All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  Cecily walked around the table to stand next to Violet and looked over the plans, her body hovering close to Violet’s. “Yes,” Cecily said, “I see—a few turns of the key and it could power something for ages. This could be revolutionary.”

  “If your … clay works, yes,” Violet said. The sadness she felt moments before had faded. She looked at Cecily’s face, the way she studied the plans and furrowed her brow when thinking. Here, finally, was a sister scientist.

  “Then I shall make sure it does,” Cecily said. “What is your engine powering?”

  Violet met Cecily’s gaze, but paused. She hadn’t shown anyone the plans for her machine yet. She had told Miriam the basic idea, but the specifics, the look of it, were secret so far, and she enjoyed keeping that secret. In fact, she feared that if anyone were to look at her plans and see the form of the machine—its feminine shape, the drapes of metal—that they might be able to see her own secret. She looked Cecily over, from top to bottom, wondering if she could trust her. The girl was no fool, certainly, but she was much more of a girl than Violet herself had ever been, and Violet wondered if she was the sort who giggled and gossiped about things that delighted her.

  Cecily looked surprised by the delay, and opened her mouth as if to retract her request, but Violet spoke first. “If I show you,” Violet said, “will you keep them secret? Even from your cousin?”

  Cecily pursed her lips. “Of course,” she said, “if you ask me to.”

  “I do,” Violet said, pulling out the plans. “I want it to be a surprise.” She unrolled the plans and showed them to Cecily, watching her face. Cecily’s eyes sharpened and focused on the sketches and notes, taking everything in a bit at a time.

  “Why … this is genius,” Cecily whispered. “With this device, well, anyone could do difficult jobs. Old men could work well past the age they normally could.”

  “And women would be able to work as men do.”

  “Yes. That’s why it looks like … that’s very clever. And so thoughtful, to come up with an idea like this. So sensitive to the gentle sex, that you wish to give us the opportunities this will provide. You’re a very generous man,” she said, gazing at Violet in a way that made her uncomfortable. Especially when paired with the word man.

  Violet stroked her own neck, swallowing. She wanted to reveal the truth, but knew she could not. “Thank you,” she said, instead.

  “If you sketch me the exact gears you need, with specific measurements, I can make the molds for them,” Cecily said.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  “It would be a pleasure. And it will assist me in testing this formula.” Cecily looked up at the doorway of the lab, where Miriam stood in the frame, shadowy. “I’d best be going to check on the clay now,” she continued. You’ll get those sketches ready for me? I can collect them on Monday?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good,” Cecily said, heading toward the door of the lab.

  As Cecily walked out of the room, she had to restrain herself from skipping. How good she felt! How nice it was to stand so close to Ashton and look over his designs. And to find that what she knew in her heart—that he was a good, generous man, worthy of her love—was true. She clasped her hands to her chest and walked out into the hallway, smiling. Miriam nodded at her and followed her, walking a step behind, like a shadow.

  “Isn’t he a wonderful man?” Cecily asked.

  “I couldn’t really say,” Miriam said. How sad Miriam was, Cecily thought, to have lost her love so young and become a widow, without the ability to see the beauty in men such as Ashton, or to fall in love with them.

  Cecily boarded the lift and pulled the crank with some force, sending it up a floor, and then pulled the crank again to stop it. It was possible that Ashton had some sort of love outside of Illyria. But Cecily didn’t think so. She would know. Ashton didn’t have that droopy-eyed look Cecily knew from so many other young men at Illyria. That look of pining, and wandering thoughts. So many young men in the school were in love with someone. She thought maybe a handful were in love with her, and she rather enjoyed that sort of flattery, but it must be insufferable for the others: having to focus their minds on their work while their hearts longed to be far from school, gazing at the object of their affections. How lucky Cecily was that her love should come to Illyria so that she needn’t go out and seek him.

  As they walked past the door to the biological lab, a rat came bolting out of it. Cecily shrieked and stepped back a pace. She would not faint, though. She wasn’t that sort of girl.

