Cadaver & Queen

by Alisa Kwitney

  Lizzie bit the inside of her cheek. Then there was that business about the queen malfunctioning. It seemed a terribly disrespectful way to speak about the eighty-one-year-old sovereign, who had been on the throne for more than six decades. Back in the States, Lizzie had heard that the elderly monarch’s health had been failing, but when she arrived in London, the broadsheets ran pictures of the octogenarian performing her royal duties. Then again, if the good doctors at Ingold could fix whatever had been ailing the British monarch, they were probably entitled to speak of her as if she were a rusty train engine in need of refurbishment.

  A chill went through her. What had they said? A full overhaul...our most powerful patient. Suddenly she had to fight to keep her breathing low and quiet.

  Through the crack in the door, Lizzie could see Makepiece moving around the laboratory. He came to stand directly in front of the wardrobe, and she held her breath.

  “Miss Lavenza,” said Makepiece, opening the door without fanfare, “would you mind telling me what you are doing here?”

  Lizzie tried to think of a plausible excuse, but her mind went blank. She could, of course, tell him the truth. This man had been her father’s friend and was her only ally among the faculty. Then she glanced at the Bio-Mechanical lying on the gurney, his arms once again bound by restraints. Makepiece must have refastened them.

  “I brought you something to eat,” she said. Which was true. “We were going to work on the magnetometer.”

  “I was in my private rooms! You know that you’re not supposed to be in the lab when I’m not here.” Lizzie hadn’t realized that there was a door that led directly to the professor’s living quarters. Well, that explained why he seemed to live in his workplace. She hung her head, hoping that she looked sufficiently penitent. “I came in looking for you, and then I saw someone injured and in pain, so I tried to help. I thought he was a patient, but that’s no excuse.”

  He looked marginally less upset. “You didn’t realize that he was a Bio-Mechanical?”

  “Not right away,” said Lizzie. “I just saw that he was in pain, and wanted to render some assistance.”

  “That’s interesting. So he appeared human to you? Sensible?” Makepiece tugged at his beard again. “Then why were you were hiding? How much did you hear?”

  A chill went through her. His voice was sharper than she had ever heard it, but Makepiece was not the sort of professor who lost his temper. “I... I didn’t hear anything. I just... When you came in with the other professors, I was frightened. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being in the laboratory.” The patient was watching her, she could feel it, and she knew in her gut that he was wondering whether she would reveal that he could speak. She hesitated. If he had wanted the professors to know that he could understand them, he would have spoken up himself. Without consciously making a decision she said, “What is he doing here, Professor?”

  Makepiece stared off into space for a moment, and then dropped his head. “This one has shown certain...abnormalities that bear closer investigation.” He opened a medicine cabinet and began removing bottles. “I suppose you heard what Grimbald said about Bio-Mechanicals shuffling into the line of fire? And about...other things?”

  She needs to be brought in, and the sooner the better. And that means we need fresh cadavers. They had been talking about the queen. “The sound was muffled,” she said, trying to hold his gaze. She wasn’t used to lying; it felt awkward, unpleasant, like trying to talk around a sore tooth. “I could hear that you were all speaking, but I couldn’t quite make out the words.”

  Makepiece seemed relieved. “Yes, well. Not that we were discussing state secrets, but it would be easy to misconstrue some of what was said. We’re on the right track, I know we are, but we haven’t quite got the formula down yet.”

  “The formula?”

  “For the ichor. Moulsdale hates to admit it, but in some respects, we’re still as much alchemists as chemists.” Makepiece took a dropper and began extracting liquids from various bottles with Latin labels. “After all, what are we seeking to refine here, if not the elixir of life?” Makepiece shook the test tube, which turned a cloudy gray.

  “Professor, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

  “You know about the circulatory system of veins and arteries that brings blood to all the parts of the body? Well, we also have another system of lymphatic vessels that distributes a different substance. The ancients called it aqua vitae, the water of life. We call it ichor.” Makepiece added a small quantity of a black powder to the test tube, and now it glowed an eerie, fluorescent green. “At the present time, we must constantly replenish the ichor in order to keep the Bio-Mechanicals from breaking down.” Makepiece depressed the hypodermic’s plunger, and a drop of glowing green liquid hung from the needle’s tip. “I keep making adjustments to the formula. Perhaps this batch will prove the winner. If not, then I suppose we’ll learn from our mistakes.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lizzie detected a movement; the Bio-Mechanical’s left hand was clenched in a fist, the mechanically enhanced muscles clenching so hard that the leather restraints seemed about to snap.

  “Professor...”

  “Yes?”

  “If the subject is exhibiting intriguing new behaviors, wouldn’t it make sense to observe him as a control before conducting any more experiments?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing? I’ve observed the subject for over twelve hours. He’s done nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “But his face and abdomen show signs of having been beaten, and he’s been tied to a gurney. Think of how an animal subject might react under the same circumstances.”

  Makepiece looked down at the leather strap in his hands. “Face and abdomen. You examined him, then?”

