Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl by David Barnett Page B

into his soul.
    Gideon dared to breathe and glanced at Crowe, who had been getting more and more agitated throughout the performance, grimacing and twisting on his leather armchair.
    “My God,” said Gideon quietly.
    “Maria,” Crowe said in triumph. “The most wonderful creation in this entire lunatic menagerie. Clockwork. Gears. Flywheels and cogs. Come and look.”
    Crowe ran, hunched, to Maria and commanded, “Up! Up on your feet!”
    Gideon stared at him. “She responds to your words?”
    Crowe grinned as Maria stood and straightened, staring straight ahead. “A bloody wonder, it is.” From on top of a pile of books he took a brass key, the width of two handspans. He roughly turned Maria around and tugged at her leotard, revealing a tiny, dark keyhole in the small of her exquisitely curved back. “You stick this in here, give it a couple of turns, and it’s off. Clockwork.” He saw Gideon staring at the automaton and said quietly. “Have a touch. It won’t mind.”
    Gideon put out a tentative hand and laid his fingers on her bare shoulder, pulling them back as though burned. “She’s warm!” he said. “As warm as you or I! And soft to the touch . . . like real flesh. What is she made of?”
    Crowe shrugged. “Like I told you before, it’s not my place to understand. Just to look after the inventions until such time as Professor Einstein decides to come home.”
    Crowe looked around conspiratorially again, then leaned in to Gideon. “I look after Maria, and it looks after me, too.”
    Gideon frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “It does a special dance,” said Crowe, running his tongue over his tooth stumps. “Just for me.”
    Gideon took a step back. “You don’t mean . . . you make that thing . . .”
    Crowe shrugged. “It’s near as damnation a real woman.” He bared his teeth. “ ’Cept it don’t nag like one. Have a squeeze of its titties.”
    Gideon backed away further. “I think I shall go to bed, Crowe. I plan to be away from here at first light. Thank you for your hospitality.”
    Crowe shrugged and turned back to the automaton. Gideon fled to the room where he had washed, and he lay in bed in the darkness as the sounds of the phonograph started again. Sick to his stomach, Gideon clamped his hands over his ears and begged for sleep to come.
    Gideon was awake before dawn, staring out of his bedroom window at the blue sky and soaking lawns the passing storm had left in its wake. Crowe’s whisky, and his debased abuse of the automaton, had left a sour taste in Gideon’s mouth. The way the automaton’s eyes had met his at the close of that frenetic dance spoke to Gideon of some hidden, secret intelligence.
    Gideon padded barefoot out of his room and along the corridor. He passed an open door from which emitted a groaning, sawing shriek, and he peered in to see Crowe, face down and snoring loudly, the empty whisky bottle on its side by his outstretched hand. Farther on he found a mismatched dark wooden door that, when he tried the round brass handle, swung open to reveal a tight spiral stone staircase. Gideon surmised he was in the fairytale tower that had been added to the west wing of the house, and curiosity drove him up the stairs to another door. As he looked around it, his breath caught in his throat; there was Maria, the automaton, sitting on a chair in a bare stone chamber, her head slumped on her chest. There was a table beside her on which rested the large brass key Crowe had spoken of. Gideon was surprised the old drunkard had summoned the wherewithal to return her to the tower at all. Along one side of the wall was a rail hung with frocks, blouses, and skirts of all kinds; Gideon felt slightly queasy at the thought of Crowe dressing the mannequin to suit his mood. She was still wearing the tattered ballerina outfit. Gideon walked across the stone floor and squatted before her.
    He took a strand of her blond hair in his fingers and marveled at it; just like real hair.