All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  Ernest.

  Mrs. Wilks saw that Violet’s cheeks were flushed after she read the letter.

  “Is anything the matter, dear?” Mrs. Wilks asked.

  “No,” Violet said, smiling. “Everything is lovely.”

  XXXII.

  MATTHIAS Forney could have been back home in Pennsylvania. He could have been celebrating Easter with all his friends and relatives, and with Annie, whom he’d loved since they were children. Being with Annie was like riding atop one of his trains full speed, hair whipping around him as though he were flying. But then, being with Annie also meant remembering that she was married to his cousin Phil, and that was like being shoved off the top of a train going at full speed, which he had suffered too many times already. It was why he built trains to begin with, to get away from them faster and faster, though he always came back as fast as he could, because being away from her too long was even worse. It was like not having a train at all.

  He was running now. Had run all the way to London, a place no train could take him. And he was spending his Easter underground, trying to repair an old train that hadn’t run in years, with an unknown destination. Ernest had crawled under the train and walked down the tracks while Forney worked, but came back an hour later, saying they went on too long to walk them.

  Forney had already figured out that the train was powered by a combination of electricity and Brunel’s previously unsuccessful “atmospheric railway”—all air pressure and vacuums. That was the easy bit, just turn on some lights, explore the tracks a bit. And he had figured out the brakes. But he couldn’t figure out how to make the damn thing start. The vacuum and electricity went on and the train shifted a little, but it was locked. The brakes were off, so there must be some secondary brake system, but damned if he could figure it out. He missed steam engines. Those were simple.

  So, he went under the train. He didn’t want to be there, but there didn’t seem to be any other options.

  “Anything down there?” asked the duke. He had told Matthias to call him Ernest, but he was a duke, and Matthias wasn’t used to people with titles, so he just called him duke.

  “I’m still lookin’,” Matthias called back. The vacuum within the tracks sucked and the brakes were off, but the train didn’t go. Why would that be? There was a large winding key sticking out of the bottom of the train. A spring-engine train? Then why the atmospheric railway and electricity? “There’s a winding key down here. Like it’s spring run,” he called.

  The duke poked his head down to see, then frowned and got down under the train next to Matthias. “Why would this be here?” the duke asked.

  Matthias wanted a cigar. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Shall we turn it?”

  “You ain’t afraid of getting run over?”

  “It would be a rather large design flaw if turning what seems to be a vital part of the train resulted in the turner being run over.”

  “Depends on what kind of man built the train to begin with.”

  “My father built it.”

  “Ah. Oh. Sorry, Your Duke … sir.”

  “No need to apologize. Just help me turn.”

  Together, the two men shoved the key in one direction. Above them, the train made a clicking sound and seemed to shift in its tracks. For a moment, Matthias was sure it was going to roll down the tracks, taking them with it and grinding them to dust underneath, and he would never get to tell Annie he loved her. But then the train stopped.

  “Well,” the duke said. Matthias scrambled out from under the train, felt in his pocket for a cigar, found one, and anxiously lit it. The duke came out after him and wiped his hands on his trousers. They were in work clothes, but the duke was still dressed finely enough that Matthias thought it was a shame to dirty himself up. “What do you think that did?” the duke asked. Matthias shrugged and inhaled deeply on his cigar. The duke stepped onto the train, and Matthias watched as it lit up and made a slight buzzing noise as the duke turned it on. Then came the great creak of the brake being released and tracks humming with compressed air, which sent a huge gust of wind and dust around the station, blowing out Matthias’s cigar. The train, however, did not move.

  “Matthias!” the duke called from in the train. Matthias went in. “What do you suppose this is?” The duke was pointing at a small circular depression in the control panel, which Matthias hadn’t seen before. He bent in and looked at it closely. Inside the depression seemed to be a few gears, but he couldn’t understand what they were doing there.

  “I don’t know,” Matthias said. “Looks like you need another piece to fit in it.”

  “Like a key?” the duke asked. Matthias thought for a few seconds, wishing his cigar were still lit, and nodded. “A key,” the duke repeated. “Of course a key.”

  “The switch on the bottom must have opened up the panel,” Matthias said, then walked to the control panel on the other end. “Yep, there’s one here, too, now. And I’m pretty certain they weren’t there before.”

  “A switch hidden on the bottom to hide keyholes?” the duke asked.

  “If you knew you weren’t going to be using the train awhile, and you didn’t want nobody else using it…”

  “Yes, I see. Well, I think we’re done, then. I just have to find this key.”

  “Probably won’t look much like a key,” Matthias said.

  “Indeed. Let’s go upstairs and bathe and change, shall we? I’m curious to see if Cecily’s chickens have laid colored eggs yet this year.”

  “Sure,” Matthias said, nodding and bringing his cigar to his lips, forgetting that it was unlit. Chickens that laid colored eggs for Easter—he had come to a very strange place.

  * * *

  CECILY’s chickens had not laid colored eggs. At least, the shells were not colored. But when she accidentally broke one, she discovered that the yolk had turned a stunning indigo. In each subsequently broken egg was a yolk in a new vibrant color: lavender, bright pink—there was even one that sparkled like gold. While the results were interesting, Cecily couldn’t think of anyone who would want to eat such things, so she considered the experiment a failure and went about coloring the eggs the old-fashioned way. Aunt Ada and Miriam assisted, though Cecily thought her eggs were by far the most artistic.

