All Men of Genius

XXVII.



BUNBURRY was quite pleased with the way the first-year students had been progressing thus far. They were all quite clever, but more importantly, they worked well together. Well, with the exception of Fairfax. But Bunburry chose to ignore him, much as he often seemed to ignore Bunburry. Ashton, who was clearly the mechanical specialist of the group, assisted his classmates, but he didn’t just do the work for them. Rather, he helped them to figure out how to do it themselves. Mostly, anyway—he sometimes indulged Jack, but Bunburry tried to put a stop to that. Ashton would probably make a good professor one day, but was also probably too brilliant to be satisfied with such work.

Yes, the year was progressing nicely. His shopgirl had let him take her to supper twice in the past month. Her name was Jess, and she was Irish. She had an extraordinary accent, and probably an extraordinary mind … though he wasn’t entirely sure, since when she got very excited, he sometimes found it difficult to understand her. But she smiled at him often, and didn’t seem to mind that he had to bend at his waist for her to kiss him on the cheek.

Today, though, he was a bit worried. He was really pushing his expectations for the first-years. They were to construct serving automata. It was a general assignment, meant to test their creativity and ingenuity: What sort of serving would each automaton perform, and how? But it meant large scale, which meant large pieces of metal which occasionally flew about the room.

Bunburry tried to observe from a safe corner, but it was difficult. After twenty minutes, he didn’t feel as though he would be worthy of being called professor if he did not go out among the students and look at their work. They were all doing surprisingly well. Ashton had a barrel-shaped clockwork-powered table with an arm that poured drinks and handed them out. “I would have made it steam-powered,” he said, “but that would heat up the drinks.” Bunburry nodded, impressed.

Jack Feste had made a set of arms meant to tighten a woman’s corset. “What’s this on the front?” Bunburry asked.

“A place for a camera, to take photos,” Jack replied with a smile.

But before Bunburry could respond with a disappointed sigh, the accident occurred. It was, unsurprisingly, Merriman’s fault. He was trying to make a steam-powered cart that would water a row of flowers, consisting of a simple waist-high bronze box to hold water with a hose out the top. But as he was attaching the first side of the device, a sharp-edged sheet of bronze, to the steam-powered gears on the bottom, he lost control of the creation, and the brake came lose, sending the sharp, metal L-shape flying at Bunburry’s bottom, edge first. Bunburry jumped, but not quickly enough, and suddenly felt an odd breeze on his behind.

“Oh my,” Bunburry said. It had happened in less than two seconds.

“Professor!” screamed Ashton in a high voice. Ashton always did have such a high voice when he was excited, Bunburry thought, turning around. And there, on the floor behind him, like a chop of meat, was his left buttock. And part of his pants.

“Oh my,” Bunburry said again.

“Someone get the duke!” Ashton screamed.

Bunburry didn’t mind losing his left buttock. Of all the things to lose in that general area, the left buttock was really his least favorite. He even preferred the right buttock, because it had a lovely star-shaped birthmark of which he was quite fond. But his pants had been cut up, too, and that was probably inappropriate; and besides, he seemed to be losing blood, and he felt quite light-headed. Wait—was it the right buttock with the star birthmark? Or the left? He looked at the flesh on the ground. It was blank, aside from a few hairs. Bunburry smiled and passed out, his head falling with a clang next to his ass.

* * *



BUNBURRY opened his eyes to a white room and the face of the duke staring down at him.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said the duke. “I was afraid you might not wake up this time.”

“I didn’t lose anything particularly vital,” Bunburry said weakly, “though I suppose it was a comfort to have it. A comfort I took for granted.”

“You also lost quite a lot of blood. Young Mr. Adams was nearly in hysterics, trying to bandage you with the cloth that had been covering his machine.”

Bunburry blinked, looking surprised and grateful. “That was very kind of him.”

“The doctors say that you’ll have to remain lying on your side for a while, and they want to keep you in hospital. I’ve brought in a few of my own doctors, of course, to make sure you heal perfectly.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Bunburry said with a cough.

“Not at all,” the duke said. “You’re part of Illyria. I’ll take over your classes for the rest of the trimester, if you tell me where your lesson plans are.”

“Same as where they are every year: far left-hand drawer of my desk.” Bunburry stared at the wall. He was lying on his side, and had begun to feel a thick and unpleasant pain behind him.

“Good,” the duke said.

“And, if I were to draw up some plans,” Bunburry said, “for a—well, a replacement for what I am now lacking—would you be able to construct it?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“The doctors aren’t sure when you’ll be ready to teach again,” the duke said slowly. “Certainly by next year, but…”

“You shouldn’t have to teach my classes for the rest of the year. I will not be offended if you bring in a substitute.”

“Anyone you recommend?” the duke asked.

“Not particularly. You have excellent knowledge of such things, sir.”

“Well, I will consult with the doctors and hope for the best, but I shall arrange for a substitute as soon as possible and teach your classes in the meantime.”

