by Lev AC Rosen
Violet had mastered the art of dressing herself by now, binding and stuffing as she would have to do as a student. Her hair she tied back and tucked into her shirt collar so it appeared much shorter, and her sideburns she applied carefully. She looked at herself in the mirror again and found the image quite striking, if only because she saw a man holding a handbag, which seemed rather odd. There was no helping it now, though. She opened the door to her closet for Ashton to come in and look her over.
“You look quite the gentleman,” he said. “Let’s put you in the carriage before I lose my nerve.”
* * *
ANTONY had always thought himself a regular fellow. True, he had begun to have an unexpected curiosity lately in regards to young Mr. Adams, but he knew that at heart he was a common coachman. One day, he would settle down and have children. One day he would look back on his days as a coachman for an eccentric family of scientists as an adventure. His life would not be a grand one, but it would be a pleasant one, without surprises. So when he saw Violet emerge from the townhouse, looking for all the world like a small, genteel man, he did not at first recognize her. When he did, though, his shock was evident. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes bulged.
“Don’t look so surprised, Antony,” Violet said as she got into the carriage. “I plan to be a student at Illyria, and I deserve that, don’t I? Then this is the only way.” Ashton winked at Antony, who quickly closed his mouth and looked downward, not just because of the wink, but also because of the incredible plot to which he was now a party.
“Take him to Illyria,” Ashton said. “Call him by my name. I promise your discretion will be appreciated.”
With a deep breath, Antony took his seat on the carriage again. As he drove toward Illyria, he did his best to keep his eyes forward and his mind on the work, but he could not help but consider this scheme over and over. Certainly, he knew of Violet’s scientific proclivities, and certainly he wished her the best, but this sort of behavior was surely inappropriate for a young lady. And if she were unmasked, and he were revealed to have known … No, Ashton and Violet would never implicate him, and he could always feign ignorance. He was in no danger. And who was he, a common coachman, to question the games of the aristocracy? The extra pocket money they’d give him would surely be nice to have. And of course, there was always Ashton’s gratitude to consider.… Antony shook his head again and concentrated on the pull of the horses and the cobblestones. Best not to think at all while working. Best to work and then go home later and enjoy a good brew with some of the lads.
The coach pulled to a stop in front of Illyria. Violet hopped out and nodded at Antony, who bowed slightly. The gates were open already, as various young men had been coming and going all week to interview for the five coveted spots in the incoming class. Violet bravely steadied her shoulders, thrust them back, and walked forward with a slow and masculine gait. She took no notice of the gardens as she walked through them, sensing that lingering over the dahlias might bring about some feminine feeling, which she would just have to repress. She focused instead on the door ahead, and the servant who stood outside, wearing a top hat and coat and holding a piece of parchment.
As Violet approached, the servant looked her over. She tensed, but his expression revealed nothing but boredom. “Your name?” he asked.
“Ashton Adams,” Violet said.
The man looked over the list, nodded, and pulled open the great door for her. “Wait until your name is called,” he said.
The room immediately inside was small, but with a high, vaulted ceiling in the Gothic revival style, done in dark brass and gold, so that upon her stepping inside, Violet’s fair skin instantly took on a golden luster as it reflected the yellowed light from the room. The ceilings were ornately carved with what looked like scales and springs, and with images of gears and beakers and stars and elephants and all sorts of scientific symbols along the bottom, where it met the paneled dark wood and golden papered walls. The effect would have been gaudy if it weren’t so dark, but a little light crept in through the high windows, which made the place seem cathedral-like and eerie, as if everything should be whispered.
“Ashton!” Violet heard Jack call. She was confused for a moment—was Ashton there?—then remembered that he was talking to her. She looked across the room. There, sitting among a few other prospective students on low, dark wooden benches was Jack, grinning from ear to ear at the ruse.
“I thought you weren’t interviewing until next week,” Violet said, walking toward Jack. The other students were clearly thrown off by their friendship, and eyed the pair warily.
