A few days after the failure of binding the soul to the automaton, Kris’s father was back to speaking to him. Not that Kris had any desire for it.
How could someone kill another and feel nothing? His father blathered on about the technicalities of the science behind it. That he was still missing one thing, and that was enough to send it all off course.
That was all he cared for, and it should have surprised Kris but it didn’t.
“Kristoph,” his father called down the hall from the solarium.
If he could have turned into the plant he was tending, Kris would have taken the moment to do just that. But his father slid into the solarium, pale-blue eyes bright and his cheeks flushed. If Kris didn’t know any better, he’d think his father was drunk, but he was only frenzied with inspiration or discovery.
“I need you to look over these notes with me.” His father waved the papers around then paused in the doorway. His lips pressed into a thin line as he regarded the plants Kris tended to. “You can play with your things later.”
Things, he thought bitterly. The things his father disregarded were highly sought-after plants, and some were even hybrids Kris had created over the years. No, he didn’t toil with rivets, cogs, or gears. He preferred botany above all else.
Over the years, Kris had developed a thick skin when dealing with his father. His words plinked against the armor he’d constructed in his presence, tumbling down to the dirty floor. “Let me see them.” He lifted a brow, casting his father a dry glance.
“These aren’t them,” his father snapped. “These are the errors I’ve found.”
It was difficult to withhold a sneer of his own and brush his father off, but Kris did.
With a sigh, he placed the potted orchid onto the table. Aside from turning to face his father, he hadn’t actually made any movements toward him. Glancing down, he picked up a bronze watering can and spritzed a few of the unhappy blooms.
An impatient exhale prompted him to set it back down. He smiled as he rolled up his sleeves and walked up to his father. “What do you need help with exactly?”
When Magnus Sevrein grew cross, his brows furrowed, his lips pinched together, and his eyes looked as if they’d freeze over a room. He looked very much like that, and Kris’s amusement mounted. It wasn’t every day he could rouse a reaction from his father.
“My notes,” he bit out, rubbing the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Something is amiss. And . . . I need another set of eyes. You’ve helped me for years. Surely you can spot something?”
“Maybe.” Kris shrugged. “But I also have no schooling in Thanatology or reanimation.” His expertise didn’t lie within the realm of the dead or bringing them back to life. Sighing, Kris looked to the skylights above. The trailing ivy snaked along the iron bars crafted specifically for them, and the palm trees stretched toward the sun’s bright rays. His solarium looked more akin to a jungle than a room set off to the side of their home.
His father pinched the bridge of his nose, as if gathering his patience thread by thread. “I just need your eyes, Kristoph.”
“So you’ve said.” Kris kept his tone light, even though he felt anything but. Snatching up a cloth, he wiped the dirt from his hands then shoved it into his back pocket before following his father out into the hall.
Upstairs, the sound of glass shattering echoed through the halls, accompanied by a shrill scream. His mother likely ran out of her belladonna, or had been rationing it, because their family physician refused to give it to her any longer.
Muffled voices—the servants’—joined the wailing, pleading with her.
“She isn’t feeling her best today, your mother.”
His father was keen on making excuses for her, but Kris’s well had run dry of them. There were no excuses for either of his parents. He also didn’t care whether she felt well. When did she ever think to ask him how he felt?
Down the hall, toward the cellar door, Kris caught a whiff of the chemicals his father used. It burned his nose and smelled of rotten eggs. Nothing in him wished to go down the stone stairs. The memory of the dead man was far too fresh in his mind.
He gritted his teeth as he lingered at the top, but his father’s impatient sigh drew Kris down the steps. Couldn’t his father have snagged the notes from his work desk and handed them over? Did Kris have to venture down—
“Would you cease dragging your feet?”
Behind him, Kris rolled his eyes but hurried down after his father. Did he want to quicken his strides? No, but the sooner he glanced at the notes, the sooner he could run back up the stairs. And as he stepped onto the cellar floor, his eyes immediately went to where the man had died. He was long since gone, but Kris could almost see his body again.
His father rummaged on the desk, pulling Kris’s attention away from the table. “What is missing?” He thrust the notebook at him, features as tight as his voice was.
Quietly, Kris flipped through the pages. The script was so familiar, as were the notes. He read over what his father had done, where he’d failed, where there was minor success. Everything he’d done had been right, but as Kris continued to read, he realized there was a key component missing in every test.
Schooling his features, Kris shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s strange. You’ve done everything, it seems, but I’m not the right person.” Except he was. He’d grown up tinkering as much as his father and just because he hadn’t studied the same subjects, didn’t mean he hadn’t a clue.
