Tanglefoot_ A Story of the Clockwork Century - Cherie Priest [6]
But the night did not pass fitfully.
First Edwin awakened to hear the doctor snuffling in his sleep, muttering about the peril of inadequate testing; and when the old man finally sank back into a fuller sleep, Edwin nearly followed him. Down in the basement there were no lights except for the dim, bioluminescent glow of living solutions in blown-glass beakers–and the simmering wick of a hurricane lamp turned down low, but left alight enough for the boy to see his way to the privy if the urge struck him before dawn.
Here and there the bubble of an abandoned mixture seeped fizzily through a tube, and when Dr. Smeeks slept deeply enough to cease his ramblings, there was little noise to disturb anyone.
Even upstairs, when the wee hours came, most of the inmates and patients of the sanitarium were quiet–if not by their own cycles, then by the laudanum spooned down their throats before the shades were drawn.
Edwin lay on his back, his eyes closed against the faint, blue and green glows from the laboratory, and he waited for slumber to call him again. He reached to his left, to the spot between his cot and the wall. He patted the small slip of space there, feeling for a manufactured arm or leg, and finding Ted’s cool, unmoving form. And although there was scarcely any room, he pulled Ted out of the slot and tugged the clockwork boy into the cot after all, because doll or no, Ted was a comforting thing to hold.
Part Two:
Morning came, and the doctor was already awake when Edwin rose.
“Good morning sir.”
“Good morning, Edwin,” the doctor replied without looking over his shoulder. On their first exchange of the day, he’d remembered the right name. Edwin tried to take it as a sign that today would be a good day, and Dr. Smeeks would mostly remain Dr. Smeeks–without toppling into the befuddled tangle of fractured thoughts and faulty recollections.
He was standing by the hurricane lamp, with its wick trimmed higher so that he could read. An envelope was opened and discarded beside him.
“Is it a letter?” Edwin asked.
The doctor didn’t sound happy when he replied, “It’s a letter indeed.”
“Is something wrong?”
“It depends.” Dr. Smeeks folded the letter. “It’s a man who wants me to work for him.”
“That might be good,” Edwin said.
“No. Not from this man.”
The boy asked, “You know him?”
“I do. And I do not care for his aims. I will not help him,” he said firmly. “Not with his terrible quests for terrible weapons. I don’t do those things anymore. I haven’t done them for years.”
“You used to make weapons? Like guns, and cannons?”
Dr. Smeeks said, “Once upon a time.” And he said it sadly. “But no more. And if Ossian thinks he can bribe or bully me, he has another thing coming. Worst comes to worst, I suppose, I can plead a failing mind.”
Edwin felt like he ought to object as a matter of politeness, but when he said, “Sir,” the doctor waved his hand to stop whatever else the boy might add.
“Don’t, Parker. I know why I’m here. I know things, even when I can’t always quite remember them. But my old colleague says he intends to pay me a visit, and he can pay me all the visits he likes. He can offer to pay me all the Union money he likes, too–or Confederate money, or any other kind. I won’t make such terrible things, not anymore.”
He folded the letter in half and struck a match to light a candle. He held one corner of the letter over the candle and let it burn, until there was nothing left but the scrap between his fingertips–and then he released it, letting the smoldering flame turn even the last of the paper to ash.
“Perhaps he’ll catch me on a bad day, do you think? As likely as not, there will be no need for subterfuge.”
Edwin wanted to contribute, and he felt the drive to communicate with the doctor while communicating seemed possible. He said, “You should tell him to come in the afternoon. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, sir, but you seem much clearer