The Clockwork Ghost Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my father, Richard Ruby

  1939–2018

  MAP

  EPIGRAPH

  What strange phenomena we find in a great city,

  all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open.

  Life swarms with innocent monsters.

  —CHARLES BAUDELAIRE,

  Paris Spleen: Little Poems in Prose

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  New York City: April 12th, 1844

  Chapter One: Tess

  Chapter Two: Theo

  Chapter Three: Jaime

  Chapter Four: Duke

  Chapter Five: Tess

  Chapter Six: Theo

  Chapter Seven: Jaime

  Chapter Eight: Karl

  Chapter Nine: Tess

  Chapter Ten: Theo

  Chapter Eleven: Nine

  Chapter Twelve: Jaime

  Chapter Thirteen: Tess

  Chapter Fourteen: Theo

  Chapter Fifteen: Jaime

  Chapter Sixteen: Duke

  Chapter Seventeen: Tess

  Chapter Eighteen: Theo

  Chapter Nineteen: Jaime

  Chapter Twenty: Karl

  Chapter Twenty-One: Tess

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Theo

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Jaime

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Tess

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Cricket

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Theo

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jaime

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Candi/Ashli/Toni/Tammi/Lori/Laci/Lu

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Tess

  Chapter Thirty: Theo

  Chapter Thirty-One: Jaime

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Duke

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Tess

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Theo

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Jaime

  Sunrise in Gotham Senior Living Center

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Laura Ruby

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  New York City

  April 12th, 1844

  If money could buy happiness, then the very richest New Yorkers should have been among the happiest people in the whole city. Or the whole world. Instead, they were often the most dissatisfied—those with the biggest and best things are always clamoring for something bigger and better. They scrambled for properties with the best views of the river, tickets to the best performances, meals in the best restaurants, invitations to dine with the most important people.

  And no one in New York City was more important than the Morningstarr twins: engineers, inventors, geniuses with a reputation for serving delectable food and inviting the most eccentric guests to their table. At the Morningstarrs’, you never knew who might be sitting next to you: a fiery abolitionist, a circus soothsayer, a Swiss opera singer, a Chinese dignitary, a lady cellist, a lady pirate. You might hear Theodore Morningstarr arguing religious doctrine with a bishop, while Theresa Morningstarr championed the education of women with a university president, all while a mechanical suit of armor spooned out whipped potatoes. No matter who was on the guest list or what was planned for the evening, one thing was certain: Anyone who attended one of the Morningstarrs’ rare dinner parties was sure to have a story to tell.

  But unlike most of the Morningstarrs’ guests, Miss Millicent “Millie” Munsterberg wasn’t thinking about the stories she would have to tell. No, the fifteen-year-old was pushing buttered carrots around her plate, wondering why she had to spend a perfectly nice Saturday evening with a bunch of bores and crackpots. Why, even the pretty young woman seated diagonally from her, wearing a plain but expensive silk dress, prattled for an hour about math and the design of some engine with an old man named Mr. Cabbage.

  Math! An engine! What was wrong with these people?

  “Millicent, dear,” said her mother from across the table. “Mrs. Hamilton asked you a question.”

  “Who?” Miss Millie said.

  Her mother’s mouth tightened. With her knife, she pointed to the wrinkled lady on Millie’s right.

  “Oh,” said Miss Millie, turning to the sad old thing. “Yes. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hammerston, I was concentrating on these most delicious root vegetables. You were saying?”

  The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Millie’s mother said, “Mrs. Hamilton asked if you were interested in visiting her orphanage,” she said, in the tight voice she used when she wanted nothing more than to banish Millie to her room without supper forever.

  “Me? Visit orphans?” exclaimed Miss Millie, horrified. She had peach-pink cheeks and a tumble of gleaming golden curls. Many claimed that Miss Millicent Munsterberg looked just like an angel, but then they’d never observed her curling her lip at the prospect of spending time with orphaned children.

