In typical New York fashion, the ferry that Sarah and Viola took back to Brooklyn was the very same one that had been attacked by the Children of Eschaton a few days before.

After the fight at the apartment, all that Sarah had wanted was a few moments for peace and reflection, and when they boarded the ship it had been her intention to simply find a place to sit quietly for the duration of their journey home.

But Viola had quickly discovered the unhappy coincidence, and she had become obsessed with pointing out the poorly patched ceiling that barely concealed where the harpoon had burst into the passenger cabin. She had also discovered a dark mark on the linoleum where the blood from the impaled passenger had stained the floor.

As Viola nattered on, Sarah realized that the Italian girl had many qualities that made her a far more suitable candidate for becoming a Paragon than she would ever be. The Italian girl seemed almost immune to horror and was clearly stronger. She also seemed more at ease in the world than Sarah.

Viola's more “practical” view of men might come in useful as well. The girl seemed to think that all members of the opposite sex existed as either annoyances to be dealt with or objects of desire to be conquered. Sarah imagined that attitude could certainly make it easier to punch a man when the situation called for it.

Lastly, the Italian girl seemed to have an almost limitless sense of curiosity. Once Viola had finally gotten her fill of discussing the battle scars on the boat, she started to pepper Sarah with question after question about Mrs. Farrows.

It was obvious that the housemaid had left quite an impression on the young girl, and Sarah was beginning to gain a deeper appreciation for the technique that Jenny used to transform unruly urchins into crack servants for the Stanton household.

Given a few weeks of exposure, Sarah was quite sure that Jenny would have Viola happily wearing a black maid's dress with a feather duster in her hand.

Just thinking about it had made Sarah realize how much she missed the life she had left behind, whether or not she actually wished to return to it.

Before she had run off, Sarah would have never believed in her wildest dreams—and her dreams had always been far wilder than those of any of the other women she had known—that she would have spent a sunny day in April walking, talking, and fighting with a foreign woman of the streets. Nor would she have believed that she would have found it quite so annoying.

There were, she decided, some very good things about a life that was not entirely punctuated with unexpected adventure.

They had arrived on the Brooklyn docks just before sunset, and used the elevated railway to head north before completing their journey back to the junkyard with a long walk down a dark dirt road. By that time, her back was screaming from lugging the carpet bag full of clothes that Jenny had packed for her. It seemed that Mrs. Farrows had the ability to put people to work without even having to be nearby.

At least the ramshackle building at the center of the junkyard was well lit and inviting. Emilio had created a system of arc lamps and mirrors that flooded the area with a harsh white light that turned night into day. It was an amazing display, and it seemed clear to Sarah that his devotion to electricity was, in its own way, even greater than Darby's.

As they neared the entrance, Emilio flung open the door to great them. He was wearing another one of what seemed to be an endless series of tattered silk robes that almost littered the interior of the house. This one was white, with large red fish running up the side of it. “Sarah! Viola!” He took the bag from Sarah's hand and helped her up into the house.

“Come, come! Sit. Sit!” He pulled open a sliding door and led them into a large parlor that Sarah had, up until this moment, not even realized existed. In the middle of the room, a fire burned merrily in a brazier that hung down from a series of chains attached to a large chimney. There were wires and gears connected to the top of it, and Sarah could only wonder at their purpose.

Tired of thinking, Sarah sat down gently on the couch, taking a moment to sweep her skirts aside. Never one to stand on ceremony, Viola simply flopped herself backwards into one of the sofas and let out a long sigh. “Fratello, ho bisogno d'una bevanda ed un sigaro!” She grasped at her boots, slid them off her feet, and threw them behind the couch, where they landed with a heavy thunk.

It was a display that would have been worthy of any upper-class gentleman. Sarah would have found herself even more shocked by her companion if it weren't for the fact that she could no longer muster the energy to continue to be flabbergasted by the Italian hellion.

Instead, Sarah tried to join in with the spirit of the experience by unlacing her shoes and letting herself revel in the fact that for the last few days she had been living a blessedly bustle-free existence.

