The Ticking Heart Read online

  Perhaps Samuel really had been trying to help, in some childish, unthinking way. Vincent had never before thought him capable of true deceit. Still, he'd been right to send him away. He couldn't risk rebuilding his work only to have it destroyed once more. No, he couldn't trust Samuel now, and if he couldn't trust him, then he couldn't keep him, whether he wanted to or not.

  No, it was quite impossible.

  He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, the wooden boards cold on his feet. He padded down the silent hallway to the door of Samuel's room and pushed it open.

  Inside was a single wooden bed, now stripped bare. A set of drawers stood against one wall and a trunk he knew would be empty sat at the foot of the bed; the writing desk Samuel had often sat at to pen letters to his family was now devoid of the papers, pens and inks that usually cluttered it.

  Vincent crossed the room and sat himself down on the little bed. Although the bedding had been stripped, the mattress still smelt a little like Samuel, fresh, like soap and the crisp, winter air.

  Samuel ... He'd always been there for Vincent, even when the rest of the world shunned him for being too quiet, too driven, too strange. He'd never been able to talk to anybody the way he could with Samuel. Not even his own mother had instilled the kind of quiet comfort in him the way Samuel did. No one had understood him so completely ... not even Edgar, the real Edgar, who'd laughed when Vincent shared his dreams of becoming a great inventor. Never once had Samuel laughed at him.

  He fell asleep there, in Samuel's abandoned bed, breathing in the familiar scent of him like he needed it to live, and in his dreams Samuel was waiting for him at the breakfast table, tea already brewing.

  *~*~*

  He awoke to silence. Even the birds were quiet this morning. He pushed himself up, momentarily disoriented by his less than familiar surroundings. Then he remembered. Samuel was gone.

  He felt, once again, that hollow feeling settling deep within himself, and went into the kitchen to make tea. Food was beyond him for the moment, but a good cup of tea seemed like exactly the right antidote to his temporary melancholy.

  Once he had finished his tea and dressed himself to an acceptable standard, he headed down to the basement to collect his list. Before he could begin his work, he needed to assemble the correct parts. Including the outer layers, the thought of which caused him to shudder. He'd always detested the necessary visits to Gregory and Grey. The men oozed like the bodies they snatched, a whiff of the grave clung to their clothing, and their prices were truly abominable. Still, a clockwork man needed a human skin to pass as anything other than machinery.

  Thankfully, he wouldn't have to worry about that until later. The skin was the final stage of the process, and it would be months before he was ready to prepare it. For now, he could leave the men a note and with a bit of luck he wouldn't need to speak with them until they had something for him.

  He was crossing the street, blissfully clear at this time of day, when he heard someone calling his name. He turned, looking for the source, but could see no one. Safely across to the other side, a horse and cart clattering in his wake, he heard it again. This time, he could see a portly, red-headed woman waving at him from outside the greengrocer's.

  Mrs Hartley, he knew, was a friend of Mrs Murphy, Samuel's mother, and was one of the biggest gossips in town. She couldn't know about their falling out so soon though, surely?

  Bracing himself, he dutifully responded to her summons, knowing there would be repercussions if he merely tipped his hat and went on his way; repercussions that would more likely than not show themselves in the price of his cabbages.

  "Good morning, Mrs Hartley," he greeted her with a somewhat forced smile.

  "Yes, yes, enough of that good morning," she said, ushering him into the shop with a wave of her cleaning cloth. "What's all this I hear about you and young Mr Murphy?"

  So she had heard after all. Of course she had.

  "That," he said pointedly, "is between myself and Mr Murphy."

  "Oh, what utter rot. That lad's been nothing but good to you, Mr Gabriel, and don't you forget it. There's not many round here who'd put up with your shenanigans."

  His shenanigans being his long hours and dedication to his work, he supposed.

  "Now, how about I tell him that you're very sorry, and you'd like him back in your employment, hm?"

  Vincent scowled. "That won't be necessary, thank you."

