“It was apparent the man was in constant pain,” Stoddard said. “He must have lost patience holding out for a miracle.”
“Well, whatever becomes of man’s spirit when he goes, I wish him a fairer turn.” Merryfield raised his glass and the company toasted to Skaggs’ memory.
Stoddard tipped his glass as well, but let none of the liquid past his lips.
What did become of man’s spirit? The question was suddenly queer to him. He’d been working with what he assumed was the nearest thing to spirit that man had discovered. Yet, in the toast he had a moment’s doubt, as though despite all of his studies he’d missed something. Something paramount.
Just then a figure came forward that chased the thought from Stoddard’s mind.
“Sir,” the constables saluted, and Ringgold returned a salute dutifully.
“That was quite the accident, what happened on the balcony earlier,” Ringgold said. His eyes bore into Stoddard. There was no emotion in his voice. No play in his delivery of words. Again, Stoddard felt the man laying him bare with his direct manner.
“Yes,” Stoddard agreed. “It was.”
“How goes the investigation?”
“Nothing is out of place,” the constable assured him. “The man was deranged due to prolonged pain from a withered leg and used the event tonight to gain attention. Stoddard’s testimony provides sufficient evidence to shed light on the man’s background. It was clearly a suicide.”
“Very good,” Ringgold said, though he frowned. “I suppose all are better for it? All will meet their end in due time.” Ringgold raised his glass in a toast. “To a fitting end,” he said, and the company repeated his toast and took a sip.
Stoddard felt sick.
“If you all will please excuse me?” he said.
“Are you alright?” Merryfield asked.
“I need some air.” Stoddard pushed his way through the group, almost fleeing to the balcony before he realized his error and changed course. Instead, he made his way to the gardens.
He needed to be away. He needed time to think. He’d just taken a man’s life, and he’d hardly realized he was doing it. His hands had betrayed him when they’d lunged for Skaggs.
He told himself over and over that there was no other way, but it did nothing to ease the knot tied in his chest. It was one thing to order Harper killed, but to have killed himself...
Stoddard raced through the doors and away from the lighted manor, falling against one of the hedge walls when he was clear of sight. His mind raced and his heart beat in his ears at an unsteady rhythm.
He retched into the hedge.
“Something unsettling about my toast?” Ringgold came down the steps, approaching the place where Stoddard knelt. “Or have you let this evening’s festivities get out of hand? Has it only now finally caught up with you? I warned you, men should never acquire a taste for killing. Yet, you seem to have taken to it sooner than I expected.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Stoddard pleaded.
“Then what are you?” Ringgold demanded.
“I swear; he was trying to destroy me. It was in self-preservation that I—”
“Every man has his reasons,” Ringgold interrupted. “Consider the offer of my services permanently withdrawn. From now on, I serve you only as duty binds me to the meritocracy, and that is the end of it. I will not be drawn into the mess you’ve woven around yourself.”
He turned to go.
“You’re not going to arrest me?” Stoddard asked.
“You’re a gentleman now,” Ringgold said with distaste. “Your friends surround you in both high and low places. And I? I’m only a rising duelist. What good could come from my interference in your affairs?”
Stoddard let out the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding.
“But remember this,” Ringgold warned, his cape rustling in the breeze which stirred around them. “There are consequences even an elector cannot shield you from. You will not always have people to protect you from the costs of your actions, Doctor.”
Ringgold climbed the steps and disappeared into the manor, leaving Stoddard to tend to his troubled thoughts.
Chapter Forty-Two
Stoddard’s Invitation
And to think, for that brief moment I held their secrets in my open hand. How foolishly I handled such an opportunity. How different might the world look now had I simply closed my fist?
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
C hance held the open letter in his hand, limp at his side as he sat alone in Liesel’s kitchen. Everyone was gone out for the evening, leaving him to look after Serge.
That was fine by Chance. He welcomed being alone. Ever since he’d found out about the Resistance, it had become more difficult to speak with his friends. He felt like he hardly knew them anymore.
And they’d grown nosier. Everywhere he turned someone was asking how he was holding up, where he was going, or offering their help. But none of them could help with the thing he needed most; Keller’s notebook was still illegible.
He tried to convince them he was all right, but he was having difficulty keeping up appearances. At least when alone he didn’t have to hide how he truly felt—how much time he spent longing for an end to it all.
And now, on top of all that, was a letter.
He turned it over in his hands. He’d read it a half-dozen times already. It wasn’t a warning, or a threat. Nor was it blackmail. It was an invitation—to an opera the following night. Chance had never been to an opera before, and he had no intention of starting now.
Yet, he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
What kind of person would send an invitation like this? He’d always expected the meritocracy would find him. It was only a matter of time. But, if they had, where was the guard? Why hadn’t they kicked in the doors and burned Margarete’s like they’d burned Ashworth’s? What game were they expecting him to play?
