Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order)

by Bailey, Kristin

  David arched a perfect eyebrow. One of the other boys knocked into my shoulder, throwing me off balance.

  Horrified at the suggestion that I belonged locked up in an asylum, I tried to think of a witty retort. In the end all I could say was “I’ve done nothing to you.”

  Samuel scowled as if he’d just swallowed something distasteful. “You’re insane if you think you belong here.”

  “Leave her,” David said, and pulled Samuel away. “She’s not worth the trouble.”

  Samuel shook off his grasp and glared at him. “You’re the one who finds her so interesting.”

  “This isn’t about her, and you know it.” David placed his hand on Samuel’s shoulder again and turned him toward the door. The young earl glanced back at me over his shoulder with an inscrutable expression.

  I felt as if I’d just been gutted as the room quickly emptied. Finally I stood alone and tried to calm the sick feeling in my middle.

  It had taken all of one day for the Academy to reduce me to a flayed piece of meat hanging, cold and exposed, on a hook. I just wanted to get away from the classroom. The air inside was choking me.

  I wandered through the halls without really looking at where I was going, until I found a small storage room. Thankfully it was empty, so I tucked myself inside and sat on a lopsided bench near the narrow stained-glass window. I attempted to regain my composure. My hunger growled at me. In my distraction I had forgotten my basket with the luncheon Mrs. Brindle had prepared for me.

  A light rapping sounded at the partially open door. “May I enter?”

  I lifted my face from my hands to see Peter leaning against the door. His heavy-lidded eyes considered me carefully. I smoothed a wrinkle from my skirt and sat straighter under his scrutiny.

  “Do you wish to taunt me too?” I asked.

  “That was unfair of Instructor Barnabus,” he said without even acknowledging my question. Peter entered the room and took a seat on the low end of the bench. He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together.

  I turned and traced the edge of a curving piece of dark green glass in the window. “It wasn’t unfair. That’s the problem. I was late, and ill prepared.” I had known this wasn’t going to be easy, but I felt horrid all the same.

  “I couldn’t have answered,” Peter confessed. “I doubt anyone could have. We’ve only been here half a day, and he had barely explained what planetary gear trains were before you walked in. I wouldn’t concern yourself with being the worst in the class, because I’m certain that title will fall to me.”

  That made me smile. “No, it won’t. You were raised to be an Amusementist.”

  He gave me a strange look, and I realized that I had absolutely no basis for my assumption. “Weren’t you?” I added.

  Peter shook his head. “I was studying to become a man of the church.”

  “No.” It burst out of me, and I smiled. Actually, he had the sort of demeanor that would have suited a man well in such a profession.

  “Truth.” He placed one hand on his heart and the other in the air to testify to his oath. “Life was blessedly unremarkable. I was the son of a country physician. Now we have inherited the estate of a cousin I knew nothing about, and everything has changed.” He twisted his hands, then clenched them into fists. “This is just one more thing that is expected of me as the only heir to our new fortune. I don’t even like London. When I fail, all this bother will be for naught.”

  “Don’t say that.” I didn’t want him to fail. He was the only other apprentice who was willing to speak with me. “You won’t fail,” I said, and his shoulders eased ever so slightly. “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”

  “Clearly, you don’t know me well.” He smiled shyly, then my middle gave a horrible rumble.

  “I have some cheese and bread here. You’re welcome to a bit if you’d like.” He pulled a small bundle from inside his coat and unwrapped the cloth.

  I gratefully took what he offered.

  He leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling as he tore a piece of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. “I’d offer you more, but the new cook is a bit odd. She has certain well-tried specialties, but for some reason she absolutely refuses to make them. Says she’s bored with them. Instead she keeps experimenting, and I’m afraid my palate can’t afford her broadening her horizons.”

  I laughed out loud, and it lifted my spirits considerably. “I’m fairly certain my housekeeper was a nursemaid to Caesar, but she puts her experience to good use, so long as you keep her from the pepper.”

  It was his turn to laugh.

  “You’re good company, Miss Whitlock.”

  I was the one who was grateful for him. It was nice to have someone I could consider a friend. “Please, call me Meg.”

  We ate in companionable silence, and by the time our small meal was finished, I was in a far better mood, even if I had not regained my confidence.

  All too soon our brief reprieve was over, and we had to wander back to our lectures. Thankfully, Peter knew the way.

  Whatever spirits I had bolstered during our luncheon were swiftly quashed. The sheer amount of information—gear ratios, compression limits, calculations for potential energy, and calculations for steam pressure in a closed vessel—pummeled me. My head felt numb as I tried furiously to comprehend what was being taught.

  The equations might well have been in Greek. In truth, they looked as if they were in Greek, considering they seemed to utilize more than half of the Greek alphabet and yet managed to contain no numbers.

  Having pi memorized helped considerably, but I still felt as if I were swimming in water too murky and deep for me to make it back to shore. Thankfully, Peter had chosen to sit beside me. When Instructor Barnabus prattled on about how material affected the compression of springs, Peter was quick to offer me a roll of his eyes. And when the subject turned to pistons, he shared a bewildered shake of his head.