  "Now, you listen to me—"

  Before she could launch into a tirade of his own shortcomings and Samuel's finer qualities, Vincent cut her off. "Perhaps later, Mrs Hartley. I'm afraid I'm in rather a hurry this morning."

  As he fled the store, he could hear her tutting behind him. He was sure he had just confirmed every negative opinion she held of him, but funnily enough he couldn't quite bring himself to care. Hadn't she too just confirmed his opinion of her as an interfering busybody? She knew nothing of what had passed between Samuel and himself, nothing of his work and the years he'd spent shunning the light of day in favour of his dim, dank workshop, so that he might create something beautiful, something truly amazing.

  Anger seeped out of him gradually, the warmth of the day pulling it from him. He watched the children playing with hoops and ropes at the fringes of the park. As ever, he felt something tug in his chest, something that usually lay dormant stirring, stretching out and blinking in the small sliver of sunlight he'd accidentally let slip through.

  He would be thirty-four come August, and although he'd always claimed to love his life as a bachelor, claimed it gave him freedom in his work, to pursue his dreams, he'd always secretly yearned for a family. Not, perhaps, the traditional family the world might expect of him—he'd known since he was a boy that he would never be happy with a wife. Children, of course, would be beyond his capabilities should he have the kind of partnership he wished for, but it was a pleasant dream.

  He wondered, briefly, if Samuel wished for children himself. He had nephews, that Vincent knew, but he had never spoken to Samuel about the sort of future he hoped for himself, had never once discussed his dreams and desires, not in the entire decade they'd known each other.

  But of course, their relationship had been primarily a business relationship, their friendship secondary. But was it? Vincent frowned. Samuel always knew what Vincent was talking about, even when he lurched from a tirade about the government to an exuberant discussion of engineering, or took up a conversation they'd been having the previous day precisely where they'd left off. Samuel was quick, Vincent had to admit, always able to keep up, and had always, before now, been in tune with Vincent's needs and with his thoughts.

  Had he done the right thing, dismissing Samuel like that?

  He shook his head. Of course he had. Besides, what had been done was done. It could not be undone.

  *~*~*

  He arrived back at the house a little before sunset, a few parcels under his arms and his pocket notebook full of estimated delivery times for his bulkier acquisitions and those that would have to be ordered from elsewhere.

  Having very little to do except mundane tasks, he set to work cleaning his workshop, reorganizing a few of his messier shelves. It was soothing, the easy repetition, allowing his mind some modicum of rest.

  When it was done, he ate a supper of bread and cheese, poured himself a glass of wine from the pantry, and took it to bed. He was tired, more so than usual; the events of the past few days had drained him of his energy. It wasn't uncommon for him to work long into the night, to go for days at a time without so much as an hour's worth of sleep, but without his Edgar, without the passion and drive that working on him produced, his body was just like any other, wearied and needing rest.

  His mind, too, needed the blissful dark of sleep. He had struggled with it all day, the same thoughts churning round and round like cream into butter. One minute his thoughts were bitter, his anger at Samuel's actions fuelling them, and the next they were softened by his loneliness, his missing Samuel. He su
pposed that was because he was so used to having him around, and not having him there felt different, felt wrong. He would get used to it, of course.

  Then there was the kiss. That darned kiss that didn't mean anything, but that he couldn't help but dwell upon. He and Samuel had always maintained a respectable physical distance whenever necessary. Kisses simply weren't a part of their interaction. And hadn't Samuel likened himself to Edgar?

  No, he had not. He had compared himself to Vincent's work—the work was not real, and Samuel, their friendship, was. Had he been misplacing his priorities then? Surely not.

  He sighed, turning over in his bed to bury his face in his pillow. Perhaps there would be no rest tonight after all.

  *~*~*

  Vincent was woken by the sound of somebody drumming. No, not drumming but knocking—pounding their fists on the front doors.

  Scowling, he donned his robe and went to answer it.

