All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  “Sir,” Cecily said, standing, “I do not suppose it would be proper for us to be free with each other.” Volio stared up at her, his hands shaking. “And you have certainly never written to me.”

  “But—,” Volio said, reaching into his jacket pocket to take out her most recent letter. A strange sinking feeling had welled up in him, and his lips felt dry. He held the letter out to her.

  She took it and read through it briefly, and then began to laugh. “Mr. Volio,” she said, still giggling as she handed the letter back to him, “I believe someone has played a trick on you. This is not my hand.” When he wouldn’t reach out for the letter, she shrugged and dropped it at his feet before walking back into Illyria.

  Volio sat for a moment longer in the garden, hunched over, heartbroken, and completely still. Then he reached down and snatched up the letter, crumbling it in his hand. Something inside him trembled. He felt as though his eyes were made of glass, and they had broken, exploded into a thousand tiny shards, and underneath were new eyes, real, fleshy ones that saw so much more. He felt the wind blow around him, and felt in it the potential for hurricane and lightning. He heard the river wash by, and heard in it a swelling tsunami that would flood all of London. He saw in his own hands the throb of his blood, rushing inside him like a war chariot. He had the power to make these floods and storms, and he knew now that there was no reason not to. Cecily’s love for him had been the one good thing in this world. Without it, he felt the ground quake and the globe shatter. Without Cecily’s love, Volio felt no need to hold back the madness inside him, no need to spare the fools of the world for whom he had suffered all his life. In the garden, the only movement was Volio’s lips parting to let out a breath, and the breeze that blew his dark hair from his face.

  Of course it was a trick! He was a fool not to have seen that. His brain hummed like electrical wiring. Love was a blinding disease from which he was now recovered. It was a trick perpetrated by that bitch Miriam and her idiot men.

  The only solution was to end her life entirely.

  And then he could simply take Cecily.

  It might not have been Cecily writing those letters, but it could have been. He could be sweet, and kind, and loving, and she would see that if she had the chance, but that chance would not come unless it was thrust upon her. Yes. It would be easy. He would kill Miriam and make Cecily love him. And if she wouldn’t, then he could kill her, too. Until then, he would play their game, write their notes, and dream of Miriam’s blood running over cold bronze.

  Volio slowly shredded the letter into small strips and then walked to the river and opened his hand over it. The strips flew out over the water, some into it, most into the wind. He would have his revenge, and he would have what he desired. He just needed to take it.

  XL.

  THERE were few things Lothario Prism loved more than the Crystal Palace. His wife, of course, and his children, and his newborn granddaughter, whom he felt guilty for loving more than his own children; but the Crystal Palace was a close second below them. He loved how it shone, and how he could appreciate it as well as anyone else, despite his vision difficulties. For the glass of the Crystal Palace was not colored; it was all light and air. Lines, forming the outline of the great structure, a series of arches forming a pyramid with a great arched roof at the top, and flags flying high. It was huge, long as a train, and tall enough that inside, trees grew and fountains splashed. The balconies indoors were draped with velvet curtains, so it was at once a garden of delights and an Oriental opium lounge. It was indoors and outdoors, light and water, air and iron, all wound together, like something from a fairy tale. Even though he knew how it was built, and how it held together, it seemed a miracle.

  He stood before it in the evening light and looked up at its beautiful, complex interlocking glass pieces. He flipped down the red lens over his right eye, and two clear lenses, so he could get a better look at the flags.

  Without his colored lenses, he often could not tell the difference between red and green, blue and yellow. His eyes had always been weak. He needed lenses now to see things far away, and close up, and he often found that, in his work of punching very small holes in the sheets of metal for the analytical engines, the magnifying lenses were very useful as well. He knew the contraption on his face looked odd, but he didn’t mind it, and when he held his baby granddaughter in his arms, she often reached up and flicked the lenses down, one at a time, giggling as she did so. For that alone, and for the ability to see her smile, the lenses were worth it.

