“Bring the nutcracker,” I told Bailey. At the back of the workshop was a life-sized wooden nutcracker Marley had once carved to serve as a decoration for a display that we had made for a show at the Lyceum. It had been sitting gathering dust until Bailey and I found a better use for it.
Grabbing the dolly, Bailey hauled the heavy piece into place, setting it with its back against the stone wall on the far side of the room. Once it was set up, she returned once more, standing behind the automaton and me.
“All right, you tin can, let’s see what you can do,” I told the machine. “Dickens, activate weapon.”
The automaton clicked then raised its arm.
“Acquire target. Nutcracker.”
The machine’s blue eyes closed for a moment, reopening once more with blaring red light. Its gaze centered on the nutcracker, the two optics closing in on the nutcracker’s face.
“Short burst. Fire,” I told the machine.
Cogs and gears clicked as the automatic weapon readied itself. Bailey and I both covered our ears. A moment later, the machine shot a quick burst of bullets toward the wooden dummy. A cloud of dust surrounded the nutcracker for a moment.
Bailey and I waited.
“Good. Dickens, return to the workbench and power down,” I told the machine.
The automaton lowered its arm. Its eyes flickered blue once more. Walking with a stiff clatter, it returned to the workbench and sat back down. Swinging its legs onto the bench once more, it lay down. I heard a click as the machine turned itself off, its eyes going dim once more.
With the machine powered down, Bailey and I headed across the room to investigate the damage.
The nutcracker had taken most of the hits to the head, but a few stray bullets had hit the wall behind the target, which had caused the cloud of powdered mortar. Bailey inspected the stray shots.
“Looks like a variation of thirty centimeters or so,” she reported.
I nodded. “Acceptable. I warned the buyer about the accuracy. All right, Missus Cratchit. That will do. I will meet with the customer in the morning. Tidy up your tools and be on your way.”
“Thank you, Missus Scrooge.”
“I expect you to be on time on Boxing Day. I don’t care if the banks are off. We are not bankers.”
“Of course, Missus Scrooge. I do hope you’ll reconsider about tomorrow. Robert and I would love for you to join us for Christmas. I hate to think you’ll be alone. The children haven’t seen you for—”
“Yes. All right. We’ll see. There is still work to be done after we get this metal beast off our hands.”
“Very well,” Bailey said with a sigh then began putting her tools away.
At least Bailey had better sense of when to tie her tongue than my niece. Working quickly and quietly, she finished her work then pulled on her coat and hat. As she slipped on her gloves, she smiled at me.
“I won’t wish you a Merry Christmas,” she told me. “How about a simple goodnight?”
I huffed a laugh. “Goodnight, Missus Cratchit.”
“Goodnight, Missus Scrooge.”
At that, she headed to the front.
“Lock the door behind you.”
“Of course.”
A moment later, I heard the bell above the door ring then the sound of the key in the lock. And then, finally, there was silence.
I sat down on the stool beside the workbench, turned up the light on the gaslamp, and then lifted the automaton’s hand. Slipping on my magnification goggles, I tightened the tiny clockwork devices one last time.
Just as I was settling in, a noise at the back of the workshop startled me.
Pulling off my goggles, I grabbed a pistol I had hidden under the workbench and headed into the back of the darkened workshop. My ears pricking for any sound, I listened. But there was nothing.
I hoisted my lantern and scanned all around, finally discovering the matter.
The ropes that had been holding a tarp had come loose. The massive throw that had covered the stock in the back of the room had slid to the floor. Bailey must have bumped it when she moved the nutcracker.
For the first time in years, I stood staring at the clockwork carousel horses sitting there. Their colorful paint was faded, but their jewel-like eyes sparkled in the lamplight.
A lifetime’s worth of work and dreams sat before me.
Memories wanted to insist themselves upon me, but then, I remembered Marley’s words.
“When we were young, we were dreamers. Now we are awake to the truth of the world. It is a cold, hard, and lonely place. Only those who are willing to do what it takes can survive. Dreams are for fools,” she’d told me the day we’d hauled all of the carnival materials to the back and covered them—keeping them only for spare parts.
I stared at the emerald-green eyes of a pretty clockwork pony. I had loved making it, loved watching it work. On the carousel, its legs would gallop, the head tilting side to side. It had been one of my best creations.
Sighing, I lowered the lamp and turned back.
“Humbug,” I huffed, but I wasn’t sure at what. My absent partner. The pony. The dream. Or that old dreamer.
2
Jacqueline Marley
It was after eleven when I finally found my way home. My townhouse was silent, save the ticking of the clock on the mantel in my bedroom. I left the downstairs dark and went upstairs to my bedchamber. The temperature had dropped below freezing. I banked up the fire in my bedroom and slid a chair close to the fireplace. Too exhausted to fix a proper meal, I returned to the kitchen only to fix myself a pot of tea and grab a plate of biscuits, which I took back to my bedroom. In my room once more, I slipped onto the chair. My eyes drooped as I sipped the amber-colored tea. Munching the biscuits, I stared into the fire. Memories of Christmases past wanted to insist themselves upon me, but I steeled myself to them. I hated Christmas. It was too full of memories, too full of…well, it was simply too full. In every spark of the fire, I saw my parents, my sister, Marley, Tom, and her. On Christmas, I always remembered her. I closed my eyes, willing myself to stop thinking, stop remembering. Christmas was a joyful season for many, but for me, the joy had long been gone from my life. Now, there was only work. I had no one to rely on but myself, and if I didn’t work, I was destined for poverty. Setting aside my teacup, I pulled my legs up into the chair. No use bothering going to bed. I needed to head back to the shop by five to meet my customer. I just needed a few hours of sleep between now and then. I closed my eyes.
As I did, a soft memory drifted through my mind.
“Mama, listen,” Maisie chirped sweetly.
Against my will, a buried memory replayed.
My daughter laughed as she shook the little stuffed kitten in my face, the small bell hanging from its collar ringing merrily. “See what Father Christmas brought me? Why did he bring it early?”
A tear streamed down my cheek.
“Not tonight,” I whispered into the darkness. “Don’t make me remember tonight.”
Shutting out the memory, I forced myself to sleep, praying I did not dream.
I awoke with a start when the clock bonged out the chimes of midnight. My body aching from sleeping in such an odd position, I rose to find the fire had gone out. How had that happened? Hadn’t I banked it up enough? Perhaps I was more tired than I thought.
Shivering, I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and rose to go to the fireplace.
An unearthly chill washed over me.
The room smelled strange, the scent of death in the air.
I exhaled deeply, a bank of fog forming in the chilly air.