  There, standing on the step, was Samuel, dressed for the threatening dark clouds casting their shadows over the city streets, the collar of his coat turned up, his hat held nervously in his hands as he waited for Vincent to let him in.

  Vincent scowled. "What do you want?"

  Samuel merely raised one maddening eyebrow. "Would you like to discuss this in your robe, in full view of the street, or would you like to let me in before we begin airing our dirty laundry?"

  Vincent's scowl, if anything, deepened. "I wouldn't like to do anything," he muttered, but he moved aside to allow Samuel entrance.

  "Thank you. I'll brew us a pot of tea, shall I?"

  Something about that felt familiar, comforting, and Vincent suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit with Samuel at the table, a pot of tea between them. But ... "You're no longer my assistant."

  Samuel frowned. "No? I thought ..."

  "What? You thought you'd give me a day to cool my steam, then wander back and resume your old position? After what you did?"

  "No. I did not think that. It was just that I'd heard you might want me back. Clearly I was misinformed." Samuel picked his hat up from where he'd placed it on the stand, making to move towards the door.

  "From Mrs Hartley, I presume?"

  Samuel nodded. "I thought it was odd, your coming so quickly to your senses."

  "I am not the one who ever left my senses."

  Turning to face him, Samuel's expression seemed drained of the defiance he'd worn moments ago. Now he merely looked sad. "Vincent, I believe you have been out of your senses for a very long time."

  Vincent gaped. Samuel was, once again, accusing him of madness.

  "Please, understand. I think—I know—you are a brilliant man, passionate, even. When I met you your work was that of a true genius. Your creations were beautiful, noble even. I have seen your blueprints used for dozens of artificial limbs, and my own sister wears a clockwork hand designed by your own. But you choose to waste your potential on creating something that would, rather than benefit mankind, benefit only you. You are so wrapped up in your own loneliness, and in your fear of rejection, that you would rather spend all your time in your basement, would rather create a man out of clockwork and dead skin, than spend your life with people who care about you, with people who love you, Vincent. Tell me that isn't madness."

  For a long moment, Vincent was silent. He was thinking of Edgar, of his beautiful machine that he'd spent so long crafting, put so much of himself into. Samuel was wrong if he thought Edgar couldn't help humanity. After all, each war that was fought lost the lives of so many. Edgar would change all that, Vincent knew. There would be new armies, armies of clockwork men sent into battle instead of flesh-and-blood, mortal boys. But that thought was a new one. Edgar had been his, and hadn't he planned to keep it that way? For a while, at least.

  "I've never felt like this before," Samuel continued. "It takes some getting used to. I tried to ignore it, tried to repent. But now I feel that perhaps I am meant to love you, if it will stop all this nonsense ..."

  "You think my work is nonsense?"

  "Yes. Because you don't need some toy man, not when you have me." A soft, cool hand rested on his cheek. "Edgar could never have loved you, Vincent. I do. And the only thing I'm sorry for is letting this go on so long, for not saying something sooner. I'm a coward."

  Vincent's hand closed over Samuel's, pulling it, not roughly, away from his cheek. "You've never been that."

  "Haven't I?"

  "No, Samuel. I'm sure it took courage to do what you did, as well as sheer thoughtlessness."

  Samuel's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, his expression darkening. "If you're looking for an apology..."

  "I'm well aware I won't find one."

  Samuel nodded, donning his hat and moving towards the door. Vincent watched the heavy oak swing shut behind him, the loud thunk echoing in the hallway.

  *~*~*

  He stared down at the work table, all the pieces he needed to begin in place. He picked up the metal framing, ready to cut and heat and bend it to his will, and then set it back down again. He glanced towards the workshop door, the stairs just visible beyond it.

  He tried to focus.

  Once he had the framing for the arms, he could frame the legs, torso and skull, creating a metal skeleton. It wasn't easy work; the frame was a fine art, holding together clockwork joints and muscles that enabled the body to move. The hands and face would be the most difficult, and he would leave them to last.

