by Lev AC Rosen
“Only if he knew it was us doing it,” Violet said. The sounds of the wall of gears ground outside the room as neither of them spoke.
“Maybe Miriam should just quit,” Jack said.
“And let that man determine her fate?”
“She wouldn’t be working here much longer, anyway.” Jack said confidently, “I doubt she’ll even be working here next year, one way or another.”
“Oh?”
“Toby will marry her. He loves her.”
Violet bit her lower lip, but her laughing was audible anyway. “I didn’t take you for such a romantic,” she said.
“What?”
“He loves her?”
“Well, he does.”
“You can tell from one night?”
“I could tell from one minute. I know love.”
“You sound like my brother.”
“Some poetry might do you some good, you know. You have a distinct lack of feminine feeling within your heart.”
“You seem to have enough for both of us.”
Jack snorted in the darkness, and Violet snickered. “Good night, then,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Good night,” he said.
They lay in silence awhile, the sound of the grinding gears swallowing up their humor. Eventually, Violet fell asleep. She dreamed that Volio had discovered her secret, and made her crawl on hands and knees through sharp scraps of brass before he tore off her clothes and began to laugh.
XI.
VIOLET had dark nightmares that night, and woke up blearly and upset in a way she couldn’t express. Jack, however, woke up with a plan.
“It would be just like any other prank,” Jack said when Violet came out of the water closet.
“What will?” she asked.
“Faking love notes to Volio. We take the notes from Volio, write back claiming to be Cecily, and all is well. Plus we’d get to read his love notes, which I’m sure will be funny.”
“And how does it end?” Violet asked.
“What?” Jack asked, putting on a tie.
“How does it end? Volio is here another year after this one. Do you really expect such a ruse to last that long? And what if he speaks to Cecily and she doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”
Jack finished tying his tie and they headed down to the dining hall for breakfast. “We write back—as Cecily—and tell him we can’t speak to him about it in public as long as he’s a student. And I doubt Miriam will be here next year, so it won’t have to last for long.”
“You assume Miriam will be gone soon because of your theory that Toby plans to marry her? What if she says no, or wants to continue to work? It seems wrong to force a time frame on a woman’s life based on your sense of romance,” Violet said crossly.
“It will be fun,” he told Violet as they chose kidneys and eggs from the buffet. “The ultimate prank, really. Long, yes, but enjoyable. A lot like your own little ruse.”
“My ruse,” Violet said, “is for the betterment of women everywhere.”
“And mine will save one particular woman from losing her employment and security.”
“If it works.”
“Same could be said of yours.”
Violet sighed and shrugged, which meant she would give in and play along, though she might occasionally complain about it. Jack grinned and they walked over to the table at which Toby and Drew were already eating.
“Listen,” Toby said in a low voice, leaning in after they had sat down, “Mir and I came up with a plan after you guys went to bed. We’re going to answer the note ourselves, pretending to be Cecily.”
Violet groaned and Jack laughed. “I had the same idea myself,” Jack said. “Ashton here is less than enthused.”
“I just think it doesn’t have an end in sight,” Violet replied. “You can’t keep him strung along forever. When he graduates, the truth will come out, and then what will happen?”
“I doubt it’ll be of much concern by then,” Toby said, leaning back into his chair. “The problem,” Toby continued, “is getting someone who can write a proper love letter. Miri says she doesn’t want to do it alone. It makes her feel … unhappy.”
“Ashton can!” Jack said, surely thinking of the actual Ashton, and not Violet. Violet glared at him. Realizing his mistake, Jack’s eyes widened in embarrassment.
“You?” Toby asked, looking at Violet. “No offense, mate, but you don’t seem to be possessed of much romantic feeling. We need something that sounds like it was written by a girl.”
“Jack means my cousin,” Violet said after some quick thinking. “His name is also Ashton. It is a family name.” She stopped to see if Toby and Drew found this peculiar. They didn’t seem to, so she continued. “He is a poet, and lives in town. We are supposed to see him on Sunday.”
“A poet?” Toby asked. “That could work right well.”
“We’ll ask him if he’ll help. I’m sure he will. He shares Jack’s fondness for … mischief.”
“It isn’t mischief,” Toby said. “It’s taking care of Miri. She’d do the same for us. I know you lads just met her, but she’s real loyal, and she likes you. Please?”
“Of course,” Violet said, feeling suddenly ashamed.
“Well, we should go,” Jack said, rising. “First mechanics class. If we’re late, Ashton won’t be able to finish both his and my work before class is over.”
Toby guffawed and nodded. “We’d best be off to see the new astronomy professor. I hear he’s a real brute. Let us know whether Bunburry lights himself on fire or breaks his nose this time.”
Violet nodded and strode out of the dining hall with Jack. She had forgotten they were going to mechanics. A whole day in her environment doing what she loved best. She grinned and nearly skipped as her step became lighter.
Jack put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re starting to walk a bit like a woman,” he whispered as they passed a second-year student, “which is impressive, as you never really did that before.”
Violet narrowed her eyes. She was going to say something rude, but they were suddenly at the mechanics lab, and she felt quite content.
