All Men of Genius

IX.



PROFESSOR Erasmus Valentine did not like teaching the first-years on their first day of classes. Always so tired from whatever little adventure they had had in the cellar, they chose to sleep in rather than wake up early enough to bathe, so they not only were tired, red-eyed, and lethargic, but they also stank.

Valentine sighed dramatically to get the attention of the five bleary young men before him, then began his annual opening lecture. It was a brilliant lecture, which is why he had never bothered to change it in all his years teaching at Illyria. It was about man’s role as improvers of God’s original art, and how all the pieces of nature that they used were put there for them to combine into more beautiful works. He cited numerous examples of beauty, from the poetry of the ancient Greeks to Romantic poets to his own creations, the most notable of which was Isabella, the dove-sized peacock that sang like a nightingale. At this point, he took Isabella out of her huge gilded cage and let the students wonder at her. After a while, he continued, explaining in stirring rhetoric that it was now the students’ turn to perfect God’s creations. Valentine felt that this was not blasphemy, as one of the students had said last year, but the very purpose of mankind. He ended it with a plea, his eyes dewy with feeling, for the students to cooperate with him and one another, and for them to have patience with themselves. After all, they couldn’t expect to create their own Isabella on their first day. It was a beautiful lecture, Valentine thought, and modest, since it took only two and a half hours, which left another generous hour and a half to go over the rules of the lab, answer questions, and begin their first assignments.

Violet, staring at Isabella in her cage, found her to be rather sad. Her feathers drooped and seemed too heavy for her body, and her eyes were covered with the misty film she’d seen only in old people and dogs. But Jack seemed impressed with her, especially the cooing noise she made if one stroked her gullet, so Violet supposed that the miniature singing peacock must be an accomplishment.

In all fairness to Isabella, it was rather difficult for Violet to keep her eyes open. They had spent more time in the basement last night than she’d thought. It seemed that she had only closed her eyes when the small clock on the wall started ringing seven o’clock, and she barely had time to put on her suit and eat breakfast before running to the biology lab. Jack, on the other hand, seemed quite energetic. Violet wondered if he had some trick for getting more rest than she, or if he was merely excited because this lab was to be his second home and the dandy with the too-rouged cheeks, who was currently explaining the proper way to clean a scalpel, was to be his new mentor.

“Now,” Valentine said after showing the students the proper place for each tool and object—knives here, feathers there, bottles of blood on the shelf over the box of spare bones—“any questions?” Merriman raised his hand. Valentine pursed his lips and nodded. The young man was short and roundish, the sort Valentine would prefer not to talk to if he could help it.

“Will we be working with plants, sir?” Merriman asked.

“Plants?” Valentine said, and put a finger to his chin. “Well, most assignments will be from the fauna of the world, not the flora, and when you’re more advanced, cellular work, but if you’d like to try combining the two … why, a dove with rose petals instead of feathers could be quite lovely. That would probably be above your level right now, of course, but it’s certainly something to aspire to.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Merriman continued, “but I meant just plants. Growing corn with shorter stalks, for example, so it doesn’t fall over as quickly. It’s only, my father is a gardener, so I was wond’ring—”

“No,” Valentine interrupted, his nostrils flaring, “we won’t be doing anything like that. Leave crossbreeding of beans to the monks. We are scientists.”

“Of course, sir,” Merriman mumbled, looking at the table.

“What about bodies?” Jack asked without raising his hand.

“Human bodies?” Valentine asked. Jack nodded. “Well, we do have a resurrectionist on call if you seek to work with the human animal, but personally, I’ve always found touching corpses to be a bit … distasteful. So that would have to be on your own time.” Jack nodded again.

