The city’s bustle of activity, combined with the little boy’s loud hawking of his wares, drowned out Mr. Harrison’s warning. The lad didn’t even notice the machine as it barreled his way. Quick as a wink, the automaton scooped the match boy off the street without breaking its stride. The lad screamed in a mix of shock and terror that chilled Margaret’s blood.
“No!” Harrison faltered as an anguished cry rent from his chest. “Leave the boy be ... don’t hurt him!” He staggered, but forged onward, recovering his footing and increasing his pace. “Hold on, lad!”
Margaret steered around the now-scattered matches. She didn’t believe the machine intended to injure, but to save. Somehow the automaton thought that boy was the fallen comrade he was meant to rescue and take to higher ground, which explained why the soldier was heading for the only high ground in sight—the Great Clock Tower of Westminster.
Margaret knew the clock tower more intimately than most. As a ten-year-old, she’d once accompanied Papa to watch him fix the giant mechanism. When the job was done,they’d ambled through the enclosed walkway to admire the four faces from within, peering through the clock’s eyes at the vast city below. They’d felt the clock’s heartbeat in the mechanism room. They’d met the quarter bells and Big Ben, the clock’s resonant voice and soul. Together, she and Papa had climbed over three hundred steps of the tower’s narrow spiral staircase.
A difficult climb then.
A sheer impossibility now.
If the machine went up the stairs, what was she to do?
As though it perceived her fear, the automaton barged its way into the tower with a battering-ram kick to the door and darted inside, followed by Mr. Harrison. By the time Margaret arrived, rolling across splintered wood and shattered glass as she entered the breached tower, it was woefully apparent her fears had been realized. Overhead, the clang of metal boots and the screams of a young boy echoed through the tower, growing ever fainter as they ascended. She wheeled forward as far as she could and looked up through the narrow gap between the spiral staircase steps. She could just make out Mr. Harrison climbing several lengths behind a gleam of metal.
Margaret sagged against the back of her chair, jaw clenched and chest heaving.Think, Maggie. Think.She couldn’t just sit down here twiddling her thumbs and leave matters to Mr. Harrison. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Nor was he proving a good judge of the machine’s functions and responses. She had to get up there. Somehow, someway. Sorting through the memories of her previous visit to the tower, she searched through every detail she’d observed back then, which might prove helpful. She must remain calm and coherent so she could think optimally.
Methodically, Margaret inhaled to a count of four beats, held it, and then gradually exhaled for six. Her breath fluttered the collar of her tea gown, cooling the perspiration onher skin. Cooling ... great gadgets, that just might work! Rotating away from the staircase, Margaret approached the adjacent wall and accessed the ventilation shaft Papa had shown her all those years ago, the one that was intended to aid the flow of cool, fresh air throughout the tower. About the size of one of the smaller shipping containers used on Grandpapa Stanton’s merchant vessels, the shaft extended upward from the tower’s base all the way to the belfry.
Just big enough to accommodate a wheelchair laden with one lady inspector.
Margaret turned and rolled backward into the shaft just as Helena and Charles stumbled through the entrance, hair windswept and cheeks ruddy. “Helena, instruct the other inspectors to secure the perimeter lest Harrison or the automaton escape. Then summon the authorities. Inform them a boy, aged no more than seven, has been taken hostage in the tower.”
Lips pursed, Helena left with all haste.
Charles leaned over, hands on knees, catching his breath. “What’s the plan?”
“In short, rescue the innocent boy caught in the gears of Mr. Harrison’s guile.” Margaret secured a safety strap across her lap and pressed a button on her chair, activating the Wheelicopter function. The wheels on her chair folded outward, tucking themselves underneath in conjunction. A sharp click indicated the spokes had widened into blades. The stacked wheels began to rotate, whirring as the chair rose, hovering above the ground.
Charles straightened, admiring her with awe. “I suppose I’ll have to take the stairs.”
Chapter
39
Margaret was flying. With the greatest of ease, she soared. Vibrations thrummed through her as the Wheelicopter’s blades spun rapidly beneath her chair, propelling her straight up the clock tower’s ventilation shaft. To avoid feeling claustrophobic within the confined space, she trained her gaze on the glimmer of the illuminated Ayrton Light above. What had first been a mere pinprick was steadily growing as she drew closer.
Soon enough, Margaret emerged from the top of the shaft into the belfry. With the chair’s steering lever, she maneuvered away from the shaft’s opening and managed a smooth landing. She powered down the chair, but while the engine’s vibrations ceased, the sensation remained as exhilaration, relief, and none-too-little fear coursed through her veins. Hopefully her accelerated means of transport had helped her get ahead of the automaton. The machine mustn’t be allowed to reach the tower’s summit while in possession of the boy.
A masculine bellow resounded from a lower level, followed by the shattering of glass and shriek of a child.
Panic clutched Margaret’s chest.God, give me strength. Don’t let me be too late.She stood and hastened as fast as she dared on foot across the belfry, leaving the aid of her wheeled chair behind, for the path she must take would not accommodate its aid. She departed the belfry via the narrow winding staircase. Though urgency screamed at her to run, she took each step with care as she clutched the metal railing. A fall wouldn’t do her, or the boy, any good.
Finally, Margaret reached the bottom. The sounds of a scuffle served as her compass, navigating her to the passageway where one might access the four clock dials. All was calm at the first, and then the second, but as she rounded the walkway to the third dial, everything dissolved into chaos. The clock had taken a punch to the face, and the floor was strewn with glimmering shards of opal glass. Through the gaping wound, Mr. Harrison leaned into the open air, paying no heed to the wind buffeting his jacket. Nor to the jagged remnants of glass slicing through his sleeves and drawing blood as he strained to take hold of something outside.
A sinking feeling tugged at Margaret’s stomach. She hastened to Mr. Harrison’s side, glass crunching beneath her shoes, and grasped his sleeve. “Where’s the child?”
Mr. Harrison ducked inside, distress etched into every plane of his face. “The machine kicked a hole through the dial, and he’s ... he’s taken the lad out there. Onto the minute hand. There’s not a moment to lose. We have to save them!”
Them?He spoke as though there were two lives at risk. “Our priority is the boy.”
“But that machine’s the lone working prototype. It must be preserved. Once perfected, it will save thousands of lives—”
“It’s endangering a life, Harrison! Here and now, that boy could die at the hands of your wind-up toy! Once theautomaton’s discs complete their rotation, the machine will shut down. Do you understand? Any moment, it’s going to turn off, and the boy will fall. Would you let one of the Dodgers take that fall?”
Harrison’s eyes widened, and he gaped at her, jaw quivering. “How do you—?”
A loud tick resounded through the room as the minute hand shifted upward six degrees, and the boy unleashed a blood-curdling cry. Margaret and Harrison startled and then murmured exclamations of relief. Somehow, the automaton and its young captive remained fixed atop the minute hand. Blessedly safe. For now.
