All Men of Genius

XI.



VIOLET had dark nightmares that night, and woke up blearly and upset in a way she couldn’t express. Jack, however, woke up with a plan.

“It would be just like any other prank,” Jack said when Violet came out of the water closet.

“What will?” she asked.

“Faking love notes to Volio. We take the notes from Volio, write back claiming to be Cecily, and all is well. Plus we’d get to read his love notes, which I’m sure will be funny.”

“And how does it end?” Violet asked.

“What?” Jack asked, putting on a tie.

“How does it end? Volio is here another year after this one. Do you really expect such a ruse to last that long? And what if he speaks to Cecily and she doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”

Jack finished tying his tie and they headed down to the dining hall for breakfast. “We write back—as Cecily—and tell him we can’t speak to him about it in public as long as he’s a student. And I doubt Miriam will be here next year, so it won’t have to last for long.”

“You assume Miriam will be gone soon because of your theory that Toby plans to marry her? What if she says no, or wants to continue to work? It seems wrong to force a time frame on a woman’s life based on your sense of romance,” Violet said crossly.

“It will be fun,” he told Violet as they chose kidneys and eggs from the buffet. “The ultimate prank, really. Long, yes, but enjoyable. A lot like your own little ruse.”

“My ruse,” Violet said, “is for the betterment of women everywhere.”

“And mine will save one particular woman from losing her employment and security.”

“If it works.”

“Same could be said of yours.”

Violet sighed and shrugged, which meant she would give in and play along, though she might occasionally complain about it. Jack grinned and they walked over to the table at which Toby and Drew were already eating.

“Listen,” Toby said in a low voice, leaning in after they had sat down, “Mir and I came up with a plan after you guys went to bed. We’re going to answer the note ourselves, pretending to be Cecily.”

Violet groaned and Jack laughed. “I had the same idea myself,” Jack said. “Ashton here is less than enthused.”

“I just think it doesn’t have an end in sight,” Violet replied. “You can’t keep him strung along forever. When he graduates, the truth will come out, and then what will happen?”

“I doubt it’ll be of much concern by then,” Toby said, leaning back into his chair. “The problem,” Toby continued, “is getting someone who can write a proper love letter. Miri says she doesn’t want to do it alone. It makes her feel … unhappy.”

“Ashton can!” Jack said, surely thinking of the actual Ashton, and not Violet. Violet glared at him. Realizing his mistake, Jack’s eyes widened in embarrassment.

“You?” Toby asked, looking at Violet. “No offense, mate, but you don’t seem to be possessed of much romantic feeling. We need something that sounds like it was written by a girl.”

“Jack means my cousin,” Violet said after some quick thinking. “His name is also Ashton. It is a family name.” She stopped to see if Toby and Drew found this peculiar. They didn’t seem to, so she continued. “He is a poet, and lives in town. We are supposed to see him on Sunday.”

“A poet?” Toby asked. “That could work right well.”

“We’ll ask him if he’ll help. I’m sure he will. He shares Jack’s fondness for … mischief.”

“It isn’t mischief,” Toby said. “It’s taking care of Miri. She’d do the same for us. I know you lads just met her, but she’s real loyal, and she likes you. Please?”

“Of course,” Violet said, feeling suddenly ashamed.

“Well, we should go,” Jack said, rising. “First mechanics class. If we’re late, Ashton won’t be able to finish both his and my work before class is over.”

Toby guffawed and nodded. “We’d best be off to see the new astronomy professor. I hear he’s a real brute. Let us know whether Bunburry lights himself on fire or breaks his nose this time.”

Violet nodded and strode out of the dining hall with Jack. She had forgotten they were going to mechanics. A whole day in her environment doing what she loved best. She grinned and nearly skipped as her step became lighter.

Jack put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re starting to walk a bit like a woman,” he whispered as they passed a second-year student, “which is impressive, as you never really did that before.”

Violet narrowed her eyes. She was going to say something rude, but they were suddenly at the mechanics lab, and she felt quite content.

* * *



HERBERT Bunburry was sitting at his large desk off to the side of the room. He smiled at Jack and Ashton as they entered the lab. He always began every year liking the first-years. By the end of the year, he would still like some of them, but some he would find terrifying, and others he wouldn’t like at all. He wondered what accidents the coming year would bring. Bunburry had long ago given up on supposing there might not be an accident each year. He had worked at Illyria only seven years, and so far had lost his eyebrows when an engine burst into flames, broken his leg and foot after a short-statured but particularly fearsome device had barreled into him at high speed, and broken his forearm after an innocently constructed mechanical singing bird plummeted into him and revealed itself to have a shockingly sharp beak. There had also been the year that Curio’s new oil substitute had exploded and turned him dark as a Moor for several months, and last year, when Cecily’s new chemical adhesive had resulted in his not being able to unclench his left hand from a fist for eight weeks. And of course, there was the first accident: an attempt by a student to make a automatic smithy—a giant forge with arms and legs. That had burned his neck and broken it, making it as fragile as a dried blade of grass.

