His father’s notes only backed up what Finley’s mother had told them—that Thomas Sheppard had been conducting experiments with his father on the dark vs. pure side of human nature. Sheppard took to experimenting on himself, unsure of what his potions might do to others. What he’d done had enabled his darker nature to totally obliterate his good, and vice versa. He split himself into two opposite halves. Apparently he tried to stop the experiments once he found out Mary was expecting Finley, but by then it was too late—the metamorphosis was happening on its own without the aid of chemistry. The damage had already been done. Though Sheppard hadn’t known it at the time, he had passed his affliction onto his unborn daughter.

Sadly, Thomas Sheppard was killed shortly before Finley’s first birthday. He’d been overtaken by a seizure away from home, metamorphosing into his dark self. He hurt someone who got in his way and that set the Peelers after him. In his quest to escape, Sheppard had tried to steal a carriage and was shot by the owner. The officers who took the wounded man to Scotland Yard were shocked when he changed from his almost bestial form into that of a soft-spoken scholar. Thomas Sheppard died before the surgeon could attend him.

His father’s notes went on to express a sense of responsibility for Mary Sheppard and her daughter, but the woman disappeared, refusing the duke’s help. There was also regret. Griffin’s father wrote, “If only I had not provided the catalyst for Sheppard’s drastic transformation. It makes me fear for my own family.”

What had his father given Sheppard? Was it the same mysterious “catalyst” as that which had caused both Griffin and Sam to develop their abilities? If so, why hadn’t they been driven mad like Sheppard? Why were they not affected in a similar fashion?

He turned his attention to the final notes on the page. His father was worried about Mary and her child, worried what effects their experiments might have had upon Sheppard’s daughter.

Poor Finley. Not only had she discovered the tragic truth about her father, but she must be terrified that the same fate awaited her.

Despite her violence against Cordelia earlier, he believed it was possible for Finley to control her darker side. In fact, he believed that uniting the two sides of her nature was the only answer. No person was entirely good or entirely evil—one side could not exist without the other. He just had to figure out how to make Finley whole again.

He poured another cup of coffee—his third since sitting down—and rose from his desk. He wanted to research Thomas Sheppard on the Aether engine, as well, but before that he wanted to check in on Finley. He needed to go down into Emily’s laboratory and talk to her about the defective automatons—and about Sam, who was notably absent once again.

He also wanted to contact an acquaintance of his who ran in a different circle than he did. Jasper Renn was an American he’d met late last year. In fact, the cowboy had saved him from having his head coshed in by a band of ruffians intent on robbing a fancy toff. If not for Jasper, Griffin would have been forced to use his abilities in public, and that wouldn’t have been a good thing. Afterward, Griffin had brought Jasper back to the house for a drink and a little of Emily’s medical attention for his wounds. Since then, the two of them enjoyed a mutually beneficial friendship—helping each other out of trouble and occasionally attending a mech-boxing match together.

Jasper spent a lot of time in the gaming hells and clubs around Covent Garden and other east-end establishments. If there was talk about these automatons and their maker on the street, then he would know of it.

Griffin had to get to the bottom of these automaton attacks. He couldn’t ignore them just because Finley Jayne posed such an intriguing problem in such a pretty package.

And she was pretty—even when off her rocker. In that respect, she was every bit as dangerous as Aunt Cordelia seemed to think.

It was a good thing, then, that he enjoyed a little danger now and again.

“You look like a man in need of a drink.”

Sam looked up from his empty tankard. Leon, his friend with the mechanical hand, stood beside his table. “If I have another, I’m likely to fall asleep in a puddle of drool on this table.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Leon asked in his melodic accent—Italian, he’d said he was—as he sat down.

Sam smiled. “It’s a dirty table.”

His companion chuckled. “This is the second time I’ve found you here, my friend. You’re obviously troubled. Perhaps I can help.”

It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to declare that an impossibility—that no one could possibly help him—but then his gaze fell upon Leon’s etched, metal hand.

“Do you ever regret that?”

Leon, who had at this point raised his other hand to signal for a waitress, glanced at the metallic appendage. “What, this? No. It’s not quite as good as the real thing, but you would be surprised at just how much I am able to do because of this marvel of modern science.”

Sam almost snorted, but didn’t. “You don’t mind being part machine then?”

The older man frowned—just as two tankards of ale were set on the table between them by a round-faced, ginger-haired girl. “Of course not. Does it bother you? I can wear a glove.”

“No.” Sam shook his head. Making the man wear a glove just because he couldn’t stand himself seemed stupid. “Don’t do that. It doesn’t bother me.”

Leon smiled. “You are just curious, yes? I get a lot of that. People wanting to know how I came about to have it. You have yet to ask me.”

Sam shrugged. “None of my business. I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”

His companion lifted his tankard to his mouth. His dark eyes shone with something that looked like amusement. “It was an accident. I was working on a burrower automaton and my hand got caught in the gears.”

“A burrower?” Sam’s mouth went dry as he fought back memories of his own experience with a large machine. Diggers were larger as they dug into the earth rather than drilling into it as burrowers did. Still, a burrower could do a lot of damage to a man. “That’s awful.”

Leon inclined his head. “It was, but I survived. Now, I’m more careful when I work on any machine, automaton or no.”

“You still work with them? Aren’t…aren’t you afraid?”

“I was, for a bit, but the automaton did not hurt me on purpose. It was my fault, not the machine’s. I wasn’t as careful as I should have been.”

Sam lifted his tankard to his lips. He was starting to sober up. “Kind of a slap in the face, though, them giving you a metal hand.” He couldn’t help but think of all the metal in his own body.