“You’re too generous,” Bunburry said. He wanted the duke to go. He wanted to take some morphine and go to sleep.

“Is there anyone you’d like us to tell about your accident?” the duke asked.

Bunburry thought for a moment, then coughed. “There is the shopgirl, sir…,” he began, smiling.

The duke left the hospital feeling a bit annoyed. Of course it wasn’t Bunburry’s fault, but the man always did seem to get himself hurt, and then Ernest had to teach, or find someone else to teach. It was an annual tradition, a yearly bother. But Bunburry was part of Illyria—Ernest had meant that, and he had affection for the broken man. A shopgirl, though. That was a surprise. Ernest grinned to himself and buttoned his collar against the cold February mist. He walked a block before seeing a cab, which he waved down.

He stopped off briefly at the department store where Bunburry’s shopgirl worked. She was a sweet, pretty little thing, with fair skin and round eyes that grew wet when he told her of Bunburry’s accident, but which did not spill over into tears. She thanked him for the news, and he gave her a little money for a cab to go see Bunburry when she was done at work.

When he was finally back at Illyria, supper had already begun. He took off his coat and went into the dining hall, which was murmuring, but quieter than usual. All eyes turned to him as he walked in.

“Professor Bunburry,” he announced, “has had an accident. But he is in good condition, and the doctors feel he will make a full recovery. However, it will take time. I will find a suitable substitute for him, and until then, teach his classes myself. If you’d like to visit the professor, you may do so during lunch, but please do not visit him after dark, as he needs his rest. I’m sure he’d be very thankful for all your well-wishes, and even more thankful if you continued to work your hardest in your scientific pursuits.” The duke nodded and headed toward his table, where the teachers were eating quietly.

A servant brought out a meal for Ernest, but he was not terribly hungry. He found himself feeling dumb, as he often did after making impromptu speeches. He was never sure what to say. He wasn’t a leader. He didn’t know enough. All these thoughts trickled into him to replace the worry he had been feeling for Bunburry, as though somehow, if only he had been more prepared, he would have been able to prevent Bunburry’s accident this year. But he didn’t know enough. He was not his father. His father would have been able to stop it.

Cecily seemed unable to stop talking that evening. Ernest recognized this as her way of dealing with the accident—how she tried to put everyone at ease with pleasant conversation. He admired her for it, and was thankful, for he was not in the mood to talk.

“I confess,” she was saying to Professor Curio, “I am now quite curious about the basement beneath Illyria. I have lived my whole life here and have never seen it.”

“Not m-much to see,” Curio said, and grunted. “Dust, doors, d-d-darkness.”

“But I have heard that more lurks down there as well,” Cecily said. “Ashton was telling me about his initiation at the beginning of the year, how they all went down to the basement, and it was quite frightening.”

“I’m sure he was exaggerating,” Miriam said, “to impress you.”

“Though that is a lovely thought,” Cecily said, “I doubt it. Ashton is not prone to exaggeration. He said that while they were down there, he and the other students discovered a virtual labyrinth of rooms, and that they felt things brush up against them which were not there, and that they found what looked like a pile of lifeless but still twitching and vicious-looking automata, and even a large train.”

“What?” said the duke, who hadn’t really been paying attention.

“I said that there were things brushing against them, and—”

“Those would be the invisible c-c-cats,” Curio said. “My p-predecessor’s mistake, using his invisibility tonic on a p-pregnant cat.”

“Not that,” the duke said. “About the train.”

“Oh,” Cecily said. “Ashton said they found a large train.”

“And where did it go?” the duke asked.

“Oh, they didn’t ride it. Just saw it. It was impressive, though, I think. It sounded impressive. I would so like to see it. Perhaps we should organize our own hunting party?”

“No,” the duke said. “That place is dangerous. Filled with forgotten experiments. The dark side of science dwells down there. Let’s hope it stays there.”

“But—,” Cecily protested.

“No,” the duke said. “That is my final word.” Cecily crossed her arms and fell back into her chair glumly.

“My d-dear,” Curio said, one eye enlarging slightly, “your cousin is q-q-quite right. It is v-very d-d-dangerous down there, and not a-at a-a-all well lit. P-perhaps, sometime in the future, we c-can attempt to c-c-clean it up and then take you d-down there. But right n-now, it is no p-place for a young l-l-lady to be.”

“Yes,” the duke said. “One day, when it is cleaned up.”

“But when shall that be?” Cecily asked.

“I shall hire some men to take care of it this summer. Is that soon enough?”

“I suppose,” Cecily said, the corners of her mouth turning up a little.

The duke was happy to have pleased Cecily, but inwardly, his mind was churning. He had heard rumors about the train under Illyria, read the ridiculous books by men who had never set foot in the college, but he had assumed they were all lies. After all, if there had been a train under the school, his father would have told him, wouldn’t he? When his father died, Ernest had searched all over the residence for his notebooks, any unfinished theories or inventions or notes, but had found nothing. The duke’s only possessions, it seemed, were his clothes and the books in his library. Ernest had been unsatisfied, angry. His father had seen death coming—he was old and bedridden—and still he told Ernest nothing, only to run Illyria well, and to keep its gears well oiled and moving.

