Devon Monk - Cold Copper

“Witches!” she exhaled.

“Rose?” Hink put his hand on top of the copper piece, ready to pull it away. The noise from the device dampened down, like a plucked string with a palm over it.

“Witches. I think the glim was bound to the metal by witches. Oh, God. Do you think that was why Margaret was delivering the crates? Do you think they made this?”

“Hold on now, hold on. Are you sure it’s a spell?”

“No. Yes. I mean, when I pick this up, I sense hands and voices and herbs. A sort of mixing up of the things I consider unique to the coven. I’m not sure it’s a spell put on glim and metal to make them bind, but I’m sure the witches are involved.”

“Can you tell who?” he asked.

Rose shook her head. “But the night before I left the coven I heard some of the sisters talking. Saying witches shouldn’t choose sides in a war. Saying they shouldn’t be involved in curses. Maybe it’s not the same thing. Maybe it’s not this.” She held up the device. “But it might be. You haven’t heard of the witches being involved in the homunculus thing have you?”

“There has been some whispering of deals made between different covens across the country and people who are involved in movements for and against the government. Covens choosing sides.”

“Sides for what?”

“You know how Alabaster Saint was raising a force to see that the glim trade funneled through him to someone above him so they could start up a new war? I’m beginning to believe Alabaster Saint was just the tip of that sword. There are people who want this government overthrown. People who know just how vulnerable the United States is right now, since the war.”

“Is it that serious?”

“Much more. Anything else you can tell me about that?” He nodded at the copper device.

She considered the device in her hand. “I don’t get the impression this is all that needs to be together for that”—she pointed at the puppet on the floor—“to work yet. It seems to be missing something; some part of what it does isn’t here yet.”

“Think we can get some power into that thing on the floor now that it’s all together?” he asked.

“Without repairing the glass, I don’t think so. Maybe if we patch it, though. Is there any oilskin around here? Glue?”

“I’ll look.” Hink checked the labels on crates, broke open half a dozen, and finally found waxed parchment and glue.

Rose cut a piece of parchment to the correct size to patch the glass, then glued it in place.

Hink walked over to the puppet and groaned a little as he knelt next to it. “So what a ways do you think we should fit it this time?”

Rose knelt on the other side of the construction and handed him the battery. “This way, I think. Those wires should thread into the holes there, which isn’t what we did last time. I don’t understand what they’re used for. One string at each compass point.”

“Got it.” He lowered the device, and made sure to thread each wire before dropping it down carefully in the metal band. It fit perfectly.

“How do you think it starts up?” he asked.

“Maybe…” Rose searched her memories, searched the pictures that had flashed through her mind. “I’d turn it counterclockwise.”

“Might want to stand back,” he said. Rose got on her feet and stepped back a bit. Hink twisted the device by the patched globe, one firm turn to the left.

And then the parchment and remaining glass lit up with the uncanny green-white glow of glim.

“Well,” Hink said. “I think you were right. Well done, Rose Small.”

She smiled and was going to walk closer so she could see what it might be capable of. But she didn’t have to get any closer.

Because the puppet man twitched. All the limbs flexing one at a time like pistons pulling and pushing. Then it whirred somewhere inside, as if fans and cogs and springs got under power.

And then it stood up.

Cedar walked up the wide polished stairs to the city hall library. Marble pillars supported an arched entryway to a tall double door wide enough for a wagon to pass through.

He was suddenly aware he hadn’t had a decent hot bath in a couple weeks, and that his clothing was the sturdy sort made for the trail, not tailored wear appropriate for fine institutions such as this.

He removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and entered the building.

And a fine, grand building it was. The whole of it opened up to walls filled with books, only interrupted by six arched windows marching down both sides. Half a dozen tables took the center of the place, each with a padded chair, inkwell, and sheaves of paper at hand, and green-shaded lamps waiting for the user.

The wooden floor glowed softly in the evening light, a wide, rich red carpet taking up the centermost of the room. There were doors at the far end and, as he walked through the room, more to each side beyond the collection of books. The doors likely led to the trial room and smaller chambers, respectively.

He passed a small study area and noted Miss Dupuis inside.

She had removed her coat and rolled up her sleeves, not a state he usually found her in. She sat at the head of the table, head bent as she read over broadsheets and newsprint, several smaller record books opened and stacked on the table within her reach.

He knocked softly on the half-open door, old manners and habits from his days in universities falling upon him as easily as stepping into worn slippers.

She looked up, the frown fading as she recognized him. “Mr. Hunt. Please come in.”

“How is the case going?” he asked as he entered the room, which was also filled with walls of books. He dragged his finger along the tabletop to the end chair, where he finally settled.

By glim, he was tired. And just the short walk through the building had left him winded. He needed sleep. A lot of it. Soon.

“There are some inconsistencies in the reports of what happened to Roy Atkinson all those years ago. Still…” She sighed and sat back. “It does not look good, Mr. Hunt. Not just that there was a man murdered, but that Mayor Vosbrough is the witness who can best testify to what he saw that day.”

“Did he see the murder?” Cedar asked. “Was he there when the man was shot?”

“No. But he saw the Madders riding off to the mayor’s manor with guns at the ready. And he overheard them saying they were going to end a man’s life. The circumstantial evidence is a mile high. And since the judge was appointed by the mayor, who has a personal grudge against the Madders, I do not see how I can do much more than delay the hanging.”

“Then that’s what you’ll do. Delay it. How many days do you think you can hold it off?”

“Two, perhaps. No more than that. Maybe not even that.” She leaned forward and laced her fingers together, elbows resting on the table. “We should plan to break them out before then,” she whispered.

“We’ll have a plan in place by morning.” He looked around the room and for a long moment savored being surrounded by knowledge. Savored the silence of the place with the hustle of city life just beyond the walls, savored the connection to the life he’d given up years ago. He had been a different man then, but not in a bad way. He wondered if he’d still be happy with this sort of life, had he the chance for it.

“Do you miss it?” she asked. “The days you spent in places like this?”

“Very much so,” he said quietly. He stood and held back a grunt at the ache in his bones. “Have you seen Mae or Father Kyne since you came to town?”

“Yes. They found the herbs they needed and went back to the church. They asked me to tell you to meet them there, if I saw you.”

“Then I’ll be on my way. Good luck to you, Miss Dupuis. In case the Madders haven’t seen to thank you lately for taking on this task, let me extend my gratitude on their account.”