  “Oh, I doubt the orphans would care to suffer your company, either, young lady,” grumbled the man seated on her left. He had pale skin, restless gray eyes, a silly dark mustache, and a forehead so large that Miss Millie felt he should apologize for it.

  “I beg your pardon,” Miss Millie said.

  “I’m sure you do not,” said the man, whose name Miss Millie had forgotten almost immediately after he’d introduced himself. Earlier in the evening, he’d been babbling some nonsense about ravens, and about how sometimes he was awakened at night by the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. Miss Millie thought he was quite mad.

  But that could have been said about any one of the people at the table, including their hosts, the infamous Morningstarr twins. Miss Millie could not understand why two doddering old fools were the objects of such fascination. Why, Mr. Theodore Morningstarr, in an uproar over the upcoming presidential election, banged his fists on the table so hard his roast quail hopped off his plate and into his lap. And Miss Theresa Morningstarr clearly paid no attention to the current fashion at all, with the graying tower of her hair listing precariously to the left and her gown sagging on her tall, thin frame. Here she was, one of the richest women in America, and the only jewelry she wore was a tarnished old locket on a chain around her neck. Where were her diamonds? Where were her rubies and emeralds and gold? Miss Millie’s own mother was positively dripping in jewelry, but no one so much as glanced at Mrs. Munsterberg’s sparkling rings or bracelets. What good was being rich if you couldn’t be bothered to show it off? What good was being rich if people refused to admire you for it?

  But perhaps the Morningstarrs weren’t so rich as they pretended. Miss Millie knew many families who weren’t so rich as they pretended. (The biggest cocktail ring her mother wore was made of paste.)

  “Millicent!” hissed her mother.

  “Oh, what now?” said Miss Millie. Her mother had been so peevish since her thirty-fourth birthday the week before, when Millie had given her a cane as a joke.

  “I was saying,” said her mother through gritted teeth, “that perhaps Miss Morningstarr might excuse you from the table so that you can take in some fresh air, as it seems you don’t have much of an appetite?” Mrs. Munsterberg looked around at the assembled guests. “She’s been ill lately.”

  “I haven’t been—” Miss Millie began, but snapped her mouth shut at her mother’s warning frown.

  “It is the wise person who knows when not to speak, don’t you agree, Mr. Poe?” said Mrs. Hamilton.

  “Quite,” said the man with the offensive forehead. He and Mrs. Hamilton clinked glasses over Miss Millie’s plate, which Miss Millie thought was exceedingly rude.

  “I’d be happy to excuse Miss Millicent,” said Miss Theresa Morningstarr, gesturing with a bony hand. “Through tho
se French doors you’ll find a parlor with a balcony, my dear. Please, take in as much fresh air as you like.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Millie as meekly as she was able, which was not meekly at all. On her way out of the room, she almost crashed into the clanking suit of armor. “Lance,” according to the engraved panel on his iron lapel, stepped aside and swept a creaking arm out, welcoming her to pass. As she did so, she heard the pretty young woman in the plain dress ask if she could see Lance’s insides after dinner.

  It was all extremely vexing.

  But once Miss Millie found the parlor, she didn’t bother opening the doors to the balcony. Instead, she threw herself in an overstuffed velvet chair to sulk. It simply wasn’t fair of her mother to drag her here against her will and force her to converse with such odious people about such tedious things. It wasn’t as if her mother enjoyed the company. Both Miss Millie’s parents had dined with the Morningstarrs once, years ago, before Miss Millie was born, and her mother had claimed that the evening was a perfect horror.

  “Why would you want to repeat it, then?” Miss Millie asked.

  “Because your father needs their support,” said her mother. “One good word from them and investors will come flocking.”

  Dr. Munsterberg was a great scientist but a mediocre businessman. “He’s not even coming to dinner with us!”

  “All the more reason to be on your best behavior.”

  Miss Millie thought she was behaving rather well, considering.