  “Sorry! I am so, so sorry, Miss Cecily,” said a young man who chased out after the rat and grabbed it up in his hands. Cecily nodded, and noticed that it wasn’t actually a rat, but a weasel of some sort, with a long, wiggling body and bright black eyes that regarded her happily.

  “I thought it was a rat,” Cecily said.

  “Oh no,” said the young man, “it’s a ferret. His name is Dorian. Would you like to pet him?” Cecily looked the ferret in the eye as it wiggled about in the young man’s hands. It had a charm to it.

  “Certainly,” she said, stepping forward to stroke the creature’s head.

  “I’m Jack, by the way,” said the young man. Cecily looked up at him, and he smiled. He wasn’t a bad-looking young man, she thought. His features lacked Ashton’s gentle refinement, but he had sweet bright green eyes and a goodly shaped face, and his blond hair looked soft to the touch.

  She smiled back. “I’m Cecily,” she said.

  “Oh, I know, miss,” Jack said. He was sweating now.

  “Am I so famous?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, looking uncomfortable. “You’re so lovely. How could anyone not—?”

  “Oh,” Cecily said. This was one of the handful who was in love with her. Why did they always focus on her beauty? Could they not tell her she was clever, or at least focus on something more specific, like how her eyes shone with intelligence, or her lips curled so nicely? Ashton would tell her those things, she was sure.

  “Oh?” Jack asked.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s very easy to call me lovely when you see no other women during the day but Miriam, who shrouds herself in black.”

  “Well, I’ve never had the chance to speak to you before, so I could not judge your wit, or really anything other than the beauty that I’ve seen from afar.”

  Cecily raised an eyebrow. “And now?” she asked. “Can you judge my wit now?”

  Jack swallowed. “I think I would need more time with you,” he said.

  Cecily laughed. “You’re certainly cheeky,” she said. Jack grinned. “And your ferret is quite cute. What experiments do you plan to enact on him?”

  “I want to teach him to sing,” Jack said, and looked down at the animal. “Like a bird.”

  Cecily reached out to stroke the creature’s head again. By now it had given up on squirming free. Cecily’s hand brushed Jack’s as she petted the ferret, and she quickly pulled it back. “Well, that will be quite an accomplishment, if you are successful.”

  “If I am successful, may I show you?”

  “You may show anyone you like, I’d imagine,” Cecily said, sounding perhaps a little crueler than she meant. “And next time, if you wish to flatter me, I’d suggest doing so more succinctly. Beauty is such a broad term, as though you’re not really sure why you find me beautiful.” And with that, she continued down the hall, Miriam trailing after her.

  “There are many reasons,” Jack called after her. “I shall name them for you, if you let me.”

  Cecily smiled to herself, but she didn’t turn back, so Jack couldn’t see her expression as he watched her vanish down the hall.

  Nonetheless, Jack felt elated. He had spoken with Cecily. She had spoken back, and proved to be clever and smart. Her hand had grazed his. She really was the most beautiful creature in the world. He clutched Dorian to his chest and sighed as he reentered the lab, then put Dorian in his cage, where he began to leap aro
und wildly, mimicking Jack’s heart.

  Now, he realized, he needed to make the ferret sing. He hadn’t really planned on doing that—he had been thinking about giving it two sets of bat wings, so that it would be able to bounce in the air as it did on land, but that had not seemed like the right answer to give to Cecily. So he would make the ferret sing, evidence of the romance of his soul. Dorian danced about as if on fire.

  Jack worked for the next few hours, performing extensive surgery on both Dorian and a pigeon named Albert under Valentine’s watchful eye. By suppertime, the pigeon had died and Dorian would occasionally make an uncomfortable sound—half coo, half cough—then begin bouncing around as if shocked and unable to tell where the sound had come from.

  “Well, it was a good try,” Valentine said, patting Jack lightly on the shoulder, “but I think you should study up on the voice box a little more before you attempt anything like it again. You’ll find it in chapter forty-six of my book.”

  Jack nodded. He needed a drink.

  * * *

  AT supper, everyone was glum. Jack had killed a pigeon and felt terrible about it, Toby and Drew had had unproductive days in the lab, and Violet felt guilty for even being there, but couldn’t talk to anyone about it.