“I lied,” Jack confessed, shaking Violet’s hand before anyone could tell she held it out palm down, like a woman. “I wanted to surprise you, thought it might ease your nervousness a bit. And the look on your face has certainly taken away a bit of mine.”
Violet smirked. “Well, thank you,” she said, sitting down next to him. At his feet lay a small covered cage. “Did you find your ferret?” she asked, gesturing toward the box.
“Alas, no,” he said. “Bill is still roaming the countryside, a free-flying ferret.” One of the nearby applicants stared at Jack, his eyes wide. “Yes,” Jack said to the young man, “I made a ferret who could fly. What did you do?”
“I bred a purple frog,” the man said nervously.
“May I see it?” Jack asked excitedly.
“It died,” the student confessed, “but I have testimonials of those who saw it.”
“Well, I’m sure that will be splendid, then,” Jack said, and turned back to Violet. “No,” he continued, “Bill is still missing, so I made another. This one is female. I named her Sheila. She’s sleeping now, though, and doesn’t seem quite comfortable with her wings yet. I hope she still impresses the panel.”
Violet nodded. The panel would consist of all five professors and the duke himself. She swallowed, her mouth dry. Would the duke recognize her? If he did, would he expose her? What sort of an impression had she made on him? Would he remember her favorably?
“Relax,” Jack said, “you’re shivering like a woman.”
Violet narrowed her eyes at him, and he grinned widely. “How did you know I would be nervous, anyway?” Violet asked.
“You’re a confident … fellow,” Jack said, catching himself before he said girl, “but I knew you as a child. All those moments before you tested an invention for the first time, you would bite your nails and twitch and fret as much as Mrs. Wilks. I assumed today would be similar.”
“Well,” Violet said affectionately, “thank you for knowing me so well.”
Violet and Jack waited impatiently as the sands of time seemed to become muddy, moving both too slowly and too quickly. Other potential students marched into the room beyond two large doors as their names were called out by a footman, then tramped out again a few minutes later, some happy, some with their heads hanging low, and a few actually sniffling. They made small talk, Jack amusing himself by trying to throw Violet off her guard and trick her into some sort of innocent mistake. Violet enjoyed the challenge, but their hearts were not really in it. Rather, their hearts were beating in time to the large clock that hung on the wall, with its visible twirling gears, and the heaving mechanical sound that echoed through the building.
“John Feste, Jr.” the footman called suddenly. Jack’s eyes widened slightly. Violet wanted to squeeze his hand to reassure him, but knew that this was a feminine inclination, so she patted him heartily on the back instead.
“Good luck,” she said in a heavy voice.
“Thanks,” Jack squeaked, for he was now overcome with nervousness. He almost forgot his second flying ferret and had to come back for it after taking a few steps. The door slammed behind him, and Violet stared after, offering a silent prayer for his success.
But a minute later it seemed that he didn’t need it, for much shrieking laughter and clapping came from within. Relieved, Violet focused her attention on the sounds of the building. She could hear th
e large echo of the waterwheel and a thousand clicks and grinds of gears elsewhere in the building, though what they were operating, Violet couldn’t tell. The sounds composed a sort of music for Violet as they moved in time, grinding along, with the occasional twang of springs like a violin floating over it all. Were these the gears that powered the entire college? Violet bit her lower lip, trying to imagine all the machines the college must have: Babbage’s analytical engines, of course—several of them, she imagined—a lift, a forge, and loads more.
Violet realized that biting her lower lip was probably a rather feminine gesture, so she released it, just as Jack emerged from the hall. He looked a bit flustered but quite cheerful, his face red but smiling, his hair tousled and stuck to his forehead with sweat. His green eyes twinkled with repressed laughter. The cage in his hand shook, and small squeaking noises escaped from it.
“I let Sheila out, to prove she could fly,” he explained. “She could, but catching her was a bit of an adventure.”