Chance took the flask from his pocket and uncapped a few sips, letting the familiar warmth spread through his stomach and to his outer extremities. His mind slowed too, as the sensations washed over him, until he felt more in control. He’d become such an anxious creature; he all but relied on his new brew to function.
Pocketing the flask, he looked over the letter once more.
“Sincerely, Your Benefactor,” he read out loud.
Whomever had sent it, it seemed they wished to lend their support. Or else steal a piece of the glory if he succeeded.
Chance decided to check on Serge. He needed someone to talk to. The silence was doing no favor for his thoughts. Rising from his stool, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, pausing when his stomach turned uncomfortably. The pain was sudden, but subsided after a few seconds.
He knocked on Serge’s door. He heard the shuffling of bedsheets and a voice called for him to enter. Serge was lying on his back, propped up carefully with a pillow underneath his hip. A small collection of vials and bandages filled the nightstand. Despite being wrapped in a heavy blanket and a fire burning steadily, Serge was shaking.
“Hey,” Chance said.
“Hey,” Serge responded.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” Serge stretched, grasping his side suddenly and relaxing again. “I haven’t had the easiest time sleeping lately. Come on in.” He gestured to the chair beside the fireplace. “I’m dying for some company.”
Chance winced at Serge’s word choice. He pulled the chair up closer to the bed. “You feeling better then?”
“Not my normal self yet, but I’m on the mend. It’s uphill from here if I can just keep these fevers down,” Serge said. “There’s no need to look so grim.”
Chance tried a smile. Looking at Serge’s pale face and the small beads of sweat clinging to his brow Chance knew how delicately he clung to life clung. Infection was still a constant threat.
“You’ve been drinking the tonics I’ve left you?” Chance asked.
Serge nodded.
<
br /> “You do look a little better.”
Serge chuckled with visible discomfort. “I’m not sure about that.”
“You had us scared.”
“I was scared too,” Serge admitted. He frowned deeply, and the edges of his lips quivered. “Those bloody cogs nearly did the deed.”
Chance nodded.
“They could have ended all of this. Everything, in a moment. One bloody ball and—” Serge choked on his words, and he shook with the effort to speak.
Chance offered him the cup which sat by his bedside, and Serge took it.
“I’m sorry,” he said between sips. “I don’t know why it gets to me like it does lately. It’s just...” He set the cup down. “I never realized how fragile this Resistance is. We’re just a few of us, but I had myself convinced we were unstoppable. And now I keep asking myself what would become of it if anything were to happen to us?”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Chance reassured, checking the tonics to see which of them might need replenishing. “You’re in good hands here with Liesel, and no one’s searching for you. You have all the time you need.”
He wished he could say the same about himself. He was thinking about mentioning the letter when Serge turned and looked at him with eyes like lanterns.
“Chance...” His voice was heavy. “I failed them. I failed the Resistance. I’ve been waiting—waiting for the right moment to set things in motion. Now, I’m not sure there will ever be one.”
“It’s not over,” Chance said. “You’ve still got Liesel. Simon. Kwame. And Rhett,” he added.
“But without me, what will become of the cause?” he asked. “If I were to go right now, would they keep this alive?”
“Sure, they would,” Chance insisted.
Serge rolled over. “I’m not so sure. If there’s one thing that’s come from this it’s that I see things clearer now. Something has to happen, or nothing will. They need a catalyst. Something to bring them together. Something that will move them. They need a symbol burned into their minds. One they can’t ignore. One they won’t forget.
“No more waiting on gods that don’t exist. No more subsisting on words, or holding out for better times to come. The people are everything they’ll ever be. We need only the right catalyst to move them. And now—” He grimaced and repositioned himself on the pillow. “—I won’t be there to see it when it comes.”
Serge’s eyes burned with anger, and he shook with effort. Chance was surprised. These were not the eyes of the friend he’d come to know. These eyes frightened him.
He thought back to what Simon had told him, the morning after Serge had been shot. Serge was the only one Simon feared when it came to the Resistance. And for the first time, Chance understood why.
“What’s that?” Serge asked, noticing the letter in Chance’s hand.
Chance had forgotten he was holding it. “This? This is...”
He hesitated. Serge was under enough stress without Chance adding to it. If he were going to make a full recovery, he needed as much rest as he was able.
“It’s nothing,” Chance said, stuffing the letter back into his pocket. “Just something I was thinking over.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The Opera House
A watched pot never boils. Neither does a neglected one.
— Alchemical Proverb
S toddard and Emmaline arrived outside the opera house later than they’d agreed. Stoddard had lost track of time discussing with Arden the possible applications of intelligence. It was far beyond what Stoddard had ever considered with his—could he bring himself to say it—simple prosthetics.
Arden had clearly been puzzling over what he’d said at their last meeting, and he’d come back with theories which had left even Stoddard mystified.
It was during their discussion that Stoddard came upon the realization that, more than anything else, he needed fresh perspective if he was to crack the secrets of the Aether. The alchemists had obviously approached his same problem from a unique angle, while he’d spent years stuck in one mindset. He’d not been able to see beyond what was right before him.
