Free The Iron Duke by Meljean Brook Page A

heavy slashes of a pen, and a wispy mustache drooped over loose, bulbous lips.
    She looked down at her plate. Reading the story that accompanied the drawing was unnecessary; it had played out several times over the past months. The few Horde officials who hadn’t fled or been killed during the revolution had been imprisoned at Newgate for the past nine years. Now, they underwent trials for the horrors committed during the occupation. Thus far, all had been found guilty and sentenced to hang. No doubt this magistrate would, too.
    When the page finished turning over, Mina looked up again. Her mother read along with her father, the newssheet a tiny upside-down reflection in her silver eyes; Mina couldn’t have hoped to discern the small print from the same distance, even reading right-side up. Not long after the Blacksmith had grafted the mechanical eyes, her mother had tried to explain how everything appeared through them. She’d mentioned telescopes, magnifying goggles, and the glow of a fire before giving up, frustrated by her inability to describe what she saw. The gist had been clear enough, however: Not only was her mother’s vision more acute, it was different . She saw not just in color and shapes, but temperatures. She’d stumbled around for almost a year—stumbled far more than she had while completely blind—before finally learning to interpret the images the new eyes gave her.
    Mina had never asked what price the Blacksmith had put on her mother’s eyes, but after six years, the debt hadn’t yet been paid off. Her mother’s automata sold at his shops for enormous amounts, yet she received a pittance after the Blacksmith took his portion.
    Her dead man’s arm had cost someone. Perhaps he or his family had money—but if he was still indebted, the Blacksmith would have information regarding the dead man’s recent whereabouts. Rumor was, if anyone missed a payment, the Blacksmith always found them.
    Information about where the man had been might prove useful. All Mina needed , however, was a name.
    The reading apparatus clicked again. As the stylus slowly turned the paper over, her father said, “Until your mother saw the blood on your dress, she’d thought that you’d bribed young Newberry to help you escape the Victory Ball.”
    Mina laughed and saw her mother’s quick smile. No one could accuse her father of inefficiency. He could poke fun at them both with one statement.
    His brown beard hid most of her father’s smile, but the corners of his mustache twitched as he continued, “Whereas I suspected that you put the blood there simply to convince your mother. It wasn’t fresh.”
    Her father had probably examined the stains to make certain the blood wasn’t Mina’s. “It wasn’t. He’d been frozen for some time.” She glanced across the table at her mother. “Is the dress ruined?”
    “Quite.” No censure filled her voice, only acceptance. She seemed downtrodden this morning. “We will see what Sally can salvage of the fabric.”
    “Unfortunately, Newberry did not think to bring my wardrobe.” Mina looked down at her black trousers tucked into sturdy boots. She should have worn this to the ball. People might as well meet her as she truly was . . . though it hardly mattered. She could parade naked down Oxford Street, and no one would notice anything but her Horde features. She glanced to her father. “Were you able to speak with Mr. Moutten?”
    The patients her father tended were often worse off than Mina’s family, and payment rarely came as money. Her father accepted anything—chickens, food, repairs—but asked for broken machines above all else, which her mother used to build the automata sold in the Blacksmith’s shops. Mina’s salary covered the bare necessities. After paying the taxes, which were hardly lower than the Horde had demanded, and wages for the cook and two maids—far fewer than the town house needed, even with most of the rooms closed up—all together Mina’s