After that, Valentine explained that their first assignment was to gild a lab rat with snakeskin. “It’s really a poetic assignment,” Valentine said. “The prey becomes one with the predator.” Valentine set a cage full of squealing white rats on one of the tables and a pile of snakeskin next to it. The rats, smelling the skin of their predators, began to panic and headed for the end of the cage farthest from the skins, rocking it slightly toward the edge of the table. “Use as many rats and as much snakeskin as you need,” Valentine said. “I’ll be observing your work, but if you want detailed instructions, you’ll find them on page thirty of your text Divine Enhancements, by myself, Erasmus Valentine.”

Jack finished the task in less than ten minutes, with Valentine watching him the whole time. When he was done, only the rat’s nose, eyes, claws, and the inside of its ears and mouth retained their mammalian looks.

“Most excellent, Mr. Feste,” Valentine said, patting Jack on the back. “Students, look. See how Mr. Feste cut the snakeskin not into simple rectangles, but thought out the curves of the rat itself so that the snakeskin fit securely around its body. Note also how he chose snakeskin in complementary, though not matching, colors. See how the rat begins with reddish yellow fur at the nose—which matches the nose that Mr. Feste didn’t cover; quite clever, really—and gradually fades to bright green at the hindquarters. A real work of art, Mr. Feste.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, smiling.

“Now let’s see how it likes its new skin,” Valentine said, and put it in a nearby empty cage. “It’s beginning to wake up.”

The students crowded around to watch the rat groggily raise its head, flinch at the soreness of its new stitches, then cautiously get to its feet. Cautiously, it peered around at the giant looming faces of the students and backed away from them. When the last of the ether wore off, it began to sniff the air, its tail stiff and eyes wide, clearly smelling itself. It looked around, but seeing only the faces of the students, merely cowered in the corner, having no place to run. After a moment, it carefully tried to nibble at its leg and noticed its newly scaled coat for the first time. It started to gnaw at its own skin in terror, and after a few moments of frantic struggling, fell to the ground, motionless.

“That happens,” Valentine said with a sigh. “Their hearts give out, poor things—they don’t realize that the snakeskin is theirs now, just think it’s another snake that they can’t escape from. Once I saw one tear its own tail off. Anyway, it’s no fault of yours, Mr. Feste. Some rats just can’t seem to realize the gift you’re giving them.” Valentine tutted, took a handkerchief out of his sleeve, gathered the dead rat in it, and threw it down the incinerator.

Jack frowned. He should have been able to predict the results of his assignment, but was so caught up in pleasing Valentine that he hadn’t thought it through all the way. He hated losing creatures, hated being responsible for their deaths. He wanted to help them, not hurt them, after all. If he had thought ahead, he could have conceived of a chemical that would have stripped the snakeskin of its scent, and the rat could have gone on to live a happy, armored life.

“Mr. Feste,” Valentine said, “you are free to go, if you’d like, or you can stay and assist your friends, or even work on something else.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Everyone else, back to work. You have only this class to finish the project. If you can’t manage by then, you’ll have to come back during your independent study time.”

The rest of the students hurried back to their own drugged rats. Jack took the time to explore the lab, peeking through microscopes and looking at the supplies, which included skins of all sorts of creatures, eyeballs drifting in preserving fluids, and many smaller animals resting quietly in their cages.

Lane finished his rat next, Valentine declaring it “acceptable but mediocre work,” citing the way the skin bunched around the rat’s neck and dragged back the ears. Violet finished next, her rat being “well done, but with no taste to the interaction of the coloring of the scales—it looks mottled, Mr. Adams. Mottled and sickly.” Fairfax, who followed the instructions in the text word for word, finished next with a rat that was “pristinely done, but lacks any creative spirit. The book is a guide, but you must also bring part of yourself to these things. It is art, after all.”

Merriman finished at the very last minute with Jack’s help, but was pleasantly surprised to hear that his rat was “nicely done. Some of the stitching is poor, but it has a scruffy character I find suits it well. It is a rat, after all.”

