The Dead Isle: Chapter Six
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originalsam_backupChapter Six
The next morning Nicholas woke them early, and Clare was still yawning when the trim little valet bundled them into heavy coats and set them on the road to Cambridge. They walked unhurriedly; carts passed them on the way to market or to catch an early train, and Jack stole a winter apple off the back of one and presented it to Clare with a smile.
Graveworthy, she noticed, kept his distance, leaving them to their horseplay but never quite letting them out of sight. It was a pattern she was to become familiar with over the next few days, as he enrolled them in classes -- a full course load for her in the College of Creation but only two classes for Jack, Advanced Construction and Classical Theory. Graveworthy walked with them to campus in the morning and collected them after their classes were finished, and he was friendly and paternal whenever they wanted to speak with him, but at other times he withdrew to contemplative silence.
She hardly had the time to worry about it that week, however; classes at Cambridge were differently ordered than those in Boston, and though she adapted quickly she had to run to catch up with some things and wait impatiently for them to catch her in others. She had books to buy and papers to write, and she had to make friends too -- learn the names of all the students in her study groups and remember the names of the professors.
The week-end came before she knew it, and when she woke on Saturday morning it was to the sound of voices booming greetings to each other in the entry hall. She looked out her bedroom window, which opened onto a view of the road, and saw a pair of horses being led away by a redheaded man in livery. A woman with a parasol was coming up the walk, followed by a dog of prodigious size on a thick leather leash.
Clare ducked into the bathroom next to her room and washed, dressing with a little more care than usual but no lack of haste. She was still doing up the buttons on the sleeves as she passed from the hallway into the entry.
" -- movable-type machine, you must see it," Graveworthy was saying, cheerfully clapping someone on the arm as he shook their hand. With a gentle shove, he guided the man into the sitting-room.
"Good morning, Mr. Graveworthy," Clare said, as he gave her an only slightly sardonic bow. "You're filling the place up already?"
"Just a few friends up for shooting," he said, reaching out to open the door when someone rapped sharply on it. "Annie! Hello, come in. Annie, this is Clare Fields, lately of Boston, up to study at Cambridge -- oh and hullo," he added, when Jack appeared in the hall as well. "And her companion Jack Baker, of Harvard. Jack, Clare, this is Annie Masters -- "
"Masters? Of the Principles of Propulsion?" Jack asked, looking awestruck. "We studied that this year! You wrote it?"
"That's right -- how do you do," she said with a sunny look, tugging on the collar of the giant dog next to her to make him sit. She wore gloves, but Clare noticed that her hair was cut short, as most of the women at Harvard wore theirs, and her durable, hard-wearing shoes looked out of place under a frilly purple dress. The dog snuffed at Clare's hand before wandering off to inspect Nicholas, emerging from another hall.
"Breakfast, ladies and gentlemen," he called. Clare counted three other women and five other men among the guests as she followed Jack into the dining room; one of them was Anderson, who gave not the slightest hint of having met her or Jack until that moment.
They hadn't actually eaten in the dining room yet. Graveworthy preferred to take his meals in the warm kitchen, and she and Jack had certainly no objections. This morning, however, the dining room table was covered with trays and filled with the smell of bacon and bread and tea. She poured a cup of tea for herself and one for Jack, noticing that he was heaping two plates with food and leaving off the eggs, which she wasn't that fond of. She added two sugars to his cup, poured in a drop of milk, and was halfway to where Jack was helping himself to more bacon than anyone needed when Graveworthy intercepted her.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, taking one of the cups from her hands. She was about to scold him and take it back when she saw the look on his face and hesitated. He sipped his tea. "Just a quick word?"
He guided her by the elbow over to a window beyond the tea service, where, she noticed, they weren't likely to be overheard.
"The short man in the waistcoat," he said softly. "Don't look right now. He invited himself along with Annie. Help me keep him away from Jack."
"Is he a spy?" she asked.
"Of a sort. He's German, works for a merchant group -- listen, now's not the time to be whispering in corners. Do your best? Anderson will help too," and he turned, nearly tripping over Annie Masters' giant dog. It drew the eyes of the room, which it seemed that he wanted; the dog bayed and bolted away, while Annie produced an enormous grease-stained handkerchief and tried to help him sop tea off his trousers.
"He's such a baby, really," she said, as the dog came trotting back. She swatted him affectionately on the behind. "He isn't hurt at all."
"Thank goodness," Graveworthy replied, winking at Clare. "All my fault. Jack!"
"Yessir?" Jack called, turning away just as the German made a beeline for him. Clare tried not to giggle.
"Why don't you and Annie take Boggle outside, you can talk propulsion and throw sticks," Graveworthy said. Jack passed Clare one of the plates and balanced the other in his hand, offering his elbow gallantly to Masters. She took it with only the slightest hint of amusement and tugged Boggle's leash. The dog whacked Graveworthy with his tail as he passed.
"Herr Blauberg, I don't think you've met my young guest, Miss Fields," Graveworthy said, buttonholing the German deftly. "Clare, Herr Blauberg. You came with Miss Masters, I think?" he asked. "Always a pleasure, of course. I have some excellent specimens of German painting upstairs. Remind me to take you to see them after breakfast, before we go in to town..."
Clare turned and caught sight of Jack through the window, hurling a stick across the withering grass, as Ellis led the German to Anderson, who neatly took custody with a wink in her direction.
***
Ellis was not used to hosting social gatherings in his own home, and by evening he was exhausted; seeing that Anderson had taken Jack off to speak with him about maritime engineering and Herr Blauberg was succumbing to Annie Masters' charms for the moment, he crept out onto the back walk of the house, in a sheltered porch in one corner. He tapped a cigarette out of his case as he undid his shirt-collar and breathed free for the first time that day.
"Need a light?" Anderson asked, startling him. Ellis put a hand over his heart and bowed his head. "Sorry! I thought you saw me. Getting slack, old man."
"It's been a long day, and not an easy one," Ellis replied. "What was Annie thinking, not throwing Blauberg off the train on the way here?"
"Bad form," Anderson laughed. "Poor woman hadn't any choice. Blauberg monopolized her all the way down and she couldn't very well say no without arousing suspicion. You've done a good job keeping him away from our lad, though."
"It helps that Jack only has eyes for Annie Masters; Clare had to pry him away when Annie took over babysitting the German."
Anderson's eyebrows lifted.
"Not like that. Jack covets Annie's knowledge. She's probably been telling him about her new textbook. Interesting stuff," Ellis added, allowing Anderson to Create a flicker of flame on the tip of his finger and light his cigarette. Anderson tipped his head at Ellis' pocket, and Ellis drew out another cigarette with a roll of his eyes and lit that too, passing it to his friend while he doused the light.
"Are you writing?" Anderson asked.
"Not at the moment. Well, I am, actually," he added, and Anderson chuckled, "but nothing important."
"What is it this time?"
"Clockmakers. Or possibly cannon-makers, or some combination of the two. I haven't decided yet. What about you -- any news I should be aware of?"
"Not much to tell, other than the reports you've been getting," Anderson answered. "A fair bit comes across my desk, but most of it's handled quietly. Is that your scar?" he said, as Ellis' shirt gapped open. He whistled low. "Wyoming or Boston?"
"Wyoming. Boston was a knife, not a gun."
"Either way, looks like more than a flesh wound to me."
Ellis pulled his collar up. "All in the service. I don't mean government news, Anderson -- I mean real news. Anyone we know die? Who's getting married? Did Bellamy get published yet?"
"She did. It's not bad, for a journeyman effort. She could have used you in draft."
"She'll never learn if she doesn't do some things herself."
"Perhaps," Anderson allowed. "When are you coming down to London?"
"Jack hasn't any classes on Monday -- I hope to take him down tomorrow afternoon. He says he needs to visit a shipyard. Clare too, if she doesn't mind skipping class so soon."
"There's a party in town tomorrow night, actually. I was going to suggest it -- honor of some ambassador or other, I don't recall the name."
"And your lot are running the country. For shame, Gregory."
