All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  “But if they step in the mud,” Miriam said, “their boots are going to be dirty even if I wasn’t playing in the rain.”

  Her father sighed again and sat down, throwing a look at her mother. “It is different,” her mother said. “It is because we are Jews.”

  “Then I don’t want to be a Jew,” Miriam said.

  Her mother slapped her across the face. “Don’t ever say that,” her mother said, and pulled the now crying Miriam into a tender hug before dressing her. Miriam went back to kneeling at the window, and looking out at the rain. It fell heavier and heavier, but to Miriam, the thought of playing in it made her feel light.

  A week later, the local boys broke into her father’s shop again, and this time destroyed as much as they stole. Two weeks after that, her family left for Paris.

  Miriam stared out at the sky. The rain was coming down fiercely, so that she could barely see across the river.

  “When I said we’d meet in the garden, I assumed you would choose a place under the doorway, out of the rain,” Volio said harshly from behind her. Miriam turned. He was not dressed for the weather, and his dark hair was plastered to his ghostly skin, giving him a slimy and cold look. His eyes reflected the shine of a nearby electric lamppost.

  “I like the rain,” Miriam said simply. She took the false note out of her cloak pocket and handed it to Volio, who snatched her wrist with one hand and held it, removing the note with his other hand. He pocketed the note and grinned at her. “You have your note,” she said, trying not to sound afraid. “Now let me go.”

  “I was thinking about it,” Volio said, still holding her wrist, “about how I have devoted much of my life to scientific pursuits and thus have had little time to indulge in romantic ones. I have seen a whore now and then, but I don’t like paying for something others receive for free, so I usually go to the cheaper ones, who don’t know much about screwing like a lady. But you … you’re a high-priced whore, aren’t you? Fucking a baron, working as a governess. But you, I could fuck for free.”

  The rain had made her wrist slippery, so when Miriam pulled it back in disgust, it slipped from Volio’s grasp. Volio slapped her lightly across the face. “Not the way to respect your betters,” he said.

  “You are not my better,” Miriam said. “And the most you will get out of me are those letters. If you try to take more, I shall tell the duke of your attempts to force yourself on me, and if I lose my job, I shall not mind it.”

  Volio let out a single crack of laughter. “The duke?” he said. “The duke is nothing at Illyria. A figurehead. He wasn’t even invited to know the school’s secrets. He would be nothing against us.” His words hung in the air, confident and electric, as the rain continued to fall down around them.

  Miriam stared hard at Volio, trying to uncover his meaning, discern whether he was bluffing. Did he know something about the duke-automata? The rain fell hard on both of them, and a long roll of thunder vibrated the air.

  “Then I’ll tell Cecily you forced yourself on me. She certainly would never love you then,” Miriam said.

  Volio glared at her a moment, water running down his face, and then spit. “Fine,” he said. “Letters only. You’re a cunning bitch. I suppose most Jewesses are. I’ll give you my next note for Cecily the night after tomorrow. I shall need that time to put words to the sentimentality I feel in my heart.” He smiled in a way that made her shiver, and stalked off into the darkness.

  Miriam let out a deep breath and turned to face the river again, letting the rain pour down on her. She had experienced things in her life that frightened her before—hate and fire and violence—but Volio seemed to be something beyond all that. He had hate, fire, and violence in him, but it was his aura of cruelty that scared her, the thought that he felt so superior to all around him that he had the right to cut them open just to enjoy the smell of their blood.

  Miriam shivered again, her body becoming damp under the cloak. She was meeting Toby later at a hotel they often went to. She took another deep breath and listened to the sound of the rain a while longer before she set out for the road, thinking of Toby’s warmth, of his hands gliding around her waist and down her thighs, and of the way he smiled, filled with adoration and joy as he kissed her body. She would not tell him of Volio’s proposal. That would result in violence, and perhaps Toby’s expulsion, and if Volio wasn’t lying about his power, possibly worse. Truthfully, she didn’t know who really ran Illyria. She had always thought it was the duke, but Volio had spoken with such conviction that now she wasn’t sure.

  She pulled her cloak tightly around her and caught a cab to the hotel. She would tell Toby that the exchange went fine, that Volio said nothing of import, and then take him in her arms and make love to him until she forgot everything but the rain.

  XV.

  MALCOLM Volio was about to open his presents on his eleventh birthday, when the Duke of Illyria made him his heir. It was a sticky day in August, the kind where the heat crept into the house and made it like an oven. Even with the windows open and country breezes wafting about, the air seemed heavy. Malcolm was sitting on the floor, an array of wrapped gifts around him, his father and mother on chairs behind him, his mother doing needlepoint in that fierce, artless way she always did it. Malcolm’s elder brother, Ralph, was working on something in the stables, where he did most of his scientific work. He had just finished his first year at Illyria. He spent most of his time working now, sometimes with Father’s help. Father would have stayed working in the stables all day, too, if Mother hadn’t dragged him out.

  Malcolm had just chosen which present to open first—a large box from Aunt Jenny—when a coach pulled up outside the manor.