  Still, his heart wasn't in it, and he had to wonder if he was ill. Yes, that had to be it. He'd been feeling under the weather for almost a month now, at times feverish or simply worn down, too tired to do much at all. And even when he wasn't working, he wasn't sleeping well. His mind was continually overworked, the thoughts turning around and around like cogs in some never-ceasing machine, always coming back to the same thing: Samuel.

  Abandoning his workroom, he donned his jacket and hat, most likely giving the impression of a gentleman fallen on hard times. He left the house to itself and traversed the streets, not caring where he was going, only that he was going somewhere.

  A prostitute called to him from the unlit mouth of an alley, one hand pulling at the heavy layers of her skirts to show off stockinged legs, but he barely noticed, hurrying past as though he had an appointment he couldn't afford to miss. Another woman looked up with red-rimmed eyes, half-hidden under a bundle of blankets in a shop doorway. A man shouted incomprehensibly as he made his way, presumably, home from the public house, staggering under the influence of drink.

  On the horizon loomed a large, stone-and-copper tower, lamp light reflecting off its surfaces, the clock face beginning to chime out its midnight toll. One day became the next. Overhead, a zeppelin swam through the night sky, a dark whale overhead, moving over the city and into unknown territory.

  Vincent kept walking.

  Before he knew it he had reached the city's wall. No one was supposed to exit or enter the city after sunset without special permission, but Vincent had to get out. No sense knocking. The tower's guards were not human and could not listen to either reason or persuasion.

  He took out his pocket screwdriver and began unfastening the bolts on the smallest of three doors set into the wall. Soon it was open and he slipped through, hastening down the road and away, trying to pretend he couldn't hear the scuttle of tiny metal legs after him. Breaking into a run, he risked a glance behind him. Three spiders were on his trail, their backs copper, their insides clockwork. They looked harmless in appearance—anyone who hadn't encountered them or who wasn't familiar with stories would probably laugh at them—but secreted behind their eyes were small darts laced with sedatives, the dosage high enough to knock out a fully grown man. Vincent knew this because he had helped design them.

  He also knew they had a flaw. Their detection mechanisms worked only on moving objects, using vibrations to tell them their target's location. Heading into the trees, Vincent let himself get far enough in before halting, pressing his back against a tree
trunk. He heard the spiders rustling through dead leaves, a twig snapping. There was a small click and hiss as one let off its dart, then another, and another, a yelp as some poor wandering animal was hit.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he made for the path, the spiders following him now harmless, the mechanisms that released the darts still clicking.

  Samuel's mother lived just a little way off the main road, a mile out of the city where her husband had worked for many years and her sons still continued to do so. Why Vincent had gone here, of all places, was beyond him, but here he was, and he felt his heart tug towards the little house, although he had visited it only once before.

  The knocker was an ugly iron thing without decoration. He lifted it, and knocked thrice.

  The door creaked open, and a stooped, old woman stood in the entryway, a ladle in one hand, poised and ready to use as a weapon. "What do you want at this time of night?" she demanded, her voice cracked and wheezing. "How did you get past the city gates?"

  He turned, apologetic smile in place. "So sorry to bother you, Mrs Murphy."

  "No you're not," she said. "I know you, Mr Gabriel, don't think I don't."

  "Ah, of course. Can you tell me, is Samuel in?"

  "He's asleep, and if you want him woken you'd better say what your business is."

  Of course. Of course he'd have to prostrate himself before Samuel's mother before he could get to Samuel himself.

  "My business is with Samuel."

  She didn't let him in.

  He tried again. "Could you please just tell Samuel I'm here?"

  "What do you want?" she asked again.

  He gave in. "I want," he said, "to discuss the possibility of us working together again."

  Mrs Murphy tsked. "Working for you's the worst thing my Samuel ever did. You've given him nothing but trouble over the years, Mr Gabriel."

  "Mother." Samuel's voice was quiet but firm. She shot Vincent one last glare before moving aside, Samuel taking her place at the door. "What do you want?" he sounded weary, like he'd just woken up, although he was fully dressed.