Clara tucked the iris into her bonnet, hoisted her skirts, and ran toward the waiting carousel’s promise of merriment. “Last one on the carousel has to carry the others back to the hotel!”
A blur of fuchsia whooshed by Clara and assumed the lead. Mum leapt upon the carousel, climbed to the top of its second deck, and mounted a wooden stallion with a mane of white. Leaning over the golden railing, Mum beamed a smile. “I win.”
Clara ascended the lower deck and was immediately drawn to a piebald horse, harnessed to a small cart, that resembled a favorite childhood toy Grand had made her one Christmas. She mounted the horse and looked over her shoulder. “Aha, you’re last, Mr. Arthur. You shall have to carry Mum and I back to the hotel.”
Panting, Mr. Arthur hefted himself onto the carousel and collapsed in the cart. “I’m not sure I’ve the strength, Miss Stanton.”
“Do you dare insinuate that we are heavy?”
“And risk you shoving me to the ground again? Never!” He tossed her a wink and then clutched the knee above his mechanical prosthetic.
Clara’s brows drew taut. Perhaps a race had been an ill-conceivednotion. Lugging a metal boot around must be strenuous enough without her instigating a mad dash. Was there any way Mr. Arthur’s pain might be eased? Before she could voice this inquiry, the carousel lurched.
Calliope music floated through the air, and the ride began its first rotation. Parents standing on the cobbles waved to children who squealed with delight. As the carousel picked up speed, the breeze invited the ribbons of Clara’s bonnet to dance. Her heart swelled, and she lifted her face toward the azure sky. When they found Grand, she must thank him for this day. Ask him how many times he’d ridden the carousel round and round.
As they continued to twirl, the familiar chiming of Grand’s pocket watch lilted over Clara’s shoulder, and the wooden horse beneath her whinnied. She blinked. Her gaze fell to the piebald. Was it her imagination or did the patches of black and white look less like painted wood and more like ... metal?
As if hearing her thoughts, the horse nickered and leapt off the carousel.
CHAPTER
23
When Clara found her grandfather, she was going to box the old man’s ears.
The automaton horse galloped down the street at a breakneck pace. Each clanking hoofbeat rattled her bones and threatened to bumpity-bump her out of the saddle. She leaned forward and grasped a mane of yarn.Don’t fret, my foot!Grand might’ve given a more helpful instruction, such as “ride astride if you value your life.” Even blithe Mum would’ve given her that much warning. She gasped a mouthful of mane.
Mum!
Where was Mum?
Spitting yarn like a frazzled feline, Clara looked over her shoulder. Mr. Arthur remained in the cart, gripping the sides as it bounced over countless cobbles. Behind him, parents gawked, children cheered, and on the carousel’s second tier, Mum waved a handkerchief in farewell, shrinking from view until she was naught but a miniature figure on a windup toy.
A wave of dizziness upset Clara’s equilibrium. She latched on to the horse’s cold neck and willed her head to stop spinning. She had to turn this machine around. She couldn’t let Mum slip out of reach.
Straightening into a semblance of proper form, Clara pulled the reins. The horse didn’t react, let alone slow down. She pulled the reins again. Still no reaction. She was completely out of control. Half-timber buildings whooshed in her peripheral. People on the street exclaimed in German and French, but she couldn’t grasp what they said any more than she could control the story they were sure to tell their families. Their neighbors.
Their newspaper.
She leaned into the piebald’s soft mane, clutching the useless reins to her chest. Resigning herself to travel the unknown course charted by the flights of Grand’s fancy.
Eventually, the horse slowed from a gallop to a canter. A canter to a trot. A trot to a blessed stop. Dismounting before the piebald could change its mind, Clara clung to the withers for balance and took stock of their surroundings. The automaton steed had conveyed them to another historic landmark, the grandiose Palais Rohan. The horse had positioned their cart to provide an optimum view of the palace’s riverside façade, shaded beneath the boughs of a majestic tree.
Mr. Arthur bounded to her side, blond hair tousled and curling at the ends. “That was amazing!”
More like terrifying. “How did you manage to place Grand’s watch on the horse and deactivate the automaton without taking a horrible spill?”
“That’s just the thing—I didn’t! The automaton stopped of its own volition.” Scratching his head, Mr. Arthur surveyed the machine with wide eyes. “I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he did. Somehow, Drosselmeyer designed the horse with a mechanical instinct that draws it to this location andcompels it to stop here without requiring contact with the watch’s unique mechanism. It’s a wonder.”
Indeed, a conspicuous wonder. She glanced at the street, where a smattering of people traveled in opposite directions. “We need to hide the machine somehow.” And get back to Mum posthaste.
“If we haven’t attracted a crowd by now, I think we’re safe enough.” Mr. Arthur leaned against the automaton horse, which didn’t budge under his weight. “Besides, no amount of brute strength is going to move this machine. ’Tis far too heavy and far too large.”
“Then what are we to do? People are bound to notice an automaton standing in a public square.”
“Not necessarily. People rarely pay attention to things outside their direct line of sight.” Mr. Arthur helped her into the cart and climbed in alongside. “If we act as though this is a real horse and cart, people will see a real horse and cart. We’re just a couple of tourists out for a drive, so enjoy the view, Miss Stanton. Trust that Drosselmeyer has planned this day with your best in mind. I’ve a feeling when next the pocket watch chimes, our faithful steed will return to his stall and reunite us with a certain stork expert.”
Clara worried her hands. She certainly hoped he was right. For there seemed nothing else to be done. Shifting in the cart, stiff and uneasy, she surveyed the Baroque edifice before them. Designed symmetrically around anavant-corpsof four Corinthian columns, the palace’s rear wall was comprised of windows upon windows, overlooking the glistening River Île. A triangular pediment adorned the sandstone façade with the House of Rohan’s coat of arms, but its grandeur was overshadowed by the Gothic spire of Strasbourg’s famed cathedral, which lorded over it from the sky. It was as though the palace architect wished to remind passersby that all were subject to the sovereignty of God.