Emilio walked across to the other side of the room and was preparing something at a small wooden table nearby. “How was the day for you?”

Viola jumped up in her seat with a smile on her face. “We fought una canaglia. He was seven foot tall and round like an egg!” She pointed at the marks on her neck and grinned. “Mi ha strangolato!”

Sarah didn't need a translator to figure out what it was the girl had just said to her brother, but by her tone it sounded as if she were talking about riding on a merry-go-round, and not being nearly choked to death. It was doubly strange considering the murderous rage that Viola had been in at the time.

Emilio turned and looked back at them with concern in his face. “Then Sarah's friend smacked him with an iron! Bam!” Viola said, gesturing with her arm to show how Jenny had smashed the villain. Emilio just shook his head as he picked up the tray and walked back across the room.

“We only knocked him out,” Sarah said.

“And this rich girl let him go!” As Emilio approached, Viola greedily grabbed one of the glasses and the small cigar next to it.

“But you are okay—both of you?”

“We're fine!” Viola shouted, cutting off Sarah before she could thank him for his concern. “And we don't need my stupid brother fussing over us. Now let's drink!” Viola dropped onto the couch a little more gingerly this time, clearly focused on making sure that her glass wouldn't spill in the attempt.

Emilio turned toward Sarah and offered her one of the glasses on the tray. The liquor clung to the sides as it sloshed back and forth.

Sarah reached out to pick one up, and then hesitated. She had been around drink all her life, but she'd never actually tried any before. Beyond the constant muttering of temperance amongst the ladies (although none of them seemed unable to resist a little sip when they thought no one was looking), it seemed to her that the most noticeable effect of alcohol was that it quickly turned perfectly reasonable people into fools.

On the other hand, after the ordeal that she had gone through today, Sarah was beginning to see the appeal of dulling one's senses from time to time.

Emilio nodded at the drink. “Try it! You would like it, Sarah.”

“What is it?” she asked, picking up the glass. After giving it a more vigorous swirl, she brought the glass up to her nose and gave it a sniff. The smell was something like incense, with a strong scent of flowers and perfume.

“It is vermut.”

“It's a kind of Italian wine,” Viola added. “Something that old men and my brother like to drink.”

From what she knew of the tastes of old men, Sarah imagined that it must be either very weak or incredibly strong.

“Salute!” Emilio said, clinked his glass against hers, and took a sip.

Not wanting to be rude, and more than a little bit curious, Sarah tipped a small amount of the liquor into her mouth and held it on her tongue. The liquid seemed to be overwhelming her and evaporating simultaneously, filling her head with flavors and scents that had only been hinted at by her nose.

She swallowed what remained, and it seemed to vanish almost before it could finish rolling down her throat. There was a sudden rush of heat, and Sarah began to cough.

“Vergine!” shouted Viola, and began to laugh.

Emilio clucked his tongue and shushed his sister. “Fai gentile!”

“You picked a fine girl, Emilio. A tender little blossom to make tin flowers for.”

Sarah put her hand up to her mouth and tried to control her coughing fit. Her face felt warm and flushed. “It would be nice,” she said to Emilio between gasps, “if there was something that your sister could feel some embarrassment about.”

Viola's laughter stopped short. “You are braver than I thought, rich girl, but you are still vergine.” She grabbed a pillow and flung it in Sarah's direction, narrowly missing her head. Instead it slammed into a vase on the side table and sent it crashing to the floor.

Viola frowned. “If it wasn't for your friend Jenny, we'd both be dead.”

Her coughing had subsided, and Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but once again she had nothing to say.

Viola stood up, her eyes locked onto her brother. “I am going to bed, Emilio. Try not to let the rich girl hurt herself.” She stomped out of the room and disappeared behind one of the curtained doorways.

Emilio sat down on the other end of the couch. “I am sorry. She can be angry.”

“Maybe she's right,” Sarah said, and took another—smaller—sip of her vermut. As infuriating as Viola could be, she was beginning to realize that the girl often had a way of revealing Sarah's fears and putting them directly into words.