"Well, what do you want? I can't remember every politician I meet. Anyway, all the crown heads of literary Europe will be there. You'd better show up. Get you away from Cambridge for a bit, anyhow."
Ellis shrugged. "The school is here, and this is my home. And Himself needs a place to build," he added. Anderson glanced away towards the oak grove and the garden house, now a dim shadow in the evening.
"Any idea how long it'll take him?" he asked.
"Do give the boy a few days' grace, Anderson. I have a feeling that as soon as he perfects the mechanism it'll be a very short step to the build. I know you want to fly to Australia, but honestly..."
"I want to protect the empire. It's done better by me than Australia ever did."
Ellis shook his head and flicked ash on the paving-stones. "You should talk to Fields. She's a fellow expat -- don't tell her I let you in on it, though."
"Oh? How old was she?"
"Quite young, I think. A toddler as I understand it."
"Something about her's not quite right," Anderson said.
"Aside from being ripped away from her parents and exported to America?" Ellis asked.
"That's the fault of the Australian government, not ours. England's complicity is the price we pay for planting our blood there in the first place," Anderson retorted. "Can you imagine how much more dangerous it would be if Creationists were allowed to stay in Australia? So much power in the hands of so few?"
"Well, the rest of the world seems to manage. And the country's dangerous anyway now. They're building war machines. At least, if you believe the rumors."
"And don't you?"
Ellis shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette. "I'll know soon enough. We'll know."
"That doesn't frighten you? Especially him being the engineer?" Anderson said, tipping his head at the house behind them.
"Not in the least. Jack won't build anything he can't put his name to -- well, he'll build it but he won't let anyone else near it until it works. Why should I be frightened of Australia?"
"You should be living a comfortable intellectual life, that's all. I've never held with them risking one of the great minds of our age on -- on Wyoming," Anderson said.
"I chose the life, Gregory. If I die, I'm the only one who knows all the books I didn't write. And the ones I did write will last long after me. I have my immortality without children or a wife to mourn me. They should always send poets to defend the country; we do it best."
Anderson stepped in front of him as he moved to go back inside, tugging on his collar again. He pulled it all the way down over Ellis's clavicle, studying the red puckered mark where he'd been shot.
"Watch your step, mate," he said. "You do have people to mourn you if you died."
"Watch it for me -- you'll be coming along," Ellis said with a smile, disentangling Anderson's hand from his collar and rebuttoning it. "I had better go see the children to bed -- goodnight, Gregory."
"Goodnight, Ellis," Gregory said, the sparks flying from the end of his cigarette as he scraped it out against the house's stonework.
***
The following morning the weather was too wet for shooting, much to the dismay of some of the party and the visible pleasure (Herr Blauberg) of others. Clare, dreading the idea of playing cards all morning as someone had suggested, got Jack to help her escape; he didn't play cards and didn't care what the weather was. He just wanted to be down in his workshop, setting up. They slipped away early after breakfast, dropping through the ground-floor window in Jack's room and strolling out in the rain with all the unconcern of Massachusetts natives, who know that the worst you can get from rain is wet.
Clare had borrowed a thick pair of engineer's boots from Jack and taken her heavy coat in case of leaks in the garden-house roof, but the only damp that came in was through the broken windows, which was soon absorbed by high piles of leaves that the two of them swept up with push-brooms Created for the occasion. Jack hadn't had time to do more than assess the new workshop, but now he set about cleaning it with a vengeance. They buttressed the leaves with remnants of broken potting trays, set up two unbroken trays to serve as worktables once they had boards placed over them, and paced out a plan for where the boat Jack intended to build would go.
"It can't be any bigger than necessary. Air's not like water; there's no natural buoyancy, so there's no advantage to size," Jack said. "But everything has to be balanced equally along the length, so if you put the engine in the middle..."
He stopped and frowned.
"Engines are heavy," Clare said. "You're going to have to build the lightest engine anyone ever built."
"Plus water." Jack nodded. "Normally I'd just say have a Creationist make the water since by the time it fades it'll have been used up anyway, but that'd be tiring, every few hours, and Graveworthy said no Creationism."
"Jack, have you ever thought about why he wants this?"
"He told us why he wants it. To carry goods and spies, I guess spies, into dangerous country."
"Where they can't use Creationism," Clare said significantly. "And he's been doing research into Australian expats, he practically told me so."
"You think he wants to fly to Australia?" Jack asked.
"Where else could he want to go?"
She watched as this idea drove Jack deep into thought; she'd been mulling it over herself for a while. The rain rattled the windowpanes that weren't broken and water seeped, steady but clean, across the floor.
"Well, that changes everything," he said finally, sounding annoyed. "That's a long damn trip, England to Australia. Got to build for speed because even good lift will only last so long, but if we get her going fast we can use the catapult theory and keep some in reserve for braking -- "
Clare was torn between a laugh and a sigh as Jack strode back out into the rain, heading for the house. He was still muttering to himself as he walked through the back door and into the parlor; she did laugh as half a dozen people looked up to see him dripping on the carpet.
"Nature walk," she said, guiding Jack deftly through the room. "Forgot our umbrellas."
She almost squeaked as Nicholas appeared with warm towels for them, holding the door so that they could pass through into the dining room. Ellis and Annie Masters were standing there, speaking quietly.
"I wondered when you two drowned rats would come in out of the rain," he said, amused. "You shouldn't disappear without saying so; if Nicholas hadn't been watching from the kitchen as you went out I'd have had to turn the house upside-down for you."
"We thought you'd make us come play cards," Jack said.
"So I would have -- "
"I'm sorry, I need to write some things down," Jack interrupted briskly. Clare grinned. "It'll only take about half an hour. I'll come out for lunch when I'm done."
"What are you writing?" Miss Masters asked, looking intrigued.
"Things," Jack replied, glancing at Graveworthy. "Promise I'll be out soon. I'll see you at lunch."
He left Clare standing in the dining room, holding both towels and somewhat wet and bedraggled. She glanced at Jack's receding back, then at the confused faces in front of her.
"He was raised by wolves," she said. "Wolves with pressing engineering diagrams to draw."
"Go on then, make sure he dries off," Graveworthy said. Clare nodded, wrapping one towel around her shoulders, and took herself off down the hall with the other. As she left, she heard Miss Masters' voice echoing back to her.
"You had better watch him, El. He's the sort to burn out by the time he's twenty-three."
"I'm sure Jack knows his limitations."
"Nobody knows their limitations that young. Make best use of his genius while he's still got it, or slow him down so that he'll have it ten years from now, when he knows how to control it."
"Well," Graveworthy said, his voice philosophical, "happily, his genius in the now is all I require."
***
In the days that followed, Clare and Jack saw almost as little of each other as they would have in Boston; she was in classes, and Jack was at work every hour the day gave, building a boat.
To judge from the drawings littering his desk, he wasn't only building a boat, but the physical evidence of his work did look distinctly boat-shaped. Having gone to London and spent all day romping unabashedly around a shipyard, he had come back to Cambridge with his head stuffed full of theory and a receipt in his pocket for a shipment of the lightest, strongest lumber he could find.
He drafted Graveworthy into service now that the guests were gone, sweeping away the leaves entirely and hanging boards over the broken windows. Clare helped fit the pipe for the gaslights and hang the fixtures, but the boat-building was uncommonly noisy and she stayed away when she had her own work to do. They ate dinner together in the kitchen, and usually Jack was calm enough after a day of woodworking to make polite conversation.
"It's all in my head during the day," he said to her, as they picked at the last of a bowl of mashed potatoes while Graveworthy dealt with some traveling tinker who had come to the door asking if there were knives in the house that needed sharpening. "I wake up with a bunch of new ideas and I go out and work on the boat, and while I work I make a list and then go over them all in my head. Sometimes they're good enough to test out. Most of the time, not."
"Well, you're trying to do something nobody else has done before," she said.
"I don't like failure," Jack replied. She smiled and ruffled his hair.