Leon looked surprised. “My dear sir, this work of art was my choice.”

His tankard hit the table with more force than intended. “Why the devil would you choose to be partially metal when that’s what took your hand in the first place?” There were other options—wood and wax for two.

Leon flexed the shiny appendage. Sam watched, entranced as the jointed fingers gracefully opened and closed. “I chose it because I made it. There’s not an artificial limb anywhere that can compare to this one. I can do everything a whole man can do—perhaps more, because I can do work so fine and intricate it would make your eyes cross.”

But Sam hardly heard him. “You built it.” Emily would find this man fascinating.

“Yes. I told you it was my choice.”

“Wish I’d had a choice,” Sam grumbled into his ale.

Leon frowned, leaning across the table. “What do you mean?”

Sam met his gaze. There was nothing but sincerity and confusion there. He made up his mind right then that Leon was someone he could trust—someone who just might relate to what he was going through. Who might understand.

“I mean, I wasn’t given a choice when an automaton tore my arm off. It was replaced with metal.”

The older man’s perplexed gaze immediately dropped to Sam’s hands. “But…but you are flesh!”

Sam took another drink, smiling for the first time all day. “It’s a long story.”

Leon signaled for the waitress again before turning and leaning his forearms on the table. “My friend, I have all night.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Griffin glanced up from his desk. He’d been sitting there for hours, and Emily was a welcome intrusion. Now he needn’t go looking for her. He smiled as he looked at her, noticing she was paler than usual. “Come talk, then.”

He left the desk as his friend came deeper into the room. He’d been poring over Thomas Sheppard’s notes—which he’d found in his father’s safe there in the study—trying to better understand Finley and how to help her. But Sheppard had been all about isolating parts of man’s personality, rather than bringing them together. He did have some research on rehabilitating the criminal and the insane, but Griff wasn’t about to try these methods on Finley.

At least he knew now what it was his father gave him to experiment with—the ore and a sample of Organites. He just couldn’t quite figure out how these things could have brought about the changes Sheppard mentioned. The answer was so close he could taste it, and it vexed him to the point where he was ready to break something.

“Have you found something in the automatons?” Griff asked, rubbing his eyes as he sat down on the sofa.

Emily shook her head. “Not yet.” She cast a nervous glance around the room, as though making certain they were alone. “That’s not why I’m here, lad.”

“Is it Sam?” It wasn’t like his friend to stay gone this long—though he had to be angry knowing what Griff had allowed Emily to do.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Emily shook her head. It was obvious she felt Sam’s absence, as well—and that she felt just as responsible as Griffin did for it. “No. It’s not about Sam. It’s about me.”

Griffin’s eyebrows shot up. Emily rarely talked about herself or her past. He wasn’t certain he was ready to hear whatever it was she was about to share. “What is it?”

“I’ve noticed lately I’ve been goin’ through some peculiar…changes.”

Oh, lord. Had no one ever talked to her about these things? Her mother? “What sort of changes?”

Her fingers tangled together in her lap. She had black beneath her nails from working in her laboratory. “Remember when you told me about how you first learned about your abilities?”

He nodded. “I told you about the first ghost I saw.”

“Three months ago, you told me you sometimes felt as though the Aether might swallow you whole if you let it.”

Griff closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have told her that. “I believe I said I thought my talents were increasing.”

She scooted closer, perching on the edge of her seat. “I think… I reckon something’s happening to me, lad. Something strange.”

Caught between curiosity, concern and irritation, Griffin frowned. “What is it, Em?”

“It might be better if I showed you.”

“Show me then.”

The girl got up from where she sat and hesitantly walked over to the phonograph in the corner. Instead of operating by setting a needle into a flat disc, Emily had moderated it to work with metal punch cards of her design. They wouldn’t “warp” like discs or scratch so easily. And instead of winding it, there was a tiny steam engine built in so it could play for longer periods of time, punch card after punch card.

Emily, looking tiny in her knee-length ruffled trousers, billowy shirt and grungy leather corset, tugged absently on one of the ropes of her bright red hair as she reached a pale hand toward the machine. Griff watched in amazement as the phonograph whirred to life at her touch. Emily closed her eyes, an expression of concentration on her face. The phonograph shuffled through the punch cards until it found a harpsichord piece Griff knew to be one of Emily’s favorites. As the song began to play, the volume increased, as well—all without Emily even turning the key to start the machine’s engine. Technically, the phonograph wasn’t even on.

The music played for a few brief moments, but ended abruptly when Emily removed her hand. She looked at Griff over her shoulder. He couldn’t tell if she was proud or terrified.

“I can tell them what to do,” she said. “Machines. And sometimes, I think I understand them, too.”

“Incredible,” Griffin remarked, awestruck. He had risen to his feet during the amazing demonstration and now leaned against the sofa. He ran a hand through his hair. Words eluded him.

Emily didn’t look so convinced. “What’s wrong with me?”

It hadn’t occurred to Griffin, who’d had “abnormal” abilities from a very young age, that these new talents would scare his friend. He supposed they felt the same way he would if suddenly he wasn’t able to consult the Aether.

“Dormant abilities?” It was a guess at best. Then he thought about it. Hadn’t he noticed changes in himself over the past six months to a year? Subtle changes, but the fact remained that his own powers had increased significantly. To the point where he fought for control at times.

“We’re evolving,” he murmured. He knew it sounded preposterous but what other explanation was there? “I don’t know why or how, but we are.”

“What about Sam?” Emily asked. “Has he mentioned any new abilities?”

“He might not be aware of any changes, or attributes them to his automatonic enhancements. Besides, I don’t think he’d tell any of us right now even if he had.”