By the time lunchtime came around, all the rats but Merriman’s had died and been sent down the incinerator chute. Merriman’s rat, a runt that he had named Tiny, was nervously exploring its cage, and sometimes licking its paws. When the bell tolled, Valentine dismissed them with a flourish of his hands, calling after them that they had best read chapters one through eight in Divine Enhancements by next week.

Jack and Violet had assumed they would sit with the other first-years, so they were surprised when they entered the dining hall and Toby and Drew waved them over. Toby was already eating and had a full mug of tea in front of him. Drew was looking at his food, fidgeting with it, tapping his finger on his nose, then looking at his food again.

“Hey, you lot. Jack and Ash, right?” Toby called. Jack nodded. “Sit with us today. We’re going to decide if you’re the sort of folks we can stand to be sociable with.” Violet looked over at the other first-years, but as Lane and Merriman seemed to be chatting happily, and Fairfax had found a small table that he could have to himself, she didn’t feel like she was abandoning anyone by sitting down next to Toby. Drew, though he had seen Jack and Violet approach, seemed startled, and jumped slightly in his seat when they sat down.

“You had time to shave?” Toby asked Violet.

“Pardon?” Violet said.

“You don’t have a hair on your chin. After a night like that, I figured you’d sleep in a bit rather than take the time to do your toilette.”

“Oh,” Violet said, suddenly nervous. “Ah, well. I had remembered Valentine as being a dandy, so I thought it would be best if I looked as well groomed as I could.”

“Poof is more like it,” Toby said, sawing through some of the meat on his plate, “but that was good thinking. Valentine doesn’t care much for me, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Did he give you his lecture on improving on God’s works?”

Violet and Jack nodded.

“I fell asleep,” Drew confessed, tapping his fork on the plate, “but then Freddy started arguing with him, and that woke me up.”

“Freddy?” Jack asked.

“Freddy Chausable,” Toby said. “He’s a second-year, like Drew, here. Very religious. Thinks God talks to him through the analytical engines.”

Violet blinked.

“This school is full of bloody loonies,” Toby said.

“Are you a loony?” Jack asked.

Toby barked out a laugh. “I like you, Jack,” he said. “Yeah, I might be a bit loony. I have come back to this place every year, now, haven’t I? And Drew, here, he’s mad as a hatter.”

“No, I ain’t,” Drew said.

“Excuse his poor grammar,” Toby said. “His family is new to society.”

“No, we’re not,” Drew said. “My grandpa, he’s the one who started the parfumerie, and that was nearly forty years ago.”

“Wait,” Jack said, “you’re Pale, as in Pale Perfumes.”

“Yeah,” Drew said, nodding.

“I once made love to a girl who was passionate for your rose soap,” Jack said. “I used to buy it for her once a week.”

“The rose is popular,” Drew said, nodding. Violet studied her food, trying not to blush. She was also fond of the Pale Perfumes rose soap, and once had received some from Jack as a Christmas gift.

“How about you, Ashton? Ever try to loosen a girl’s corset with something Drew’s family made?”

Violet bit her lip, then bravely looked up. “I’ve never really needed any assistance. I can loosen a corset with my own two hands.”

Jack snickered, and Toby burst out laughing. “Confident, for such a scrawny-looking lad,” he said. “I like you both, so far. We’ll see if you’re really chums. Why don’t you meet us in the entryway just outside the Great Hall tonight, after supper. Most of the lads go upstairs to study, but Drew and I enjoy indulging in the various delights that the fair city of London has to offer.”

“Toby’s a baron, so ’e has a little pull about town,” Drew said conspiratorially.

“So you’re Sir Toby?” Violet asked.

“Only if it’s a scuffer asking,” Toby said with a grin. “Otherwise, I don’t like to talk about it much. Half the nutters in the place have aristocratic blood. It’s bragging about it that makes you look crazy.”

“We won’t tell, and we promise not to care, either,” Jack said.

“Good,” Toby said, finishing the meat in front of him and chugging down a large mug of cold tea. “Anyway, I’m off to the chemical lab. Always looking to perfect the cure.” He burped loudly, then walked out of the dining hall, leaving Violet and Jack alone with Drew, who was carefully slicing the crust off his bread.

