Salamander by Thomas Wharton Page B

locked the automaton away and forgot about it, and only then, much later, did she come to the niche on her own, when no one else was there to see her. She opened the cabinet, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to be caught by these cold, metallic limbs.
    Now it was a ritual for her, even though, after years of neglect, the automaton’s inner workings had rusted and the arms no longer moved when the cabinet was opened. Irena said nothing to her father, not wanting him to know about her secret morning visitation.
    She leaned forward and kissed the gleaming forehead, held the immobile hands in hers and felt the warmth of her own body flowing almost imperceptibly into the icy metal, until she could no longer tell where she began and the machine ended. She wondered why it was not possible for that warmth to bring a pink flush of life to cold metal, to light a spark in eyes of glass, as her father had tried to do with the replica of Ludwig. On mornings like this she would stay as long as she dared, listening to her own heart beat against the automaton’s unyielding skin, until she heard the clanking of pots and dishes from far below as the cooks began their day.
    And the printer. She closed her eyes and heard it, barely audible amid the clatter of the awaking castle, but there nonetheless, running on its own time, apart from her father’s clocked and precise system. The creak of the press. She felt her heart quicken, and smiled. There was no hiding it from herself here. She would be seeing him soon, when she brought him more of the books he requested. She wondered why his scroll had disturbed her so much. Or perhaps it was his obvious pleasure at having created the thing. Just like her father when he posed a particularly difficult riddle.
    – She is beautiful. The image of her daughter.
    The Abbé stood just below the niche, his hands clasped behind his back.
    – This is not my mother, Abbé Ezequiel.
    – But I gather it was intended as a kind of surrogate.
    Irena looked away.
    – I see I’ve intruded upon your privacy, the Abbé said with a bow, and I will take my leave.
    – No, said Irena, swinging shut the doors of the cabinet. You’ve reminded me I should be getting to work.
    – Well, at the very least please forgive my crude attempt at flattery. When a man admires a woman, such trite phrases are woefully inappropriate, are they not?
    – There was no harm done.
    He bent his head.
    – You are very gracious, Countess. May I tell you what I admire in you?
    – This will be a more refined attempt at flattery, then?
    The Abbé laughed.
    – It is so refreshing, he said, to talk to someone like you. Doyou know, you must be the only woman I’ve met in my travels who is capable of more than rehearsed coquetry.
    – I doubt that. Perhaps you did not give those women enough time. To show you who they really were.
    – Well, with you, may I say, very little time was needed. I saw enough right away to incline me to stay and learn more.
    – I’m glad. But now I should be getting on with my chores …
    The Abbé stepped forward.
    – At the risk of offence, let me tell you, Countess, what it is I’ve learned. You are most pleasing to look upon, but vastly more important, you are the most intelligent woman I have ever met. If my awkward declaration offends, let me excuse myself by admitting that I would be more at ease with a woman whose mind did not continually surprise me. And yours does. Surprises and delights me, challenges me. I can only confess that you’ve crumbled all my defences.
    Irena locked the cabinet doors. She turned to face the Abbé.
    – It wasn’t a planned attack, she said coldly. I’ve enjoyed the conversations we’ve had, certainly …
    – That is precisely the point, the Abbé said. We’ve begun without the usual tedious moves and countermoves.
    – Begun what?
    – You and I, Countess, have the opportunity to be what few men and women dare to be in this painted, mercenary age.
    – And what is