"Nobody likes failure. Don't let it depress you," she said. "You've blown up a lot of things this week, and you did build a boat. How many other people do you know could build a boat from one day of study at a shipyard?"
"It's not done yet. And it's not watertight. Then again, it doesn't need to be," he said with a grin. After a second, the grin fixed in place and the blood drained from his face.
"What? What is it?" she asked.
"If you blow on a leaf, it goes up," he said to her.
"Yes..."
"But if you blow on a leaf full of holes, it doesn't. It does have to be watertight. Well, airtight. Unless -- does a leaf with holes fall slower than a leaf without holes? No," he said, answering his own question. "But it does fall more steadily..."
"Are we falling instead of flying now?" Graveworthy asked, rejoining them at the table, carrying a plate of pie with him.
"If you do fall, you want to fall the right way," Jack said.
"That's important, I suppose. By the way, we need to leave after dinner," Graveworthy answered.
"What!"
"My tinker friend," Graveworthy said, pointing over his shoulder. "He's brought news. There's a plan afoot to stop the project, which of course means stopping you." He pointed at Jack with his dessert spoon. "We leave for London tonight."
"I thought you said we were safe in England," Clare said.
"By now, Miss Fields, you ought to know better than to trust any such statement as absolute."
"I could use to go to London anyway," Jack said. "I need to have some gears custom-made, and I can see how the engine's coming."
"Miss Fields, you'll only miss a day of classes; I've no doubt we'll be back by Monday," Graveworthy continued. "And I'd like to take you to the astrolarium. The Creationists there have memorized entire star charts, it's quite a sight. I know you'll say I'm buying your favors cheap, but think of it as offering what small pay is mine to give in return for graciously humoring me."
"You can call me gracious all you like but that doesn't mean I'll act that way," Clare told him.
"Obviously," he murmured. She saw Jack bite down a smile.
When she returned to her rooms she found that a suitcase had already been packed for her by Nicholas, as well as two hatboxes and a satchel. She would normally have informed him that there was no way she'd need four dresses or two hats for a three-day trip, but she was too annoyed by the world to even pick fights.
Graveworthy loaded her and Jack into a carriage at the side of the house, behind a hedge, and she kept her peace; she didn't even dig at him the entire trip from the Cambridge station to Liverpool Street. Jack distracted himself as he always did, but he looked faintly anxious the entire time; Graveworthy sat calmly and wrote in a notebook the entire way there.
They were met by Anderson and a carriage, which took them to a long row of houses on a quiet street and deposited them at one of many identical doorfronts. She was left in a small, tidy bedroom to unpack her bags (carried upstairs for her, not that she asked, by Anderson) and turn down her bed.
When she came downstairs to fetch herself a glass of water and say goodnight and possibly steal a book from the shelves in the parlor, she encountered Graveworthy and Anderson in the middle of a heated debate, while Jack looked on from a chair near the hearth, tinkering with a pair of broken fire-tongs.
"It's a thundering, booming bore," Graveworthy said, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the bookshelves. "I don't parade myself around like a tiger in the zoo."
"It'll be fun," Anderson replied. "Free food and drink, and all you have to do is argue politely with people at table, which is what you do best anyway."
"I'm not so poor I can't buy food for myself, and the food there isn't worth the cost."
"It's a party, Ellis. You can show up late, eat dinner, say three interesting things and leave early. You might even enjoy yourself," Anderson said. "There will be plenty of people you know there. Artists, musicians, the whole lot."
"Savants on parade," Graveworthy muttered.
"Are we going to a party?" Clare asked, and Graveworthy and Anderson looked up, startled, as if they'd forgotten she was in the house.
"See? You can take Miss Fields along," Anderson said. "Take Baker with you too, I'm sure he'll find something to dismantle."
"Hm?" Jack said, looking up as he heard his name mentioned.
"Graveworthy's taking you to a party," Anderson said.
"What, now?" Jack asked.
"Tomorrow night," Anderson said.
"Oh! All right," Jack said agreeably.
"You're outflanked, Mr. Graveworthy," Clare said, leaning on the back of the chair Jack was sitting in. "We'll find you a nice plant to hide behind."
Graveworthy looked every inch as irritated as she had when she heard they were going to London, but Clare had begun to warm to the idea of the city.
***
The following day was exciting, at least for Jack; he saw Clare off to the astrolarium with Graveworthy, and then he and Anderson, his erstwhile bodyguard, surveyed a series of machine shops in search of ultralight gears. He had to check on the steam engine for the ship, which was coming along nicely, and when they returned to the house Clare had all kinds of stories about the astrolarium to tell him, and Graveworthy asked if he wouldn't have a look at the Moveable-Type Scribe. Jack listened to Graveworthy and Anderson take a report from someone about the Cambridge house, which was apparently still secure, while he unjammed the keys and topped up the ink reservoir. He was pleased Graveworthy was still using the thing; the man might look like some kind of strange medieval necromancer when he used it, both hands curving around the dome of keys and his brow furrowed in thought, but he told Jack at the end of the day he got about as much on the page as he would hand-writing, and with considerably more legibility.
And then, of course, they had to dress for the party.
Jack was glad that Anderson and Graveworthy weren't any more well-dressed than he was as they alighted the cab at their dinner destination, a large town-house that looked like it would grow up to be a castle someday. He had worn the best clothes he had, none of which had any patches or grease-stains, but he entertained nightmarish thoughts of both of the older men appearing in black suits and white ties, with top-hats and walking sticks. Instead, Anderson looked like a clerk going to Temple and Graveworthy wore an ironed but otherwise unremarkable suit. Clare looked splendid, of course, but then she always did. He offered her his arm and led the way up the walk, since Graveworthy was obviously going to hang back until the last possible minute.
"Ellis thinks he detests society," Anderson said in Jack's ear, leaning over Clare's shoulder. "He'll have fun once he's inside, though. Remember that you're students and his guests and try not to get into any overt mischief, would you?"
"No promises," Clare said, winking at Jack as he pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was full of people -- every room was full of people, and Jack began to see why Graveworthy would be reluctant to attend. The noise was a bit like a train constantly passing, and it was awfully warm in the parlor, where someone was playing the piano.
Anderson steered them away, towards a wide, less crowded hallway filled with paintings, though even here knots of people gathered and gossiped and laughed.
"Ellis!" someone called, and a woman broke away from one of the groups to kiss Graveworthy on the cheek in greeting, drawing him into the crowd. Jack hung back with Anderson, watching in amusement as Ellis began to speak animatedly to a few of the group.
"Excuse me, Monsieur?" said a large man with a large mustache, presenting himself just to one side of Jack with the obvious aim of getting at Anderson. "Monsieur Anderson?"
"Monsieur Verne, n'est ce pas?" Anderson answered.
"Oui! You remember me," Verne said in thickly-accented English, beaming.
"Of course. We met at the French Ambassador's reception. Allow me to present Jack Baker and -- where's she got to -- there you are! Jack Baker, and this is Clare Fields, students at Cambridge University. They've come down to London for the occasion. Jack, Clare, this is Mr. Jules Verne, lately of Paris."
"My pleasure," Verne said, with a little bow for Clare.
"And I believe Monsieur Verne is looking for Graveworthy -- I said I'd introduce them," Anderson said, glancing at where Graveworthy was apparently holding a small crowd rapt with some story or other. "Jack, Clare, why don't you two run along and entertain yourselves? Take this with you," he added, handing Jack a piece of paper from his pocket. Jack was fairly positive he'd only that moment Created it. "Pass it to Mr. Parsons when you see him. Monsieur, this way -- we'll collar Ellis as soon as he's free."
He led the Frenchman away hurriedly, and Jack ducked behind a handy pedestal topped by a truly ugly bust of someone famous. He unfolded the paper while Clare looked over his shoulder.
Verne suspected spy. Stay away until signaled. Kitchen is ideal.
"This is starting to be downright annoying," Clare said.
"Kitchen's where the food is," Jack shrugged. He glanced at Graveworthy, who was speaking what sounded like fluent French to the other man. "Come on, let's find it."