“He’s working on a cure?” Violet asked.

Drew nodded.

“For what?”

“Hangover,” Drew responded. “I better get going, too. I have a lot of work to do.”

“What are you working on?” Violet asked.

“It’s a perfume that will remain subtle until the person wearing it begins to sweat more,” Drew said, his shoulders bobbing slightly. “Then the scent will compensate by increasing as well. That way, you never have to worry about smelling foul again!”

“I’d use that,” Jack said. “Long as it didn’t become too strong. Wouldn’t want to smell like a woman.” Violet nodded in agreement, trying to keep her face stiff and masculine.

“That is one of the problems,” Drew said, tapping his nose a few times, then running a hand through his hair. “When it works, the moment a person sweats, they smell like a bed of lavender. And it doesn’t always work. It has something to do with the chemical content of sweat. So I need to collect more sweat. Luckily, I sweat a lot,” he said. Then he smiled and took off, leaving his dirty plate next to Toby’s. A servant, seeing the mess, came over and cleared their things away, leaving half the table empty.

“This is the lot we’ve thrown ourselves in with?” Violet asked.

“Come now, they seem like good lads. Good for a bit of fun, anyway. We’ll see what they want to do tonight, right?”

Violet sighed.

“It’s the sort of thing a man would do,” Jack said pointedly.

“Very well,” Violet conceded. “But if it’s a bore, or vulgar, we’ll seek company elsewhere.”

“Fair enough, but only if it’s very vulgar. A little vulgarity is to be expected. It is London.”

Violet smirked despite herself. She was wary of becoming too friendly with other students for various reasons, the first being that she was, after all, here to study. She didn’t want to distract herself too much. But Jack seemed to want companionship beyond hers, which seemed fair. Her other fear was that they would uncover her secret, and troubles would ensue: exposure, blackmail, or some other horror from the various gothic novels Mrs. Wilks was always reading. Finally—and this was a fear she was loath to admit to herself, but logically, she must accept the possibility—that becoming friendly with men could cause her to be attracted to them, which would be both distracting and reveal her sex.

“All right,” Jack said, finishing his meal. He took a long drink of water and stood. “I’d best be off to the biology lab. I’m not quite sure what I should work on for the end-of-year faire yet, but I’m thinking something with organ transplanting. Maybe a four-eyed ferret?” He went on to explain how figuring out how to do that could help him give new eyes to the blind. Very impressive, either way.

Violet raised her eyebrows and looked down at her own meal, only half-eaten. How had they eaten so quickly? Perhaps she was still being too dainty and feminine. She nodded at Jack and stood up as well, following him out of the dining hall. This was her first real chance to work in the mechanical lab; she was too wound up to be hungry. True, she had worked there the day before, but the lights hadn’t really been on, and Professor Bunburry hadn’t been tinkering away at his desk, ready to offer advice and counsel.

He was, however, there today. There were just two other students in the lab, neither from her year, and they were already busy with work. Violet set herself down at a nearby desk and took out some of her drawing paper, wondering what to build. If she wanted to create a true marvel for the end of the year, she had better start now, but the question was, what? The blank paper before her seemed limitless, but so was the pressure to create a wondrous device. Every idea she had seemed too small, or too inelegant. What would be both beautiful and necessary? What would show both intelligence and artistry?

As if to answer these questions, Cecily came into the room. Violet did not notice at first, but after a second without the sounds of the other two students’ work, Violet looked up to see what had caused the silence. Cecily was standing in the doorway to the lab, the warm air rushing out past her, causing her hair to stir slightly. She was wearing a dress of dark pink silk with matching plaid underskirts, and carrying what seemed to be a life-sized golden rabbit. She carefully stepped into the room, and Miriam Isaacs followed silently behind her, a thin, lurking shadow. Violet had never seen Miriam before, and though her purpose was clear—who else would dress in a high-collared black dress but a governess?—Violet was curious what sort of woman would seek employment in this chapel of science. Her dark skin, thin face, and large dark eyes did nothing to hide her cleverness. She looked rapidly about the room, taking in the faces of each of the students and evaluating them. Miriam’s gaze reached Violet, and plunged into her like a surgeon’s hands, looking about and then exiting quickly again, having found no immediate threat to Cecily within.