This was why their discovery had such allure; he needed their perspective.
Even as he closed in on the single individual who, he believed, possessed the key to Aether, he had unintentionally secured another. Arden had proven himself a worthy second, offering a fresh pair of eyes to problems Stoddard had wrestled with for years. There was more to Stoddard’s work than even he’d comprehended. More to glean, now that it had advanced so far.
Arden had opened his mind to those possibilities.
When Stoddard did remember his prior engagement, he was nearly a half hour late to fetch Emmaline. She received him coldly, as was growing custom. Stoddard returned her coldness with curt duty, opening her door and taking his seat across from her. They exchanged no pleasantries, and she made no attempt to discern what might have delayed him. The excuse was always the same.
Stoddard found himself surprisingly content with her contempt. He was preoccupied as it was, so the silence in the carriage was sufferable. As they wound the streets, he thought of what Arden had asked him.
If a portion of Harper’s intelligence could be transferred into Stoddard’s prosthetic, then might it be possible to imbue a mechanism with the whole of it?
The prospect was both surprising and simple. Stoddard wasn’t sure how it had not entered his mind before. But then, he’d been so long focused on securing and maintaining his sponsorships that he didn’t doubt he’d missed things along the way. While Stoddard had had to balance his survival with his work, Arden’s free and inquisitive mind had leapt forward with ease.
Perhaps with Arden’s help, he thought, his work would have enough promise to retain Sinclair’s sponsorship for a long and prosperous career. And with the alchemist’s apprentice finally brought in, he’d have a team capable of solving humanity’s great dilemma.
“Will you be working tonight as well?” Emmaline asked, bringing Stoddard back into the moment. She wouldn’t look at him. She stared deliberately out the carriage window at the passing buildings.
“I have a meeting of some importance, yes.”
Emmaline let out a drawn out sigh. “I wish you would leave work where it belongs and not bring it into everything we do.”
“My dear,” Stoddard frowned, “everything we do is work. Even these social escapades and little diversions are work. You should be grateful I’m of an industrious disposition, or else I might not be up for it.”
“And you should be grateful I’m of a tolerant manner or else I wouldn’t abide it.” She shot him a severe look.
Stoddard looked out his own window. What he’d seen in Emmaline before, he couldn’t recall now. All those days he’d thought of her while he’d labored in his workshop baffled him. Now that he had her, all he could think of was work. That was, if you could call what he had as ‘having her.’ It was a mutual toleration at best.
For what purpose, Stoddard didn’t rightly know.
The carriage pulled up to the opera house, and he was quick to exit. They were in no means alone in arriving late. At least three other carriages were in the process of unloading. No one actually arrived on time to an opera. He’d been informed of that the first time he’d been invited to attend one. It was a sign of importance to arrive late. It gave off the perception of having more important things to attend to.
That, and it wasn’t uncommon for the divas to go off script completely and usurp the show for their own amusement. It was likely they’d get a very sparse sampling of ‘La disgrazia di il cuore’.
He held open the door for Emmaline, who took a moment to collect herself. When she emerged, she looked in every regard a young woman thrilled by her evening’s engagement and happy to be spending it in his company. It honestly shocked Stoddard how quickly she could turn it on and off.
For the briefest moment, he nearly fooled himself into thinking he was happy to be there w
ith her as well.
They were greeted by Merryfield and his wife, who were waiting just inside. Apparently, they too had felt no need to rush and had taken a few turns about the foyer while they’d waited—”to admire the columns,” Merryfield explained.
They found their box with no trouble, settling themselves in whilst diva Ferraro sang an aria from no play Stoddard was familiar with. As they were getting comfortable, he cast a glance at the booth across from theirs where the alchemist’s apprentice was to sit.
The booth was empty, but Stoddard didn’t worry. He suspected Chance, too, would arrive late to send a similar message of importance. He would want to maintain his dignity. To have arrived on time would have seemed too amenable.
As the evening progressed, Stoddard dutifully enjoyed the performance. He identified a few talking points he could use to entertain conversation later. Diva Ferraro was talented, for sure, though she all but ignored the scheduled performance and the maestro was taxed terribly with the effort to satisfy her whims as she performed pieces she was known for.
As she concluded yet another, Stoddard could not resist glancing at the empty booth. He felt his collar grow hotter. What was keeping the boy? Surely there was nothing more important that could require his attention, if he was to believe Skaggs’ report.
Stoddard adjusted himself in his seat. The thought of Skaggs brought back uneasy feelings. Somehow, he’d managed to put the whole grisly affair out of his mind with work and his conversations with Arden. He’d nearly forgotten how he’d come by the apprentice’s whereabouts in the first place.
“Are you alright?” Both the Merryfields and Emmaline were looking at him queerly, and he became aware of himself. He was clenching his program so tightly he’d nearly twisted it in half. His brow was wet, and he’d all but dug himself into the corner of his seat.
With great effort, he relaxed and tried to appear collected. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just...”
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