  “It’s a good thing we’re going drinking tonight,” Toby said, playing with his food. “And we can still test my formula in the morning, right? Just ’cause it made the rats vomit and faint doesn’t mean it’ll have the same effect on us.” Jack and Violet exchanged a glance. Drew nodded. A peculiar smell drifted off him, like roses and camphor. It did not help anyone’s appetite.

  “Let’s go,” Toby said after a minute. “I need a drink before I can eat.” The others stood, scooted back their chairs in silence, and followed Toby out.

  From the professors’ table, Miriam watched them go and wondered when she might be free enough to join them. She missed Toby’s arms, and his odd smell—warm ale and chemicals. When they had first met out at the pub, she hadn’t thought much of him: large, loud, drunk, not an uncommon man. His being a student at Illyria made him slightly more interesting, and his laughter at her when she asked him not to tell anyone about her going out at night was, if not charming, then endearing. Younger, yes, but full of merriment and generosity. He wouldn’t persecute her, he said, just for wanting a drink. He was handsome, too, with soft skin and large smiling eyes, though he hid it under all that bluster and sweat.

  “And so,” Cecily was telling her cousin, “Ashton said that if my formula works out as I plan, he would like to use it in his own invention!” She was pleased with herself.

  “I’m not sure, Cecily, that I like you being so intimate with the students,” the duke said, casting a glance at Miriam. Miriam met his eyes but said nothing.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Cousin Ernest,” Cecily said. “Ashton is a sweet boy, with a gentle soul, but I wouldn’t want to distract him from his studies.” She put a particular, wicked emphasis on the word distract. “I’m just going to help him. He’s quite clever. He showed me the plans for his engine.”

  “Will it work?” the duke asked.

  “Oh yes, if I can get my parts to work.”

  “Perhaps I shall go down and see these plans myself, then.”

  “All right, but don’t be so stuffy, and don’t tell him not to be friends with me. I may be friends with whoever I’d like.”

  “As long as his marks keep up,” the duke said, frowning slightly, then biting into a piece of bread. What is it about Ashton Adams that is so alluring to everyone around him? First Aunt Ada bets that he will be the most surprising, and then Cecily goes out of her way to befriend him and even assist him in his work. And, the duke had to confess, he felt a strange sort of attraction to the young man himself. It would be best, he decided, to investigate, to drop in on him often, and see how his work went. Maybe Cecily was right after all, and he was simply a genius of such high caliber that he impressed everyone around him. And if that were the case, the duke might enjoy exchanging ideas with him. Which of course, was what an education at Illyria was all about. He would take the young man under his wing, perhaps, and foster his various talents.

  Miriam cleared her throat. “Sir?” she asked, and he nodded. Supper was done, and she was free to go for the evening. He never asked where she took herself on her free weekends. He assumed she went to her house of worship, somewhere in the city, but didn’t know where it was, and thought it rude to ask.

  “Are you going?” Cecily asked Miriam. “Isn’t it a little early?”

  “Would you like me to stay longer?” Miriam asked.

  “No, it’s all right,” Cecily said with a sigh. “I just always miss you when you go.”

  “I miss you, too,” Miriam said, smiling. She kissed Cecily on the forehead and stood. “But you’re a young lady now. Soon you’ll have no need of a governess.”

  “Then I shall make you my lady’s maid. I think you will be with me forever and ever.”

  “I shall be your friend forever, if nothing else,” Miriam said, and patted Cecily on the head. “Sweet dreams. I shall see you in the morning.” Cecily nodded and turned back to her empty plate. Miriam took the stairs to the high bridge, which stretched across the Great Hall and to the duke’s apartments. She had a small room next to Cecily’s, with a bed and a wardrobe. Leaving on the weekends was always difficult, as she didn’t want the duke or Cecily to see her in any of her more lascivious gowns. But it was cool enough now that she could throw a cloak over her red silk dress, and let her hair down later. She didn’t mind these little inconveniences. They were worth her freedom. Keeping that freedom was becoming more difficult to maintain with Volio making demands on her.