Before Violet could inquire as to how Jack retrieved the ferret, the footman said, “Prospective students who have already interviewed must leave the premises,” and gave them a pointed look. Jack shrugged, then made a face at the footman when he turned away.
“Good luck, mate,” Jack said, slapping Violet on the back. “I’ll see you tonight.” Violet nodded and continued waiting. A few more young scientists were called into the room and came back out again, all of them looking exhausted afterwards.
“Ashton Adams,” the footman intoned. Violet swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Then she steeled herself, picked up her handbag, and went through the doors.
The hall Violet entered was over two stories high, again with tall vaulted ceilings of bronze and gold, and paneled wood walls. There were windows, plenty of them, and though some light did make it to the floor in small patches, much of it was eaten or tinged with bronze. In the center of the hall was a platform holding six large chairs, a man in each of them. Violet recognized the duke immediately, and the others vaguely, since they were all famous in their fields and she had seen their portraits before. But she was so distracted by the wall behind them that she paid little attention to them at first.
This wall was obviously the other side of the wall with the waterwheel, and at last she understood how it powered the school. In the center of the wall was one giant gear, rotating in time with the waterwheel. This gear was beautiful: gilded, with gemstones set into it, and the school’s motto—ARS GLORIA HOMINI EST, “Invention Is the Greatness of Man”—engraved on it in large, beautiful letters. This gear alone was a work of art worthy of admiration, but what truly earned the sigh of joy that escaped Violet’s lips was what it was attached to: hundreds of thousands of other gears, all connected, all of which would turn for as long as the Thames kept flowing. They coated the wall, breaking only for windows, and rose high into the ceiling. Violet reasoned that they must keep going beyond it, to the other floors, and other parts of the college, a wall of constantly turning gears, energy perpetually on tap for any inventor anxious to use it. On either side of the great gear were smaller gears with large gaps that showed two large stained glass windows, depicting John Snow and Charles Babbage. They projected a dim, warm light onto the floor.
“It’s a clever idea, isn’t it?” the duke said. “It was my father’s, of course. It extends to the top of the building, and down into the basements, too. It powers our analytical engines, some of the machines in the kitchen, mechanical room, and student lounge. The gears are all fitted so that you can attach extensions to them to power any invention of your own. For testing, really. A machine that has to be fit into the school for a power supply isn’t all that impressive.”
Violet marveled at the wall, lost in the complex pattern of gears reaching forever higher and out of sight.
“You’re Ashton Adams,” the duke said.
Violet nodded, and tried to focus on the duke and his companions.
“Please, have a seat.” The duke indicated a small chair that stood in front of the platform, so that the panel of judges could gaze down upon the applicant.
Violet sat, and discovered it to be most unnerving to be watched thus.
“I met your sister,” the duke said.
Violet inclined her head. “She mentioned that she had the honor of meeting Your Grace,” she said, “and that you showed her the gardens. That was most generous. She was touched.”
“Was she?” the duke asked. “She left in such a hurry.”
“Yes! She wished to apologize for that,” Violet said, thinking quickly as she could. “She suddenly remembered a promise to Mrs. Wilks—that’s our housemaid—that she would be home for a dress fitting by five.”
A man at the end of the platform laughed in what Violet thought was a most undignified manner. He was heavy, and his black curls were receding in a rather frantic way. His skin was puffy and had the blotchy appearance of illness, and his eyes seemed to be bulging from his skull. “Women and their dresses,” he said. “She was rude to a duke because of a dress!” Here he laughed again, a horrid barking sound. Violet tried not to stare.
“This is Professor Bracknell,” the duke said, “he is our Astronomy professor. Professor Cardew, our usual Astronomy professor, has left for America, to help decide how to standardize global time,” the duke said. “Professor Bracknell is his substitute. Are you familiar with Dr. Cardew?”
“Yes. My father is J. C. Adams. He’s at the same conference.”