But he didn’t mind, in the end. It was all for science; and, besides, he had fixed himself up. The mechanical kneecap prototype he had put into himself had since helped many others. The metal plate on his shoulder doubled as a small cabinet in which he kept vital tools, so he was never without them; and while the neck brace did make certain aspects of life—looking down, or up, or, really, anywhere but right in front of him—difficult, it was also oddly soothing, having the cool metal around his neck all day. He was quite willing to suffer for science. All the same, he hoped this year’s accident was innocuous. Perhaps he would just have the rest of his hair singed off—he didn’t have much left, after all—or lose a fingernail. That would be nice.

Bunburry knew that many of the other professors had set first lessons, a way of ranking the students’ skill in that particular science, but Bunburry tried to make a new first lesson every year. Always something simple and fun, of course, but something that explored the students’ knack for creativity, as well. This year, he was especially pleased with his lesson. It wasn’t very complicated: He would simply ask them to make a toy. Bunburry knew that this would show him not only his students’ skill levels, but also their personalities. What, after all, is more personal than a toy? He was concerned that some students might spend too long attempting to come up with an idea, but he had brought a large book of popular toys to show them for inspiration. He had gotten it from a lady friend of his who worked as a shopgirl at Whiteleys Department Store. He loved department stores, with their huge halls and many floors smelling of wax and leather and metal. He often went to the toy department on Saturdays just to sit and relax and watch his shopgirl, who always treated him very nicely and brought him iced tea in the summer.

The students had all arrived while Bunburry was daydreaming, and were sitting at various tables, looking at him anxiously. He slowly rose to his feet and walked to the center of the room. “The texts for this class,” he said, the act of speaking making his narrow throat scratch and wheeze, “are Advanced Mechanical Science by John Horrshmann and The Workings of Things by the late Duke of Illyria. If you do not have those texts, see me after class. But for today, if you need them, borrow from a classmate.” Bunburry stopped to take a deep breath, as his throat could say only so much before it clenched, making breathing difficult. He coughed for a moment, then continued, “Today, there will be no lesson. I want to see what you can do. So your assignment is simply this: Make a toy.” Realizing he had left his book of toys on his table, Bunburry limped back to it, still speaking. “I have a book for inspiration, if you can’t come up with an idea. You may use anything in the room that doesn’t belong to another student, and you have the entire period. I recommend you sketch your design first and let me look it over.”

The best part of this assignment, Bunburry reasoned, as another coughing fit hit him, is that he wouldn’t have to talk much longer. He reached his desk, collected the large book of toys, and held it aloft. “Use this book, if you have no ideas. You may begin whenever you’d like.” The students hurriedly began to work.

Violet sighed and took out a piece of parchment. A toy? She knew that this was the basic class, almost introductory, but she had already designed a toy this year, and it seemed silly to waste her time on another. Still, she may as well get it over with. Perhaps a variation on the magnet techniques she had used for the ducklings?

“Must it be a toy for children?” Jack asked, grinning impishly. He was thinking of a clockwork toy he had seen in an exclusive shop, which used its gears to animate impressively lifelike—though somewhat disproportionate—characters in a rather unchildlike manner.

Bunburry gave him a long look. “I think in your case, Mr. Feste, it would be best if it were, yes.”

It didn’t take Violet much time to come up with a sketch: she would make a windup juggler. The clockwork would keep the arms moving in time, and the placement of magnets and the magnets in the juggler’s balls would keep the arc steady. She showed her drawing to Professor Bunburry, who glanced at it, smiled, attempted to nod, and then simply said yes.

Violet completed the skeleton of her juggler quickly. By then, the others were finishing up their sketches. Fairfax created plans for what Bunburry thought was a thoroughly unoriginal dancing girl, though he was too polite to say so. Merriman produced sketches for a flower bud that would ideally open in a most lovely manner when it was wound up. Lane made a design for a marching toy soldier.

Jack, however, had difficulty conceiving of an idea. “You must help me,” he said to Violet, who was carefully hammering softened bronze into a clown-like shape.

“I cannot come up with an idea for you,” Violet said, “but once you have one, I’ll help you execute it.”