  “I...”

  “Of course you did. What else did you do?”

  Lizzie glanced at the Bio-Mechanical, who was clearly comprehending every word that was said, and perhaps the ones that were not spoken, as well. She didn’t understand how Makepiece hadn’t noticed. But she knew better than to make the mistake of underestimating his intelligence. “I used my father’s device,” she admitted.

  “I see,” said Makepiece, pulling at his beard again. Yet this time, instead of concern, there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Very well, then. We mustn’t confuse the experiment with too many variables. I will keep the subject here and observe him.”

  “Thank you,” said Lizzie.

  “Whatever for? I’m not doing you any favors, you know.”

  “Of course, sir. I know that.”

  The odd, stern note in Makepiece’s voice made her uncomfortable, and she wondered what would have happened if she had admitted what she had overheard. As if reading her thoughts, the Bio-Mechanical caught her gaze and held it for a moment before giving the kind of formal nod a gentleman gives a lady. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to communicate—gratitude, or acknowledgment, or some other, subtler message—but whatever his message was, one thing was certain: he was no mindless killing machine.

  13

  The next morning, the first years were scheduled to have a period of physical education. Because the weather was so fine, they were going to have their class outside. Grimbald, who was in charge of athletics, was a great believer in the benefits of fresh air.

  The air turned out to be more brisk than fresh, and Lizzie had to blow on her hands to keep them warm. Back home, mid-September still seemed like summer, but here, even though the sky was a cloudless blue, you could feel autumn settling in. Some of the trees were even turning color. Pretty to look at now, but if it got cold this early, it was going to be a long winter.

  At least I don’t have to stand out here with bare legs. Except for Byram, the boys were all shivering in striped shirts and black short breeches that ended just above the knee. Byram, conspicuous in long trousers, had decided to m
ake himself more conspicuous by smoking a cigarette. As the smell of smoke reached them, some of the other boys began muttering.

  “Byram!” Grimbald’s drill sergeant voice startled Lizzie, but Byram showed no visible reaction. “Put that out this instant!”

  “Yes, sir.” Byram took one last leisurely drag before crushing the cigarette butt under his heel.

  “Why aren’t you in gym uniform?” Grimbald was wearing the striped shirt and shorts himself, displaying a surprisingly trim and muscular form for a man in his late forties. A silver whistle dangled around his neck.

  “Bad foot, sir.”

  “In the First Boer War, I had a corporal who had half his foot shot off. Didn’t seem to stop him from wearing his uniform, or fighting with the best of them.” Grimbald looked Byram up and down. “Your foot going to stand in the way of you becoming a doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then next time you show up properly attired for exercise.” Instead of leaving it at that, Grimbald leaned forward to say something only Byram could hear. A muscle twitched in the younger man’s jaw, but he said, “Understood, sir.”

  Moving on to Will, Grimbald lifted up Will’s baggy shirt and looked disapprovingly at the belt wrapped around his slender waist. In the oversize gym clothes, Will looked as skinny as a thirteen-year-old. “I take it your uniform doesn’t fit properly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was it your brother’s?”

  Will looked miserable. “No, they just didn’t have my size, sir.”

  Grimbald’s mustache twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. “Make arrangements to have it altered.” Turning to leave, he halted and looked over his shoulder at Lizzie. “You cannot participate in gym class without the proper attire.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to show my legs?”

  Grimbald paused, and for a moment, she thought she’d scored that point. “I believe the Matron is in charge of the young ladies’ physical education, and their attire. You are a young lady, are you not? In that case, you are Miss Shiercliffe’s responsibility.”

  “But I’m not a nursing student, so my schedule isn’t the same as theirs. I have Materia Medica on Wednesday afternoons, when they meet for their physical education class.”

  “Scheduling dilemmas are not my department. I suggest you take it up with Professor Moulsdale.”

  “But that’s not...”

  Before she could finish, Grimbald raised the silver whistle to his mouth and blew two sharp blasts. “The rest of you, fall in behind me! We’ll take it easy and do three miles this first morning.” With that, he set off at a punishing pace. After a moment, the rest of the class took off after him, their breath misting in the cool air.

  “Come on, Lavenza.” Byram tugged at her arm. “As the French say, ‘if they’re not going to feed you, leave the table.’” She followed him up the hill, watching as Will gave them a melancholy wave before running to catch up with the others.

  * * *

  Byram led Lizzie up the hill, around the back of Ingold’s main building. There were the remains of an old tower there, but one side of the wall had crumbled away, exposing the winding stone stairs to the elements.

  Pausing at the bottom, she watched Byram take the steps three at a time. She rested her hand on the curving stone wall—there was no banister—and paused with her foot on the first step. “Is it safe?”

  “I’ve done it before without killing myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It wasn’t, but she followed him anyway, placing her feet with great care on the slickly sloping stairs. There were old names scratched into the stone beneath her hand—she could make out Crispin Weathersby, 1855, Roland March, 1804. Underneath were other names, too faded now to be legible. The clearest inscription was a quote: It is dangerous to be right on matters in which the established authorities are wrong.