He wove his way between groups of people, Clare's hand held in his, until they came out at the end of the hallway. The smell of food, sharp and distinct, wafted down a dark corridor. Jack forged ahead and passed through a swinging door into a room filled with steam and smoke. Men and women in white uniforms were everywhere.
"Let's go out to the scullery," Clare suggested, taking the lead and guiding him swiftly past the swinging knives and splattering fry-pans to the back door. They emerged into a small rear foyer with a mutual sigh of relief.
The scullery was little more than a covered stone walkway where the large pans were washed. There was a water pump to one side, and ahead of them lay a smaller-than-expected rear garden with smooth green lawn and two small trees. A handful of children were seated under one happily, sharing slices of cake.
"Hullo," Jack said, sitting down next to them carelessly. "Exiled from the party, huh?"
"Bo-ring," one of them answered, rolling her eyes.
"Probably so," Clare said, looking amused. She didn't sit down, but she did kick at a round, pinkish object sitting nearby. It bounced heavily over to Jack, who picked it up.
It was a pig's bladder, washed and blown up with air before being tied off. He and Clare had kicked them around the street as children, begging new ones off the local butcher whenever theirs burst or deflated or began to smell.
"Did cook give it to you?" he asked, standing and bouncing the ball on his shoe.
"No, Sir William gave them to us," a boy piped up. "He says it's Science."
Jack tilted his head, kicking the ball to Clare. "Really? What kind of science?"
"This one's filled with air, see?" the girl said, as Clare kicked the bladder back to her.
"I see," Jack said.
"And the other ones have somethin' else," the boy said proudly.
"What other ones?" Jack asked, and the children looked up into the tree.
He followed their gaze and at first saw nothing but a handful of ribbons hanging down from the branches; on closer examination, he saw they were tied to bladders wedged in the tree's lower limbs. He tugged on a ribbon and one came free, but even as he put out a hand to catch it, he found that it wasn't falling at all. In fact it was rising, tugging on the end of the ribbon, bobbing along in the air.
His eyes widened.
He didn't realize he'd let the ribbon slip through nerveless fingers until the bladder began to rise higher, floating up towards the darkening sky, drifting easily over the grass and the wall around the garden and the roof next door. One of the children burst into tears.
"He let it escape!" the boy wailed. Jack, hardly hearing either the cry or Clare's soothing hush, turned to the tree and tugged on another one. This time several of the children hurled themselves at him and stole it from him, pulling the ribbon away from his hands. They snatched the other ribbons and dragged the inflated bladders out of the tree, running away across the grass with them and shrieking.
"I didn't mean to," Jack said, not really aware of what he was saying. He was watching the fast-disappearing object that dipped and bobbed over the rooftops. He was vaguely aware of Clare standing nearby.
"Thousands of bladders?" she asked, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "Or one really big giant bladder?"
Jack felt as if his brain were going so fast that he couldn't actually think of anything. "Neither yet. Too many variables. Are they Created? How long do they stay inflated? What's the lifting power?"
"Jack -- "
"I need to talk to Graveworthy," Jack said, and turned to run back into the house. He got about three inches before a combination of loose bootlaces and mud overbalanced him. Clare grabbed his collar and hoisted him in time to keep him from sprawling, but the shock of adrenaline brought him back to reality sharply.
"We can't go back in right now, unless we want Anderson to get all annoying and Graveworthy to look horrified at us," Clare told him. "Remember, we're hiding."
"Yeah," he said, leaning against the tree before his knees could quite give out. "Who did the kids say gave them the things?"
"Sir something?" Clare said. "Sir William?"
"You think he's here? Maybe he's a Creationist," Jack said, disappointed. "Some kind of new artistic...thing."
"Pig bladders aren't art," Clare said. "They're barely sports. You know the ones we had always fell apart after a day or two."
"Either way, he might still be here."
"Well, don't be an idiot about it," she said. "We'll go through the kitchen."
She kept a firm grip on his sleeve as they walked, as idly as Jack could manage, back into the kitchen. A couple of the cooks gave Jack a knowing look, between his rumpled collar and the pretty girl holding firmly to his sleeve.
"Ex -- excuse me," he said, staying well back from a woman chopping carrots vigorously. "I'm looking for someone."
"Seems like you found her," she replied, scooping them up with the knife blade and flinging them into a pot.
"No, not...do you know if Sir William is still here?" he asked.
"Do I look like an invitations list?"
"Who would know?"
"He probably would," she said, jerking her white-hatted head at a man in a suit who was carrying a huge tray of appetizers out into the parlor. They sidled around a second waiter and pushed the door open a crack.
"He'll be out there for ten minutes at least," Jack said, despairing.
"Who will?" asked a familiar voice, and Jack looked up over his shoulder to see Graveworthy standing, heaven-sent, behind them.
"Do you know Sir William?" he demanded, turning around. Graveworthy pulled him away from the door just in time to avoid being smacked by it as another waiter burst through.
"Sir William Grove? He's here somewhere, I think. I don't know him personally. Why?"
"Is he a Creationist?" Jack asked.
"Him?" Graveworthy chuckled. "No. He's a scientist and an atheist. By the way, I want you to come back to the par -- "
"Forget the party! What does he do?"
Graveworthy frowned. "He's a chemist of some sort or other, I think, teaches at the London Insti -- Jack! JACK!"
Jack dashed through the door, now that he had permission to return to the party. He ran up to the waiter the cook had pointed out and found a tray of appetizers pressed into his face.
"Crab pastry?" the man asked politely.
Jack was faced with a professional dilemma. On the one hand, he had to find Sir William Grove as soon as humanly possible. On the other, crab pastry.
He took two.
"One of the cooks said you'd know where I could find Sir William," he blurted. The man smiled gently.
"Yes, sir," he said. "Sir William is in the library, I believe. He's fond of setting things on fire for the edification of the guests."
"Where's that?" Jack demanded.
"Upstairs, sir, the first door on the left."
"Thanks!" Jack called over his shoulder as he ran for the stairs, stuffing both of the pastries in his mouth at once. He heard Graveworthy, somewhere behind him, remarking to someone that you simply couldn't put a lid on the enthusiasm of hungry students.
At the top of the stairs he skewed around to the left and nearly tumbled into the door, twisting the knob and bursting through with more drama than he would have liked. Fortunately, nobody was looking at him, as something nearby had just exploded.
Through the choking smoke, Jack heard coughs and hoarse but enthusiastic discussion. He stumbled across to a window, where the rest of the library's inhabitants were waving handkerchiefs to clear the smoke and drawing lungfuls of fresh air.
"That was extraordinary," one of them said, wiping soot from his face. "I swear I've lost an eyebrow."
"It is not supposed to do that," came a voice from across the room. To Jack, it was the cry of a kindred soul.
"What on Earth is it supposed to do?" a woman asked.
"I call it a power cell. It's the next thing after steam."
"I've certainly never seen steam blow like that," another woman observed. Jack recognized Annie Masters' voice.
"Miss Masters?" he called.
"Jack Baker, is that you? Still intact?" she called back.
"I missed the explosion. Where are you?"
"Hell if I know!" she said.
"Sir William?" Jack tried.
"Who's calling me?" said the voice in the smoke. A shadow appeared, waving a book in front of its face. "Have you brought the drinks?"
"No, sir!" Jack said, as the shadow took form. "Sorry sir. My name's Baker, I've come to speak to you about your inflated bladders."
This drew a laugh from everyone around him, but the slightly smoke-stained man standing in front of him just nodded.
"Probably time to clear out for a bit and get some fresh air at any rate. Second demonstration after dinner," he announced, and other sooty shadows began to move towards the door. "Come out to the garden with me, young man, I've several of them there."
Chapter Seven
The next morning Nicholas woke them early, and Clare was still yawning when the trim little valet bundled them into heavy coats and set them on the road to Cambridge. They walked unhurriedly; carts passed them on the way to market or to catch an early train, and Jack stole a winter apple off the back of one and presented it to Clare with a smile.