  Instructor Barnabus seemed intent on proving I had no mind for numbers at all. He singled me out four more times, and I wasn’t once able to give him an answer to his satisfaction.

  “Miss Whitlock!”

  I sighed as I stood yet again.

  “Yes, Instructor Barnabus?” This was really becoming quite tedious.

  “How would one determine the correct radius for a gear needed to increase the speed of the turning axle by a factor of two?”

  I blinked. Finally! Something I knew. I’d had to calculate something very similar while working with my mechanical frog. “Begin by—”

  “That’s enough, Miss Whitlock,” he said, dismissing me. I stared, slack jawed. Enough! I had hardly begun. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say. He didn’t want me to show him I could answer him and answer him well. Enough indeed. I had had enough.

  “David!” he called. The young earl rose at the front of the class. To my endless humiliation he proceeded to say exactly what I had intended to say.

  “Very good, David,” Barnabus praised. “Clearly, you have a capable mind.”

  I clenched my fists, and Peter had to gently take my wrist and pull me back to my seat. “Ignore it,” he whispered as David beamed at the class, then perched on his chair like it was the royal throne.

  By the end of the day, I felt as if I had been run over by a locomotive. I wanted to follow the boys out to the courtyard and down the ramp to the carriages, but I had promised myself I would do one thing first.

  At the entrance hall I stood amidst the shifting colored light on the floor, wondering if I shouldn’t just go home to lick my wounds. The day hadn’t gone in my favor, and my luck was unlikely to turn. But I couldn’t leave what I felt unsaid. I turned to the owl and looked directly into its large glass eyes while the tiny gear wheels just above the beak turned. “I’d like to speak with Headmaster Lawrence, please.”

  There was no answer. I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for something, some sort of acknowledgment that I even existed at all. I could trace the path o
f one blue triangle of light on the floor from memory before the headmaster finally entered the hall.

  “Come with me,” he said. Subdued and concerned about my interview with him, I followed, watching the edge of my skirt as I did so. He led me to one of the upper floors and to his office.

  It was clear immediately that he had held this position for some time. The room was well lived-in. Bits and pieces of half-built machines each had a space, from the body of a carefully crafted mechanical peacock, to abstract brass and silver contraptions with unknown purpose. His tools and papers were well organized.

  I watched the headmaster carefully as he arranged himself in an ornate high-backed chair that dominated the desk. It fit in well with the oppressive bare walls and narrow windows. He smoothed his sharp beard and steepled his fingers.

  “You wished to speak with me?” He seemed unconcerned.

  I looked down to the smooth polished wood of the old desk. I had practiced in my mind what to say, for hours on end the night before, but now I struggled to find the strength to say it.

  It was best to say it outright. “I wish to be called Meg by the other students, Headmaster.”

  He pursed his lips and folded his hands on the desk. “I see. I’m afraid that is not possible.”

  Of course it was possible. My name was Meg. Three letters. M-E-G. It wasn’t even difficult to say. I looked him in the eye as I swept my hand out. “Insisting upon calling me by my family name singles me out from the others.”

  He seemed unimpressed as he leaned back as far as the stiff-backed chair would allow him to go. “You are already singled out.” He tilted his head ever so slightly. “Whether you wish to be or not.”

  I looked down at my hands and fell silent. I couldn’t deny that.

  He let out a heavy sigh. “Perhaps it was unfair of me to nominate you—”

  “No,” I protested, looking back to him.

  He raised his hand to silence me. “No matter what you are called, the fact remains you will never be the same as your peers. You have to be something more, and when you are, any acknowledgment of your success will be grudging. Your name is inconsequential.”

  “My apologies, Headmaster, but I believe you are mistaken.” I placed my hand on the desk. Indeed there was no changing my gender, but my name would be a constant reminder of that division. “If the others are to see me as an equal member of this Academy, my name should not stand between us. How am I to be treated as an apprentice if every student here must address me as if they were paying call. I cannot be both things at once.”

  “But you can be quite bold, which is part of the reason I nominated you. You will remain a part of this Academy so long as it is on my terms.” The corner of his thin mouth turned up in a smile. “However, you have no room for error, my dear. If you have to leave your home on Wednesday to be here on Sunday, I expect you to do it. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Headmaster.”

  “I do not wish to be made a fool. I greatly admired your father, and I expect you to honor his legacy.” He stood, towering over me.

  I felt suddenly guilty. “Yes, Headmaster.”

  “Go now. I have much to prepare before the next meeting.” He casually waved a hand toward the door.

  “But my name—”

  “Shall remain as it is. Call it a concession to propriety. I do not wish for the young men to forget themselves. As long as you are here, I am responsible for your welfare. Good day, Miss Whitlock.”

  He sat back down, and I had no other option but to leave the room. In one day I had run the gauntlet, and in the end my reward was a curt dismissal.

  It was my name, and yet somehow my name was prisoner to the need to make sure the young men didn’t behave boorishly. I just wanted to learn. That’s all I’d ever wanted, and yet today I had learned several things, and none of them had anything to do with inventions.

  Something woke in me. I didn’t know what it was, only that it felt raw and powerful. I would prove myself. I would show them all.

