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  Christopher said nothing. The flames fizzled out into blackness. Sleep came.

  In the darkness there was a warm light. He could feel himself rushing towards it. The light became golden, the world became green.

  He was in a garden again. The sun was low in the sky. He could hear a bird singing as he sat on the grass. He could feel the dull ache in his hip from where he’d fallen. He wiped a hand across his face and it came away wet with tears. He looked around him quickly in a panic, but the vision of green and gold was beginning to fade. He cried out and reached blindly with his hand. A shadow fell over him and someone called his name.

  The next morning Christopher woke to the sight of the junkyard smothered in snow. He looked up into a powder-blue sky flecked with fine wisps of cloud. His hands tingled and his breath frosted in the air as he walked across the yard. He felt alive and whole, part of everything, as if he’d stepped into a living painting.

  Absalom was in his shed. He was back to being the expansive, chatty and cunning Absalom they all knew so well.

  He gestured out the window.

  ‘Told you, my lad, didn’t I? Told you we’d be busy. We’ve already gotten one call about clearing a road. There’ll be more. A full day’s pay for a full day’s work. Time for you to marshal the troops.’

  Absalom turned to his workbench and started to pocket screws and a screwdriver.

  ‘Mr Absalom?’

  ‘Yes, my lad?’

  ‘I was thinking about my parents. Do you think they suffered in the fire?’

  Absalom froze for a moment. Christopher expected him to say something dreadful, but his tone was surprisingly light and cheerful.

  ‘You shouldn’t worry your young head about such things.’ Absalom turned to face him. ‘The lady from the orphanage assured me of one thing – theirs was a merciful passing from this world to the next, quick and painless. May they rest in peace.’

  ‘But how did she know?’

  Absalom reached for a box of bolts. ‘There were witnesses, obviously. The very same people who pulled you from the fire.’

  ‘Why don’t I remember any of it?’

  Absalom looked out the window for a moment and nodded slowly to himself. ‘A consequence of a blow to the head, I should think. That’s what the doctor said anyway.’

  ‘I think I can only remember my mother, and I know I remember being here . . .’

  ‘And what beautiful memories they must be,’ said Absalom, spreading his arms wide as if addressing a crowded theatre.

  ‘But I wish I could remember more. I wish I could be certain of more.’

  Absalom nodded, in an effort to look earnest and reasonable.

  ‘So do I, lad. So do I,’ he sighed.

  ‘Will I ever get the memories back?’

  Absalom flapped his hand and went back to looking at his bench. ‘Who knows? Who knows?’

  ‘I’d like that. Although sometimes I think I can see—’

  ‘Look, Christopher my lad,’ said Absalom a little spikily. ‘We really need to get to work today and I don’t have much time for idle chit-chat.’

  ‘All right, Mr Absalom,’ nodded Christopher.

  Absalom smiled at him, but Christopher could see by the tautness of the leathery skin on his face that it was a strained smile.

  ‘You’re my favourite, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Absalom.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Absalom patted his coat pockets, shoved a toolbox under his arm and headed for the door. He ruffled Christopher’s hair on the way out. ‘The very best.’

  In the passenger seat of the truck, Christopher looked out at the snow-covered humps of fields and the fretwork of tree branches, grey against the sharpness of the pale-blue sky. The frenetic snowstorm of the previous night had been replaced by a hush and a stillness that blanketed everything.

  They passed a large factory. Black smoke belched out of its chimney stacks. In the distance, Christopher saw the sun glint off several rows of metal, no doubt mechanicals working outside while their companions kept the wheels of industry going inside.

  ‘It’ll take a while for this snow to shift,’ said Absalom. He gave a little self-satisfied chuckle.

  Christopher looked at him, hunched over the wheel, eyes wide and money-mad, his whole being oblivious to the cold.

  ‘Is it true that you and Jack saw Ellie Lockwood?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘What’s that?’ snapped Absalom, barely paying attention.