Graveworthy, she noticed, kept his distance, leaving them to their horseplay but never quite letting them out of sight. It was a pattern she was to become familiar with over the next few days, as he enrolled them in classes -- a full course load for her in the College of Creation but only two classes for Jack, Advanced Construction and Classical Theory. Graveworthy walked with them to campus in the morning and collected them after their classes were finished, and he was friendly and paternal whenever they wanted to speak with him, but at other times he withdrew to contemplative silence.
She hardly had the time to worry about it that week, however; classes at Cambridge were differently ordered than those in Boston, and though she adapted quickly she had to run to catch up with some things and wait impatiently for them to catch her in others. She had books to buy and papers to write, and she had to make friends too -- learn the names of all the students in her study groups and remember the names of the professors.
The week-end came before she knew it, and when she woke on Saturday morning it was to the sound of voices booming greetings to each other in the entry hall. She looked out her bedroom window, which opened onto a view of the road, and saw a pair of horses being led away by a redheaded man in livery. A woman with a parasol was coming up the walk, followed by a dog of prodigious size on a thick leather leash.
Clare ducked into the bathroom next to her room and washed, dressing with a little more care than usual but no lack of haste. She was still doing up the buttons on the sleeves as she passed from the hallway into the entry.
" -- movable-type machine, you must see it," Graveworthy was saying, cheerfully clapping someone on the arm as he shook their hand. With a gentle shove, he guided the man into the sitting-room.
"Good morning, Mr. Graveworthy," Clare said, as he gave her an only slightly sardonic bow. "You're filling the place up already?"
"Just a few friends up for shooting," he said, reaching out to open the door when someone rapped sharply on it. "Annie! Hello, come in. Annie, this is Clare Fields, lately of Boston, up to study at Cambridge -- oh and hullo," he added, when Jack appeared in the hall as well. "And her companion Jack Baker, of Harvard. Jack, Clare, this is Annie Masters -- "
"Masters? Of the Principles of Propulsion?" Jack asked, looking awestruck. "We studied that this year! You wrote it?"
"That's right -- how do you do," she said with a sunny look, tugging on the collar of the giant dog next to her to make him sit. She wore gloves, but Clare noticed that her hair was cut short, as most of the women at Harvard wore theirs, and her durable, hard-wearing shoes looked out of place under a frilly purple dress. The dog snuffed at Clare's hand before wandering off to inspect Nicholas, emerging from another hall.
"Breakfast, ladies and gentlemen," he called. Clare counted three other women and five other men among the guests as she followed Jack into the dining room; one of them was Anderson, who gave not the slightest hint of having met her or Jack until that moment.
They hadn't actually eaten in the dining room yet. Graveworthy preferred to take his meals in the warm kitchen, and she and Jack had certainly no objections. This morning, however, the dining room table was covered with trays and filled with the smell of bacon and bread and tea. She poured a cup of tea for herself and one for Jack, noticing that he was heaping two plates with food and leaving off the eggs, which she wasn't that fond of. She added two sugars to his cup, poured in a drop of milk, and was halfway to where Jack was helping himself to more bacon than anyone needed when Graveworthy intercepted her.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, taking one of the cups from her hands. She was about to scold him and take it back when she saw the look on his face and hesitated. He sipped his tea. "Just a quick word?"
He guided her by the elbow over to a window beyond the tea service, where, she noticed, they weren't likely to be overheard.
"The short man in the waistcoat," he said softly. "Don't look right now. He invited himself along with Annie. Help me keep him away from Jack."
"Is he a spy?" she asked.
"Of a sort. He's German, works for a merchant group -- listen, now's not the time to be whispering in corners. Do your best? Anderson will help too," and he turned, nearly tripping over Annie Masters' giant dog. It drew the eyes of the room, which it seemed that he wanted; the dog bayed and bolted away, while Annie produced an enormous grease-stained handkerchief and tried to help him sop tea off his trousers.
"He's such a baby, really," she said, as the dog came trotting back. She swatted him affectionately on the behind. "He isn't hurt at all."
"Thank goodness," Graveworthy replied, winking at Clare. "All my fault. Jack!"
"Yessir?" Jack called, turning away just as the German made a beeline for him. Clare tried not to giggle.
"Why don't you and Annie take Boggle outside, you can talk propulsion and throw sticks," Graveworthy said. Jack passed Clare one of the plates and balanced the other in his hand, offering his elbow gallantly to Masters. She took it with only the slightest hint of amusement and tugged Boggle's leash. The dog whacked Graveworthy with his tail as he passed.
"Herr Blauberg, I don't think you've met my young guest, Miss Fields," Graveworthy said, buttonholing the German deftly. "Clare, Herr Blauberg. You came with Miss Masters, I think?" he asked. "Always a pleasure, of course. I have some excellent specimens of German painting upstairs. Remind me to take you to see them after breakfast, before we go in to town..."
Clare turned and caught sight of Jack through the window, hurling a stick across the withering grass, as Ellis led the German to Anderson, who neatly took custody with a wink in her direction.
***
Ellis was not used to hosting social gatherings in his own home, and by evening he was exhausted; seeing that Anderson had taken Jack off to speak with him about maritime engineering and Herr Blauberg was succumbing to Annie Masters' charms for the moment, he crept out onto the back walk of the house, in a sheltered porch in one corner. He tapped a cigarette out of his case as he undid his shirt-collar and breathed free for the first time that day.
"Need a light?" Anderson asked, startling him. Ellis put a hand over his heart and bowed his head. "Sorry! I thought you saw me. Getting slack, old man."
"It's been a long day, and not an easy one," Ellis replied. "What was Annie thinking, not throwing Blauberg off the train on the way here?"
"Bad form," Anderson laughed. "Poor woman hadn't any choice. Blauberg monopolized her all the way down and she couldn't very well say no without arousing suspicion. You've done a good job keeping him away from our lad, though."
"It helps that Jack only has eyes for Annie Masters; Clare had to pry him away when Annie took over babysitting the German."
Anderson's eyebrows lifted.
"Not like that. Jack covets Annie's knowledge. She's probably been telling him about her new textbook. Interesting stuff," Ellis added, allowing Anderson to Create a flicker of flame on the tip of his finger and light his cigarette. Anderson tipped his head at Ellis' pocket, and Ellis drew out another cigarette with a roll of his eyes and lit that too, passing it to his friend while he doused the light.
"Are you writing?" Anderson asked.
"Not at the moment. Well, I am, actually," he added, and Anderson chuckled, "but nothing important."
"What is it this time?"
"Clockmakers. Or possibly cannon-makers, or some combination of the two. I haven't decided yet. What about you -- any news I should be aware of?"
"Not much to tell, other than the reports you've been getting," Anderson answered. "A fair bit comes across my desk, but most of it's handled quietly. Is that your scar?" he said, as Ellis' shirt gapped open. He whistled low. "Wyoming or Boston?"
"Wyoming. Boston was a knife, not a gun."
"Either way, looks like more than a flesh wound to me."
Ellis pulled his collar up. "All in the service. I don't mean government news, Anderson -- I mean real news. Anyone we know die? Who's getting married? Did Bellamy get published yet?"
"She did. It's not bad, for a journeyman effort. She could have used you in draft."
"She'll never learn if she doesn't do some things herself."
"Perhaps," Anderson allowed. "When are you coming down to London?"
"Jack hasn't any classes on Monday -- I hope to take him down tomorrow afternoon. He says he needs to visit a shipyard. Clare too, if she doesn't mind skipping class so soon."
"There's a party in town tomorrow night, actually. I was going to suggest it -- honor of some ambassador or other, I don't recall the name."
"And your lot are running the country. For shame, Gregory."
"Well, what do you want? I can't remember every politician I meet. Anyway, all the crown heads of literary Europe will be there. You'd better show up. Get you away from Cambridge for a bit, anyhow."
Ellis shrugged. "The school is here, and this is my home. And Himself needs a place to build," he added. Anderson glanced away towards the oak grove and the garden house, now a dim shadow in the evening.
