The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  Hadley walked him back to the front door, feeling slightly lonelier than she had before he arrived. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Sorrell. I would like it very much if you would tell me more about automatons one day. That is, if you are willing.”

  A grin crept across his face. “It would be an honor. I enjoyed it as well, and thank you for showing me your studio. You are quite a talented woman, Miss Fenice.”

  Once he had situated the umbrella under his arm, he proffered his hand. As she grasped it, he bowed slightly and lightly brought her pale hand to his lips, letting them linger a second more than necessary. Hadley stood dumbfounded and red-cheeked in the doorway as he slipped back into the dewy London streets and disappeared into the throngs of grey-clad Londoners. Adam watched his sister stare dumbly with her hand on the doorknob as he walked up the steps. Pushing past her, he placed his silk top hat on the coat rack. Finally she shut the door and drifted back inside, but her eyes were far away.

  “Was that the viscount I just saw leaving?” Adam asked distractedly as he repeatedly tried to hang his heavy coat on the hook.

  “No, it was Eilian Sorrell.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Plucking the Achilles Tendon

  Dr. Hawthorne wandered down the long corridor of the London Hospital. The boards creaked beneath his feet as the disembodied moans of the patients drifted across the still night air from adjacent rooms. All the other doctors had gone home for the night, leaving the nurses, porters, and medical students to deal with the hundreds of patients. James stayed away from the hospital during the day because he had the sinking suspicion that he was not wanted there. Being Coroner to the Queen came with an air of funereal authority that caused most of the doctors and the patients who were in the know to avoid him as if he was some harbinger of death. For the past three days, he had searched the halls and beds for the proper corpse that could provide him with what he needed. He detested being a vulture circling the dying, waiting for a scrap of carrion, but for his friend, he would scavenge for weeks if necessary. The only place he refused to look was in the psychiatric ward. Despite all his training, he still couldn’t erase from his memory the time he had to collect a body from Bedlam. The shrieks and moaning babbles of the patients still haunted his sleep.

  “Dr. Hawthorne,” a voice peeped sheepishly behind him.

  The doctor turned on heel to find one of the young medical students wringing his hands. Zachary Andrews was a meek boy with a nervous disposition and mediocre marks, but he was one of the only students willing to approach him once he knew what Dr. Hawthorne’s profession was. “Yes, Mr. Andrews?”

  “I— I believe I have a patient who fits your requirements.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket with shaking hands. “No infections, legs intact, age thirty years, dying of intracranial hemorrhage due to an accident involving two steamers.”

  “Did he pass the blood exam?”

  “Yes, I think so, sir. It was the first time I had ever done it though.”

  “When do you estimate he will pass?”

  The youth swallowed hard. “Within the hour.”

  “Send one of the messenger boys to my house and tell Mrs. Hawthorne that I will be home soon.”

  Andrews nodded and scurried out, his footsteps not leaving a trace in the silent ward. James Hawthorne walked down the hall to the bay of beds where the dying man lay. Instantly, he recognized the man by his bandaged head and bloodied face. His breaths came in rough, shallow gasps in his advanced comatose state, but upon checking his liver and heart, he otherwise appeared to be in good health. Reaching into his jacket, the doctor drew out a small vial of blood and a scalpel. A half-formed scab peeked out from beneath a bandage on the unconscious man’s cheek, and with a slight flick of the scalpel, it once again began to bleed. He placed the vial beneath the wound, allowing the blood drip into the other sample until there was enough for the test. Capping the vial, he swirled the blood together. When no clot formed, he sat beside the cot, waiting for the inevitable end to come. As the doctor’s eyes shut and his mind drifted to dreams of Egypt, the clanking of the metal cot rocking and the man’s body snapping and contorting against itself roused him. With one final tremor, the doctor became the vulture.

  ***

  The tension between Eilian and Patrick grew in the silence of the parlor as Eliza opened the door for a young boy. They locked eyes as a wave of anxiety passed from butler to master. Eilian’s hand trembled, sending a few dancing drops of tea onto his trousers, but with a measured breath, he suppressed his anxiety. Mrs. Hawthorne smiled as she rejoined the two men, but upon seeing the fear in the archaeologist’s eyes, she drew closer and squeezed his shoulder.