During all the time that she had dreamed of becoming a Paragon, Sarah had never really imagined what her life would be like, beyond putting on a costume and facing down vicious villains with bravado and flair. Having grown up around Darby and her father, on some level she knew that the reality of it would be more complicated, but she was beginning to think that without a steam-powered gun in her hand, her only true skill was being able to put herself into danger on a regular basis. And now that she had been given a taste of the real thing, her desire to be an actual hero seemed more of a fantasy than ever.

When Sarah looked up, she saw Emilio staring straight at her. She flushed as his eyes met hers, and her breath caught in her chest. The idea of being alone with a man was as impossible as it was ridiculous, and yet it was exactly where she was. He had the barest hint of a smile, and no matter how hard she tried, Sarah couldn't seem to pull her gaze away from his lips.

“You no need sorry, Sarah. Both Viola and I, we had a very hard time before America, but I help you because I want to. Is not your fault.”

Sarah finally tore her eyes away and stared at the glass in her hand. “Maybe it is. I think I do hurt the people I care about. I lost my mother when I was a little girl.” Had she ever actually told anyone that before? The words felt unreal as she said them.

The rumors of her part in the death Lady Stanton were something that she knew always preceded her introduction to any new acquaintance.

Where the first words most people heard when meeting someone new were something along the lines of “lovely to meet you, my dear,” young Sarah heard phrases like “Oh, you poor child,” or “We're so sorry for your loss.” And once she was too old for direct exclamations of pity, Sarah would still occasionally see a look of sadness and suspicion in people's eyes that meant they knew about her sad past.

“She was killed by a villain,” Sarah continued, trying to fill the silence. When she felt the hot buzz in the corners of her eyes that preceded tears, she pressed her hands against her cheeks to stop the flow. “It was my fault.”

“No.” Emilio shook his head and smiled. “You were a little girl. No fault…”

“I revealed to the world my father was the Industrialist.” Despite her best efforts, a single tear escaped. She quickly rubbed it away with her knuckle. “I was so young, and I didn't know I wasn't supposed to. When the Crucible found out, he took Mother and me hostage.”

Emilio sat there quietly while Sarah took a long moment to compose herself. “My father came to our rescue, but in the end he could only save one of us from the Crucible's trap.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she took another sip of her drink. Where before it had made her cough, now it seemed to help. “He chose to save me first, obviously, although I'm not sure that he didn't come to regret it.”

Emilio moved closer to her, and for a moment Sarah was sure that he was going to kiss her again. When he took her hands into his, she realized how ridiculous she was being. Emilio nodded before he spoke, “I should say…tell you…I was married…in Tuscany. But she is gone now.”

Sarah's eyes grew wide. To her Emilio looked so young, but he was clearly older than she was. And if it weren't for her stubborn temperament and lenient father, Sarah would have been married off, herself. There was no reason to think that a boy—a man—Emilio's age wouldn't have been married, but in that instant he seemed much more mature than he had a moment before. “Did you have children?”

He nodded. “Two. Gone away.”

Sarah grasped the hand that held hers. “What happened?”

“I was ladro…” Sarah gave him a puzzled look. “Criminale…A villain.”

“You?” she said with a laugh.

Emilio nodded and stood up. “Watch,” he told her, and then leaned over backwards, his back arching down until he had his hands flat on the floor. Then, in a single fluid motion, he brought his legs straight up over his head. “Il Acrobato. You see?”

Sarah couldn't believe it, but as she watched him walk around the room on his hands, she realized that it was no joke. “I made machines and climb buildings.” He stood upright and mimed climbing up a rope. “I take people's jewels.” He plucked imaginary gems and tucked them safely away into an invisible bag before he sat back down on the couch next to her. She noticed that he had chosen to sit closer to her than he had been before…“But the polizia, they are smart. They find out who I am.”

Of all the men in the world, Sarah had found a repentant villain to have a romance with. For a moment she felt angry and foolish, and then she was suddenly almost blinded by a desire to wrap her arms around him and…“I should…” Sarah said, and then realized that she had no idea what she should do at all. The situation was so far beyond anything she had ever even imagined. She wanted to escape, but where could she go? To bed? What if Emilio followed her there? What if she wanted him to? For the first time in her life, Sarah Stanton found herself feeling almost naked without the armor of her corsets and skirts.