“I lack creativity when surrounded by so much metal,” Jack said glumly, resting his chin in his hands. “Though I suppose I could just create my usual mischief.”

“Good,” Violet said.

“Perhaps something to aid a child’s strength, so that they could lift chairs and other things too heavy for them to lift otherwise. They could convince their parents the house is infested with spirits.”

“Or so they could help around the house,” Violet said.

“Well, then it wouldn’t be a toy, would it?”

“Hm,” Violet said.

“I’m not sure how I would go about making such a thing, though.”

“It wouldn’t be very hard,” Violet said, finishing up her clown. She placed a ball in each of his hands and began winding the key on his back. “You’d want to extend the child’s reach and strength, so you’d have to make some sort of harness, with some springs and pulleys. The really hard part would be producing sufficient energy. It’ll take quite a few turns of the crank and a fairly large spring.” She stopped winding and placed the clown on the table. It began tossing the balls in the air and catching them again, and continued doing so for a few moments as everyone paused to look at it. Then, with a flourish, Violet tossed the last ball at the clown, and as if by magic, it fell into the arc with the other two. The clown continued juggling all three as though it had always been doing so. Merriman applauded. Violet put her hands on her hips, pleased.

“Nicely done, Mr. Adams,” Professor Bunburry said. “You may now work on your own project or assist your classmates, whichever you’d prefer. It’s really a lovely piece. You could probably sell it to a toy maker.”

Violet tilted her head and regarded the clown. She hadn’t worked very hard on the visual details, so his grin seemed false, his skull a little misshapen. She shook her head. “Oh no, sir, I would never feel right submitting something I had only made in a day and not spent time perfecting.”

“Of course,” Bunburry said in an approving tone. “Just put it on the shelf next to the other finished pieces. Sometimes the other teachers like to come in and look around.” Violet did as she was told and returned to Jack, who by now had doodled an innocent little girl standing in front of a shocked mother and father, who stared aghast at a pile of furniture in the corner of their parlor.

“I don’t think that will help much,” Violet said.

“Well, it’s all I’ve got.”

“Here.” Violet took the pen and paper from Jack and began sketching a design. “The harness needs longer arms and a pump that fits in back to power them. You could make it steam powered, so it wouldn’t need any winding, but then it wouldn’t be good for children. Next, the child fastens these metal arms over his arms, you put in a clamp or such so he can control the grasp, and there you are. Two long, powerful arms. But as I said, to keep it going for even a few minutes, he’d need to wind it nearly a hundred times.”

“You make it look easy.”

“It is. Simple mechanics. Now, go ask Bunburry to approve it, and start making it, or you’ll be in here during your independent time.”

“And you wouldn’t enjoy my company?” Jack asked with large, hurt eyes.

Violet glared. “You’d prevent me from getting anything done.”

“I am quite distracting,” he said. “It’s because I’m so terribly good-looking.”

Violet looked about to see if anyone had heard that last comment, but no one had. Rolling her eyes, she walked to her cubbyhole, took out the plans from yesterday, and laid them down at the table, while Jack went to ask Bunburry’s approval for his faux-poltergeist machine.

Violet rolled out her notes from the previous night and sighed. Here were her sketches for the engine—clever, to be sure, and elegant—and here were the sketches of what it was to power: another dancing girl. But this one was cursed more than most, for it would keep dancing for eternity, if her engine worked. No—she could not bring herself to make it. With a growl, Violet crumpled the sheet of parchment covered with sketches of dancing girls into a ball in her fist.

“Angry?” Jack asked, returning from his talk with Bunburry.

“Did he like your plans?” Violet asked, ignoring the question.

“He did, though he says that in future it would be best if you were to let me design my own schematics so that I can better learn the art of mechanical science.”

“Ah.” Violet looked at Jack’s sketches, and his clever drawing of the innocent girl.

“Why did you make it a girl, Jack?”

“What?”

“In your drawing, your child, the one who pulls the prank, is a girl.”

“Oh. I suppose a dress is easier to draw than trousers, is all.”

“It’s not because a girl is weaker than a boy, and so, would have more difficulty lifting something heavy?” Violet could feel that ticking in her brain again, as though someone had finally wound her gears back and the spring was about to release.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jack protested.

“But it is,” Violet said, “and I understand why. Women are, on the whole, physically weaker, which is one reason we—” Jack coughed loudly. “—they have so long been delegated to second-class status. They’re considered fragile.” Violet crossed her arms and looked anything but fragile.

