Clockwork Princess

enormous weight were pressing on her. Looking down, she saw that she had a man’s heavy arms, the skin a dark, textured green, the hands large and curved. A feeling of panic rose in her, but it was tiny, a small spark within an immense gulf of darkness. She had never been so lost inside a Change before.
    Mortmain had sat upright. He was staring at her fixedly, his firm lips compressed, his eyes shining with a hard dark light. “Father,” he said.
    Tessa did not answer. Could not answer. The voice that rose within her was not hers; it was Shade’s. “My clockwork prince,” Shade said.
    The light in Mortmain’s eyes grew. He leaned forward, pushing the papers eagerly across the table toward Tessa. “Father,” he said. “I need your help, and quickly. I have a Pyxis. I have the means to open it. I have the automaton bodies. I need only the spell you created, the binding spell. Write it down for me, and I will have the last piece of the puzzle.”
    The tiny flare of panic inside Tessa was growing and spreading. This was no touching reunion between father and son. This was something Mortmain wanted, needed from the warlock John Shade. She began to struggle, to try to extricate herself from the Change, but it held her with a grip like iron. Not since the Dark Sisters had trained her had she been unable to extricate herself from a Change, but though John Shade was dead, she could feel the steely hold of his will on her, keeping her prisoned in his body and forcing that body into action. In horror she saw her own hand reach for the pen, dip the nib in the ink, and begin to write.
    The pen scratched across the paper. Mortmain leaned forward. He was breathing hard, as if running. Behind him the fire crackled, high and orange in the grate. “That is it,” he said, his tongue licking over his bottom lip. “I can see how that would work, yes. Finally. That’s it exactly.”
    Tessa stared. What was coming from her pen seemed a stream of gibberish to her: numbers, signs, and symbols she could not comprehend. Again she tried to struggle, succeeding only in blotting the page. There went the pen again—ink, paper, more scratching. The hand that held the pen was shaking violently, but the symbols continued to flow. Tessa began to bite her lip: hard, then harder. She tasted blood in her mouth. Some of the blood dripped onto the page. The pen continued to write through it, smearing scarlet fluid across the page.
    “That is it,” Mortmain said. “Father—”
    The nib of the pen snapped, as loud as a gunshot, echoing off the walls of the cave. The pen fell broken from Tessa’s hand, and she slumped back against the chair, exhausted. The green was draining from her skin, her body was shrinking, her own brown hair was tumbling loose over her shoulders. She could still taste blood in her mouth. “No,” she gasped, and reached for the papers. “No—”
    But her movements were made slow by pain and the Change, and Mortmain was faster. Laughing, he snatched the papers out from under her hand and rose to his feet. “Very good,” he said. “Thank you, my little warlock girl. You have given me everything I need. Automatons, escort Miss Gray back to her room.”
    A metal hand closed on the back of Tessa’s gown and lifted her to her feet. The world seemed to swing dizzily in front of her. She saw Mortmain reach down and lift up the gold watch that had fallen on the table.
    He smiled at it, a feral, vicious smile. “I will make you proud, Father,” he said. “Never doubt it.”
    Tessa, no longer able to bear watching, closed her eyes.
What have I done?
she thought as the automaton began to push her from the room.
My God, what have I done?

17
O NLY N OBLE T O B E G OOD
    Howe’er it be, it seems to me,
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood
.
    —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Lady Clara Vere de Vere”
    Charlotte’s dark head was bent over a letter when Gabriel came into the drawing room. It was chilly in the room, the fire dead in the grate. Gabriel wondered why Sophie had not built it up—too much time spent training. His father wouldn’t have had patience with that. He liked servants who were trained to fight, but he preferred them to acquire that knowledge before they entered his service.
    Charlotte looked up. “Gabriel,” she said.
    “You wanted to see me?” Gabriel did his best to keep his voice even. He couldn’t help the feeling that