  “Who could that be?” Malcolm’s mother asked, throwing her needlepoint onto the table and rising stiffly to go to the window. “Whoever it is, we will send them away. It’s Malcolm’s birthday.”

  “It’s the duke,” Father said, after following Mother to the window.

  “Send him away, then.”

  “I cannot send away a duke. Besides, we have important things to discuss.”

  Mother sat down and began working on her needlepoint again, even faster and with more violence, the pin pushing in and out like a dagger through flesh. Malcolm decided it would be best not to open any presents just then, and instead turned toward the door and waited for the duke.

  A servant came in to announce the duke, who then entered. He was not the image of ferocity Malcolm had expected, but a withered old man supported by a thick brass cane, with small spectacles perched on an angular nose.

  “Volio,” the duke said to Father, who rose to shake hands with the duke. “And Millie. You look well,” the duke said to Mother, who looked up briefly, then went back to her needlepoint. Mother didn’t like being addressed by her Christian name, not even by Father. Father was looking at the duke in awe. Malcolm wondered exactly who he was. His father hardly looked at anyone, not even Malcolm. Father paid attention to very little besides his job and Ralph. “We have things to discuss, Volio,” the duke said, leaning on his cane. Father nodded, then looked at Mother, then back at the duke.

  “It’s our son’s birthday,” Father said, motioning toward Malcolm. “This is Malcolm, my second son. He turns eleven today.”

  “Ah,” the duke said. He walked slowly up to Malcolm, looking down at him. “Good morning, Malcolm.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Malcolm said nervously. The duke had dark brown eyes. The centers of them, which were black on other people, looked almost silvery on the duke.

  “I know your brother, you know. He’s a very good student at my school.”

  “I know, sir. I want to go to your school as well.”

  “I’m sure you will one day, my boy. And, as it is your birthday, I have something for you.” The duke straightened up and twisted the top of his cane. It popped open with a hiss, and he reached into it. “Here you are, my boy. It’s a key, if you can figure it out.” He handed Malcolm what seemed to be a bent pie
ce of brass. Malcolm took it and anxiously examined it.

  “Say thank you, Malcolm,” Father said.

  “Let him look at it,” the duke said.

  Malcolm carefully examined the brass piece in his hands. It had hinges all over it, and could be bent and locked in different ways. He thought about it a moment more before bending the brass into the shape of a key. It took him less than twenty seconds.

  “Very good,” the duke said. “That key opens some of the doors in Illyria. Not all, mind you, but some. You have a key to Illyria now, my boy. One day, perhaps, you will have all of them, if you keep that mind of yours sharp.”

  “Sir, you don’t need to give him—,” Father began.

  “Your boys are clearly very smart. I hope they make good use of their talents, instead of designing toy rabbits, like my son.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir. Say thank you, Malcolm.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Malcolm said, still examining the key.

  “You’re welcome, boy,” the duke said, and patted Malcolm on the head. “Now, Volio, we have much to talk over.” Father and the duke left the room, talking quietly. Mother let out a low grumble of discontent, snipped a long piece of thread off her needlepoint, walked over to Malcolm, and took the key from him. Malcolm cried out and reached for it, but stopped when he saw what she was doing. She put the key on the thread and then tied it around Malcolm’s neck.

  “You’ll probably end up just like them,” she said, more to herself than to Malcolm, “but with any luck, I’ll be dead by then.” Malcolm barely heard her. He clasped the key to his chest. The rest of his presents held little interest for him anymore, but he dutifully opened them all anyway.

  The duke died less than a year later, and Mother died a few years after that, but Volio still had the key, hanging around his neck by his mother’s needlepoint thread. The key, it turned out, did open a few doors, and nearly all the gates, but by the time he got a chance to try it, Volio had better keys from his father and brother, ones that only the worthy received. And Volio, it turned out, was the only worthy one in all of Illyria. Not even the current duke, who Volio knew had been a disappointment to his father, had the keys Volio did. And as far as Volio was concerned, this made him the heir to Illyria. Of course, he couldn’t just proclaim that, dangle some keys, and be acknowledged by all as the rightful ruler of these scholastic halls. No, he would wait. Once the Society had taken control, Volio would ask that Illyria be his. He couldn’t see that anyone would object, as it would surely be his creations that took control for the Society. But there was one thing more Volio desired, the key to which he held in his hand.

  My Sweet Malcolm,

  Your note to me was so unexpected. At times I have felt you loathed me, and it nearly broke my heart. For the truth is, I have noticed you as well.

  I have admired your fine features and the way you use your hands to build such wondrous things. Your great machines have often driven me to ecstasies with their genius. I marvel at your passionate mind, your honest intellect, your piercing eyes.

  Alas, I have seen your mind, but not your heart. Your letter has now shown me a small part of it, and I long for more. Write to me again, Malcolm.

  Be warned, my cousin is jealous and possessive. He must not know of our correspondence. So, if you find yourself in my presence, it would be best to ignore me altogether, and I will do the same. Cast your eyes to the ground whenever I am near, and I shall behave as I always have, as though I didn’t even know your name. But know the truth, fair Malcom: I adore you, I adore you, I adore you.