Jack shook his head anxiously. “That’s really not what I meant by it. Look,” he said, drawing on a piece of paper, “a dress is just a triangle, like this, but trousers mean you have to show the knee, so its one rectangle over the other, but they need to taper, and—”

“I know, I know. I’m not mad at you,” Violet said. “In fact, you’ve given me an idea.”

“Oh, good. So you’ll help me build my poltergeist machine?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to do most of the work. Professor Bunburry keeps looking over here.”

“That’s all right,” Jack said. “Just tell me what to do.”

Violet sighed. “Well, first find a spring.”

“Right,” Jack said, and went off to the shelf of supplies. Violet uncrumpled the wad of paper still in her hand and smoothed it out on the table, lovingly. Women are not all meant to dance, she thought. Some are meant to do quite different things. She stared long and hard at the paper, and a smile crept onto her lips.

“I have springs,” Jack said, holding out two springs of slightly different sizes. “I think the larger one will work better, but I don’t want the contraption to be so large, it causes the child to fall backwards and be unable to right himself, like a turtle. What do you think?”

Violet stared at the springs. She had an idea. A very good idea.

“I think you’re probably right,” she said. And they began to work.

By the end of the class, everyone had produced at least satisfactory toys, and Violet was wearing Jack’s contraption and using it to pat him on the head. Lane and Merriman were watching and laughing. But, truly, Violet’s mind was elsewhere. An idea had stirred, and now all she wanted was to work.

Lunch flew by. Toby and Drew and Jack discussed possible ways of tormenting Volio with the letters, but Violet didn’t pay much attention. In her mind, she was building a marvelous machine. Not just a machine, but a dress. A dress for men and women alike, with marvelous long arms that stretched out farther than Violet was tall. A dress that would give anyone who wore it the same strength, strength enough to build carriages, regardless of gender or age. She imagined swarms of these dresses at the docks, run by women, assembling a ship with the ease of knitting a scarf. She saw women going to work each day with their male counterparts, being spoken to with respect, and then, all of them dancing together after work if they chose, as enjoyment, not as purpose.

But, most important, it would look like a woman. Her machine would be more beautiful than the loveliest mechanical dancing girl, but its purpose would be more beautiful, too. It would make women into a symbol of strength. And when Violet revealed herself as the inventor, she would make women into a symbol of intelligence. All notions of women as weak or dumb or made only to run households and give birth would be just memories. She would show the world—or at least the scientific world—that women were men’s equals in every sense.

Violet made herself eat because she knew she would need her energy in the lab that afternoon, and probably that evening, too. This project would be vast. She would have to work hard to finish it in time. And she needed to find a metal to make her engine out of that would degrade slowly, if at all, so that the incredible amounts of power her creation required would not destroy its power source. No shoveling of coal—that would make it nearly unusable. She needed constant energy, and that meant she needed her engine to work without degradation.

“I don’t think we can get him to kill someone,” Jack was saying. “And, besides, who would we want him to kill?”

Violet narrowed her eyes and refocused on the conversation. They were discussing what they hoped to put in the fake love notes to Volio. “No killing,” she said definitively. “Little things. Start small. Have him wear his hair a certain way. You must make him believe it’s Cecily. Otherwise Miriam will be in great trouble, and none of us wants that.”

“He’s right,” Toby said, leaning back in his chair, “though it was fun to think about.”

“I’m going to the lab,” Violet said, rising. “I’ll see you all at supper.”

The next few days were a blur. Violet threw herself into her project, building the shell of the machine out of curves of metal and wire, and paid little attention to anything else except class. She listened to Curio’s kindhearted words on the origins of modern chemistry, his loving description of new forays into cellular chemistry, and then his screams of rage at students who handled chemicals without gloves. She suffered Prism’s condescending stare through his multitude of lenses as he gave a monotone lecture on Babbage, his great machine, and the best way to use it. During meals, she half listened as the others plotted against Volio, engaging them only when she was not herself engaged in fantasies about her work. On Thursday night, Jack persuaded her to sneak out with them again. At the bar she watched Miriam glide her arm up and down Toby’s back, analyzed the way it turned and moved, and wondered how she could replicate that.

“Are you all right?” Miriam asked. Violet blinked and roused herself from her thoughts. She stared down at the untouched mug of ale in front of her. Toby and Drew were loudly and frantically explaining the concept behind Toby’s latest hangover cure formula. Drew was actually bouncing in his seat. “It’s just, you don’t seem very involved tonight.”

“I have an idea,” Violet said, “for my final project. It’s possessing me. I’m sorry if I’m being rude.”

“Oh, it’s not that. Everyone here is rude. I just like to make sure my boys are all right.”

