Blood ran down her arm, slicking her fingers, making it difficult to keep a grip on her own blade. She ducked as Felix took another swipe, and stumbled. As much as she fought it, there was a part of her mind on the verge of hysteria over her injuries, and it was strong enough that she wasn’t at her best. She only barely managed to avoid another attack, but this time she dodged toward her attacker, rather than away from him. She grasped the top of the pouch tied at his waist and pulled him close, slicing through the cord with her dagger. Then, she lifted one foot and drove her boot into his chest, shoving him backward before he could make another strike.

It took all of her strength to move, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid the girls. They grabbed her with talonlike hands as they closed in on her like vultures on a corpse. Their fingers tore at her clothes and her skin, dug into the wounds their master had made. Finley screamed, but she didn’t stop. She shoved the pouch into the hands of the final girl—the one she’d found on the wall and who had told her to run. Then, she cut the stitches that sealed the girl’s mouth.

“You’re free,” she told her. “He doesn’t have any power over you anymore.”

The girl froze, and one by one the others followed. Finley’s knees began to buckle, and it was only those cruel hands that kept her upright. She watched, stomach rolling and vision blurring as the girl reached into the pouch and withdrew two of the eyes. She lifted them to the gaping sockets in her face and set one then the other in place.

“No!” Felix screamed.

The girl turned her head and looked at him as she thrust the pouch at one of her sisters. Felix ran toward them—ran toward Finley. As the girls each retrieved their eyes, they released their hold on her, and her legs refused to hold out any longer. She was bleeding badly—to the point where the pain had begun to recede into peaceful nothingness.

“I’m getting you out of here!” Ipsley shouted.

“Not yet!” Finley cried, but he was already gone. She sank to her hands and knees. Felix’s boots appeared in her line of vision. She couldn’t even tense to prepare for the kick he was surely going to deliver to her head.

But no kick came, and Finley lifted her head.

The girls—all with their eyes returned and bloodied lips free—surrounded him.

“Kill her,” he commanded, pointing at Finley. “You kill her now.”

The girls cocked their heads in unison—a disturbing sight. Then, they snapped upright, hissing with teeth bared and eyes wide. She didn’t know which one attacked first, but they lunged at him like dogs at a bone, snarling and snapping. A cry of pain echoed in the fog. And as the world dropped away, the last thing Finley saw was Lord Felix screaming for mercy as he was devoured by his former victims.


Five weeks and four days earlier...

“Where are we going?” Mila asked as she sat beside Jack in his sleek steam carriage. They were racing through the streets of London—well, perhaps racing wasn’t the best word. They raced from time to time, and then other times they were held up in the chaotic throng that seemed to be normal traffic. Mila didn’t understand how people could get so jammed up, and she didn’t want to understand it.

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” Jack shot her a small smile. “Think of it as a belated birthday present.”

“Birthday present?” she echoed.

To his credit, he didn’t look at her as though this was something she should know, or common knowledge among “real” people. “It’s a custom that on the anniversary of someone’s birth you give them a present.”

“But I wasn’t born.”

He made a face as he steered the carriage between two carts, a swearing farmer and an angry man shouting in Chinese. Something about a cow... “Of course you were. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but you had a day when you were awake and became aware of yourself as a being and not a machine.”

Yes, he had a point. “That was weeks ago.”

“That’s why this is a belated present.”

She shrugged. “All right.” This didn’t really make a lot of sense to her, but it was nice to be out of the house. She liked it when Jack took her out exploring. He took her to interesting places like museums where she could learn about things. She enjoyed learning.

She stared out the window at the passing city and all it’s strange wonder. There were so many things to see. It was a clear morning, and a dirigible was flying high above them. L’air France was written in script on its side.

“What’s it like to fly?” she asked.

“Like flying,” Jack answered.

Mila frowned. “I don’t understand.”

His lips tilted on one side. “It’s something you have to experience for yourself. No one can tell you what it’s like.”

“Oh.” She peered up at the ship again. “I would like to find out someday.”