  ‘Jack says you and him saw Ellie Lockwood in East Grimstead.’

  He frowned. ‘We may have, I don’t really remember.’

  ‘They say she’s a Cormier Original.’

  ‘People say a lot of things. She may have been a work of supreme craftsmanship. I can’t remember. The only proper craftsman, like myself of course, that I ever came across was Richard Blake. Now there was a master. Proper articulation in his models, well balanced, fluid movement and a near seamless capacity to carry themselves off as proper people.’

  Christopher thought about this for a moment. He’d heard all the stories about Richard Blake. He was considered by many to be the greatest engineer since the end of the Great War, and he was celebrated all over as the true heir to the great Philip Cormier. Blake had dined with kings and queens, and it was said he’d even advised the Prime Minister himself.

  ‘Is it true what they say about his father?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘That he was killed by a mechanical?’

  ‘Charles Blake was a good engineer. Although not as good as he thought he was, and he perhaps pushed his limited talents a little too far in the service of his country.’

  ‘It is true, then?’

  Absalom licked his lips and swallowed. His voice went a little bit quieter. ‘Certain engineering practices and artifices are now quite rightly banned because of what Charles Blake did.’

  ‘You mean Refined Propulsion? Ensoulment?’ said Christopher.

  Absalom wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe it’s best not to talk about such matters.’

  Christopher sat back in his seat and frowned. He decided to try another subject.

  ‘Is it true Richard Blake went mad?’

  ‘He didn’t go mad, he just disappeared,’ said Absalom. ‘People like to say he went mad because they like to think that genius drives you mad. Well, if that’s true, then why am I still the resolutely rational man you see before you?’

  Christopher didn’t answer.

  ‘Now, Mr Cormier on the other hand, he went quite mad after the incident which ended with Mr Blake senior’s demise. How could he not? After all, he played a major part in that dark enterprise.’ Absalom’s voice went low again. ‘That’s why Refined Propulsion is banned.’

  Christopher nodded. Estelle had told him some of what she knew about the whole terrible episode. Rumour had it that Philip Cormier had discovered a new method for giving a machine consciousness. He called it Refined Propulsion. He used words like psychonic adhesion, quintessential transference, and other fancy terms, but really it just meant transferring a soul into a machine. Cormier had enlisted the help of Charles Blake, and during the public demonstration which had followed, dozens of people had been killed by the mechanical, including Charles Blake himself.

  ‘That’s also why Cormier went into self-imposed exile in Ironhaven,’ Absalom continued. ‘They say he melted down most of his greatest works. Smashed them to bits, disassembled them, smelted ‘em and all. That’s why Cormier Originals are so highly prized. Never underestimate the value of the work of a madman.’

  ‘I heard stories that he made adult models.’

  Absalom shook his head and gave a scornful look. ‘No one has made an adult model since the time of Runcible – it’s against the law.’

  ‘But maybe by accident. That could happen, couldn’t it?’

  Absalom said nothing. His grip tightened on the wheel and he stared at the road ahead. He narrowed one eye, dragged the back of
his hand across his nose and gave a very loud sniff. Christopher looked at him for a moment, and tried to gauge the best way to proceed.

  He wanted to be careful, but the words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying:

  ‘What about Proper Edward?’

  Absalom turned on him with such fury that he almost sent the truck into a tailspin.

  ‘I told you! What did I tell you!’ he roared, spittle flying, his face flushed, eyes bulging with terror.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not a word about that, I said. You say nothing. It never happened.’

  But it had happened, Christopher had been there. It was over a year ago now. Absalom had been preparing his scarecrows for the season and had cobbled one together from old parts he’d scavenged over the course of the winter. It was at least six feet tall, and he had it slouched in a chair in the workshop, its head lolling back over the headrest. Its mouth was jagged and crooked, and its copper elbows and knees stuck out through the holes in the clothes he’d given it. Absalom had just been making the final touches and was screwing the last nuts and bolts into place when it moved. This wasn’t unusual for a scarecrow, but what was unusual was the fact that it said ‘Hello.’

