The Brass Giant Read Online Free

fashioned a way to control the ticker without physically touching the contraption. She distractedly walked back to the pawnshop steps and inadvertently stubbed her toe on the bottom stair, her eyes still on the automaton.
    The students filed into the pub down the street. When the last of them disappeared behind the open door, the engineer casually glanced back at the pawnshop, his eyes lingering on her for only a second. Then he went into the pub, the automaton ambling in after him, and the door shut behind them. The huddled onlookers dispersed then, leaving the street dull and empty once again.
    Petra plopped down on the stairs. Her screwdriver slid from her pocket and clattered against the stone, her enthusiasm for mechanics crashing to the ground along with it. Aside from steam power and hydraulics, she had considered herself a prodigy of ticker mechanics. She had studied machines all her life, and never had she read of or devised a way to control tickers from a distance without the aid of some sort of connecting device.
    And some arrogant engineer had figured out a way to do it. The thought burned her from the inside. There was more for her to learn, and she wasn’t going to stand by and let some University fop outclass her. She climbed to her feet, her eyes on the pub door. She’d find out how he did it—­sooner or later.
    â€œ H AND ME THAT bit there,” said Petra, her fingers deep inside a musical box frame. She sat at the worktable in the back room of the pawnshop, with Mr. Stricket hovering over her shoulder.
    â€œWhich one?” he asked.
    â€œThe governor assembly.”
    Mr. Stricket handed over the part. Petra wedged it into the base of the musical box and screwed it into the bedplate. Then she carefully connected the gear train, and finally placed the pin next to the air brake.
    â€œFinished?” asked Mr. Stricket.
    She gave the musical box the once-­over and nodded. “I think so.”
    â€œGive it a wind.”
    Petra turned the crank handle. The pawl clicked on the wheel of the mechanism, holding the mainspring in place. Two months of work, and so far, so good. She rotated the crank three times and sucked in her breath. One gear out of line, one tiny mistake, and the box wouldn’t play. She pulled the pin from its holster, releasing the air brake and the mainspring. Silence. The air brake whirred, and everything turned like it was supposed to. One second ticked by. Two seconds. She had failed. Three seconds. She had done something wrong. Her mind picked through the months-­long process of repairing the musical box, trying to figure out where she might have made a mistake, and then the music played. A tinkling sonata reverberated from the musical box, silencing her doubts.
    Mr. Stricket patted her on the shoulder. “Well done, my dear. Well done.” He crossed the room and sat in his old wicker chair in the corner, tapping his foot to the melody. “There’s not a ticker on the face of this earth you couldn’t fix.” He smiled proudly.
    Petra couldn’t help but beam. She replaced the casing around the base of the musical box, and the song intensified, perfectly captured within the instrument. Placing her screwdriver on the table, she leaned back in her chair. The melody within the musical box was proof of her skill, but what good was skill when she could do nothing with it?
    She rested her head on the back of the chair with a heavy sigh and stared at the ceiling.
    â€œIs something troubling you, my dear?”
    She sighed again.
    Everything. An overwhelming barrage of things. She couldn’t attend the University because she was a girl. She would never become a qualified engineer. She would never amount to anything. She made a fool of herself twice in the same day, completely losing any chance she might have of attending the University, in disguise or not, and proving just how daft she was in front of probably the finest student the