  “Tonight is the night you get your new arm, Eilian. James found what he needs and will be home within the hour. I know you’re scared, but you are in good hands.”

  “Are we meeting him at the hospital?”

  She hesitated. “No, we have everything we need here, and there is less of a chance of infection when there are less ill people around.” Eliza disappeared into the hall pantry and returned with a bar of green soap and a pile of towels. “Go upstairs and bathe with this. When you are done, put on your night-clothes and come down to the cellar.”

  Leaving Patrick downstairs, Eilian gathered his clothes from his room and started the water in the tub. As he perched on the edge of the bath, he sniffed the absinthe-green soap. The astringent, medicinal odor burnt his nose and nearly brought tears to his eyes. He sat in the claw-foot tub, running the bar over his rippling scars, trying not to think about the procedure. The statistics and horrific stories from the paper that had riled up Patrick floated into his mind, but he chased them away. Instead he thought of what the Ein Akev Spring would look like when he got to see it in a few months. Sir Joshua had described it as a canyon with a pool of dark turquoise water where precious rainwater collected. Bright green moss and vines cascaded down from the top like a waterfall and hung over a tunnel that led beneath the rocks. His heart raced with panic at the gravity of what he was to undergo, but he steadied it by pretending he was bathing in the spring’s cool waters after a long day of digging.

  When Lord Sorrell finally emerged from the lavatory, he darted down the steps, feeling shamefully underdressed as he headed into the kitchen and down the dim, wooden tunnel of stairs that led to the Hawthornes’ basement laboratory. He knew it was there, but he had never been down there before. The amount of equipment and professional quality materials the queen had supplied James with was astounding. Half of the hospitals in England weren’t as well equipped. The room stunk of antiseptic like the soap, but every surface was spotlessly clean and gleamed in the bright electric light hanging over the marble and metal table. The breath hitched in his throat as Eilian realized what the marble table with the drain was normally used for. On the counter next to tools and piles of gauze stood his new prosthesis sitting on a tray and alongside it was a small jar with an object that resembled a bloody, beige snake.

  “Are you ready, Eilian?” James asked as he motioned for him to lie on the table. “It’s all right if you are not, no one is. At least when you wake up, things will be better.”

  Before Lord Sorrell could reply, the mask was placed over his mouth. The ether seeped into his lungs and saturated his tissues, sending his mind drifting into blackness.

  ***

  Familiar glimpses of consciousness broke through the disorienting stillness little-by-little as flutters of vision and blurbs of speech broke through the void, and fire crackled in a hearth somewhere nearby. Finally, with some prompting from James, who stood only inches away and repeated his name sternly, he opened his eyes and was able to keep them open. His right arm burned and ached like it had months ago. The muscles felt fatigued as if he had been lifting crates all day, and his shoulder was racked with lightning pains at the slightest movement. Eilian looked down at the bandaged stump. It was tucked into a sling and peeking out the other end was a metal hand. He stared at the hand, p
icturing it closing as he would with his left arm, but nothing happened. The prosthesis wasn’t working. His chest heaved as panic set in, and he fought back the sobs threatening to spew out. Had it all been in vain?

  “It didn’t work,” he cried as a wave of acerbic bile clawed up his throat. “Oh, God, it didn’t work. I— I need a bucket.”

  Eliza whipped the wash basin from the corner of the room and placed it in his lap just as he retched. She sat close to him and rubbed his back as he let his emotions take over despite himself. Sobbing between bouts of vomit, Eilian cradled his mutilated arm. In his vulnerable state, there was no way to stop what poured out. The doctor and the butler froze in their stations as the future earl gave in. Mrs. Hawthorne was speaking, but he couldn’t hear her.

  “The battery isn’t in,” she repeated when he finally grew quiet. “We can’t put it back in until your nerves acclimate to the needles, otherwise the hand will twitch uncontrollably for days. Eilian, it worked. We tested it but couldn’t leave the power source in.”