  For a moment, Absalom had been stunned. Scarecrows didn’t engage in conversation; they weren’t made to. The best they could manage was gibberish and absolute nonsense. The others had watched and presumed it was just a temporary defect, but then the scarecrow raised its head, looked around, and asked a question:

  ‘Where is this?’

  Absalom’s legs had looked like they were about to buckle. His right hand went to his mouth, and he uttered a muffled, ‘Oh merciful . . .’

  Christopher had been the first to reply. ‘This is the workshop,’ he’d said.

  The scarecrow had looked at him guilelessly, like a child. ‘The workshop,’ it said to itself. It looked at the floor, then it looked at Absalom and smiled. That was when Absalom finally cracked.

  ‘Jack! Get the manual!’

  Jack did as he was told and dragged the large leather-bound manual out from Absalom’s desk. It was the standard text which all engineers used: Runcible’s Manual of Glyphs, Signs and Symbols for the Animation of the Inanimate.

  Absalom had pored over it feverishly while the scarecrow looked around and continued smiling. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor. He looked at each of them in turn and smiled and said, ‘Hello.’ They were all immediately taken with him.

  ‘What happened, Mr Absalom?’ Christopher asked, as Manda and Rob shook the scarecrow’s hand.

  ‘This is a very subtle and precise craft, my lad,’ Absalom had replied, his voice tight with panic as he flicked through the manual’s pages. ‘One does not reduce the act of making art into short condensed sentences. It’s much more complex than that, and it would require too long to explain.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  Absalom threw his head back and gave a howl of frustration.

  ‘I think he knows what he is,’ said Christopher, looking at the scarecrow.

  ‘I can see that, lad,’ Absalom had shot back, nodding furiously.

  ‘And he’s adult size,’ said Christopher.

  Absalom had flapped his hands around violently to show that he couldn’t care less.

  ‘That means he’s not legal, Mr Absalom,’ said Jack.

  Absalom roared at him. ‘Thank you, Jack! Thank you for that most pertinent and timely intervention regarding the legal status of our new friend here. Where indeed would I be without the benefit of your voluminous legal knowledge.’

  ‘I was just saying,’ Jack muttered.

  Eventually, Absalom had left the workshop, issuing strict instructions not to let the scarecrow out under any circumstances.

  ‘And one more thing,’ Absalom had said, turning in the doorway. ‘Do not, I repeat, do not give it a name.’

  They’d all nodded solemnly in response. Jack even crossed his heart.

  They’d called him Proper Edward.

  It was Rob who suggested the name, ‘Because it sounds grown-up, and he looks kind of proper, like a real adult.’

  The name had stuck, despite the fact that ‘Proper Edward’ was not really proper, like a human.

  They decided to see if Proper Edward could walk, and Jack and Christopher had taken him by his hands and helped him off his chair. Proper Edward had tottered and wobbled, like a newborn foal just learning how to stand.

  ‘The workshop,’ he’d said, as he wandered about. He looked around in awe at the most mundane things. They’d told him their names and he repeated them back and grinned.

  ‘Christopher. Rob. Manda. Jack.’

  He looked down at Rob. ‘I like you, Rob.’

  ‘And we like you, Edward,’ said Rob.

  Manda had clapped her hands with delight at this, and even Jack looked pleased.

  For the next three days Absalom had barely come near the workshop. Christopher had no doubt that he was trying to formulate a plan to get rid of Edward, but he didn’t see how the engineer could accomplish this – especially as Gripper refused to harm the scarecrow. In the meantime, they’d accepted Edward into their family.

  Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that Absalom wouldn’t have to worry about trying to figure out how to get rid of Edward. Whatever he’d unwittingly done only seemed to have a certain lifespan. After the first day, Edward had started to find it harder to move around. His movements became slower and more sluggish. After another day, his speech started to go. The gaps between his words became longer, and it had been like watching a toy winding down. Christopher and Jack had exchanged worried looks, but Rob and Manda had been oblivious to the changes.

