Jacqueline followed the drive past the Benets’ cottage down into the woods, gas lamp posts illuminating the path to the workshop. Seated at the third table along, Monsieur Claque raised his head as she entered and lit the phosphorus lucifer lantern beside him, bathing the workshop in blinding white light that reflected and refracted off every polished metal in the shop, creating a dazzling fairyland of sparkles. She breathed in the magical scents she loved: sawdust, hardwood, machine oils, burnt metals. If only she could spend these hours here rather than among tout Paris.

 

“Sorry to keep you,” she told Monsieur Claque, patting his arm.

 

She went to the fuel storage cabinet and removed a canister of a liquid fuel she had developed from coal extracts. She brought it to the worktable next to Monsieur Claque, then went back for two other canisters. When she opened his breastplate and removed his fuel tank, the autonomaton’s head dropped and the lights of his indicators went dark.

 

“I never meant for you to get so low,” Jacqueline said, “but if it’s any consolation, I’m operating on zero myself.” Then she hiccoughed and chuckled. “Unless you count alcohol. I have some of that for you too.”

 

She measured out portions of the three liquid fuels and poured them into Monsieur Claque’s tank, then returned the canisters to storage. She closed the cabinet, but as she shut the lock, the workshop went dark. The utter blackness after the brilliant phosphorus blinded her. Instinctively, Jacqueline seized a claw hammer from its hooks beside the cabinet. She whirled.

 

“Who’s there?”

 

She heard nothing, saw nothing but the faint glow of gaslight from the forest walk. The pond frogs barked and quacked, and cicadas buzzed, unalarmed. As her eyes adjusted, she sidled toward Monsieur Claque.

 

Something large, soft, and furry tripped her. She landed hard, slamming her brow into the claws of the hammer. Her vision exploded in fireworks. Futter that damned cat! She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse pounded against her skull, and blood streamed into her left eye. Groaning, she managed to get up to her elbows to flip over and sit, brandishing the hammer in one hand. Jacqueline snatched the hem of her dress to mop blood from her face. Pressing the fabric to the gash on her brow, she waved the hammer around wildly. Her head throbbed, pain and blood blinding her. As terror mounted, her thoughts raced.

 

Angélique. Angélique will smell fear. Angélique will smell the blood. Llewellyn will—

 

Talons seized her shoulders from behind. Sharp teeth pierced her flesh. Jacqueline choked on a strangled cry. Then…