  And I would start with the headmaster.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OVER THE COURSE OF THE next week, the weather grew hot, and I grew hotter. I harnessed the power of my anger, and I used it to forge myself armor and weapons to use against my fellow apprentices and, unfortunately, my instructors. Every morning when I woke, the first thought I allowed in my mind was a single statement.

  If knowledge exists, then there is nothing preventing me from learning, and learning well.

  And learn I did.

  Gear train configurations, common joint couplings, output potential for different rotor configurations, calculations for determining the center of gravity, numbers upon numbers upon even more numbers.

  And then there were the drawings. The Amusementists had a very specific annotation technique that was almost an art form.

  Everything else in my life fell away. I hardly noticed dust on the shelves of the toy shop, and if I did, I forced myself to leave it be. I had more important work to do.

  Mrs. Brindle did her best to keep shop, but she became very concerned for me. Several times she implied that it simply wasn’t natural for a young girl to think of nothing but figures and calculations. On one occasion her advice pushed me over the edge, and I snapped at her that while well-meaning, she knew nothing about what I could or could not think.

  I was determined, but it hurt. I ached with exhaustion. My eyes would burn with fatigue, and my body grew stiff as I studied for hours before the dying light of the lantern in my workshop. I was living two separate lives stacked atop one another. My sleep paid the price.

  I didn’t feel like myself. Instead I was becoming a machine. My mind worked through problems the way pins and wheels seamlessly fit together, but there was no emotion in it, just the drive of never-ending pressure.

  One evening I returned from my lessons with my mind spinning like a web of intricate gears. I couldn’t make it stop. Visions of joints, pins, bolts, and springs arranged themselves over and over in my imagination. I could hear the endless drone of my instructors prattling off a ceaseless string of numbers. I didn’t see the toys as I passed through the shop. It was a blur of shadows and color. Instead I stumbled into the parlor and fell into the chair by the fire. I didn’t even bother to say hello.

  Mrs. Brindle came in carrying tea. She placed it on the table, but I still couldn’t bring myself to speak. The instructor for the day had been from Belgium. He had been fair, but every time he’d asked a question, David had stood and said, “I believe Miss Whitlock knows the answer, sir.”

  Bastard.

  I found myself repeating the same responses over and over as the instructor struggled to comprehend me. Eventually I forced David to quit his game by giving my responses in French. While my versatile language skills had put David in his place, it had been taxing.

  Mrs. Brindle gave me a concerned smile and placed an envelope on the tray beside the teapot. “This came for you, dear.” She folded her hands and left the room.

  I glanced down at the battered envelope, then blinked. It took me a moment to find the courage to reach out and grasp it. I turned it over and recognized the writing at once.

  Will.

  My heart nearly burst with everything I was feeling at once. Elation that he had written, fear of what he had said, deep and terrible grief that he was not with me, and more than anything else, I felt relief that he thought of me at all.

  With fumbling fingers I tried to open the envelope gently, but it was no use. I tore it as I revealed the single page of neat, blocked writing.

  Dear Meg,

  I hope you are well. I am happy here in Scotland. The others at the Foundry took me in at once, and it is good to feel I am part of a clan. Our last conversation didn’t end well. I want you to know, I think of you often.

  In spite of all I have discovered here, my life is not the same as it was in the spring. I am doing my best to make my name one you can be proud of. I hope your fortunes are as favorable.
/>   Until we meet again. I hope it will be soon.

  With love,

  Will

  I read the note over and over, my eyes tracing each careful stroke of ink on the paper. It must have taken him hours to write the letter. On the one hand, I wished for more. I wished that he’d filled the page with declarations of love and remorse at leaving me. On the other, the note was genuine Will, through and through. He was never one to waste words.

  Tracing my finger over the sentence “I think of you often,” I felt something in me break. Like a spring that had been pushed too far, my thin control snapped, and every other thought in my head fell apart. All my worries, all the pressure, fell away and was replaced by a new image of Will in my mind, happy and surrounded by friends.

  A tear splashed onto the page, and I cried. Pressing the letter to my chest, I cried until sleep claimed me by the fire.

  As I arrived in the carriage bay for my next set of instruction, my spirit felt lighter than it had in months. I could feel the crinkle of Will’s letter tucked into the pocket I had sewn into the folds of my skirts. Usually the pocket held small springs, gears, writing utensils, and other sundry things I tended to need on hand. Today it held my heart. As I caressed the corner of the paper, I could think of nothing else I wished to have so near.

  It felt freeing to think of something other than formulae and mechanics for a change. Will thought of me often. I was determined to do the same.

  I actually found myself smiling as I ascended the ramp into the courtyard. Unfortunately, David was there with Samuel by his side as always.

  Still, the pair of them couldn’t dampen my mood. “Good day,” I greeted with an even brighter grin.

  “What’s come over you?” Samuel asked with his usual scowl. David just watched me closely with his disconcerting light eyes, like a Siamese cat, intent and curious.

  “Am I not allowed to smile?” I grabbed the side of my skirt and gave it a playful swish. The letter crinkled softly, as if laughing with me. Samuel took a step closer to me, leaning forward to force me to back down with his bulk.