“’E used to be the head astronomer at Cambridge, right?” Bracknell said, his eyes narrowing. “I hear ’e’s a bit of a loony. Wants to start time in London?”
Violet bit her tongue to keep from defending her father, but luckily the duke stepped in. “Now, now, Professor Bracknell. I’ve read Dr. Adams’s work. He is a brilliant man with reasons for his decisions. And we certainly shan’t refer to him as a loony again, particularly in front of his son.” The duke looked over at Bracknell as he said this, and Bracknell mumbled some meek agreement. “Let me introduce the rest of the faculty,” the duke said to Violet. “Next to Professor Bracknell is Professor Curio, who teaches the chemical arts.” The man sitting next to Bracknell was tall and lean, with a prominent chin and eyes that seemed to be of two different colors. He nodded at Violet, and then nodded again—or perhaps he twitched; Violet couldn’t be sure. “And next to him is Professor Prism, who teaches reckoning.” Professor Prism, Violet thought, seemed like the sort of man who could be someone’s grandfather—he had a white beard and mustache and a puff of misty white hair on his head. He also wore a pair of glasses with several lenses attached to them on hinges, so that they could be flipped in front of his eyes as necessary. He currently he had two lenses—one clear and one red—in front of his left eye, and four lenses—two clear, one green, and one blue—in front of his right eye, and there were many more of them flipped up, like little antennae. The effect was quite strange. Professor Prism smiled broadly and cocked his head at Violet, making him seem like a large, hungry bug, and Violet nodded back, trying not to look terrified. “To my right is Professor Valentine.” Violet had seen many portraits and photographs of Valentine, who seemed to love having his image captured. He had chin-length blond curls, a rather pointed nose, and was constantly pinching his face as though he had smelled too much ether. In person, Violet thought, he looked as though he wore rouge—and if that were not odd enough, he wore it more heavily than any woman—and while the other professors all wore plain suits, Valentine wore what looked like a blue smoking jacket. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and waved it happily at Violet, grinning. Violet nodded. “Valentine teaches biological science, as I think you know. And to his right is Professor Bunburry, who teaches mechanical science.” Violet had read about Professor Bunburry, and his numerous unfortunate accidents with his machines. He was a tall, broad man, with very little hair and an extremely erect posture, probably owing to the giant metal brace around his neck, which stretched from just under his chin to ov
er his shoulders, like a funnel. One of his hands had been replaced with a clockwork appendage that he had designed himself, and he walked with a limp from the weight of his metal foot. He wore a pair of tiny spectacles, which looked quite fragile balanced on his nose. He looked at Violet but made no motion, so Violet simply bowed her head low. The man was a mechanical genius, to be sure, but it was hard to tell where he ended and the mechanical began.
“Now that you have been introduced, let’s go over your application. I’m the only one who has read it, so I will tell all of you that young Ashton here wrote a quite brilliant essay on the possibilities of space travel”—Bracknell snorted, but all the other professors ignored him, and Violet thought it best to follow their example—“and the plans for a rather clever handbag which he made.”
“A handbag?” Professor Bracknell sneered.
“Is that it?” the duke asked, nodding to the handbag that Violet was still clutching with nervous palms.
“Yes,” Violet said.
“Why don’t you show my colleagues what it does?”
Violet took a deep breath and stood, taking the toy ducks out of the handbag and placing them on the floor before demonstrating. The handbag was simple enough, not very stylish, but not ugly. Plain and simple. Violet held it up for the professors to see, then opened it. On the handle of the bag was a switch, which she flipped. The bag trembled slightly in her grasp as the gears inside it set to work. Quickly, but with a clean motion, the handbag unfurled itself, cloth stretching out where it had been tucked, bars unfolding, wheels emerging, all from their little hiding holes within the handbag. Within a moment, Violet’s hand lay on the handle of a full-sized perambulator, its wheels resting on the ground. For show, Violet gave the perambulator a push, and it rolled forward a few feet.
“Extraordinary,” the duke said.