  When Ernest and the new mechanical professor, Professor Forney, appeared for lunch, they were both most impressed with Cecily’s eggs. “Did a chicken lay them?” Professor Forney asked.

  “Yes,” Cecily said with a sigh. “But the shells of the eggs didn’t turn colors. Only the yolks did.”

  “Ah,” Forney said, “a disappointment—but I wouldn’t give up. That’s impressive enough, I’d say.”

  “Thank you, Professor. You’re kind to say so. But a failure is still a failure. I shall try again next year.”

  Forney was impressed with this little girl and the stern set of her jaw when she talked about her experiments, but he didn’t understand the golden rabbit that followed her about, and found it a little eerie.

  “Should we have supper?” Ada asked. Forney saw with some jealousy that she was smoking a cigar. He felt around in his pockets for another of his, but he had none left. Besides, it was rude to smoke at meals.

  The food they served was delicious, rich, and perhaps a little heavy, in Forney’s opinion. But the company was enjoyable. They all discussed the various states of the sciences with such intelligence, even the little girl and her Turkish-looking governess.

  “Now, Matthias,” the duke said when dinner was finished, but before dessert was served, “as for your teaching: Professor Bunburry, whom you’ll be replacing for the rest of the year, left a very detailed plan for what he intended to do in the rest of his classes. Of course, you needn’t follow it, but it should give you a good idea as to where all the students stand. In each class, you’ll find one student particularly gifted in regards to the mechanical arts. Of the third-years, it is Mr. Cheek; in the second year, it is Mr. Volio; and of the first-years, it is Mr. Adams.
”

  “Ashton is wonderful,” Cecily said.

  “Yes,” the duke continued. “I’m sure Mr. Adams will be happy to assist you if you need help deciphering Bunburry’s notes, or locating anything. Mr. Cheek will also be quite helpful.”

  “I wouldn’t count on much friendliness from Volio, though,” Miriam said. The duke raised an eyebrow at her. “Not that it’s my place to comment on any of the students.”

  “Regardless,” the duke said, “Mrs. Isaacs is correct. Mr. Volio is more … withdrawn than the others. I would ask someone else in his class for assistance if you need it. Probably … ah … That year is a bit … Ask Mr. Comte, if you need to. He’s relatively harmless, and not overly distracted.”

  “Distracted?” Forney asked.

  The duke nodded, then licked his lips. “You’ll find,” he said, “that many of our students, due to their extreme genius, also have certain … eccentricities. Mr. Volio’s antisocial behavior, for example. Or that Mr. Adams’s gestures can be a bit womanish, or that Mr. McCrief will speak of nothing but the intelligence of cats, if given the opportunity.”

  “Don’t mention cats,” Forney said, a little nervous. “Got it.”

  “You’ll be able to outmaneuver the students soon enough,” the duke said, “I’m quite sure. And if you have any difficulties with any of them, just let me know, and I shall either recommend the best solution, or give the student a sound thrashing.”

  “A verbal thrashing,” Cecily said.

  “And he’s not very good at those,” Ada said. “Better to thrash the upstart yourself.”

  “Is that allowed?” Forney asked.

  “No,” the duke said. “We do not issue corporal punishment.”

  “I’ve never taught before,” Forney said, “except for other mechanics.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Ada said. “Just think of the students as other mechanics. Small ones.”

  “Ashton isn’t small,” Cecily said with a sigh.

  “He’s the smallest out of all of them,” Miriam said, sounding confused.

  “But his heart is large,” Cecily said.

  “Ah,” Miriam said.

  After dinner, Forney was shocked when they all proceeded into the drawing room, even the little girl, and had brandy and cigars, except for Cecily, who instead ate a candy rabbit, and Miriam, who rolled herself a small cigarette that smelled like roses.

  While the others talked among themselves, Ernest leaned back in his armchair, feeling satisfied. He hoped Violet was enjoying her puzzle. He had worked hard on it, coming up with it in a dream one night, and then laboring all the next day to complete it. He had been quite delighted with it. He thought it was his second best creation, aside from Shakespeare. He hadn’t received a letter from Violet, but he felt mostly certain she would love it. And though the note he inserted in it was perhaps a bit forward … he had made his intentions known. That was what he was most nervous about. Would she turn him away? He had soothed his nerves by working on the train with Forney or working on the æthership, which was proceeding quite brilliantly, thanks in large part to Violet. He had never felt like a genius except when arguing with her. She made him one, just through writing to him. He couldn’t imagine what he had done without her.

  But the train was becoming easier to understand, and the æthership was nearly finished, and he was relaxing in a chair quite contentedly, so he was anxious for a letter. Just a note from Violet—a simple thank-you would be enough. He tried to turn his mind to other things, like the strange key he would need to run the train. It had to be somewhere in Illyria. But he’d been over his father’s things a hundred times, and nothing looked like a key. He would have to go over them again. If it didn’t look like a key, what would it look like?