  On the third day, Edward sat back in his chair. He wouldn’t move, no matter how much Manda and Rob pulled at him, and soon his head had started to loll back to its original position. He looked up at the ceiling and continued smiling until the end. The last words he said were, ‘This . . . . . . . . . was . . . . . . .ni . . . . . . ccccccccccccccceee . . .’

  His smile had been the last thing to go.

  Rob had taken it the hardest, and cried for days afterwards.

  Christopher turned to Absalom, who was hunched over the wheel, wriggling uncomfortably.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Absalom,’ Christopher said again. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  They arrived at their destination twenty minutes later. Their job was to clear the road to a small village. The main road had been cleared as far as a forked junction about two miles from the village, but they had to remove the remaining snow. Absalom was already relishing the prospect of marching in and relieving the inhabitants of a substantial fee for the privilege of regaining access to the outside world.

  A very steep hill led down to the blocked road, which was the right-hand part of the fork. They careered down the hill with nerve-shredding speed, juddering and bouncing violently. Christopher was gripping the sides of his seat, but Absalom seemed oblivious to any possible danger.

  They reached the bottom of the hill and the truck was parked with a great shrieking swerve that made even Gripper bellow in panic. Absalom hopped straight out of the cab and was shouting orders before they had time to recover.

  Two men with shovels were waiting for them. A young man in a woollen jacket that looked too big for him, and an older man wearing a peaked cap and a waistcoat. Amazingly, he had his shirtsleeves rolled up. ‘We’re all that could be spared,’ the older man told Absalom. Absalom negotiated a price with him.

  It was greying over, lending a pre-dawn gloom to proceedings. This only made Absalom more agitated. He shouted at the mechanicals to hurry up. They started to get to work by the right fork. Round Rob wasn’t much good at shovelling snow and Manda was a lost cause – she’d already ambled across to the other side of the road by the left-hand fork, where she was happily singing to herself while making a snowman. Jack and Christopher made steady progress, but Gripper did most of the work, sh
ovelling great handfuls of snow and throwing them over a nearby hedge.

  The morning became afternoon and the gloom thickened as the day wore on. Absalom started pacing, barking orders at the mechanicals and the two bemused men.

  Christopher took a moment to lean on his shovel and look around him.

  The fields were a glowing white against the lead sky. Several fat-chested crows glowered insolently at him from the branches of a nearby tree. The only sound was a distant moan, as if the universe was dreaming, punctuated by the soft steady chuffing sound of spades in snow.

  ‘Are you still disappointed that you weren’t sold?’ he asked Jack.

  Jack frowned. ‘Sort of, sort of not.’

  Christopher was heartened by his answer. ‘I hope nobody ever gets sold, because some day I’m going to become an engineer and I’m going to earn enough money to buy all of you. That way we’ll all be together.’

  ‘Always?’ piped up a voice from nearby.

  Christopher turned to see Round Rob looking up at him hopefully. He was knee-deep in the snow, and Christopher smiled at him.

  ‘Always,’ he said.

  Round Rob grinned and went back to his ineffectual shovelling.

  Jack was still frowning. ‘You have to study to become an engineer.’

  ‘Then I’ll study,’ said Christopher.

  Jack looked over at Absalom. ‘If you study you’ll be legitimate. Not like Mr Absalom.’

  Christopher looked over at Absalom, who was now leaning back and looking at the sky with his hands on his hips. His operation wasn’t strictly legal, but it was well known that the Agency weren’t as bothered about non-licensed engineers as they used to be.

  ‘It takes a long time to study properly.’

  Christopher shrugged.

  ‘We could be sold before then. We could wear down.’

  ‘I won’t let that happen,’ said Christopher defiantly.

  Jack regarded him for a moment, and he looked as if he was thinking about how to respond, when a small voice in the distance called to them:

  ‘Look what I made.’