"Any idea how long it'll take him?" he asked.
"Do give the boy a few days' grace, Anderson. I have a feeling that as soon as he perfects the mechanism it'll be a very short step to the build. I know you want to fly to Australia, but honestly..."
"I want to protect the empire. It's done better by me than Australia ever did."
Ellis shook his head and flicked ash on the paving-stones. "You should talk to Fields. She's a fellow expat -- don't tell her I let you in on it, though."
"Oh? How old was she?"
"Quite young, I think. A toddler as I understand it."
"Something about her's not quite right," Anderson said.
"Aside from being ripped away from her parents and exported to America?" Ellis asked.
"That's the fault of the Australian government, not ours. England's complicity is the price we pay for planting our blood there in the first place," Anderson retorted. "Can you imagine how much more dangerous it would be if Creationists were allowed to stay in Australia? So much power in the hands of so few?"
"Well, the rest of the world seems to manage. And the country's dangerous anyway now. They're building war machines. At least, if you believe the rumors."
"And don't you?"
Ellis shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette. "I'll know soon enough. We'll know."
"That doesn't frighten you? Especially him being the engineer?" Anderson said, tipping his head at the house behind them.
"Not in the least. Jack won't build anything he can't put his name to -- well, he'll build it but he won't let anyone else near it until it works. Why should I be frightened of Australia?"
"You should be living a comfortable intellectual life, that's all. I've never held with them risking one of the great minds of our age on -- on Wyoming," Anderson said.
"I chose the life, Gregory. If I die, I'm the only one who knows all the books I didn't write. And the ones I did write will last long after me. I have my immortality without children or a wife to mourn me. They should always send poets to defend the country; we do it best."
Anderson stepped in front of him as he moved to go back inside, tugging on his collar again. He pulled it all the way down over Ellis's clavicle, studying the red puckered mark where he'd been shot.
"Watch your step, mate," he said. "You do have people to mourn you if you died."
"Watch it for me -- you'll be coming along," Ellis said with a smile, disentangling Anderson's hand from his collar and rebuttoning it. "I had better go see the children to bed -- goodnight, Gregory."
"Goodnight, Ellis," Gregory said, the sparks flying from the end of his cigarette as he scraped it out against the house's stonework.
***
The following morning the weather was too wet for shooting, much to the dismay of some of the party and the visible pleasure (Herr Blauberg) of others. Clare, dreading the idea of playing cards all morning as someone had suggested, got Jack to help her escape; he didn't play cards and didn't care what the weather was. He just wanted to be down in his workshop, setting up. They slipped away early after breakfast, dropping through the ground-floor window in Jack's room and strolling out in the rain with all the unconcern of Massachusetts natives, who know that the worst you can get from rain is wet.
Clare had borrowed a thick pair of engineer's boots from Jack and taken her heavy coat in case of leaks in the garden-house roof, but the only damp that came in was through the broken windows, which was soon absorbed by high piles of leaves that the two of them swept up with push-brooms Created for the occasion. Jack hadn't had time to do more than assess the new workshop, but now he set about cleaning it with a vengeance. They buttressed the leaves with remnants of broken potting trays, set up two unbroken trays to serve as worktables once they had boards placed over them, and paced out a plan for where the boat Jack intended to build would go.
"It can't be any bigger than necessary. Air's not like water; there's no natural buoyancy, so there's no advantage to size," Jack said. "But everything has to be balanced equally along the length, so if you put the engine in the middle..."
He stopped and frowned.
"Engines are heavy," Clare said. "You're going to have to build the lightest engine anyone ever built."
"Plus water." Jack nodded. "Normally I'd just say have a Creationist make the water since by the time it fades it'll have been used up anyway, but that'd be tiring, every few hours, and Graveworthy said no Creationism."
"Jack, have you ever thought about why he wants this?"
"He told us why he wants it. To carry goods and spies, I guess spies, into dangerous country."
"Where they can't use Creationism," Clare said significantly. "And he's been doing research into Australian expats, he practically told me so."
"You think he wants to fly to Australia?" Jack asked.
"Where else could he want to go?"
She watched as this idea drove Jack deep into thought; she'd been mulling it over herself for a while. The rain rattled the windowpanes that weren't broken and water seeped, steady but clean, across the floor.
"Well, that changes everything," he said finally, sounding annoyed. "That's a long damn trip, England to Australia. Got to build for speed because even good lift will only last so long, but if we get her going fast we can use the catapult theory and keep some in reserve for braking -- "
Clare was torn between a laugh and a sigh as Jack strode back out into the rain, heading for the house. He was still muttering to himself as he walked through the back door and into the parlor; she did laugh as half a dozen people looked up to see him dripping on the carpet.
"Nature walk," she said, guiding Jack deftly through the room. "Forgot our umbrellas."
She almost squeaked as Nicholas appeared with warm towels for them, holding the door so that they could pass through into the dining room. Ellis and Annie Masters were standing there, speaking quietly.
"I wondered when you two drowned rats would come in out of the rain," he said, amused. "You shouldn't disappear without saying so; if Nicholas hadn't been watching from the kitchen as you went out I'd have had to turn the house upside-down for you."
"We thought you'd make us come play cards," Jack said.
"So I would have -- "
"I'm sorry, I need to write some things down," Jack interrupted briskly. Clare grinned. "It'll only take about half an hour. I'll come out for lunch when I'm done."
"What are you writing?" Miss Masters asked, looking intrigued.
"Things," Jack replied, glancing at Graveworthy. "Promise I'll be out soon. I'll see you at lunch."
He left Clare standing in the dining room, holding both towels and somewhat wet and bedraggled. She glanced at Jack's receding back, then at the confused faces in front of her.
"He was raised by wolves," she said. "Wolves with pressing engineering diagrams to draw."
"Go on then, make sure he dries off," Graveworthy said. Clare nodded, wrapping one towel around her shoulders, and took herself off down the hall with the other. As she left, she heard Miss Masters' voice echoing back to her.
"You had better watch him, El. He's the sort to burn out by the time he's twenty-three."
"I'm sure Jack knows his limitations."
"Nobody knows their limitations that young. Make best use of his genius while he's still got it, or slow him down so that he'll have it ten years from now, when he knows how to control it."
"Well," Graveworthy said, his voice philosophical, "happily, his genius in the now is all I require."
***
In the days that followed, Clare and Jack saw almost as little of each other as they would have in Boston; she was in classes, and Jack was at work every hour the day gave, building a boat.
To judge from the drawings littering his desk, he wasn't only building a boat, but the physical evidence of his work did look distinctly boat-shaped. Having gone to London and spent all day romping unabashedly around a shipyard, he had come back to Cambridge with his head stuffed full of theory and a receipt in his pocket for a shipment of the lightest, strongest lumber he could find.
He drafted Graveworthy into service now that the guests were gone, sweeping away the leaves entirely and hanging boards over the broken windows. Clare helped fit the pipe for the gaslights and hang the fixtures, but the boat-building was uncommonly noisy and she stayed away when she had her own work to do. They ate dinner together in the kitchen, and usually Jack was calm enough after a day of woodworking to make polite conversation.
"It's all in my head during the day," he said to her, as they picked at the last of a bowl of mashed potatoes while Graveworthy dealt with some traveling tinker who had come to the door asking if there were knives in the house that needed sharpening. "I wake up with a bunch of new ideas and I go out and work on the boat, and while I work I make a list and then go over them all in my head. Sometimes they're good enough to test out. Most of the time, not."
"Well, you're trying to do something nobody else has done before," she said.
"I don't like failure," Jack replied. She smiled and ruffled his hair.
"Nobody likes failure. Don't let it depress you," she said. "You've blown up a lot of things this week, and you did build a boat. How many other people do you know could build a boat from one day of study at a shipyard?"
"It's not done yet. And it's not watertight. Then again, it doesn't need to be," he said with a grin. After a second, the grin fixed in place and the blood drained from his face.
"What? What is it?" she asked.
"If you blow on a leaf, it goes up," he said to her.
"Yes..."