  Prism had a few laborers with him, who were growing impatient as he stared at the palace—he could feel them tapping their feet and sighing behind him, so he waved them forward. He was in charge of directing the setup of the exhibition area for the faire, a task for which he always volunteered.

  “Lottie!” he heard as they were approaching the great arch that led into the palace. He turned. His wife was scurrying forward, walking as quickly as she could at her age. He marveled at her plump, wiggling figure and her large eyes, still so beautiful. They were gray, she promised him when they had first met, the same gray as he saw them. “Lottie,” she said again, and waved a handkerchief. He waved back, and she came up to him.

  “Hullo, darling,” he said, grasping her hand tightly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I know how you like it when I come to watch you set up, but Jess is quite sad and needed some cheering up. Some good friend of hers is in hospital.” Jess was her sister’s daughter, a nice girl who worked at the toy department of Whiteleys Department Store and often brought them little toys for their granddaughter.

  “Why, that’s dreadful. Did you comfort her?”

  “As well as I could.”

  Prism looked around. No one was very close or paying attention, so he gave her a quick kiss on the lips. She giggled. “Lothario!” she said, mock-shocked, as she waved her handkerchief.

  “Come, darling,” he said. “Let’s go see if the laborers have set anything up correctly this year.”

  The Crystal Palace shone over them as they entered it, holding hands and smiling.

  * * *

  THE Crystal Palace also shone in Violet’s dreams. Since the return of the duke, Violet had had nothing but sweet dreams. Dreams in which her scheme—revealing herself at the Crystal Palace, at the faire—went off perfectly; in which she emerged from her machine beautiful, with her hair and toilette done perfectly, her dress a long soft purple; the duke staring at her after her demonstration, crying out to her, “My own Violet!” and she ran to him and they embraced, because at that moment, he knew all that had happened and why she had done it, and not only understood, but thought her brilliant for it. After that, the dream often skipped ahead to their wedding night, the light bronze and his fingers running along her stomach while she pressed her palm into his bare chest and the gears of Illyria whirled around them, humming a soft melody.

  She had not felt guilty since the duke returned. He seemed to know nothing of her ruse, leading her to believe she had confessed to the same phantom that threw itself off the astronomy tower. She also now knew that her secret needed to be kept until the right time, and that time was not three in the morning in the Great Hall. She didn’t know what or who it was that had gone off the roof, but she knew that it was a sign of some sort, that if she told the duke too soon, she would not accomplish her primary goal, which was to prove she deserved to be in Illyria. It had to be at the faire. Sooner than that could be disastrous.

  His return had filled her with joy. She had nearly cried when he walked into the dining hall, feeling her heart leap up from its own ashes, from gray dust to red muscle, throbbing harder than it ever had before. She had longed to run up to him and to embrace him, to lay her hand on his cheek, to bury her face in his chest, but she was so shocked, so speechless, that she could not move, and when she could, she had regained herself well enough to know that any such demonstration would be a mistake. Still, she kept the memory of his return with h
er, and at night, she went to sleep thinking of how one day she might be allowed to run to him whenever she wanted.

  Everyone was looking forward to the faire. Jack, all his various experiments complete, had written a working theory on transplanting organs between species, and how he hoped to one day be able to use a chimpanzee to save a human life, though he couldn’t test this, as there were no humans volunteering for chimpanzee parts—and besides, chimpanzees were very expensive. He had created as examples a ferret and a bird, both alive and well, but using each other’s lungs and heart. He also wanted to present Oscar as part of his final project, but Violet told him that the Queen might not appreciate Oscar’s brand of speech, and Valentine positively forbade it.

  Toby had indeed perfected a hangover cure, a strange bright blue concoction that smelled like the ocean and tasted like honey. They went out several nights in a row, getting as drunk as possible, and the next morning, all with pounding headaches, they would drink the stuff at breakfast, clinking their test tubes together before downing the brew. Each time they tried it, they were all feeling much better within three minutes, and often very hungry as well.

  Drew’s perfume, though still occasionally too heady when activated, was also a success, and he was working now on finding the ideal scent with which to demonstrate it at the faire. Fiona had graciously agreed to be his model, and was saving up a bottle of her sweat in preparation.