“Mr. Bunburry?” Cecily asked, approaching the professor. Bunburry made an awkward set of stiff, uncomfortable motions indicating that he was about to rise and bow, but Cecily waved him down. “I don’t mean to bother you. It’s only that Shakespeare has stopped working. Perhaps one of the students could repair him for me? I’m sure it won’t take long. I opened him up and tried to find the problem yesterday, but I was unsuccessful. I’m not as good with gears and springs as I am with beakers and potions.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. So, Cecily did have some scientific hunger. She was not just a spectator to the college.

“Of course, my dear,” Bunburry said in his rasping voice. “Go ask our new first-year, Mr. Adams, there.” He looked in Violet’s direction and tilted his head slightly.

“Thank you,” Cecily said, and turned to Violet, gliding toward her. Violet felt strange at once. She could see Cecily appraising her as a man, and at the same time, Violet felt an instant camaraderie with Cecily: another woman of science—another woman of intelligence. But Cecily was allowed to be herself, to wear dresses and speak softly, and of that, Violet was jealous. She stretched her back, feeling the tight cloth wrapped over her bosom. And yet … how nice it would be to have a friend, another young lady with whom she could discuss science.

“Mr. Adams?” Cecily asked.

“Ashton,” Violet said, nodding.

“I imagine you heard me talking to Mr. Bunburry just now. I know the basics of mechanical sciences, but the truth is I’ve never taken to them, so I was hoping you could help me.” She set the golden rabbit down in front of Violet, who looked it over more closely. It was a clockwork rabbit of ingenious artistry and design. The fur was carefully molded and looked soft to the touch, and the seams where the various body parts came together were barely noticeable. It wore a gold collar attached to a long, thin, golden chain, which was wrapped around Cecily’s hand. “This is Shakespeare. Cousin Ernest made him for me when I was little, and I’ve kept him ever since. Usually when he stops working, it’s just that a spring has worn out—he is quite old, after all—but I can’t find the problem this time. Would you help me?”

Violet nodded. This was made by the duke? Curiosity was overtaking her. She had never seen anything that he had made before, never heard of any great inventions of his. But now, here in front of her, was a creation of his. A sample of his mind. Violet was excited to look at it.

“It pops open like this,” Cecily said, reaching behind the rabbit’s ear and pushing down what looked like a bit of fur. Shakespeare’s torso sprang open, revealing a complex mess of gears and springs inside.

“Could you—? That is, to know how to fix it, it would help to know what it does,” Violet said.

“Oh, of course,” Cecily said. “How silly of me. It’s just a toy. He hops after me, in whatever direction I pull the chain. And because of the pulling on the chain, he never needs winding. I know, it’s just a silly thing. I’m sorry to waste your time with it.”

“It’s an honor, really,” Violet said. Cecily turned slightly pink at this comment, but Violet did not notice, as she was already hunched over and examining Shakespeare’s parts. Miriam, however, did notice, and stepped closer, hovering just behind Cecily’s shoulder.

“Ah,” Violet said. “One of the gears has gotten loose. Which wouldn’t be a problem, normally, except that it’s thrown the chain off a bit, so it stays slack and can’t wind itself. It’s really quite a brilliant creation. Would you like me to fix it for you?” Violet looked up and smiled at Cecily.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Cecily said, smiling back.

“Of course not,” Violet said. To repair a work of the duke’s, to join her mind with his, would give her a pleasure she had no name for. But this she did not say aloud. Instead, she went to the boxes of parts at the side of the room, picked out a gear of the right size, and brought it back to repair Shakespeare.