Blood needed to bind with the chemicals, but the soul needed a will, and the will needed transportation through the bloodstream to keep the soul pumping through the automaton. Magic didn’t exist in their world, but religion did, and it didn’t take a scholar in religion to garner that information.
It occurred to Kris that he should tell his father this, but the fact that he’d dragged a poor man into the cellar to kill still disgusted him. And the ease with which he’d so carelessly ended the man’s life was enough to chase that thought away. His father didn’t deserve to know the missing element.
Pressing his lips together, Kris ran his thumb along his brow, smoothing out any suspicious lines that grew. “Do you mind if I take this upstairs to study it a little?” If he could copy the notes and implant his ideas, he could sell it. Damn his parents and their wretched ways. He’d have his own money and he could run with Emilie.
A beat went by, his father’s eyes narrowing as he considered it. “Very well. Don’t keep them too long. I’m ahead of the game still, no one has cracked this. Automatons with personalities are one thing, but containing a human soul is another entirely.”
He was right. Countless individuals were attempting to replicate what someone had done only once. None could find that key, but none thought with more than their mind.
“I’ll have the notes back to you, but it’d likely be a good thing for you to take a break away from them. Frustration is the worst block for creativity.” He grinned, but it faded quickly as his father didn’t show any sign of amusement. With another shrug, he turned on his heel. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
In the course of two days, Kris had copied down the notes and implemented his additions. An automaton needed life within it. Nanobots, infused with blood and essence, would carry the soul through the alchemical blood mixture, lending life and soul to the machine. His father would’ve been proud if he saw the addition, but he never would, because the notes weren’t for him.
A crackling on Kris’s desk snagged his attention. A small screen glowed gray, then a fuzzy picture grew into focus. Soft blond curls clung to Emilie’s skin, and even with the sepia-toned screen, he could tell she was paler than usual.
He knew the doctor would be visiting her today. She hadn’t felt right . . . too tired, decreased appetite, and heaviness in her chest.
“Kristoph,” Emilie spoke his name softly. “The doctor just left.” The words hung in the air for a moment, and she nodded. “It’s not looking good. My blood tests are all over the place.”
That’s not what he wanted to hear, but it was the truth they both had to face. He frowned, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ll find someone to treat you.” Desperation clawed at his mind, his heart. He squeezed the pen in his fingers, shaking his head. “I’ll do whatever I can for you, Emilie, you know that. If I have to scour the world, I will.”
“Kristoph,” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “You know what this disease does.”
Every muscle in his face tensed. He slammed his fist down on his desk, but his eyes remained soft. He could see them in the reflection on the screen. They were so full of fear, hurt, bitterness, anger. Love. “It won’t take you from me. I won’t let it, Emilie. We belong together. For always.”
Emilie touched her fingers against the screen. “For always.” She withdrew her hand, sighing. “I’d like to see you today. Do you think you can?”
Even as Emilie spoke, Kris’s mind ran through various scenarios. There was no way that his father would help pay for Emilie’s treatments, and even if Kris dipped his fingers into his savings, the moment his father learned of it, he’d surely freeze the accounts.
Uncle Hakon was an option. Unlike Kris’s father, Hakon was genuinely kind and possessed a warm heart. Growing up, Kris never had much of a relationship with him, mostly because of his father’s prejudices. If he could appeal to him . . .
“How can I deny my lovely rose a visit?” Kris leaned in toward the screen, offering her a smile. “I need to visit someone I haven’t seen in a very long time.” Tilting his head, he stared through strands of blond. “I’ll be over for supper. How is that?”
Emilie’s smile grew, adding warmth to her cherubic features. “Lovely. I’ll let my parents know an extra plate needs to be set.”
“Perfect.” He leaned his chin into his palm. “Be sure to save a kiss for me too.” Kris could make out the color rushing into her cheeks, which made him grin.
“Kris!” she whisper-yelled at him. “I’ll see you soon.”
The screen on the device cut out, growing crackly again as the picture faded into grayness. With Emilie not staring at him, his features tightened again. Why, of all people, did his Emilie have to endure Ironbark disease?
Worry weighed him down. He leaned against the back of the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and willed whatever power that lay beyond the heavens to listen. Help. Help her.
But if life taught Kris one thing, it was to never wait for someone else to make a move. He shifted, glancing down at the paper that he copied, and scooped up his notebook. It would do no good if his father found it. So he swept it into a drawer on his desk, then locked it.
Hope simmered in his chest. Perhaps his uncle would sympathize with him.