House Of Shadows. Jen Christie

you look?”

      “Touché, Miss Heatherton.”

      “Penny. Call me Penny.”

      His lips graced the tender spot behind her ear. “Penny,” he whispered, saying the name so low that it came not as a sound but as a rumble against her skin. Then he was gone, the hard strike of his boots ringing out on the stone. She was left with a wave of cool air. He strode in front of her to the mechanical man. “Does he scare you?”

      “Yes. He makes me nervous. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. But I’m drawn to him,” she answered, unsure if she was referring to the mechanical man or to him.

      He was quiet. “Some quake in their shoes when they see him,” he finally said.

      “What’s his name?”

      “Name?” He laughed, a mellow, rolling, velvety sound. “He doesn’t have one, of course.”

      “But he has to have a name. How can you create something that looks so, well, humanlike—and not give it a name?”

      “You can name him. It makes no difference to me.”

      “Harris.” The name came to her instantly and once she spoke it, it fit nicely. “We’ll call him Harris.”

      “Harris,” he said thoughtfully, walking to Harris and running a finger along his steely arm. “That sounds fine. And yes, to answer your question, he can move. When he’s functioning. But that’s part of the problem. Somewhere inside of him, a gear is tooled wrong. The timing is off, so he can’t walk. I’ve altered the design a million times. It seems there’s always a fatal flaw, and I always discover the flaw too late to correct it. Then I’m forced to destroy my creation and start again. I’m hoping that I’ve discovered the flaw in time.”

      She looked up. “How do you know that all flaws are fatal? Perhaps you shouldn’t design them with one goal in mind but rather an open idea of their potential.”

      He turned. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Penny.”

      “Thank you.” She felt a rush of pleasure at his compliment.

      The heat from the fire filled the room, making sweat break out on her forehead.

      “You grasp the fundamental concept. One that I’m aware of. The earlier types I created were simply too crude. It’s been an agony just to get to this most basic creation. And even though I love doing it, I rue the day I first got the idea.” He sighed and went to the windows, opening them first before going to the doors and propping them open, too.

      “My apologies. I get too wrapped up in it.” Sweet night air filled the room. A pleasant, earthy smell filled the room, carried up from the river by the wind.

      He walked over to a wall where a poster of the human anatomy hung. Pencil marks and notes covered the simple drawing of the human being. “I have a question for you. What do you think is more important, form or function?”

      Penrose thought for a moment about whether beauty or purpose should be held in higher regard. “Well, I think the function should be the guiding principle.”

      “Agreed.”

      “Whenever possible, the form should be pleasing, as well.”

      His eyes moved from the picture to Penrose. “Very good. I’m pleased. Ideally there would be a balance between the two.”

      He went to the wall and placed his hand over the image of the human hand. He was a big man, tall, and his hands eclipsed the one on the diagram. “The real key to designing a mechanical man is to decide where form and function join. Where they come together.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “I need to reduce form to its barest minimum. Man will never be able to reproduce the complexity of the human body. It’s up to me to decide what’s essential and what I can leave out to save on engineering costs and time.” He looked back to the poster. “What is the most basic element of being human? If you can answer that, then my instinct says you’ll also have perfect form.”

      He saw the confused look on her face and approached her. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold out your arm.”

      She lifted her arm and held it straight out to the side. He put one hand on her waist. “May I?” he asked.

      Nodding, she felt strangely giddy.

      He lifted his other hand to her shoulder. Using two fingers, he traced a path down her extended arm. Fire followed his touch. She wrenched her lips closed to contain a gasp.

      He whispered, “I need to decide what part of this arm is inconsequential. Of course, it’s all perfect in the flesh, but I eliminate what’s not necessary, and decide what is essential.”

      His hand stretched out to grasp hers. He lifted her arm high above her head and stepped closer, bringing the scent of pinewood shavings with him. “The question is, what is it that allows you to raise your arm like this?”

      “Muscles,” she replied in a whisper.

      “Of course. And tendons, too. The delicate interplay between them, when to pull and when to push, that’s what matters most. That’s what fascinates me.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “The real question, the one we’re not asking, is what gives the signal to these muscles, what tells them to move?”

      He let go of her arm and tapped her temple. “This does. Right in here. That is something we’ll never, ever be able to replicate. But I want to.”

      He was so close she could count his eyelashes. He kept speaking, but she heard nothing save for the pounding in her heart. Her nipples tightened, and the sensation unnerved her. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to step back to gather her wits. She felt fear and excitement, a potent combination. He was unlike any man she’d ever known and she wasn’t sure what to say.

      He pulled away, a cold look settling over his features. “Did the agency tell you what your duties would be?”

      “A little bit,” she said, turning away, trying to hide the flash of shame because there was no agency. Mrs. Capshaw would be the end of her, she just knew it.

      He pointed out a simple desk, off to the side. “Part of the time, you’ll work there. Taking notes. Sketching for me. The rest of your time will be spent helping me tool the components. I struggle to see those small details, which is what caused the problem I have to begin with.”

      “That sounds fine,” she said. She looked again at the wooden figures, remembering how mysterious and lifelike they looked from outside the window. There was no life in them now. They looked defeated, slumped. Ropes bound them to the chairs and held them upright. They had no faces, no features. The wood had been whittled and etched away to reveal the essence of a human body. Arms, legs, hands.

      Yet they were beautiful. It was as if whittling them down hadn’t made them less—it made them more. It brought out their essence. She walked toward them and gingerly touched one on the shoulder, half expecting it to turn and look at her. “What are they?” she asked in a hushed tone, afraid of his answer, knowing full well how silly she was being. But there was definitely something curious about this man.

      “Mannequins. My earliest attempts. I keep them because I have a fondness for them. They remind me that progress is possible. Why? Did you think I used them for another purpose?”

      “I wasn’t sure.”

      * * *

      It was too hot. Carrick stood at the door, lingering and scraping his boot absentmindedly back and forth over the gravel. Her hands didn’t flutter. That was the first thing he noticed. Some of the others that came here stood trembling, their hands fluttering like trapped butterflies as they stared up at the mechanical man—Harris. Hell, even he thought of him as Harris now.

      But her? He saw it. Interest. She looked afraid, yes. But for one brief instant, he saw the spark of wonder. Plus,