Cecily, as a girl of sixteen, had never felt the warm affections of romantic love. Like so many young girls—and though they likely wouldn’t admit it, young boys as well—she had often heard of love, and had even supposed herself to have experienced it once or twice, but the flower of love was still growing in her, and had not yet bloomed. When such a flower does bloom within the bosom of youth, the youth often finds him- or herself so unused to the effect that even the smallest amount of pollen from the newly opened flower can overwhelm the heart. And so it was with Cecily when Violet—who Cecily thought was Ashton—first smiled at her. Cecily saw Ashton’s fair skin, his long eyelashes, and his wet, pink lips, and her body and soul bloomed in response. What might be interpreted by an older soul as affection or infatuation instantly seemed to Cecily to be love.

Violet carefully closed Shakespeare’s body back up and held him out for Cecily. “He should work fine now,” Violet said.

“Thank you so much,” Cecily said, taking back the golden clockwork rabbit and leading him on a few experimental hops. She sighed, partially happy that Shakespeare was fixed, but also because sighing was something she knew people did when they were in love.

“My pleasure,” Violet said.

Cecily hovered a moment longer, staring at Violet in silence.

“Perhaps we should head to the chemical lab,” Miriam said from behind her. “I’m sure Professor Curio has the dried willow sap you asked for by now.”

Cecily nodded, still looking at Violet. “I’m trying to create a powdered substance that will dry to the hardness of steel when water is added,” Cecily explained. “Then we could make gears and the like without having to forge them with heat.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Violet said, impressed.

“We should go,” Miriam said.

Cecily nodded, and smiled again at Violet. “Good-bye,” she said, turned around, and walked off, Shakespeare hopping along behind her.

“Bye,” Violet said, and watched Cecily turn the corner before looking back at her own work.

“You shouldn’t be so friendly with her,” said a voice by Violet’s ear.

“Pardon?” she asked, looking up. One of the other students was standing at the edge of her table, glowering at her. With his pale skin, black straight hair, and high cheekbones, he might have been handsome in a dark way, if it weren’t for the acid in his expression. His eyes were a flashing black, like the nebulae her father used to show her in the telescope.

“The duke doesn’t like people becoming too friendly with her. And you shouldn’t think her friendliness means anything. She’s just naturally sweet.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Violet said, choosing to ignore the stranger’s rather rude way of presenting himself.

“I am Malcolm Volio. I am a second-year.”

“I’m Ashton Adams,” Violet said, extending her hand. “So nice to meet you.” She curled her lips in a way that she hoped made it clear she actually found their meeting distasteful.

Malcolm looked at her hand and crossed his arms. “Stay away from Cecily,” he said, and stalked back to his table, which was covered with long, thin curved parts of metal, connected by gears. He looked up, saw her staring, and glared, which made Violet turn back to her own work.

At his desk, Bunburry coughed hoarsely and fidgeted with a great mass of gears and poles. In the back of the room, the third student, Gregory Cheek, whom Violet knew only by reputation, was pounding a long sheet of bronze into a wide, curved tube.

The clockwork intricacy of the rabbit had been inspiring to Violet, but that inspiration still refused to take tangible shape. The image of the interlocking gears—like careful puzzle pieces—came back to Violet, and she stared at the towering wall of constantly turning gears behind the forge. These gears were powered by the waters of the Thames, but what if they didn’t need to be? A clockwork engine normally required constant turning, but if the gears could be made to turn not just with one another but also back on one another, then a device could run for months, maybe years or decades, with just a few turns of the key. It shouldn’t be a difficult thing to do; after all, the escapement method had been used to keep clocks and watches ticking for centuries. It was just a matter of tweaking the idea slightly: instead of locked and unlocked, tick and tock, this engine wouldn’t just mete out the energy from the pendulum, but expand on it. It would push the pendulum back when it began to lag.