  Further explorations of the cellar were few, as everyone had been so busy finishing their projects, and shortly after the duke’s resurrection, he had begun locking a large gate in the hall leading to the cellar to which only professors had the key. By that point, Miriam had puzzled out that the duke was most likely quite human, and someone had been creating automaton duplicates of him, one of which had pitched itself off the roof. She was more than content when they all went out to the pub where they could drink and laugh.

  Miriam knew her time at Illyria was nearly through. Cecily didn’t need her any longer, and she had grown tired of the place. It held mysteries which it seemed could never be solved, and while Miriam loved a good mystery, she knew the only truly good mystery was one with a solution. She thought perhaps she would become a schoolteacher, or maybe even a professor of French at one of the women’s colleges.

  Thoughts of darkness had slipped away from all inhabitants of Illyria since the duke’s return, because after such a happy miracle, it seemed nothing could go wrong. Illyria and her occupants were beacons of merriment, and nothing could put them out.

  Even Volio had become merry, in his own way. Not happy, but satisfied and resolved. The old gates that were used again to lock the basement made his nights quieter. He still had access via the key he had received from the late duke. Every night, he had his creations stand up from their slabs and march in perfect lines around the room as he played notes no one could hear. Often, after he had them all lie back down, he cackled with glee.

  And late one night, a few days before they were to move their projects to the Crystal Palace, Violet finished her own creation, which she had lovingly taken to calling “Pallas.” The other students had left the lab, as it was late, and she stood alone with Professor Forney, looking up at her work.

  “That’s impressive, Mr. Adams. Very impressive,” Forney said, and clapped Violet on the back. Violet, even at her most modest, agreed. Pallas stood twice as tall as a tall man, and was a beautifully crafted woman of bronze. She wore a corset with silver lace patterns over it, and the hem of her dress fell low to the ground, hiding the series of wheels underneath. Her face was immaculate, looking heavenward, and coils of golden hair fell around her face from the loose bun they had been pinned into. Her hands were out of proportion—incredibly large, and with visible joints, but as she was already made of metal, this bit of inhumanness lent her a powerful air. On her chest was a brooch—really a glass window from which the pilot could see out. At the press of a button, Pallas’s corset would open and reveal a large operating chamber with steps descending from it, which Violet climbed, ready to demonstrate her device for Professor Forney. She sat in the pilot’s seat and pulled a lever, closing the corset over her and pulling back the steps. Then Pallas came to life. Violet could make her move and spin, and lift the tables and chairs in the room. At Forney’s insistence, she even lifted him, while he smoked his cigar and looked about the room from on high, satisfied. It was everything Violet had hoped it would be—and it had enough room inside it for her to change clothes quickly.

  The duke had also completed his display for the faire. He felt quite positive that his and Violet’s æthership could easily reach the moon, and hoped that the Queen would agree. He had never before had a display of his own at the faire. He was nervous and excited, and he often felt like jumping up and down like a child. Cecily, who had never presented before either, felt similarly, though she felt like spinning, and when she didn’t indulge in that feeling, she felt as though the world were spinning around her. Her experiments were going well, and while Ashton had become distant, caught up in his work, Jack had become even more welcoming, and she found herself visiting the biological laboratory at least once a week, as she once had the mechanical. It wasn’t that she loved Jack, she thought—for her heart had settled on Ashton, and was steadfast—but that Jack was more talkative, and very funny. He showed her his ferrets and she showed him her chemical formula. She’d made several tools from it, including an entire pocket watch, which Ada—who had decided to stay on after the duke’s reappearance—thought was very handsome, all white and gleaming.