  That night, the duke slept well, but awoke early and suddenly, knowing he had seen the key in his dream. But just as the image started to make sense, all details of it faded away.

  XXXIII.

  FIONA lit a cigarette and smoked it lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t usually smoke, especially now, as Drew would smell it on her, but she always kept a few cigarettes in her purse and some matches in her corset. They made her feel better when she was lonely, which was more often than she’d care to admit. Not as much lately, though. But tonight she was startled by how much she missed the feel of Drew’s hair. Though he seldom spent the night at the small apartment he had bought for her, he often fell asleep in her arms after making love to her, knowing she would wake him after an hour so he could get back to the college. As he slept, she would reach out, take the soft curls of his hair, and wrap them gently around her fingers. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but alone in her bed at the Adams estate, she found herself missing the feel of it, and his soft breathing on her shoulder.

  The first man who had paid her for sex was a scientist. He had been a gentle lover, like Drew. He was older than she—she was only fifteen—but kind, and not bad looking. His name was Henry, and he smelled of chemicals and glass. He had taken his time with her, finding out which sensations caused her pleasure or laughter, trying to create the formula that would put her most at ease. The night had had its good moments, for what it was. He paid her and kissed her on the forehead, told her she was beautiful and that he would be back. She never saw him again.

  The memory of him lingered when she made love to Drew, but with Drew, she always enjoyed herself. She liked his sweet round eyes and the feel of his hair. He had been sad when she said she was going away on family business for Easter, but she did what she could to cheer him up. At the time, she’d been focused on him. But now she realized she was a little sad about it, too. She liked the way she cradled his head in her lap as he slept or stared up at her. She liked how she could enchant him with the simplest of little games. Again, she thought of how he was sweet and child-like, somehow innocent and debauched all at once.

  Fiona took a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke hang over her. She had never thought of herself as the motherly type. A long time ago, she had had a baby, but it died. She hadn’t really prepared for it, and the father claimed it couldn’t be his, so she feared it as it grew inside her, afraid that it would squeeze life out of her. But when he was born, fragile and hairless, with her same clear blue eyes and pointed nose, she had softened, tickled his belly and smiled as his eyes bulged in delight. So she slept with the baby every night, cradling him in her arms, until the fourth day, when she woke and found his dead body nestling into her still-breathing one. She had wanted to stop breathing with him then, but couldn’t, because of the ragged gasps her body took as she cried. The other girls she lived with gathered around her, massaged her shoulders, and took him from her arms. A priest came by, told Fiona it was all in God’s plan, and then took her son and buried him; Fiona still didn’t know where. And then, Fiona had gotten on with life. There was nothing else to do, after all. But she still dreamt of holding him sometimes, and would wake up, her arms cradling the air.

  A soft rap on her bedroom door woke Fiona from her thoughts. She found she’d been twisting her own hair around her finger, in lieu of Drew’s. She looked at the door. The soft rap repeated itself. “Aye?” she called out softly.

  “Fiona, it’s Violet. May I come in?”

  “Aye,” Fiona said, sitting upright, stubbing out her cigarette on the bedframe. She was wearing only her nightshirt, but the room was dark. Violet softly opened the door and came in. She was in her nightshirt as well.

  “May I turn on a light?” she asked Fiona.

  “Aye,” Fiona said again. “What’s this about?”

  Violet turned up a wall sconce so the room was cast in soft light. “I need your help.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know you have no reason to help me, but I hope you still will.”

  “Course I will, if I can,” Fiona said. “You’ve been very friendly to me.”

  “Because you blackmailed me,” Violet said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I prefer
ta think of it as an exchange of ideas. A meeting of minds. And that maybe ye’d have helped me even if I hadn’t known your secret.”

  “Are you going to hurt Drew at all?”

  “No,” Fiona said, a little offended.

  “Then, yes, I would have helped you. If I’d known how happy it would make Drew.”

  “Well, good. So how can I help you?”

  “I…” Violet kneeled on the floor next to Fiona’s bed, as if she couldn’t bear to stand and puzzle through her request at the same time. “Well, I need to know how to change quickly from my costume to a dress.”

  “That? Oh, that’s easy. Ye dinnae need my help with that. You can already change yourself right quick; just practice till it’s quicker. I mean, I could maybe alter some of your clothes so that they come off faster—like theater clothes.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Violet said, then paused and looked at the ground.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Yes. I want … That is … there is a man. And he intends to court me. And I think I would like that very much. But I don’t know how to … how to behave. I don’t know anything about making love.”

  “You want me to teach you about sex?” Fiona asked.

  “No!” Violet said, her blush apparent even in the dim light. “I want you to show me how to attract a man’s attentions. How to keep him … how to make him fall in love with me.”

  “Well, if he wants to court ye, I think you’ve already gotten that bit right.”

  “But we’ve only spoken—that is, we’ve spoken when he knew who I was only twice. And I’m afraid I’ve been quite rude to him both times. It’s in our letters that I can be kind to him, but that is because the letters are filled with science. I don’t know how to behave in person. And I’m afraid that after a few days of talking to me as I am, he will realize his mistake and flee.”