  She cast her eyes about the room. It was a grand enough parlor, with a marble fireplace, a large crystal chandelier overhead, an ornate carpet at her feet. Next to her, on a claw-footed table, sat a small silver cube. She picked it up to examine it more closely, and then gasped. Here were the jewels missing from Miss Theresa Morningstarr’s fingers and wrists: The surface of the cube was studded with sparkling rubies and sapphires, emeralds and diamonds, pearls and onyx. If these stones were real, the cube was worth a fortune. Who would leave such a priceless item just lying around for anyone to pick up, especially with all these strangers in the house? At the dinner table in the other room, there was an Arab sheik, a Cherokee trader, an Indian rug maker, and an actor! Even Miss Millie knew you could never trust an actor.

  A voice behind her said, “It’s a puzzle.”

  Miss Millie leaped to her feet, fumbling with the cube. “What? Who’s there?”

  Sitting in the farthest corner of the room was a young woman close to Miss Millie’s own age, perhaps a year or two older, holding a quill. The girl set the quill aside and, in no great hurry, fanned the pages she had written before closing her book. She got up from her chair and walked toward Miss Millie. She was small and lithe, brown-eyed and brown-skinned, wearing a simple gray gown that complemented her so well that Miss Millie was even more vexed than before.

  “You could have said something so I knew you were there,” snapped Miss Millie.

  “I believe I just did,” said the girl.

  “Then why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me a . . . a . . . sherry.” Miss Millie wasn’t yet allowed to have sherry but this servant wouldn’t know that.

  “You look healthy enough,” the girl said, one side of her mouth quirking up. “Fetch it for yourself.”

  “Well! I never!”

  “Are you certain?” the girl said.

  “What? I—”

  The girl set her book on the seat of the chair, held out her palm. “Give me the cube and I’ll show you what it does.”

  Reluctantly, Miss Millie pressed the cube into the other girl’s hand. The girl started twisting the cube. “This cube is made up of twenty-six smaller cubes attached in the center. The object is to spin the blocks until each face of the cube has all the same color stones.” She rotated the cubes faster and faster, left and right. After a few minutes, she handed the cube back to Miss Millie.

  “The stones on each face don’t match,” Miss Millie said.

  “Not yet. I got you most of the way there. You can solve the rest easily, I’m sure.”

  Miss Millie slapped the cube back on the tabletop. “I have no interest in silly games.”

  “No?” said the girl. “You seemed quite interested in that one a few moments ago.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Miss Millicent Magdalena Mariah Munsterberg,” said Miss Millie.

  “Oh, dear,” said the girl.

  “So you know who I am,” said Miss Millie, lifting her pointed chin.

  “No earthly idea,” the girl said. “But your name is quite . . . alliterative.” She fingered a large silver pin on the bodice of her dress. A butterfly, or perhaps a moth. The wings fluttered lazily at her touch.

  All of a sudden, Miss Millie worried that this girl wasn’t a servant at all, that she’d insulted someone . . . important. “You’re a guest of the Morningstarrs?” she asked. “I don’t recall you from dinner.”

  “I don’t much care for parties. I’d rather read a good book.”

  No matter how important this particular girl was, Miss Millie couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “You prefer reading to parties? How peculiar!”

  “So I’ve been told,” said the girl, scooping up her book from the seat of the chair. “Well, then. It’s about time for me to retire. I’ll leave you to your private contemplation.”

  The girl turned to go, and then she paused, turned back. “If you do choose to solve the puzzle, be warned: It likes to play tricks.”

  And then she was gone.

  Miss Millie frowned at the now-empty room, frowned at the silver cube, vexed once again. The girl’s words made no sense. This whole evening made no sense. There seemed to be only one way to redeem it. Miss Millie snatched the cube from the table and tucked it into her reticule. The gemstones couldn’t be real, so the Morningstarrs wouldn’t miss the cube. But even if the cube was real, and the Morningstarrs did miss it, they had only themselves to blame. You can’t just invite anyone into your home. Maybe they’d think the girl in the gray dress had stolen it, whoever she was.

  Now, that would be a clever trick.