  “Really?” he peeped as he tried to suppress the vomit long enough to speak.

  “Yes, the prosthesis works, and in a couple of weeks, once you are more fully healed, you can start learning to use it. Hadley still needs to install the external apparatus, but your stitches must come out first obviously.”

  “Good, good.” He swallowed hard before retching painfully into the bowl. His ashen face and neck glistened with cold sweat. “Why am I throwing up so much, James?”

  “A combination of ether and morphine for the pain is causing that. Sorry, Eilian, but chloroform is too dangerous to use in my opinion, so you have to deal with the nausea for a little while longer.”

  Drawing closer, the doctor listened to Lord Sorrell’s heart again, then his lungs before finally checking where the bandage met the metal rod. Staring down at the realistically articulated fingers attached to a curved palm that mirrored his left but in molded metal, Eilian couldn’t help but smile. Unlike the other prosthesis, which was beautiful but far from fitting in with his life, the new arm was a part of him now. No matter how out of place it looked, he already knew it fit into his world far better than brass and porcelain ever could. When he finally glanced up, he noticed the dark circles ringing the physician couple’s eyes as they hovered near. He wished that when he had awoken the first time after the crash, he had seen their loving faces, full of concern and comfort instead of those heartless, self-serving surgeons. As James stepped to the side, Eilian spotted Patrick sitting on a wooden chair, watching him.

  “If I’m all right, except for the vomiting, you both should go to bed. Patrick will gladly act as my nurse and summon you if anything should happen. You have been up half the night and God knows how long this morning,” Eilian said as he watched the sun peer over the tops of the houses in the distance through the window.

  With a single glance, the Hawthornes nodded and agreed to leave for a few hours to recuperate from the stressful night. Eliza checked his vitals and bandages one more time while James gave him a new vessel to deposit his sputum in before heading down the hall to sleep. Once they disappeared down the stairs to the lower floor, silence fell over the room. Knowing everything would be fine, he closed his eyes, hoping the nausea would pass, and fell back asleep. After a few hours of dreamless sleep, the archaeologist opened his eyes only to meet Patrick’s piercing, powder blue gaze.

  “Come on, I know you are itching to come over,” Eilian chuckled weakly as he patted the mattress. The butler sat beside him on the bed and eyed the prosthesis with keen interest. “So, Pat, what do you make of it?”

  “It isn’t as pretty as the other one, but I think it suits you.” He smiled as he met his master’s eyes. “You look well, sir.”

  “Do you feel better about it now?”

  “Yes, I have felt increasingly better since we carried you back upstairs. I’m looking forward to helping you again when you receive the rest of your prosthesis, like I did when you were recovering before. Now that I see what all this fuss was for, I think it was worth it too. I’ll still worry until you’re fully healed though. Mrs. Hawthorne told me about the sanitization techniques they use to calm me down. She also described how your new arm will work, and it sounds quite ingenious.”

  He studied the fingers again. “It is, isn’t it? What did you think of Miss Fenice when she came for the consultation?”

  The butler thought for a moment. “Humble, but quite scary. I don’t know how to feel about someone who pulls a gun on my… friend.”

  With a smile, he continued, “Would you do me a favor, Pat, and write Miss Fenice a thank you letter? I would like to thank her for building this marvelous prosthesis and tell her that, according to Eliza, it’s in working order. Also, it should be mentioned that whenever she needs to stop by to inspect the arm or to install the rest of it, she is more than welcome to call on us at any time without warning.”

  Patrick nodded and quickly scribbled out a note at the portable writing desk to be dispensed at the first post. He kept picturing the woman with the henna hair and pale cheeks. Her red brows and lashes were embroidered onto her linen skin. Miss Fenice’s face was graced with feminine angles, yet it was strong. Those dark blue eyes had not left his mind since he landed at the end of her gun. Eilian waited until his butler was engrossed in writing before he decided whether to say what was on his mind. Maybe it was the ether clouding his judgment. No, he was certain it was not, even if the others would assume it was.