  That sounded true enough, but whoever had written it had declined to sign his name. “What is this place?”

  Byram’s voice came down to her like an echo. “It’s just an old tower that was never refurbished. All the smokers know about it.”

  “Ah.” Her legs were cramping from the tension of climbing, and she realized that this was Byram’s way of showing her that he was both fit and resourceful. She caught up with him and sucked in a sharp breath; there was a gap where two stairs had crumbled away, which meant she would have to leap up and over to reach the landing. “How do you manage this last bit?”

  “Watch me. Step there, at the edge, and jump.” He demonstrated, only slipping a little on the landing, when his bad foot buckled. “Nothing to it,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

  “All right, then.” She gathered her skirts in one hand and tried not to look down at the patch of distant grass and stone visible through the gap. She estimated that there were some sixty feet from the ground. But if Byram did it with his bad foot, then so can I. She bent her knees and leaped, and then Byram’s hand was clasping her firmly around the arm, helping her up.

  “Thanks,” she said, not relishing the thought of climbing down again. Then she took in the view: miles and miles of countryside all around them, stretching as far as the eye could see. Over the crenelated battlements, she could also look down over the rest of Ingold’s buildings. “It’s incredible up here.”

  “Thought you’d appreciate it. You can make a bit more sense of the sprawl of buildings when you’re looking down and not just another rat caught in the maze. Look over there, at that.”

  She squinted, not wanting to admit she couldn’t really make out details. “There?” She pointed where he was pointing.

  “That’s an old smuggler’s tunnel. You can sneak out of the school that way. Only problem is, the way is through Moulsdale’s study.”

  She wondered how Byram knew all this but decided not to ask. After spending time with Will and Byram, she had learned that, outside a classroom, asking lots of questions made you seem unsophisticated and slightly foolish, and that it was better to just pick up bits of information as you went along.

  Byram maneuvered himself into a seated position on the edge of the tower, which made her a little queasy. Still, she followed suit, noticing as she sat carefully on the ledge that there were old crushed cigarette butts crammed into the nooks and crannies. For a few minutes, the two just sat, looking out at the fields below. It was colder up here than down below, and she wondered whether Byram would try to put his arm around her, and what she would do if he did. Then she wondered if there was something wrong with her, because here she was, alone with an extremely good-looking young man, and she really had no desire to have his arms around her. Nervously playing with a loose strand of hair by her ear, she had an awful thought: perhaps the doctors who claimed that higher education shriveled a woman’s reproductive organs were right. Would she know if her womb had already withered away inside her?

  Byram was frowning at her. “Say, you’re not about to go all hysterical on me, are you?”

  “What? No!” She tucked the loose strand of hair back in place.

  “Good. You looked a bit squirrelly there for a moment. Thought you were going to accuse me of luring you up here for nefarious purposes.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Well, don’t you get your dander up. Hey, look down there.” He pointed at the path far below. “That’s Will coming around the bend. Poor sap.”

  “I don’t see him.” Squinting, she could just make out the blurry dots that were the other students, tiny at this distance, running laps behind Grimbald.

  “That’s because you’re looking in the wrong place. Look there.” She followed the line of his pointing finger, and now she could see the blur that must be Will, lagging far behind.

  “Poor Will.”

  “Indeed. So, have you recovered from your argle-bargle with old Grim?”

 
“Argle-what?”

  “Row. Quarrel. Contretemps.”

  “Ah.” She did feel a little better, sitting out in the cool air, watching the clouds scudding by. “Yes, I suppose so.” Downhill, where the ground flattened out a bit, a farmer had built a massive haystack, well over six feet tall. Once upon a time, she would have attempted to climb it. Glancing sideways at Byram, who was rolling another cigarette, she noticed that the sole of his right shoe was thicker than that of the left.

  With studied casualness, he tucked the bad foot back out of sight before taking out a match and striking it against the sole of his shoe. She wished she could just go right ahead and ask what, exactly, was wrong, and if it had been the result of an accident, or was something he had been born with. He was so good-looking with those cheekbones, like an Italian Renaissance prince. If he hadn’t had some flaw, she didn’t think they would have been friends at all. For some reason, she found herself thinking of the Bio-Mechanical, and wondering what he looked like without the swollen eye and lip. She flashed on the memory of Grimbald from the night before, striking the bruised man’s face again and again. She wouldn’t have expected that of Grimbald. The former military man might be cruel, but in a calculated way. What she had seen last night had been raw emotion.

  “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” said Byram, offering a drag of his cigarette.

  She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. No need to make herself even more shocking than she already was by adding the vice of smoking.

  “Still upset about missing the dissection, or is Makepiece going to fix things for you so you can observe?”

  “I don’t think he can.” With everything that had happened last night, she’d forgotten why she had gone to the lab in the first place until much later, when she was back in her room trying to settle down to sleep.