Read Online Clockwork Angels: The Novel by Kevin J. & Peart Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin J. & Peart Anderson
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she said, then placed two more cards opposite. “Knight of Wands against the hour.”
“What does it mean?” he asked.
Two more cards. “The Hermit against the Lovers.”
Owen was so intent on watching the intricate movements of her clockwork hands that he was surprised when he glanced at her face. Her bird-bright eyes were blue and alert, and she blinked at him. “The Devil against the Fool.” Her mouth puckered and drew back in a smile.
She was alive —or some part of her was!
Unsettled, he pulled away, not sure he wanted to learn his fortune. Still clicking, the turning key wound down and stopped. The fortune teller gathered the cards, then sat upright again and returned to rest. Owen mumbled his thanks and left, feeling both happy and confused.
In the center of the carnival ground, poles had been strung with ropes for a high-wire acrobatic act. The ringmaster—a man with such a commanding presence that Owen assumed it must be César Magnusson himself—stood wearing a top hat and sleek black tails, with a huge handlebar mustache that seemed a feat in itself. He shouted out above the noise of the crowd in a voice suited to command thunder. “On the wires, our most beautiful angel—Francesca! Watch her death-defying feats of poise and balance. Never before has danger looked so graceful.”
A lissome young woman sprang forward and cartwheeled with the perfection of a smoothly turning gear. She wore a pearlescent white leotard and a decorative white skirt that did not impede her movement. Her flowing black hair looked like a swirling river of ink, tresses that captured the purity of the darkest moonless night. Francesca turned to smile at the audience, revealing that she held a long rose in her teeth. Owen had never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life.
Like a cat climbing a tree, she ascended the pole on small pegs that were arranged like a ladder’s rungs. Owen saw, and promptly forgot about, a flat pack strapped to her back, cleverly hidden by her hair.
She climbed to the first platform and looked across an imposing narrow rope that extended to the far pole. Higher up, Francesca unfastened a dangling trapeze. With casual breathtaking skill, she wrapped one arm around the bar and swung herself out, gliding forward, then back, like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. She raised herself on strong, slender arms, twirled, and launched herself into the air where she caught the upper rope and used her momentum to swing her body around. She dropped back down and caught the trapeze bar in its arc as if it had been waiting there for her.
Francesca swung again, never once letting the rose fall from her mouth. Then twenty feet above the hard ground, toes pointed straight forward, one foot in front of the other, she walked along the tightrope with as much ease as Owen walked down a street. She seemed to have wings on her heels.
During the performance, he worked his way to the front of the crowd and stood there, his entire world centered on her. He gaped at the sight with his eyes wide and his mouth open like a moonstruck cow. He could think of nothing else, could see nothing else, and when Francesca glanced down at the audience he was certain that she looked right into his eyes. His new porkpie hat fell off, and he scrambled to pick it up.
Raising her hands as if to stretch on a lazy morning, she grabbed the trapeze and swung high. As she came back down, she pushed her legs hard against the elastic tension of the tightrope and catapulted herself into the air. At the apex of her flight, she yanked a tiny string on the front of her costume, and the halfhidden pack on her shoulders burst open to reveal spring-loaded angel wings. They were fashioned from thin slats of aluminum and tin layered one upon the other like giant feathers, and they looked glorious in the light.
On angel wings, Francesca spread her arms and soared downward in ecstatic flight. The wings braked her descent enough that she alighted on
“What does it mean?” he asked.
Two more cards. “The Hermit against the Lovers.”
Owen was so intent on watching the intricate movements of her clockwork hands that he was surprised when he glanced at her face. Her bird-bright eyes were blue and alert, and she blinked at him. “The Devil against the Fool.” Her mouth puckered and drew back in a smile.
She was alive —or some part of her was!
Unsettled, he pulled away, not sure he wanted to learn his fortune. Still clicking, the turning key wound down and stopped. The fortune teller gathered the cards, then sat upright again and returned to rest. Owen mumbled his thanks and left, feeling both happy and confused.
In the center of the carnival ground, poles had been strung with ropes for a high-wire acrobatic act. The ringmaster—a man with such a commanding presence that Owen assumed it must be César Magnusson himself—stood wearing a top hat and sleek black tails, with a huge handlebar mustache that seemed a feat in itself. He shouted out above the noise of the crowd in a voice suited to command thunder. “On the wires, our most beautiful angel—Francesca! Watch her death-defying feats of poise and balance. Never before has danger looked so graceful.”
A lissome young woman sprang forward and cartwheeled with the perfection of a smoothly turning gear. She wore a pearlescent white leotard and a decorative white skirt that did not impede her movement. Her flowing black hair looked like a swirling river of ink, tresses that captured the purity of the darkest moonless night. Francesca turned to smile at the audience, revealing that she held a long rose in her teeth. Owen had never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life.
Like a cat climbing a tree, she ascended the pole on small pegs that were arranged like a ladder’s rungs. Owen saw, and promptly forgot about, a flat pack strapped to her back, cleverly hidden by her hair.
She climbed to the first platform and looked across an imposing narrow rope that extended to the far pole. Higher up, Francesca unfastened a dangling trapeze. With casual breathtaking skill, she wrapped one arm around the bar and swung herself out, gliding forward, then back, like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. She raised herself on strong, slender arms, twirled, and launched herself into the air where she caught the upper rope and used her momentum to swing her body around. She dropped back down and caught the trapeze bar in its arc as if it had been waiting there for her.
Francesca swung again, never once letting the rose fall from her mouth. Then twenty feet above the hard ground, toes pointed straight forward, one foot in front of the other, she walked along the tightrope with as much ease as Owen walked down a street. She seemed to have wings on her heels.
During the performance, he worked his way to the front of the crowd and stood there, his entire world centered on her. He gaped at the sight with his eyes wide and his mouth open like a moonstruck cow. He could think of nothing else, could see nothing else, and when Francesca glanced down at the audience he was certain that she looked right into his eyes. His new porkpie hat fell off, and he scrambled to pick it up.
Raising her hands as if to stretch on a lazy morning, she grabbed the trapeze and swung high. As she came back down, she pushed her legs hard against the elastic tension of the tightrope and catapulted herself into the air. At the apex of her flight, she yanked a tiny string on the front of her costume, and the halfhidden pack on her shoulders burst open to reveal spring-loaded angel wings. They were fashioned from thin slats of aluminum and tin layered one upon the other like giant feathers, and they looked glorious in the light.
On angel wings, Francesca spread her arms and soared downward in ecstatic flight. The wings braked her descent enough that she alighted on
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