  With Fondest Love,

  Your Little Cecily.

  Volio was still smiling as he read the letter again. Just two hours after receiving it, it was wrinkled and stained with sweat from his palms, but he couldn’t stop folding and unfolding and rereading it, though he had already memorized its contents. He had never expected Cecily to harbor secret affections for him. He had prepared himself for a lengthy courtship, almost a war. But in retrospect, it wasn’t really so surprising. He was, as she said, a genius, and he did have piercing eyes, not to mention a proud masculine brow like his brother and father, a scientist’s brow. It all made sense to him now. Her seeming never to know he existed was pure shyness. She could be friendly only with someone she found ridiculous, like that first-year, Adams. She dealt with those she really admired by being shy and standoffish.

  Volio sighed and rolled over in bed. He folded the letter and slipped it under the mattress. He had many papers under his mattress—sketches of machines and beautiful women. The maids who changed his sheets wouldn’t look closely at a new one. And his roommate, Freddy, never paid much attention to anything when he was in the room, which wasn’t very often, as he spent all his time downstairs plugging Bible verses into the analytical engines.

  Ah, but what did it matter? He had Cecily’s letter, and soon, he would have her heart. And if all went according to plan, he would have the duke’s approval by the end of the year, when he would debut his invention—his glorious invention would surely win the duke’s blessing and, with it, Cecily’s hand. He thought of how lovely she would be to come home to after a long day of working with his brother at the Ministry of Defense. How she would ask him about his work and massage his shoulders as they waited for the maid to bring out supper. Their children would be lovely. A son with dark eyes like his own, and hair a dark shade of gold, a fine picture of manhood; and a daughter just like her mother, sweet and feminine, a constant delight. Volio looked forward to these things. He had little doubt that they would happen.

  It was Sunday night. Tomorrow would begin the second week of his second year at Illyira, and he would deliver his second letter to Cecily, through Miriam. He was surprised that Miriam had been so cooperative. He had expected something clever from her, perhaps “accidentally” dropping the note where the duke could find it, though if that happened, all he would need to do was deny the letter was his. Whom would the duke believe? The son of one of the men who helped build Illyria, or some Jewess from who-knew-where?

  Despite the duke’s gullibility, Volio had to be careful. Cecily was tied in blood to the duke, and wasn’t something intangible like a legacy that could be taken simply by proving himself deserving. Volio would need his permission to wed Cecily. So he planned to treat the duke as he would any ass: with a carrot and a stick. Sticks he had plenty of, an army of them in progress. The carrot would lead the sticks, a shining gift to the duke.

  Of course, Volio still needed to finish both parts of his plan, and he wasn’t sure he had the time. Outside, the sound of a clock ringing one in the morning poured out over the clanking of the gears. So tedious, those gears, always winding, a vast metallic cacophony. The noise made his work in the lab so much more difficult. But he would endeavor, and he would succeed. With Cecily’s love, nothing could stop him.

  XVI.

  AFTER the first week of school, time sped up considerably. Even the gears on the walls seemed to spin faster, pushing time along, propelling Illyria into the future. Jack toyed with voice boxes and tried to befriend Cecily, who glowered at him and then walked away in a huff. Violet worked on her machine and silently fumed during the duke’s lectures. Cecily progressed on her clay formula and had long conversations with Violet, which she thought were signs of Ashton’s love for her. Toby and Drew worked in the chemical lab and considered what strange things they would ask Cousin Ashton to write in the next letter to Volio, who worked on his own projects and treasured each false word from Cecily. Classes flowed with a more steady hand as the students got a grip on what was expected and professors began to understand their students’ needs. Even Bracknell’s class became tolerable as he grew bored with mocking his students and focused on the science. Days darkened, and the garden outside turned shades of bronze and gold that matched Illyria’s halls.

  The only one for whom time seemed to slow was Miriam. She hadn’t told anyone about what she had seen in the metallic features of the automaton that night.
The scheme with Volio had kept her mind off it for a while, but now that she and Volio had fallen into a disgusting system of note exchange, her anxieties turned from her position to her life, and the possible threat to it by an automaton-duke. She had tried to convince herself that she hadn’t really seen the duke in the device—it had been dark, after all, and she had had a drink or two. But no matter what she tried to tell herself, a smaller voice, the voice she had learned to trust years ago, told her that she had been right. But what did it mean? Miriam found herself studying the duke whenever she saw him, when he called her to his study, at meals, during lectures. Was it possible that the duke himself was an automaton of some sort? Miriam had never known the duke’s father, as she had been hired just after he died, but she gathered he was a man completely devoted to science. Ruthlessly devoted. So was it not possible that he had produced a child with science? Certainly the current duke sometimes seemed inhuman—he needed little sleep and worked harder and faster than any man she knew. But how such a thing would work, Miriam had no idea. And she did not want to contemplate why those other machine-cousins of the duke would be made for killing. Instead, she studied the way the duke’s mouth moved when he chewed, and told herself that it was impossible, that no machine could look so human.