“You wore a mask?” she said, scooting herself away from him just a little bit as she tried to regain her composure.

“Sì, sì. Harlequin.” He moved his hand over his face as he spoke. “I was a boy. I read about Americans, and I think is okay to steal for my wife and children.”

After Sarah had revealed her father's identity to the world, he had tried to explain to her why he had spent so many years wearing a mask and keeping his identity as the Industrialist secret. It wasn't just for their safety, he had told her, but also that as the Industrialist he was free of human flaws. In the eyes of the people he could be a perfect hero.

Emilio was hardly the first foreigner Sarah had heard of who had attempted to become a would-be Paragon. She had heard of heroes in London and Paris. There was even a small group of men in San Francisco who called themselves the Barbary Boys. Her father said they were more pirates than Paragons, although they sounded quite dashing. Of course, no one but the true Paragons had been given the power of fortified steam.

Sarah looked up and saw that Emilio was moving towards her again, and this time there was no question as to what his intentions were. She told herself she needed to lean back and fend him off, but her body seemed to be moving forward in spite of her good sense, and before she could exert her will, they were kissing again.

She could feel the glass dropping out of her hand, and she had no idea how much, if any, of the liquor was left. Somewhere in the distance, the cup bounced off the rug, and she realized that she didn't care.

Emilio's arm slid around her waist, catching the small of Sarah's back and pulling them closer together. Every one of her senses was suddenly filled with this man, and the taste of him was even more intoxicating than the liquor. A flood of feelings from passion to shame rose up in her so quickly that Sarah suddenly felt as if she were drowning in them.

She wondered if this kind of desire was what Odysseus must have felt when he heard the Sirens' call. Then even that tiny thought was wiped away, and Sarah crushed herself more tightly against Emilio than she had been when their lives had depended on it. It was wrong, and it was wonderful.

From some tiny corner of her mind, a voice screamed out to her. “Sarah Stanton, control yourself!” The words were spoken in clipped, strict tones, and she realized the voice she was hearing was her mother's.

Sarah grabbed onto the warning like the drowning Greek sailor she had imagined herself to be, and swam back to the surface of common sense. Freed from passion, she broke free from Emilio's embrace and pushed herself away.

Emilio seemed shocked as he realized that the moment had passed. His eyes were as wide as his face was red. “I…Is something wrong?”

Sarah glanced up and tried to say, “Nothing.” As she thought more about his question, a laugh spilled out from her mouth. It was only a small chortle at first, but as she tried over and over again to speak, the utter ridiculousness of pretending to be able to cover up everything made her laughter come out with more and more intensity until she realized that she was about to cry again.

Emilio had a look on his face—like a child that had been slapped too hard, and was about to cry. “Bella, do I make you sad?”

“No, no,” she managed to squeak out between suddenly rising giggles. When she realized that her emotions were no longer under her control, Sarah closed her eyes and lay back against the couch, making no sounds at all except for occasional gasps as she convulsed with mad laughter. “I'm sorry, Emilio.” Perhaps it was the freedom to truly breathe after years and years of having corsets wrapped around her chest, but she found herself laughing with more intensity than she could ever remember having done before.

And this time, even when her mother's voice commanded her to stop making a fool of herself, Sarah ignored it.

She wondered if being more open to laughter than to passion meant she was broken somehow, and the thought only made her laugh harder.

Emilio took her hand. “I sorry, Sarah,” he said with some shame. “Sono sciocco. I wish I had more words for you.”

Taking in a huge lungful of air, she held her breath and pressed her hand against her chest until she finally felt the laughter subside. Emilio had already put up with so much, she couldn't continue to laugh in his face.

Taking another breath, Sarah realized that she felt almost as exhausted as she had after the battle with the Ruffian that had happened—had it really only been earlier today?

“You…” she stifled the urge to laugh. “You,” she tried again, “have nothing to be sorry about Emilio. It's me…”

He turned away from her and nodded. “I see.”