* * *
HERBERT Bunburry was sitting at his large desk off to the side of the room. He smiled at Jack and Ashton as they entered the lab. He always began every year liking the first-years. By the end of the year, he would still like some of them, but some he would find terrifying, and others he wouldn’t like at all. He wondered what accidents the coming year would bring. Bunburry had long ago given up on supposing there might not be an accident each year. He had worked at Illyria only seven years, and so far had lost his eyebrows when an engine burst into flames, broken his leg and foot after a short-statured but particularly fearsome device had barreled into him at high speed, and broken his forearm after an innocently constructed mechanical singing bird plummeted into him and revealed itself to have a shockingly sharp beak. There had also been the year that Curio’s new oil substitute had exploded and turned him dark as a Moor for several months, and last year, when Cecily’s new chemical adhesive had resulted in his not being able to unclench his left hand from a fist for eight weeks. And of course, there was the first accident: an attempt by a student to make a automatic smithy—a giant forge with arms and legs. That had burned his neck and broken it, making it as fragile as a dried blade of grass.
But he didn’t mind, in the end. It was all for science; and, besides, he had fixed himself up. The mechanical kneecap prototype he had put into himself had since helped many others. The metal plate on his shoulder doubled as a small cabinet in which he kept vital tools, so he was never without them; and while the neck brace did make certain aspects of life—looking down, or up, or, really, anywhere but right in front of him—difficult, it was also oddly soothing, having the cool metal around his neck all day. He was quite willing to suffer for science. All the same, he hoped this year’s accident was innocuous. Perhaps he would just have the rest of his hair singed off—he didn’t have much left, a
fter all—or lose a fingernail. That would be nice.
Bunburry knew that many of the other professors had set first lessons, a way of ranking the students’ skill in that particular science, but Bunburry tried to make a new first lesson every year. Always something simple and fun, of course, but something that explored the students’ knack for creativity, as well. This year, he was especially pleased with his lesson. It wasn’t very complicated: He would simply ask them to make a toy. Bunburry knew that this would show him not only his students’ skill levels, but also their personalities. What, after all, is more personal than a toy? He was concerned that some students might spend too long attempting to come up with an idea, but he had brought a large book of popular toys to show them for inspiration. He had gotten it from a lady friend of his who worked as a shopgirl at Whiteleys Department Store. He loved department stores, with their huge halls and many floors smelling of wax and leather and metal. He often went to the toy department on Saturdays just to sit and relax and watch his shopgirl, who always treated him very nicely and brought him iced tea in the summer.
The students had all arrived while Bunburry was daydreaming, and were sitting at various tables, looking at him anxiously. He slowly rose to his feet and walked to the center of the room. “The texts for this class,” he said, the act of speaking making his narrow throat scratch and wheeze, “are Advanced Mechanical Science by John Horrshmann and The Workings of Things by the late Duke of Illyria. If you do not have those texts, see me after class. But for today, if you need them, borrow from a classmate.” Bunburry stopped to take a deep breath, as his throat could say only so much before it clenched, making breathing difficult. He coughed for a moment, then continued, “Today, there will be no lesson. I want to see what you can do. So your assignment is simply this: Make a toy.” Realizing he had left his book of toys on his table, Bunburry limped back to it, still speaking. “I have a book for inspiration, if you can’t come up with an idea. You may use anything in the room that doesn’t belong to another student, and you have the entire period. I recommend you sketch your design first and let me look it over.”
The best part of this assignment, Bunburry reasoned, as another coughing fit hit him, is that he wouldn’t have to talk much longer. He reached his desk, collected the large book of toys, and held it aloft. “Use this book, if you have no ideas. You may begin whenever you’d like.” The students hurriedly began to work.
Violet sighed and took out a piece of parchment. A toy? She knew that this was the basic class, almost introductory, but she had already designed a toy this year, and it seemed silly to waste her time on another. Still, she may as well get it over with. Perhaps a variation on the magnet techniques she had used for the ducklings?
“Must it be a toy for children?” Jack asked, grinning impishly. He was thinking of a clockwork toy he had seen in an exclusive shop, which used its gears to animate impressively lifelike—though somewhat disproportionate—characters in a rather unchildlike manner.
Bunburry gave him a long look. “I think in your case, Mr. Feste, it would be best if it were, yes.”
It didn’t take Violet much time to come up with a sketch: she would make a windup juggler. The clockwork would keep the arms moving in time, and the placement of magnets and the magnets in the juggler’s balls would keep the arc steady. She showed her drawing to Professor Bunburry, who glanced at it, smiled, attempted to nod, and then simply said yes.
Violet completed the skeleton of her juggler quickly. By then, the others were finishing up their sketches. Fairfax created plans for what Bunburry thought was a thoroughly unoriginal dancing girl, though he was too polite to say so. Merriman produced sketches for a flower bud that would ideally open in a most lovely manner when it was wound up. Lane made a design for a marching toy soldier.
Jack, however, had difficulty conceiving of an idea. “You must help me,” he said to Violet, who was carefully hammering softened bronze into a clown-like shape.