“I’ll see that you do.”

She believed him.

They pulled up in front of a large brick building with white columns. It wasn’t fancy, but it was lovely. Jack shut down the engine and got out of the carriage, coming around to open her door for her. He was adamant about opening her door—another thing she didn’t understand. Her limbs worked just as well as his, and she understood the procedure of turning a handle. Still, it wasn’t that important a detail, so she didn’t push it.

She turned her head to look at the sign in front of the building, but her gaze went instead to what appeared to be a pile of rubbish beside the steps. Her heart skipped a beat. Was that what she thought it was? She moved closer. It was.

It was an automaton that had had its logic engine ripped out. There was what looked like dried blood on its tarnished brass face. Its mouth was slightly open—it was a humanoid machine—and she could see what appeared to be two humanlike teeth.

“Damnation,” Jack swore. “Come away, poppet.”

“Why would someone do this?” she asked, horrified. It had been murdered.

He led her away, up the steps to the building. “Someone probably got scared. Some people are afraid of the automatons that have become sentient.”

“Why would they be afraid?”

His gaze locked with hers. “Because machines are smarter and stronger than we are, and that’s terrifying.”

And that was the moment that Mila realized she could never tell anyone who didn’t already know what she really was. It was going to have to be a secret, and a closely guarded one. She didn’t want people to be afraid of her.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

She followed him into the building. It smelled of dust and paper and ink, and when he led her into the main room her jaw literally dropped. Thank goodness it was bolted to her skull.

Books. Wall after wall, row after impossibly long row of beautiful books.

“What is this place?” Was that breathy sound in her voice?

Jack was grinning. “It’s a lending library. You can borrow whatever books you want, take them home and read them. Then we bring them back and you can get more. Do you like it?”

“Oh, Jack!” It was all she could say. She didn’t know the right words to correctly articulate just how wonderful it was.

“Go,” he instructed. “Find ten books. I’ll wait.”

“Only ten?”

His smile turned patient. “We can come back tomorrow.”

She ran into the first row.

Half an hour later they left with an armload of books that Jack insisted on carrying. Mila wore a huge smile on her face—until they stepped outside and she saw the discarded automaton again.

Jack put the books into the boot of the carriage before joining her. “You want to take it, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she replied. Then she turned to him. “Jack, what would you do for a real person?”

He shrugged. “Bury him—or her.”

“Then...can we bury him or her?”

Jack didn’t say anything, he just went and picked up the automaton. It was heavy, and his back bowed with the strain. Mila could have done it, but she sensed that he would not have liked it if she had. He put the remains in the boot with the books.

They drove to a cemetery not far from Jack’s house. It was a little shabby, he explained, but it would suit their purpose. This time, he let Mila carry the automaton, as he carried a shovel and an old fence post he found near the entrance.

Mila found a nice little spot, out of the way, beneath a tree. It was a pretty spot—the sort where one might like to sit and read a book on a summer day. She’d never done that, but she’d like to.

Jack dug a hole just big enough for the discarded pieces. He was sweating when he finished, but he still hadn’t said one word of complaint. Mila was more grateful for his silence than she could ever say—and somewhat unsettled by it. She put the machine into the dirt, arranging it carefully before standing back so Jack could bury it. When he was done, he stuck the fence post into the ground beside it.

“A grave should have a marker,” he explained.

A grave. People had graves. Humans.

Hot wetness filled Mila’s eyes. She blinked it away.

Jack held her hand as they walked back to the carriage. He opened her door for her and she climbed in. She didn’t know what to say. This feeling—like someone was sitting on her chest—was new and unpleasant.

“That was a good thing you did,” Jack told her when they were almost home. “A very good thing. I’m humbled by your compassion—honestly.”

The wetness burned her eyes again, and this time she let it come, let it run down her cheeks before finally wiping it away.

She didn’t say anything until they were back at Jack’s. She carried her books into the house and made to take them up to her room. Jack said he had work to do.