“I'm,” she said, trying to suppress another chortle, “I'm afraid that everything is terribly far from all right for me now, Emilio.”

“I see,” he repeated. The look on his face was even more confused, and she realized that she had, quite without intending to, managed to hurt his feelings. She wondered if Viola would be angry at her for causing pain to her brother, or thrilled that she was learning how to break a man's heart. Either way, it wasn't the kind of woman she wanted to be.

Taking a moment to make sure that the laughter had truly ended, she leaned forward and kissed Emilio. This time she intended to maintain her composure, and although this kiss was far more chaste than the previous one had been, the moment she felt him start to move toward her again, Sarah pulled away. “That's all I can give you right now, Emilio.”

He nodded, obviously disappointed. “I think I understand.”

Sarah felt a sense of relief, although disappointment lingered somewhere just underneath the surface as well. Had part of her wanted to be ravaged? Had she really become such a wild creature in the few months since she had left society behind?

“Is okay, Sarah.” Emilio closed his eyes for a moment, and then stood up. “I want to show you something.” He held out his hand to her.

Sarah slipped her hand back into his and let him help her up off the couch, ignoring a sudden impulse to fall back into his arms. “What is it?”

“Your heart—I think I can fix it.”

She smiled at that, and then, when Emilio pointed over to the door to his lab, Sarah felt a sudden pang of guilt as she realized that in all the excitement of the day, she had completely forgotten about Tom.

“Come with me,” he said. His foreign features and complexion still reminded Sarah of the whispered tales that Sally Norbitt would tell of exotic men—foreign princes who would sweep away society girls and take them to mountain palaces, where they would commit unspeakable acts of lust with their virgin brides.

Of course Emilio was hardly royalty, or, she assumed, prone to unspeakable acts. And Sally could be prone to telling ridiculous lies. But it also seemed like this Italian man had no fear of touching a woman when the mood struck him.

As she let herself be dragged into the workroom, Sarah noticed that Emilio had done more than simply try to repair Tom. The space was much cleaner than it had been on her previous visit. The floor was obviously swept, and while there were still bits and pieces everywhere, he had at least tried to make the place more tidy and presentable. Things that had been simply scattered before were now placed in somewhat orderly piles, and the path on the floor was clear enough that a woman might cross safely in her bare feet.

Reaching the desk, Sarah looked down to see that he had indeed started putting the heart back together. Although a number of gears were still laid out on the table, the rest had been placed back into an open half of the heart in something that approximated order.

Emilio pointed at the empty side of the heart that lay nearby. “Look there!” He reached up and pulled down what appeared to be a brass tube on the end of an articulated arm. It hung down from an apparatus on the ceiling, and when Emilio pressed a button on the side of it, a small but intense flame appeared, revealing a series of glass lenses designed to focus the light onto the workbench.

As Emilio brought the device down closer to the table, the glow focused on the inside of the heart's curved shell, revealing a series of markings etched into the metal. “What is it?” Sarah said, looking closer.

“Is the same question I asked!” Emilio replied, clearly excited. He grabbed another arm from the array, the tension springs on either side of it letting out a merry groan as he pulled it into place. The end of it contained what appeared to be a large magnifying glass. “Can you see?” he asked as he tried to move the lens into focus.

Sarah swatted away his hand and looked through it. “I might be able to see if you stopped fussing.”

She moved her head back and forth until the markings became clear. “They're words!” The script itself was tiny and dense—far too small to have been written by hand, especially against the curved brass chambers, and yet, when properly magnified, it was crisply legible. “The gears must lie in a precise ratio,” she read aloud. “They are aligned in such a manner that they provide not only the timing, but preserve the character of their motion.”

“This is amazing!” she said, turning to Emilio and giving him a smile. Sarah looked again, not understanding any of the actual text, but simply reveling in the familiar cadence and stentorian but slightly poetic tone of Darby's language. “Every attempt has been made to make the dimensions and chambers as precise as possible. At the same time, the process of transformation is organic, and like all things of nature it is the action itself that creates the perfected individual.”

