The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [71]
“I don’t know,” I said. “This thing is museum quality. Cal!” I shouted. “Turn the aether switch on!”
After a moment, the crystals that passed heat through the aether and made it active began to glow, and when I turned the glass needle along the spectrum dial, a voice scraped out of the ancient phono horn.
“You’re listening to WKPS, Pittsfield, Massachusetts, and this is Dirk DeVille with the news. The President issued a statement today regarding the ongoing necrovirus research purportedly conducted in secret Crimson Guard laboratories, calling it blatant heretical aggression against the United States—”
Dean spun the needle along the spectrum. “Sorry. Listening to that guy’s voice is like putting a rivet into my own head.” The studio audience for The Larry Lovett Show laughed back at Dean.
I spun the dial again. Music crackled faintly, a phonograph that was half static.
Dean’s mouth quirked. “Finally, something we can both agree on.”
“Aoife, are you going to hang around in there all day?” Cal called. “I want to see what this thing can do!”
“All right, Cal,” I shouted back, reaching to turn off the wireless. Dean stopped me.
“Leave it. I like a little music when I’m alone with a pretty girl.”
I’m sure the blush I felt showed in my face. Dean kept sending me hurtling off balance. I’d never met someone who spoke as freely as he did. Especially about me. “You’re not alone with me, Dean, and I’m hardly the sort of girl someone like you finds pretty.”
Dean pushed a piece of hair away from my eyes. “Why don’t you let me decide that?”
I ducked away from his touch. I knew damn well I was a smart girl, not a pretty one. Boys at home told Cecelia she was pretty constantly, and she let them take advantage constantly. Not me.
“I should go check the rest of the house,” I murmured. “Make sure there’s nothing dangerous in here.”
Getting to my feet, I stumbled over my own boots as I backed away from Dean, but he just smiled. “You check the upstairs,” I said. “I’ll go to the cellar and make sure the boiler isn’t … er …”
“Overheating?” Dean prompted.
Could I make this moment any worse?
“Yes,” I replied meekly.
“Sure thing,” Dean said, standing and brushing the dust from his dungarees. “I’ll call out if I see anything.”
His easy smile told me that he didn’t take offense at my awkwardness, but I felt restless as I walked from room to room. Windows and doors opened and shut by themselves at the merest touch of my foot on the threshold. Iron grates rolled over the windows to protect Graystone’s residents from the outside world, but at the flick of a switch, the ceiling of the front parlor rolled back to reveal a rotating display of the night sky, wrought in silver, brass and glass against deep blue velveteen clouds. There were spikes that rose out of the fence around the outer edge of the drive and front gardens, and a phonopiano in the conservatory that played itself while a pair of brass dancers turned atop its keys to a Brahms waltz.
Finally, Graystone had exhausted its wonders and all that remained was the mundane task of checking the newly reinstated boiler for leaks.
“Cal, I’m going to the cellar,” I shouted. “I’ll be up in a moment.”
“Be careful!” he shouted back. “The cellar is the last of the switches on the board, and then I’d say this place is ready for action!”
I found the cellar door off the kitchen and Bethina watched me skeptically when I grasped the handle to go down. “You be careful, miss. Those bootleggers left weak spots and covered holes all over the place down there.”
“Bethina, I’m not a child,” I told her. Cal had already fussed over me. One surrogate parent per day was my limit.
“All right, then,” she grumbled. “But if you fall down a hole and get devoured by a nightjar, it will be no fault of mine.”
“Thank you for that, Bethina,” I said, and descended the creaking, winding stairs. Graystone’s cellars were damp and shadowed,