“Your boys?”

“Well, Toby’s boys. Toby’s and mine. But Toby wouldn’t know a thing about caretaking, so, really, my boys. He just finds them for me.”

“Like Drew?”

“Drew, yes, though there’s little I can do for him. Last year, there was a senior, too—Daniel. Very smart and a little shy—like you—but Toby took a great liking to him right away. Toby can always spot the clever ones. I mean, in that place, they’re all clever, but the really clever ones.”

“I’m not shy,” Violet said, taking a drink.

“No?” Miriam asked, smiling slightly and bringing a mug of ale to her lips.

“No. I’m just preoccupied.”

“With your project.”

“Yes.”

“And what is this project?”

“It’s a machine. Like an automaton, but not. One wears it, and it enables great strength.”

“The duke forbids the making of weapons, you know.”

“Oh, no, it wouldn’t be a weapon; it would be a tool. For construction, I think.”

“You’d best be careful, nonetheless. There was another student years ago—my first year working for the duke—who built automata with working pistols for hands. The duke was so furious, he tried to expel the boy, but it was near the end of the year, and the Minister of Defense heard about the situation. So he stepped in, confiscated the automata, and convinced the duke to let the student finish the year and graduate. No one really knew all the details, so it didn’t look bad to the outside world, but the duke was humiliated. He’ll talk of expulsion if your creation seems even slightly like a weapon.”

“Well … it won’t. But I’ll keep it in pieces as long as possible then, so he won’t know what it is. Thank you for the advice.”

“The duke inspects all the labs most nights after supper. You should hide anything that looks too dangerous by then.”

“I will. I suppose it might all be for naught, anyway.”

“Why?”

“I need a new substance for the engine. Something strong that won’t wear away over time. It needs to be slippery.”

Miriam laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Cecily told you what she was working on, didn’t she?”

“A substance that would harden in molds?”

“Yes. And be both light and very durable. You should speak to her. She’s nearly got it, I think.”

Violet pursed her lips and took a drink of her ale, then regarded Miriam. “Does it ever bother you?” Violet asked.

“What?”

“That Cecily has full access to the school, the labs, and the education and you don’t? That she can be both woman and scientist, a right that’s denied to you?”

Miriam looked down and then up again. She was smiling. “I’m not a scientist,” she said. “I have some interest in the sciences, but I don’t have the patience to attack them as you, all of you, do. Cecily does. She is une fille futée—very smart—and I think her having access to Illyria is for the betterment of everyone, regardless as to whether or not she inherited that right. After all, her being a woman in Illyria isn’t what prevents other women from entering.”

“I suppose not,” Violet said, looking down at her ale.

“So, no, I don’t envy her. I respect her, though she does still often act like a girl of sixteen. She is very taken with you, you know.”

“She is?” Violet asked, worried.

“Most of the students would be flattered.”

“I try not to get distracted by such things.”

“Ah,” Miriam said, and drank more of her ale, looking sidelong at Violet. They sat in silence. “Well,” Miriam said, “just be careful of your creation and its potential for weaponry. You don’t want to end up like Ralph Volio, depending on the Minister of Defense to come to your rescue.”

“Ralph Volio?”

“Yes, the student I mentioned. Malcolm Volio’s elder brother, Ralph.”

“Ralph Volio—why else does that name sound familiar?”

“He works for the Ministry of Defense now. Very high up, as I understand it, designing weapons. Meets directly with the Queen. It was the oddest thing: The duke caught him making just part of one of his automata—the rifle. But then, less than a month later, after the minister had convinced the duke to let Ralph graduate, he marched two dozen of them out to the Crystal Palace for the Science Faire. No one knows where he was keeping them all. It infuriated the duke, which was probably Ralph’s intention.”

“Hm,” Violet said. She shook her head. Perhaps Ralph had worked in the basement, and he’d just left the automata that he didn’t care for there as he marched the others out. But that wouldn’t explain the nagging familiarity the head of the one skeleton possessed, as though she had seen it somewhere before.

“Thinking of your machine again?”

“No. Something else.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. And thank you, Ashton. Toda. Merci. Toby says your cousin will help us to pull this trick on Volio. I don’t care much about what the return letter says, as long as I am not caught. I like my job. I like my life. I’d just rather not have it taken away by that sodding child.”

“Of course,” Violet said. “How could I not help? He is a villain. I shall be happy to help you defeat him.”

“You talk like a hero. You really are just Cecily’s type.”

“I very much doubt that,” Violet said, and took a long swig of her ale to hide her laughter.