  “When you are done, I need you to write a second letter to her, one that will be delivered at least some days later.”

  Without glancing up, Patrick asked offhandedly, “What would you like me to write in the letter to the lady, sir?”

  Lord Sorrell drew in a deep breath and released it gradually as a wave of pain passed through his arm but rapidly died out with the aid of the morphine. “I would like to make her a proposal.”

  The pen scratched into the parchment as he looked up in disbelief at his master.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Death Warmed Over

  Mounting the steps to the uppermost floor of her cousin’s house, Hadley Fenice’s stomach knotted and flipped though she wasn’t quite sure what exactly was bothering her. Her mind played out the day’s activities to pinpoint what could have caused such a gnawing in her stomach. She had eaten a hearty breakfast and then walked to the market. Nothing there was out of the ordinary. In the afternoon, she had baked a Bramley apple crumble, which was out of the ordinary but not so taxing as to unsettle her stomach. She had nervously checked the oven every ten minutes to ensure that it hadn’t burnt, but it still didn’t explain the tension.

  Was it fear that crept up her esophagus and down her arm, manifesting as a curious tremor that made the crumbs dance off the dessert’s surface? Hadley told herself that it wasn’t, but being at her cousin’s house reminded her too much of visiting George at the sanatorium. In the months since his death, she had enjoyed the luxury of a life free from the weighted worry of sickness and death, but now, she was forced to confront it again. It had been her idea to visit Lord Sorrell after his surgery. It seemed the proper thing to do since her invention was what caused him to go under the knife. At the top of the steps, she checked her reflection in the mirror, restlessly tidying her hair and blue walking-dress. The frock was the same one she wore to the Harbuckles’, but this time she hoped it would see a better outcome. The door to the guest bedroom stood open, and as she stepped inside with a measured smile, ready to present the viscount with her little cake, her heart plummeted to her stomach with a thump that rattled her hand.

  Eilian Sorrell was thoroughly unconscious when she reached his bedside. His shoulders were propped up with several pillows while his head listed limply to the side. Hadley drew in a tremulous breath as she compared her memory of his face from only a few days before when he visited her studio to the death mask he was wearing now. His eyes were daubed with sooty circles as if he had gotten in a fight while
his ashen skin glistened with perspiration. Beneath the quilt, his chest heaved, occasionally pushing little sighs of air from between his lips. She remembered how he gave the impression of being tall, even powerful, but today he had been reduced to a bird with a broken wing. Every muscle that was visible, including his exposed chest, which peeked out from beneath the blankets, appeared gaunter and more drawn than she remembered. Hadley was about to back out when she jerked back in alarm at the firm hand that came to rest on her shoulder. Her cousin smiled at her before peering past her into the guest room.

  “He looks good, doesn’t he?”

  “Does he?” Hadley replied, taking another look to ensure he had not suddenly perked up when she wasn’t looking. “He looks frightfully pale to me.”

  “Everyone looks that way after surgery. You don’t have to stand in the doorway like that, you are allowed in.”

  She stared at the sleeping man in the bed again and swallowed hard. “I— I don’t want to intrude while he is sleeping. I will just leave him the cake and come back later.”

  Eliza Hawthorne gently pressed her younger cousin’s arm as she led her inside. “Nonsense, stay a little.” She whispered, “He doesn’t bite. His butler left to get some supplies and set up the house for when he returns home, and trust me, he will enjoy the company when he’s awake.”

  Keeping her eyes locked on Eilian’s sleeping form, Hadley lowered herself into the chair that stood directly beside his bed. “Does he really look good?”

  She nodded as she pulled his blankets a little higher and checked his temperature with a press of her hand to his forehead and cheek. “He looks much better actually. He was positively green when he first woke up. Because the surgery was so sudden, he did not get to fast beforehand, so he was sick for a while after. Apart from that, the operation went incredibly well. There were not any complications or hemorrhages, and so far he has not even presented with a fever. The prosthesis went in quite easily, Hadley. You did a very good job with it, and it worked immediately when we attached the battery.”