"But if you blow on a leaf full of holes, it doesn't. It does have to be watertight. Well, airtight. Unless -- does a leaf with holes fall slower than a leaf without holes? No," he said, answering his own question. "But it does fall more steadily..."
"Are we falling instead of flying now?" Graveworthy asked, rejoining them at the table, carrying a plate of pie with him.
"If you do fall, you want to fall the right way," Jack said.
"That's important, I suppose. By the way, we need to leave after dinner," Graveworthy answered.
"What!"
"My tinker friend," Graveworthy said, pointing over his shoulder. "He's brought news. There's a plan afoot to stop the project, which of course means stopping you." He pointed at Jack with his dessert spoon. "We leave for London tonight."
"I thought you said we were safe in England," Clare said.
"By now, Miss Fields, you ought to know better than to trust any such statement as absolute."
"I could use to go to London anyway," Jack said. "I need to have some gears custom-made, and I can see how the engine's coming."
"Miss Fields, you'll only miss a day of classes; I've no doubt we'll be back by Monday," Graveworthy continued. "And I'd like to take you to the astrolarium. The Creationists there have memorized entire star charts, it's quite a sight. I know you'll say I'm buying your favors cheap, but think of it as offering what small pay is mine to give in return for graciously humoring me."
"You can call me gracious all you like but that doesn't mean I'll act that way," Clare told him.
"Obviously," he murmured. She saw Jack bite down a smile.
When she returned to her rooms she found that a suitcase had already been packed for her by Nicholas, as well as two hatboxes and a satchel. She would normally have informed him that there was no way she'd need four dresses or two hats for a three-day trip, but she was too annoyed by the world to even pick fights.
Graveworthy loaded her and Jack into a carriage at the side of the house, behind a hedge, and she kept her peace; she didn't even dig at him the entire trip from the Cambridge station to Liverpool Street. Jack distracted himself as he always did, but he looked faintly anxious the entire time; Graveworthy sat calmly and wrote in a notebook the entire way there.
They were met by Anderson and a carriage, which took them to a long row of houses on a quiet street and deposited them at one of many identical doorfronts. She was left in a small, tidy bedroom to unpack her bags (carried upstairs for her, not that she asked, by Anderson) and turn down her bed.
When she came downstairs to fetch herself a glass of water and say goodnight and possibly steal a book from the shelves in the parlor, she encountered Graveworthy and Anderson in the middle of a heated debate, while Jack looked on from a chair near the hearth, tinkering with a pair of broken fire-tongs.
"It's a thundering, booming bore," Graveworthy said, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the bookshelves. "I don't parade myself around like a tiger in the zoo."
"It'll be fun," Anderson replied. "Free food and drink, and all you have to do is argue politely with people at table, which is what you do best anyway."
"I'm not so poor I can't buy food for myself, and the food there isn't worth the cost."
"It's a party, Ellis. You can show up late, eat dinner, say three interesting things and leave early. You might even enjoy yourself," Anderson said. "There will be plenty of people you know there. Artists, musicians, the whole lot."
"Savants on parade," Graveworthy muttered.
"Are we going to a party?" Clare asked, and Graveworthy and Anderson looked up, startled, as if they'd forgotten she was in the house.
"See? You can take Miss Fields along," Anderson said. "Take Baker with you too, I'm sure he'll find something to dismantle."
"Hm?" Jack said, looking up as he heard his name mentioned.
"Graveworthy's taking you to a party," Anderson said.
"What, now?" Jack asked.
"Tomorrow night," Anderson said.
"Oh! All right," Jack said agreeably.
"You're outflanked, Mr. Graveworthy," Clare said, leaning on the back of the chair Jack was sitting in. "We'll find you a nice plant to hide behind."
Graveworthy looked every inch as irritated as she had when she heard they were going to London, but Clare had begun to warm to the idea of the city.
***
The following day was exciting, at least for Jack; he saw Clare off to the astrolarium with Graveworthy, and then he and Anderson, his erstwhile bodyguard, surveyed a series of machine shops in search of ultralight gears. He had to check on the steam engine for the ship, which was coming along nicely, and when they returned to the house Clare had all kinds of stories about the astrolarium to tell him, and Graveworthy asked if he wouldn't have a look at the Moveable-Type Scribe. Jack listened to Graveworthy and Anderson take a report from someone about the Cambridge house, which was apparently still secure, while he unjammed the keys and topped up the ink reservoir. He was pleased Graveworthy was still using the thing; the man might look like some kind of strange medieval necromancer when he used it, both hands curving around the dome of keys and his brow furrowed in thought, but he told Jack at the end of the day he got about as much on the page as he would hand-writing, and with considerably more legibility.
And then, of course, they had to dress for the party.
Jack was glad that Anderson and Graveworthy weren't any more well-dressed than he was as they alighted the cab at their dinner destination, a large town-house that looked like it would grow up to be a castle someday. He had worn the best clothes he had, none of which had any patches or grease-stains, but he entertained nightmarish thoughts of both of the older men appearing in black suits and white ties, with top-hats and walking sticks. Instead, Anderson looked like a clerk going to Temple and Graveworthy wore an ironed but otherwise unremarkable suit. Clare looked splendid, of course, but then she always did. He offered her his arm and led the way up the walk, since Graveworthy was obviously going to hang back until the last possible minute.
"Ellis thinks he detests society," Anderson said in Jack's ear, leaning over Clare's shoulder. "He'll have fun once he's inside, though. Remember that you're students and his guests and try not to get into any overt mischief, would you?"
"No promises," Clare said, winking at Jack as he pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was full of people -- every room was full of people, and Jack began to see why Graveworthy would be reluctant to attend. The noise was a bit like a train constantly passing, and it was awfully warm in the parlor, where someone was playing the piano.
Anderson steered them away, towards a wide, less crowded hallway filled with paintings, though even here knots of people gathered and gossiped and laughed.
"Ellis!" someone called, and a woman broke away from one of the groups to kiss Graveworthy on the cheek in greeting, drawing him into the crowd. Jack hung back with Anderson, watching in amusement as Ellis began to speak animatedly to a few of the group.
"Excuse me, Monsieur?" said a large man with a large mustache, presenting himself just to one side of Jack with the obvious aim of getting at Anderson. "Monsieur Anderson?"
"Monsieur Verne, n'est ce pas?" Anderson answered.
"Oui! You remember me," Verne said in thickly-accented English, beaming.
"Of course. We met at the French Ambassador's reception. Allow me to present Jack Baker and -- where's she got to -- there you are! Jack Baker, and this is Clare Fields, students at Cambridge University. They've come down to London for the occasion. Jack, Clare, this is Mr. Jules Verne, lately of Paris."
"My pleasure," Verne said, with a little bow for Clare.
"And I believe Monsieur Verne is looking for Graveworthy -- I said I'd introduce them," Anderson said, glancing at where Graveworthy was apparently holding a small crowd rapt with some story or other. "Jack, Clare, why don't you two run along and entertain yourselves? Take this with you," he added, handing Jack a piece of paper from his pocket. Jack was fairly positive he'd only that moment Created it. "Pass it to Mr. Parsons when you see him. Monsieur, this way -- we'll collar Ellis as soon as he's free."
He led the Frenchman away hurriedly, and Jack ducked behind a handy pedestal topped by a truly ugly bust of someone famous. He unfolded the paper while Clare looked over his shoulder.
Verne suspected spy. Stay away until signaled. Kitchen is ideal.
"This is starting to be downright annoying," Clare said.
"Kitchen's where the food is," Jack shrugged. He glanced at Graveworthy, who was speaking what sounded like fluent French to the other man. "Come on, let's find it."
He wove his way between groups of people, Clare's hand held in his, until they came out at the end of the hallway. The smell of food, sharp and distinct, wafted down a dark corridor. Jack forged ahead and passed through a swinging door into a room filled with steam and smoke. Men and women in white uniforms were everywhere.
"Let's go out to the scullery," Clare suggested, taking the lead and guiding him swiftly past the swinging knives and splattering fry-pans to the back door. They emerged into a small rear foyer with a mutual sigh of relief.
