The door to the room she was in opened, and in scuttled two automatons. One had a shiny porcelain doll head perched atop its squat metal body, and eight reticulated limbs that made it move like an insect. The other appeared as an elderly woman in a tattered gown. It appeared as though her head had been removed at one time and reattached by a clumsy child. It was pitched forward and slightly to the side.
She tried to draw back from them, their monstrous countenances frightening, but there was nowhere for her to go while trapped in the lead box.
“I told you it was going to be female,” the spider said to the woman. Its voice was like the clattering of discordant notes on a piano keyboard.
“We must find some clothing,” the other replied in a voice that was almost human, but with a slight hitch. Whoever had put its head back on hadn’t aligned the voice box correctly. “It would not be proper for her to be seen naked, but we can no longer keep her restrained now that biological function has begun. Bring someone to clean up her mess.”
The short one made a skittering sound. It wasn’t any kind of language her logic engine could identify, but she understood it, regardless. It was the language of metal, and the spider didn’t like being ordered about.
A clawlike hand lashed out from the “old woman” and struck the other. “You will do as told, or face the wrath of the Master.”
The Master. The mention of him made the gregorite vertebrae of her spine cold. Part of her insisted she bow to him, but another part…that strange part responsible for the gooey eyeballs in her head and the fleshy thing in her mouth, was afraid. Why would she be afraid? She was machine, and machines were not capable of feeling.
Something jumped in her chest. She looked down. Between the two swells of flesh on her chest there was a small expanse of her framework not yet covered over by skin. There, through the gleaming rungs of her chasse she spied a red, wet lump of muscle, ebbing and receding in time with the pulsing throughout her form.
What was happening to her?
The old woman came to her, every step halting, punctuated with a dry, grinding sound. Her thin lips clicked upward into a grotesque parody of a smile.
A smile with no emotion behind it. No humanity. The skin of the machine’s face was gray and lax. There was something wrong with it, but what? Her mind knew she should be horrified, but not why.
And it stank. Stank like death, though she had no idea how she knew that. In fact, she didn’t even know her own name. Did she have a name?
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. The thing in her mouth was bigger now, and moved when she spoke, so that the words that came out sounded almost as they ought.
How did she know how the words were supposed to sound? Why did she know so much and so very little? Why was she so afraid?
“Don’t worry, little one,” the old woman said, reaching out and touching her with cold, foul fingers. “We have great plans for you.”
Chapter 3
A strange young man stood up when Finley entered the dining room the next morning. He was alone at the table, a half cup of coffee and a plate with a few bites of coddled eggs and ham in front of him.
“Good morning,” he said. “You must be Miss Jayne.”
Finley’s gaze traveled down the lanky length of him, from his reddish hair to his shiny shoes. He had a kind face, but she knew that looks could be deceiving. “And you must be?”
He offered his hand. “Silverius Isley. I’m an associate of His Grace.”
She looked at his fingers. They were long and soft—the kind of hands she expected from a man wearing such a well-made jacket. Not a speck of dirt beneath his manicured fingernails. Hesitantly, she put her hand in his. “What sort of associate?”
His entire body went rigid, fingers clamping around hers like a vise. Free hand tightening into a fist, Finley pulled back but stopped when she saw his eyes. They had rolled up in his head so far only white and tiny red veins remained. His weight tugged her forward as he wavered on his feet.
Good Lord, did he belong in an asylum? Was he ill? And what was his connection to Griffin?
Her free hand grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. His body jerked once…twice…then went still. She almost dropped him as the tension drained from him and he went as limp as a rag doll in her arms.
“What…?” He looked around, noticed she was holding him. Weakly, he regained his footing. “Oh, dear.”
Slowly, Finley helped him back into his chair. “You had some sort of fit.”
Isley took a sip of his coffee. The hand around his cup trembled. “What I had, Miss Jayne, was a visit from an apparition.”
Had she heard him correctly? And was he, as Jasper would say, “pulling her leg”? “You mean a ghost?”
He chuckled. “Your dubious tone says more than enough, Miss Jayne. You do not believe in my particular talent.”
“I don’t believe in much I can’t see,” Finley replied defensively.
“Yet you live in the home of a young man who regularly traffics in the world of the dead.”
Fair enough. “I’ve seen what His Grace can do. I don’t know you.”
“No, you do not. Thank you for keeping me upright. In the past I’ve done myself quite a harm during a visitation.” He pointed to a small scar above his eyebrow. “I’m fortunate this is my only souvenir.”
Finley eyed him warily before crossing to the sideboard to load a plate with her own breakfast. Isley was odd, but she was starving, and her stomach didn’t care if he talked to ghosts or saw fairies. She sat down at the table and dug into the eggs, toast and ham like a starving beast.
Mr. Isley arched a brow but wisely remained silent. She may not be embarrassed to eat in front of him, but no girl liked attention called to the amount of food on her plate, or the degree of enthusiasm with which she dug in to it.
“The coffee is still hot,” he mentioned. “May I pour you a cup?”
She swallowed the food in her mouth before answering, “Thank you.”
He tipped the silver pot over her cup and poured just the right amount of fragrant black brew, leaving room for milk and sugar.
“Good morning, all.”
Finley looked up as Jasper entered the room. He was his usual tousled self. “Good morning.” A glance at Isley made her pause. The young man was looking at Jasper like…well, the way Finley fantasized about Griffin looking at her. Jasper, a typical fellow, seemed completely unaware of the attention. He had no concept of just how handsome he was, which made him all the more likable in Finley’s estimation.
“Jasper, this is Mr. Isley, a friend of Griffin’s. Mr. Isley, this is Jasper Renn.”
Jasper nodded in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”
Isley cleared his throat, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. “Likewise.”
The American filled a plate and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he said before leaving the room. He hadn’t had breakfast at the table since moving in. He would never feel he belonged if he insisted on putting distance between himself and the rest of them.
Then again, maybe he didn’t want to belong.
Isley watched him leave. “I say, is he a real American cowboy?”
Finley