He didn’t think to mention that there was also a train in the basement.

Ernest scowled and dropped his fork. His food remained uneaten in front of him.

“I find I am not hungry,” he said, rising. The professors and Cecily all looked up at him, then went back to their conversations. The duke walked back through the dining hall and across the bridge in the Great Hall to his residence.

In his study, he opened drawers and cabinets, searching for the original blueprints of the college. He tore the room apart, opening every book and looking behind each shelf, but he couldn’t find them. He thought his father had shown them to him once, but it was so long ago, Ernest wasn’t sure if the memory was real. He sat down among the dust and strewn books and papers, and then sneezed.

“Ernest?” Cecily said, suddenly in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“What happened?” she asked, surveying the mess.

“I was looking for something,” he said.

“Oh. Did you find it?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity. And you made such a mess.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“And you’re quite dusty. You should really go take a bath and then go to bed.”

“Thank you, Cecily, you’re quite right. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“Good.”

“Except…,” Ernest said, suddenly thinking. The students stumbled on the train accidentally. Surely he could find it if he was looking for it.

“Except?”

“I promised I’d visit Bunburry in the hospital.”

“Oh, well, you ought to do that, then. But at least wash your face before you go. It’s positively gray.”

“I will. Thank you, Cecily. Good night.”

“Good night, Cousin. I’ll be reading. Do send Bunburry my warmest wishes.”

“Of course,” Ernest said. Cecily left for her own quarters. Ernest leapt up and went to his chambers to wash his face and change. Bunburry was a convenient excuse, so that Cecily wouldn’t catch him doing the very thing he had forbidden her to do. He would explore the basement tonight, find the train, and take it to its mystery destination, if he could. Another of his father’s secrets would be uncovered, he was sure.

* * *



THE basement was in need of repair, Ernest thought after a few minutes of walking through it. Lights were burnt out, and walls were cracked and filthy. He stretched his gas lantern out in front of him, but it barely dented the darkness. He was going far deeper than he had ever gone on a monster-hunting expedition. After walking for two hours, it seemed he was back where he started, only tired and filthy. He was going to have to keep coming back until he found the train, and keep searching his father’s things for a map.

Ernest spit the grime out of his mouth and headed back up to his rooms. This was not a mystery to be solved in one night. It would take time, and he had to use his time wisely now. He would have to balance searching for the train with his own work, which now included teaching Bunburry’s classes until he found a replacement. He washed quickly and went to bed. At least he wouldn’t have the first-years for a week. He had avoided Ashton since the kiss, and was not looking forward to seeing him in class.

* * *



THE next few days went smoothly. He taught or worked for the first half of the day, and worked in his own lab after lunch, leaving the mechanical students alone, Prism looking in on them occasionally to make sure they weren’t dead. After supper, he would tell Cecily he was going to see Bunburry and then head down to the basement, where he found nothing. Cecily never questioned him, only praised him for his kindness, which made him feel a bit guilty—perhaps he should go to see Bunburry now and again. Bunburry’s lesson plans were complex and thorough, written as if he knew they would be passed on to someone else at some point. And when Ernest finally had to instruct the first-years, Ashton was polite and clever, did his work and helped the others. Really, Ernest had hardly any reason to talk to him at all, though he always left straightaway, so as not to end up alone in the room with Ashton again.

Up in his lab, Ernest had a pile of letters from Ashton’s sister. And though he carefully avoided Ashton, he found he could not indulge enough in Violet. Her mind was as spectacular as her eyes. While he knew that what they were writing to each other wasn’t love poetry, it often felt to him as though it was better. Words on a page, no matter how much sentiment they contained, were still words. But her arguments, and suggestions for his æthership, showed much more than sentiment. They showed her inner workings. He found her a woman of brilliant intellect and integrity, of humor and creativity. But he still did not know what she felt for him. For the letters were not, after all, romantic, and while he knew her mind, he did not know her heart. For fear of rejection, and for fear of what her brother would say, Ernest could not bring himself to ask her if she felt for him what he had begun to feel for her. So instead he worked on what was no longer just his æthership, but their æthership, and as he molded the metal around the frame of it, he pictured his hands caressing her, and her flashing eyes.

Weeks passed, and still the duke could not find the train. There were whispers in the dark, sounds like footsteps that went silent as he got closer—Curio? The invisible cats Curio said were roaming the cellar? He didn’t care. He only wanted to find the train. He had narrowed down a list of possible replacements for Bunburry and was nearly finished with the model æthership, but the basement was unsolvable, an impossible maze keeping him from his father’s secrets and intruding on all his thoughts. He would have to find a replacement for Bunburry by Easter holiday, and he wanted to find the train before then as well. He would find the thing, and ride it wherever it took him. Illyria was his, after all, not his father’s. He needed to see what secrets were buried under it.