The scullery was little more than a covered stone walkway where the large pans were washed. There was a water pump to one side, and ahead of them lay a smaller-than-expected rear garden with smooth green lawn and two small trees. A handful of children were seated under one happily, sharing slices of cake.
"Hullo," Jack said, sitting down next to them carelessly. "Exiled from the party, huh?"
"Bo-ring," one of them answered, rolling her eyes.
"Probably so," Clare said, looking amused. She didn't sit down, but she did kick at a round, pinkish object sitting nearby. It bounced heavily over to Jack, who picked it up.
It was a pig's bladder, washed and blown up with air before being tied off. He and Clare had kicked them around the street as children, begging new ones off the local butcher whenever theirs burst or deflated or began to smell.
"Did cook give it to you?" he asked, standing and bouncing the ball on his shoe.
"No, Sir William gave them to us," a boy piped up. "He says it's Science."
Jack tilted his head, kicking the ball to Clare. "Really? What kind of science?"
"This one's filled with air, see?" the girl said, as Clare kicked the bladder back to her.
"I see," Jack said.
"And the other ones have somethin' else," the boy said proudly.
"What other ones?" Jack asked, and the children looked up into the tree.
He followed their gaze and at first saw nothing but a handful of ribbons hanging down from the branches; on closer examination, he saw they were tied to bladders wedged in the tree's lower limbs. He tugged on a ribbon and one came free, but even as he put out a hand to catch it, he found that it wasn't falling at all. In fact it was rising, tugging on the end of the ribbon, bobbing along in the air.
His eyes widened.
He didn't realize he'd let the ribbon slip through nerveless fingers until the bladder began to rise higher, floating up towards the darkening sky, drifting easily over the grass and the wall around the garden and the roof next door. One of the children burst into tears.
"He let it escape!" the boy wailed. Jack, hardly hearing either the cry or Clare's soothing hush, turned to the tree and tugged on another one. This time several of the children hurled themselves at him and stole it from him, pulling the ribbon away from his hands. They snatched the other ribbons and dragged the inflated bladders out of the tree, running away across the grass with them and shrieking.
"I didn't mean to," Jack said, not really aware of what he was saying. He was watching the fast-disappearing object that dipped and bobbed over the rooftops. He was vaguely aware of Clare standing nearby.
"Thousands of bladders?" she asked, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "Or one really big giant bladder?"
Jack felt as if his brain were going so fast that he couldn't actually think of anything. "Neither yet. Too many variables. Are they Created? How long do they stay inflated? What's the lifting power?"
"Jack -- "
"I need to talk to Graveworthy," Jack said, and turned to run back into the house. He got about three inches before a combination of loose bootlaces and mud overbalanced him. Clare grabbed his collar and hoisted him in time to keep him from sprawling, but the shock of adrenaline brought him back to reality sharply.
"We can't go back in right now, unless we want Anderson to get all annoying and Graveworthy to look horrified at us," Clare told him. "Remember, we're hiding."
"Yeah," he said, leaning against the tree before his knees could quite give out. "Who did the kids say gave them the things?"
"Sir something?" Clare said. "Sir William?"
"You think he's here? Maybe he's a Creationist," Jack said, disappointed. "Some kind of new artistic...thing."
"Pig bladders aren't art," Clare said. "They're barely sports. You know the ones we had always fell apart after a day or two."
"Either way, he might still be here."
"Well, don't be an idiot about it," she said. "We'll go through the kitchen."
She kept a firm grip on his sleeve as they walked, as idly as Jack could manage, back into the kitchen. A couple of the cooks gave Jack a knowing look, between his rumpled collar and the pretty girl holding firmly to his sleeve.
"Ex -- excuse me," he said, staying well back from a woman chopping carrots vigorously. "I'm looking for someone."
"Seems like you found her," she replied, scooping them up with the knife blade and flinging them into a pot.
"No, not...do you know if Sir William is still here?" he asked.
"Do I look like an invitations list?"
"Who would know?"
"He probably would," she said, jerking her white-hatted head at a man in a suit who was carrying a huge tray of appetizers out into the parlor. They sidled around a second waiter and pushed the door open a crack.
"He'll be out there for ten minutes at least," Jack said, despairing.
"Who will?" asked a familiar voice, and Jack looked up over his shoulder to see Graveworthy standing, heaven-sent, behind them.
"Do you know Sir William?" he demanded, turning around. Graveworthy pulled him away from the door just in time to avoid being smacked by it as another waiter burst through.
"Sir William Grove? He's here somewhere, I think. I don't know him personally. Why?"
"Is he a Creationist?" Jack asked.
"Him?" Graveworthy chuckled. "No. He's a scientist and an atheist. By the way, I want you to come back to the par -- "
"Forget the party! What does he do?"
Graveworthy frowned. "He's a chemist of some sort or other, I think, teaches at the London Insti -- Jack! JACK!"
Jack dashed through the door, now that he had permission to return to the party. He ran up to the waiter the cook had pointed out and found a tray of appetizers pressed into his face.
"Crab pastry?" the man asked politely.
Jack was faced with a professional dilemma. On the one hand, he had to find Sir William Grove as soon as humanly possible. On the other, crab pastry.
He took two.
"One of the cooks said you'd know where I could find Sir William," he blurted. The man smiled gently.
"Yes, sir," he said. "Sir William is in the library, I believe. He's fond of setting things on fire for the edification of the guests."
"Where's that?" Jack demanded.
"Upstairs, sir, the first door on the left."
"Thanks!" Jack called over his shoulder as he ran for the stairs, stuffing both of the pastries in his mouth at once. He heard Graveworthy, somewhere behind him, remarking to someone that you simply couldn't put a lid on the enthusiasm of hungry students.
At the top of the stairs he skewed around to the left and nearly tumbled into the door, twisting the knob and bursting through with more drama than he would have liked. Fortunately, nobody was looking at him, as something nearby had just exploded.
Through the choking smoke, Jack heard coughs and hoarse but enthusiastic discussion. He stumbled across to a window, where the rest of the library's inhabitants were waving handkerchiefs to clear the smoke and drawing lungfuls of fresh air.
"That was extraordinary," one of them said, wiping soot from his face. "I swear I've lost an eyebrow."
"It is not supposed to do that," came a voice from across the room. To Jack, it was the cry of a kindred soul.
"What on Earth is it supposed to do?" a woman asked.
"I call it a power cell. It's the next thing after steam."
"I've certainly never seen steam blow like that," another woman observed. Jack recognized Annie Masters' voice.
"Miss Masters?" he called.
"Jack Baker, is that you? Still intact?" she called back.
"I missed the explosion. Where are you?"
"Hell if I know!" she said.
"Sir William?" Jack tried.
"Who's calling me?" said the voice in the smoke. A shadow appeared, waving a book in front of its face. "Have you brought the drinks?"
"No, sir!" Jack said, as the shadow took form. "Sorry sir. My name's Baker, I've come to speak to you about your inflated bladders."
This drew a laugh from everyone around him, but the slightly smoke-stained man standing in front of him just nodded.
"Probably time to clear out for a bit and get some fresh air at any rate. Second demonstration after dinner," he announced, and other sooty shadows began to move towards the door. "Come out to the garden with me, young man, I've several of them there."
Chapter Seven
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Date: 2012-04-26 01:16 am (UTC)"happily, his genius in the now is all I require." In other words, use Jack up and burn him out if that's what it takes. This is one of the best examples of "show, don't tell" I've seen. Graveworthy really is a manipulative bastard, isn't he? I hope his cause justifies it.
I liked "Boggle" too - picturing something like a Newfoundland.
I didn't read the first draft, so I can't compare, but the pacing so far is really keeping me interested and eager for the next installment. This story is intriguing.
P.S. Hope your ankle is better.
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Date: 2012-04-26 05:54 pm (UTC)Oh my god what is wrong with me :D
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Date: 2012-04-26 11:31 pm (UTC)