“I cannot come up with an idea for you,” Violet said, “but once you have one, I’ll help you execute it.”
“I lack creativity when surrounded by so much metal,” Jack said glumly, resting his chin in his hands. “Though I suppose I could just create my usual mischief.”
“Good,” Violet said.
“Perhaps something to aid a child’s strength, so that they could lift chairs and other things too heavy for them to lift otherwise. They could convince their parents the house is infested with spirits.”
“Or so they could help around the house,” Violet said.
“Well, then it wouldn’t be a toy, would it?”
“Hm,” Violet said.
“I’m not sure how I would go about making such a thing, though.”
“It wouldn’t be very hard,” Violet said, finishing up her clown. She placed a ball in each of his hands and began winding the key on his back. “You’d want to extend the child’s reach and strength, so you’d have to make some sort of harness, with some springs and pulleys. The really hard part would be producing sufficient energy. It’ll take quite a few turns of the crank and a fairly large spring.” She stopped winding and placed the clown on the table. It began tossing the balls in the air and catching them again, and continued doing so for a few moments as everyone paused to look at it. Then, with a flourish, Violet tossed the last ball at the clown, and as if by magic, it fell into the arc with the other two. The clown continued juggling all three as though it had always been doing so. Merriman applauded. Violet put her hands on her hips, pleased.
“Nicely done, Mr. Adams,” Professor Bunburry said. “You may now work on your own project or assist your classmates, whichever you’d prefer. It’s really a lovely piece. You could probably sell it to a toy maker.”
Violet tilted her head and regarded the clown. She hadn’t worked very hard on the visual details, so his grin seemed false, his skull a little misshapen. She shook her head. “Oh no, sir, I would never feel right submitting something I had only made in a day and not spent time perfecting.”
“Of course,” Bunburry said in an approving tone. “Just put it on the shelf next to the other finished pieces. Sometimes the other teachers like to come in and look around.” Violet did as she was told and returned to Jack, who by now had doodled an innocent little girl standing in front of a shocked mother and father, who stared aghast at a pile of furniture in the corner of their parlor.
“I don’t think that will help much,” Violet said.
“Well, it’s all I’ve got.”
“Here.” Violet took the pen and paper from Jack and began sketching a design. “The harness needs longer arms and a pump that fits in back to power them. You could make it steam powered, so it wouldn’t need any winding, but then it wouldn’t be good for children. Next, the child fastens these metal arms over his arms, you put in a clamp or such so he can control the grasp, and there you are. Two long, powerful arms. But as I said, to keep it going for even a few minutes, he’d need to wind it nearly a hundred times.”
“You make it look easy.”
“It is. Simple mechanics. Now, go ask Bunburry to approve it, and start making it, or you’ll be in here during your independent time.”
“And you wouldn’t enjoy my company?” Jack asked with large, hurt eyes.
Violet glared. “You’d prevent me from getting anything done.”
“I am quite distracting,” he said. “It’s because I’m so terribly good-looking.”
Violet looked about to see if anyone had heard that last comment, but no one had. Rolling her eyes, she walked to her cubbyhole, took out the plans from yesterday, and laid them down at the table, while Jack went to ask Bunburry’s approval for his faux-poltergeist machine.
Violet rolled out her notes from the previous night and sighed. Here were her sketches for the engine—clever, to be sure, and elegant—and here were the sketches of what it was to power: another dancing girl. But this one was cursed more than most, for it would keep dancing for eternity, if her e
ngine worked. No—she could not bring herself to make it. With a growl, Violet crumpled the sheet of parchment covered with sketches of dancing girls into a ball in her fist.
“Angry?” Jack asked, returning from his talk with Bunburry.
“Did he like your plans?” Violet asked, ignoring the question.
“He did, though he says that in future it would be best if you were to let me design my own schematics so that I can better learn the art of mechanical science.”
“Ah.” Violet looked at Jack’s sketches, and his clever drawing of the innocent girl.
“Why did you make it a girl, Jack?”
“What?”
“In your drawing, your child, the one who pulls the prank, is a girl.”
“Oh. I suppose a dress is easier to draw than trousers, is all.”
“It’s not because a girl is weaker than a boy, and so, would have more difficulty lifting something heavy?” Violet could feel that ticking in her brain again, as though someone had finally wound her gears back and the spring was about to release.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jack protested.
“But it is,” Violet said, “and I understand why. Women are, on the whole, physically weaker, which is one reason we—” Jack coughed loudly. “—they have so long been delegated to second-class status. They’re considered fragile.” Violet crossed her arms and looked anything but fragile.
Jack shook his head anxiously. “That’s really not what I meant by it. Look,” he said, drawing on a piece of paper, “a dress is just a triangle, like this, but trousers mean you have to show the knee, so its one rectangle over the other, but they need to taper, and—”
“I know, I know. I’m not mad at you,” Violet said. “In fact, you’ve given me an idea.”
“Oh, good. So you’ll help me build my poltergeist machine?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to do most of the work. Professor Bunburry keeps looking over here.”
“That’s all right,” Jack said. “Just tell me what to do.”