  She nodded at the doorman as she left the college, and hailed a parked hansom cab. In the cab, she took her hair out of the large bun at the back of her head, let it fall over her neck, and loosed her cloak, showing the low neckline of her dress. She wished for a moment that she had more to show, like Cecily—ten years her junior, and far more voluptuous—but smiled again, thinking of how Toby had once told her he loved the litheness of her body.

  Her freedom came in part from her outsider status. She had learned she was an outsider when she was still a child in Persia. She had learned how to use being an outsider in Paris, where her family had moved when she was six. At school, she would tell her headmistress she needed to leave for religious reasons. The headmistress, not knowing better, would nod, and Miriam would spend her day on the Seine. Adults would walk by her and assume she was working because her dark skin relegated her in their minds to servant status. Only her family and the Jewish community kept a tight grip on her, and when she came to London at sixteen to be married, that grip slipped. When she was widowed, it let go altogether.

  Miriam’s late husband was named Joshua, but there wasn’t much to say about him beyond that. It was an arranged marriage. She had moved with her father from Paris to London when she was sixteen so she could be married. Her mother had died a year before that. Joshua was a sweet, wiry man, with thick curly hair and perpetual stubble, no matter how often he shaved. On their wedding night, he had been sweet to her, but quiet. They had never learned to talk to one another, beyond simple pleasantries. Then the army had moved him around for a few months, and Miriam was left alone to make their new home. Her father died, and Joshua came home and told her he would take care of her, and Miriam almost believed him. He had been the sort of man she could have seen herself falling in love with, given enough time. She also could have grown to hate him, but he had gentle eyes, and long eyelashes, so she preferred to think it would have been the former.

  And then, nine months into the marriage, he died. Fell off a horse and was trampled. At the funeral, she didn’t cry; afterwards, her in-laws had tried to take her in, make her family, but she had just walked away. She remembered that as she walked away from the funeral, from the East End, from the mere outline of a life she had there, that it had begun to rain, and she had walked through London in a
wet and torn black dress, with a black handkerchief in her hand, and had felt her chest open like wings.

  She discovered that very day that no one in London minded a Persian—or Arab, or whatever they thought she was—woman drinking with men at a low-class pub. They assumed she was a prostitute. And if anyone knew her as something else—a governess, a widow—they would never realize that the Miriam Issacs they knew and that dark-skinned woman at the bar were the same. No one paid that much attention to dark-skinned women at the bar, after all. Or anywhere else.

  As long as she was clever, she was free to do what she pleased. And she did. She made love to Toby in hotel rooms on Saturday night, and wandered the streets of London alone. She let the rain fall on her face.

  Volio could take all this away from her. He needed to be stopped. Could she trust Toby and the others to handle this for her? She wasn’t sure. Their idea of false notes exchanged with Volio seemed clever, but how long could they keep it up? And was Volio really so conceited that he could believe that any real note from Cecily would include anything but a polite rejection of his advances? Miriam tilted her head and looked out at passing London. He probably was. Maybe the idea would work. And if it didn’t, she would figure something out. She usually did. She wasn’t a genius, like the people who surrounded her—Cecily had long ago become more of a teacher than a student in all her lessons but French—but she was smart. She knew how to come back from disaster and form a life, a good life, for herself. And she could certainly do it again, if she was required to. Perhaps she could move back to France, this time. Or Greece.

  The cab came to a stop outside the Well-Seasoned Pig, and Miriam was helped out by the cabdriver, whom she paid, and who smiled at her lecherously. She restrained herself from kicking him in the shin and went into the bar. Her group was sitting in a corner, eating and drinking. Toby and Drew seemed to be in good spirits again, Toby chewing perhaps too vigorously on a banger and Drew shifting about in his seat in time to the music coming from the old piano in the corner. She had a certain affection for Drew. He reminded her of a puppy: always eager to play until refused, and then he’d fall asleep at your feet. And he was a good young man, too. A little bit of a follower to Toby’s leader, but she imagined he’d grow out of that once Toby graduated. He would have to run his family business one day, after all. And he wasn’t stupid; he just fell asleep more easily than most.