  Cheered, Miss Millie rejoined the dinner party in time for dessert, a lovely chocolate pudding. She forgot all about the puzzle cube in her purse until much later, when she was getting ready for bed. As she reclined in her soft feather pillows, she rotated the cubes, trying to match the stones on each face. After some time, she almost launched the useless thing against the wall, convinced it wasn’t a puzzle at all, when every gem clicked into place. She waited for the trick that the girl had mentioned, but nothing happened. She set the puzzle cube on the side table, imagining all the rings and bracelets and brooches she’d make once she had the cube melted down, and then fell fast asleep . . .

  . . . and was awakened in the middle of the night by the strangest sounds. Clicking sounds. Scuttling sounds.

  “Hello,” said a tiny voice.

  Miss Millie sat up, gathering the sheets to her neck, trying to focus in the darkness. “Who is that?!” she said.

  Giggles. “Hello.”

  With trembling fingers, Miss Millie reached for the solar lamp on her bed table, flicked it on.

  Hundreds of tiny silver spiders scuttled across her ceiling, over the furniture, on the floor. On the thinnest gossamer chain, a single spider inched down to dangle in front of Miss Millie’s shocked, white face. It had three emerald eyes, slightly off-kilter.

  “Hello?” it said.

  Miss Millie screamed. The spider zipped back to the ceiling. The other spiders raced in crazed circles on every surface of the room, hello, hello, hello.

  The door flew open. Hair wild, Dr. Munsterberg stood with Mrs. Munsterberg right behind him. As they took in the scene, Mrs. Munsterberg screamed right along with her daughter, while Dr. Munsterberg grabbed at the spiders. He caught one in his fist, a ruby-eyed creature the size of a penny.

  “Hello!” it said, and hopped to the floor. The army of spiders ran for the window
and disappeared through the cracks between the panes, giggling the whole way.

  Miss Millie had stopped screaming and was now sobbing, because she knew where the spiders had come from. “She said it would play tricks, but she didn’t say anything about spiders!”

  “What? Who?” said Dr. Munsterberg. “Miss Theresa?”

  “No,” wailed Miss Millie. “The other girl.”

  “What other girl?” demanded Mrs. Munsterberg.

  But Dr. Munsterberg wasn’t listening anymore. He had walked to the window and was searching the grounds outside for any hint of metal gleaming in the dark. Everyone in New York City had lived alongside Morningstarr Machines for years, but Dr. Munsterberg had never seen machines so small. And now he had to wonder how very small the Morningstarrs could make their machines.

  Or, he thought, how very big.

  New York City

  Present Day

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tess

  There are cats, and there are Cats.

  Your typical lowercase cat is fascinating enough. Alternately elegant and ridiculous, liquid and solid, here and gone. But Cats, well, Cats are more. Slinkier and sassier, bigger and bendier, a concentration of Catness, a multiplicity of cats in a single body. A Cat is every cat, and no cat at all.

  If you asked Tess Biedermann, her cat Nine was such a Cat.

  Not that Tess was biased or anything.

  “It’s science,” she said.

  “I wish science had given Nine some flashlight eyes,” said Tess’s friend Jaime Cruz. “It’s dark as deep space in here.”

  Tess, Jaime, and Tess’s brother, Theo, were standing inside a building on West 73rd Street in Manhattan. This nondescript structure had once stood next to their old apartment building, an original Morningstarr building, managed by Jaime’s grandmother. It was the building they’d all called home.

  A home they loved. A home they’d hoped to save. A home they’d helped to destroy.

  They were trying hard not to dwell on that last part.

  Outside, it was a bright and steamy August day, but here, inside the closed door, a door that had been hidden from the world for over a century and a half, the cool air was thick with dust, the darkness impenetrable. It was the third time they’d tried to explore this place. The first time, they were so disappointed not to find the treasure they were seeking right behind the door, they’d turned around and marched out again. The second time, they’d been stopped outside by an overly ambitious security guard who told them he’d have them arrested if he ever saw them again.