  One night, after Cecily had gone to sleep, Ernest told Ada what he had found in his father’s laboratory tower. Ada, who was smoking, with a glass of whiskey in her hand, leaned back into her armchair. They were in the parlor of the residence, and though it was warm, Ada had had the servants start a fire because she liked the crackling sound of it. She sighed and looked at Ernest with a sad smile. “Your father,” she said, “was a good man. The best of men. And also the worst. His intelligence made him smarter than everyone around him, and he knew it, and often grew frustrated by having to explain himself over and over. So yes, I could see him involved in some … cult bent on world domination. He would occasionally say things to me when we were alone—odd cryptic things about the future. Thank goodness he died before he had a chance to act on those desires. He could barely run Illyria—I hate to think what he would do with the world.”

  “He could barely run Illyria?”

  “Oh my, no. He was not an organized man, your father. Kept it hidden, of course; wanted everyone to think he was smart and sharp as a blade. That’s why Illyria accepts so few students. There’s certainly room for more, but more than fifteen students was too confusing for him. Science, he could manage. Bureaucracy was beyond him. You’ve done a much better job with Illyria.”

  “I want to do more,” Ernest said, leaning forward, his eyes shining. “When I found everything in my father’s lab—the worn-out flag, the notes—I realized that he was just as human as I am. His shadow shrank, and thankfully, it shrank so that I was no longer in it. Illyria is mine, isn’t it? To do as I please?”

  “It is,” Ada, with a wry expression.

  “Then yes, I think we should begin admitting more students. And you were right when you said we don’t admit students without social graces—we should. I’ll teach them manners if I must, but there is surely untapped brilliance out in the wilds. And I’d like to reorganize the way classes are handled, maybe even have more classes, and certainly more guest lecturers.”

  “Those all sound like wonderful ideas.”

  “I have more, too. Those are just the beginning. Perhaps I could let in women, at some point. Did you know there’s a girl from one of the Spanish colonies who has been applying to Illyria every year for the past five? And she’s quite brilliant, too. Her stellar cartography theories and skills are finer than mine … than anyone’s, I think. And every year I write her back, telling her I’d love to accept her, but Illyria doesn�
�t accept women. Illyria has a reputation, but it could be so much more.”

  “It could.”

  “I have your support?”

  “Fully.”

  “And … do you have any suggestions yourself?”

  Ada pursed her lips and smiled. “I do,” she said, “but there will plenty of time for that later. For now, worry about the faire. You’ll have all summer to re-create Illyria.” Ernest nodded and sat back in his own chair. “And after you’re done with that,” she said, “you can go to the moon.”

  XLI.

  VIOLET was stunned by the Crystal Palace. She had seen it in pictures, of course, but to have it looming over her, like a sky of diamond, and to be in it as it was filled with people, fountains, trees, flowers, exhibits, and a faint, indescribable perfume like rosewater, incense, and ice. And to have her invention here among it all! It was enough to make the mechanics of her body stop, and to pause the machinery of her soul.

  The Palace was crowded, and the booths were set up and ready. Each booth had not just the invention or demonstration, but also papers explaining the science behind the invention. Violet had a carefully executed, oversized drawing of the engine within her machine, and a large sign directing them to Cecily’s booth across the hall to find out about the materials. Each booth shined in its own particular way.

  Merriman had cages set up, each with plants growing inside to demonstrate his theories on using the celestial realm as additional farmland, and the possibility of growing plants on other planets. He had even worked up a model of a small farm on the moon. Lane had a series of vials of what looked like water, and many large graphs explaining the effectiveness of his anti-anxiety elixir. Jack’s booth chattered and chirped as the bird and ferret examined each other from their white cages. Toby’s booth had not just vials of his tonic, the chemicals he had used to create it, and explanations of the science behind it, but many barrels of ale and some glasses as well, so that those interested could test his potion. At Drew’s booth, Fiona stood as the centerpiece, done up in a long black evening gown, each arm extended, one slick with her own sweat, one kept dry. She would pose with her head slightly back and to the side, as if smelling her arms, and she had managed to take all her hair and put it up in a column of curls, her few stray grays rising like stripes from her temples. Drew would dab a bit of his perfume on each of her arms, and the onlookers would then smell each arm to see the difference in the scents’ intensities. For effect, Fiona tossed her head back and moaned slightly when they did so.