“You see!” Emilio said with a smile. “He tells us!” Emilio asked her after a moment.

She pulled her eyes away from the glittering words and looked up at Emilio. “Definitely.”

Emilio nodded. “Is very good.” He pointed to a series of books that lay open on the desk. In it were copious notes, entirely in a language that she assumed to be Italian.

Sarah couldn't help but notice that his handwriting was, in its own way, as tight and precise as Darby's had been, although how the old man had managed to shrink his distinctive script and apply it to the walls of Tom's heart was beyond imagining.

“I try to understand,” he said as he looked down at the floor, “but so much of it I cannot.”

Sarah peered back through the lens and tried to find the beginning of the text. She spotted a large, florid letter T and began to read again. “To those who have discovered my words, and would attempt to understand what it is I have created here, welcome. I cannot be sure what your purpose is in opening this vessel, but I assume that it is noble. In your hands is one of the most powerful objects I have ever created. It, more than anything else I have ever done, will change the world. I trust you to make it better.

“But to fully understand what I have created, you must first recognize that science is more than just the discipline of proof; first there must be a theory. To invent the impossible, we must first imagine the improbable. So, to any brave soul who discovers these words, I tell you that a true understanding cannot be reached through science alone.”

As she spoke, she realized that it was both thrilling and terrifying to hear Darby's words from beyond the grave. How many other secrets had he hidden away before his death? “Human ingenuity is the art of seeing, and then making. It will never be enough to simply copy something. You must will your success into being.” Sarah thought back to the key that Darby had worn around his neck—the broken element was proof that even perfection couldn't always guarantee the intended result.

She stood up, took Emilio's hands into hers, and then stared intensely into his eyes. Sarah hoped that the seriousness of her words could keep her passion at bay. “Do you trust me, Emilio?”

He smiled and nodded. “I do, Sarah.”

“Sir Dennis and I were very close, although never more than friends. Sometimes I imagined that, if our lives had been just a little bit different, another time…that he would have been the kind of man to me that I think you could become. Do you understand?”

“You loved him.”

Once again Sarah felt a prickling in her eyes. Of course she had. “I did.” Her love for Darby was a childish, impossible thing—far more than just years had separated them. But her feelings had also been powerful, passionate, and real. Sir Dennis had been a true mentor to her, guiding not only her mind, but also her spirit, to places where she could dream of escaping from her father's world and discovering a way where she might begin to make her dreams come true. And now they had. Everyone had secrets and failures, but being a hero meant trying again anyway…

“But to understand his genius…This isn't just how the heart works, it's a way to uncover Darby's methods. Do you understand?”

A look of confusion passed over Emilio's face. “I think…”

Sarah grabbed his fingers more tightly. “You can't just fix Tom, you have to rediscover him.”

“Rediscover?” He took a step back, his arms stretching away from hers. “I am no Darby!”

Sarah smiled and gripped his fingers more tightly. “Exactly.”

“I don't understand.”

A calmness descended on Sarah. The feeling was overwhelming, almost as if she could feel the spirit of Sir Dennis filling her, directing her in what to do and say. She stood up from the stool and, using her grip on his hands, pulled Emilio back towards her. “That's because you're still missing the most important piece of the puzzle.” She felt the presence of the old man so strongly that it took everything in her not to add “my boy” to the end of the sentence. “He would have liked you, Emilio,” she said as she began to unbutton the top few buttons of her blouse. His eyes went wide, and Sarah laughed. It was comical how once the idea of sex had entered into a room, it seemed that there was no amount of seriousness that could air it out again.

As she reached down and pulled out the key from around her neck, his expression changed to one of wonder. “What is it?” he asked, and reached up a hand toward it.

“Darby's final secret,” Sarah said as she put her hands on either end of the lead key, and began to pull it apart. “And I think,” she whispered as she slid off the cap, “it may be the most powerful thing in the world.” Exposed to the air, the Alpha Element's strange light began to grow brighter and brighter until the glow filled the space between them. “With it, you can recreate the Automaton.”