever be a time when he could honestly say that he felt something to be true in his heart and trust in it?

Making it all more confusing was his undeniable thankfulness at simply being alive, no matter what his present form.

The Victoria Victrola was singing a song about lost love, adding to his melancholy. He drained the pint and signaled his waitress for another, watching warily as she gave the order to the automaton barkeep. He imagined those metal hands suddenly dropping the heavy mug and grabbing the waitress around the throat, squeezing the life from her as ale spilled to the floor. He saw himself trying to rescue her, and suddenly his own hand, by no volition of his own, joined in crushing the girl to death….

“You look as though you could use some company.”

Sam jerked, barely glancing at the man standing beside his table as the charming blonde bird delivered his second ale. “How’s that?”

“You look miserable,” the man replied in strangely accented English. “It loves company, does it not?”

Oddly enough, the lame attempt at a joke made Sam chuckle. He gestured at the chair on the other side of the table. “If that fires your furnace, have a seat.”

The man did, setting his own full mug on the table before flipping out the tails of his coat. He began stripping off his fine leather gloves. He was fancy-dressed like a gentleman, in a russet coat and gold-striped waistcoat. He wore a chocolate-colored bowler hat and a pristine white cravat tied around his neck. He had a foreign look about him—a kind of sophisticated swarthiness with his dark hair and eyes.

“Leon Adamo,” the man said, offering his hand.

“Sam Morg—” Sam froze, unable to take his eyes off the … thing in front of him. It was long and slender, and looked as much like a hand as any other he’d seen, except for one major exception.

It was metal. Dull silver in color, it was fully jointed, notched where every knuckle should be. It even had fingernails etched into its surface, and the top was decorated with an elaborate swirling pattern that extended along each finger, as well. On the inside of the wrist was a small clear panel, through which the delicate gears could be accessed.

His companion chuckled, and withdrew his hand. “My apologies. I forget how startling it can be.”

“No,” Sam replied, somewhat distracted, his gaze still riveted on that strange limb. “I’ve just never met …” Someone else who was part machine. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“None taken, Mr … Morgan, was it?”

Sam nodded, and this time he offered his own hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The gentleman smiled and accepted the handshake. The smooth metal was cool against Sam’s palm, but the fingers were strong. It felt like holding the gauntlet of a suit of armor. Nothing frightening or repulsive about it. Certainly Leon Adamo didn’t seem the least bit ashamed of it.

Sam returned his companion’s smile. “You know, I find I’m in the mood for company after all.”

King House was quiet, still as a church when Finley opened her eyes in the wee hours. The moon cast long shadows through her room, illuminating her bed and part of the wall in fingers of silver.

She felt restless, agitated. It had been brewing all day, ever since her strange conversation with Griffin.

Did he mean her harm or not? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be certain. And then there was that cryptic remark he’d left her with. What did he mean absolute trust would be the least he asked of her? Arrogant toff. What made him think she’d fancy his skinny arse worth saving?

Inside her, that frightened, cautious part of her squealed in protest as it always did. The “good girl” didn’t like conflict, shied away from violence and danger. Poor little mite. She had no idea that confrontation was the basest form of self-protection. She was just doing what was best for both of them. And she wanted to know if Lord Felix’s friend Dandy was a threat to her.

She slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the carpet to the wardrobe. Griffin had made good on his promise of new clothes and she now had a few ready-made items to do her until the rest were made. She slipped into soft black stockings and hooked them onto the new garter belt round her hips. Then she put on the snug, black leather “knicks”—black pants that covered her from her waist to the tops of her thighs—and a soft plum velvet corset. She laced up her tall, sturdy black leather boots and slipped on a long, black velvet frock coat that hung almost to her ankles. Then she coiled her hair into a messy bun and shoved a pencil through it to secure it on the back of her head. Pencils were excellent for hairstyling. They also made very effective weapons if the need arose.

Ready, Finley crept to the window, lifted the latch and pushed out. She sat on the ledge and swung one leg out. Then, holding on to the top of the window, she brought her other leg out, as well. She climbed down the side of the house by digging her fingertips and toes into the shallow crevices between the stones, agile as a spider.

A few feet from the bottom, she let go and dropped silently to the grass. The night smelled of coming rain, freshly dug soil and summer heat. Her eyesight was good, but always so much more acute when this side of her was free. Every sense was heightened, just a little more than human.

A quick glance around ascertained that she was alone, and she sprinted toward the stables where she’d seen Sam go earlier that day. He still hadn’t returned and the little redhead—Emily—was worried about him. Finley had heard her say so to Griffin over dinner. He’d assured her that Sam was fine, but he was worried, too. Finley could tell.

Finley didn’t care where the gargantuan went. This part of her felt safer without him around.

The stables were dimly lit with a soft golden glow. Finley was surprised to see that there were actually horses there along with several strange-looking mechanical contraptions like the one Griff had been driving when their paths happened to cross the night before.

She moved toward the hay-covered wood floor toward a smaller, sleeker machine with thickly notched tires and gently curved steering bars. It looked like one of the modern bicycles, only much heavier, fancier—faster. She ran her hand over the chrome front, enjoying the cool metal beneath her fingers.

“Going out?”

She jerked back and whirled around. Kneeling on the bare floor was Emily. She appeared to be doing some work on one of the smaller machines—a red one that had three wheels instead of two. She had a smear of something dark on her pale cheek and her hair was up in a thick, haphazard bun on top of her head.

“Yes,” Finley replied, lifting her chin.

The other girl looked up from her work, an oily rag in one hand. She seemed surprised that she was still there. She pointed at the machine beside Finley. “Take that one. It’s lighter and easier to handle.”