Quickly, Violet started a sketch. The engine could be quite small, she reasoned, no bigger than a slightly oversized pocket watch, but that might change, depending on what the engine had to power. And what should it power? she wondered. Making an engine was all very well and good, but it would need to demonstrate its perpetual energy in some grand display to attract the attention she wanted.

Violet stopped her sketching and crossed her arms. She had the basic principles of the engine in mind, but she would have to decide on its shell before she could go much further.

Then she heard a soft ringing noise from the other table. Violet looked over to see Malcolm with a small bell in his hands. On the table, the bronze curves had been connected to a sphere and were currently moving about, flopping like a fish on land. Malcolm rang the bell again, and the flopping instantly subsided. He looked up to see Violet staring at the invention and smirked at her, arrogance in his eyes.

Violet blushed and turned back to her sketching. A device controlled by sound? She was going to have to prove herself a genius among geniuses if she wanted to make any sort of impression at the end of the year. She could feel her brow growing damp as she realized for the first time that to really stand out among this crowd would take every ounce of talent she had.

The clock on the wall chimed a deep low note. Hours had passed, between her work on Shakespeare and sketching out her ideas. She heard a soft wheezing behind her, and when she turned, found Professor Bunburry investigating her finished and discarded sketches. His back was bent over the table at a right angle, since he couldn’t simply bend his encased neck to look down.

“You can pick them up if that’s easier, sir,” Violet said, curious as to why he was examining her work.

He lifted the sketch he was examining up to the light. “A clockwork engine that doesn’t need winding!” He coughed. “Very clever. You’ll need to account for the wear on the gears, though, fashion it out of something that won’t wear easily, and won’t need regular oiling. If it needs regular oiling, that sort of defeats the principle of the thing, doesn’t it?” Violet nodded as Bunburry coughed viciously for a moment. “And while the engine itself would be quite an accomplishment, if you hope to make a real impression among the nobility at the faire, and achieve funding for future projects, you’ll need some sort of visual display. Perhaps a dancing girl who can keep dancing for eternity. The upper classes tend to like that sort of thing.”

Violet pursed her lips and frowned. “I had just hoped to do something more original,” she said.

“The engine will be original,” Bunburry said. “You must focus your energies.” Violet nodded, and Bunburry patted her on the back, a fatherly gesture. “Such narrow shoulders,” he said, and then walked off, limping past Malcolm to Gregory. Malcolm watched as Bunburry ignored him, and then saw Violet noticing as well. Color rose in Malcolm’s face, and he quickly turned back to his work to conceal it. Violet smiled slightly to see that Malcolm had made himself so generally unpleasant that the professor avoided giving him advice.

While she waited for further inspiration, Violet worked on a design for a dancing clockwork girl. Violet was sure it would be lovely, but not particularly striking—already she could picture the mustached gentlemen in top hats scoffing at it. Another dancing clockwork girl, they’d say, and keep walking. As she finished the sketch she was working on, she noticed that it was almost time for supper.

“Don’t leave your stations messy,” Bunburry hacked out before leaving for the dining hall himself.

Her shoulders slumping, Violet put down her pencil and began to roll up the sketches for the dancing clockwork girl. She frowned to herself, thinking on it—what else were women supposed to do other than dancing and bearing children? She and this potential clockwork dancing girl were the same. Not much else had ever been expected from her, but here she was, painfully binding her gender and trying to prove that she deserved an equal hand in the scientific world. If only a dancing girl could prove something like that. Perhaps she could make it a clockwork dancing boy—no, that would just be ridiculous. But there must be something.…

For a moment, she felt as though she could break out of this redundant creation, could shatter the dancing girl and reassemble it as something new, but the moment passed as her stomach growled. She finished cleaning up her space and headed up to the dining hall. Only Malcolm stayed behind, gathering his work together in a pile on the table. In the dim lights, he looked sinister and hulking.