Demon in the Machine

by Lise MacTague

“Monsieur LaFarge.” Isabella refused to give him the familiarity of his first name. They were not friends.

  “And who do we ’ave ’ere?” LaFarge bowed low to Brionie. She reached out her hand toward him, which he put to his lips before realizing the filthy state of her gloves. He dropped her hand quickly. A small smile played around the corners of Brionie’s mouth. “Mademoiselle, your presence in dis dreary work area brightens it more than a t’ousand gas lamps ever could.” The longer he spoke to Brionie, the thicker his accent got until it glopped like cold motor oil from every word.

  “Jean-Pierre.” Joseph beckoned over him with one hand without looking up from his perusal of the strange engine.

  “Mais oui.” LaFarge winked at Brionie. “Duty calls.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and placed it across a bench. His derby hat and mahogany cane joined it. After fishing a monocle out of the pocket of his brilliant green brocade waistcoat, he deigned to join Joseph.

  “What do you think, old man?” Joseph drew him closer, one hand on his shoulder to direct LaFarge where he should look. The Frenchman twitched his shoulder away, but not before the damage had been done. A dark smear stood out clearly on the previously immaculate fabric.

  Brionie crowded in to gaze over their shoulders as LaFarge donned the monocle. He held out his hand expectantly. When Isabella ignored him, he looked up at her.

  “Isabella, a pencil if you please.” His voice was reason personified.

  She fished around in the pockets of her coveralls until she located a china marker and dropped it in his open hand. It was little more than a nub, but he was lucky to get as much from her. Her gesture was lost on LaFarge. He was already submerged in the work.

  Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be fascinated as he sketched out runes and lines. What took shape beneath his scribbling marker was complex beyond belief. There was little of the cylinder that wasn’t marred by markings when he was done. A definite seam emerged from the marks, though it was written through with runes in multiple places. For once, Isabella wished she could see the demoniac designs. She’d always left that to LaFarge, content to work with pure mechanics. Now, it seemed, she was far out of the loop. Another lens, one that would allow her to see magic, was what she needed. Her brother had made one with LaFarge’s help. Attaching it to her goggles would take no more than a few minutes. It was something to consider. But how to do it without asking for LaFarge’s help? Maybe her father would be willing to ask him on her behalf.

  Brionie had produced a notebook from somewhere and scribbled away busily in it. To Isabella’s astonishment, she wrote with her left hand. She didn’t notice when Isabella sneaked a peek at her writings. It seemed Miss Riley was transcribing the runes and markings exactly as they were on the cylinder. Or almost exactly. The changes were subtle, but Brionie had altered some of the characters.

  “Very impressive,” LaFarge said when he finished. “Whoever ‘as done this is quite talented. I do not recognize a few of the runes.”

  It was unusual for LaFarge to admit ignorance of anything. Likely, he’d been stumped by more than a few of the runes. Judging by the ones Brionie had altered in her transcription, it seemed like it might be as high as a fifth. How strange it was, Isabella thought. She herself had problems with reading and writing normal English. The letters seemed to shiver and reshape themselves as she watched them. Her handwriting was serviceable enough to pass without notice, but she tried never to write in front of an audience lest they notice how long it took her to form the words. She never had that problem with numbers, nor it seemed with these runes.

  “Can you make out how to open it?” Joseph asked.

  “Of course.” His brows lowered slightly in affront. “I shall need…” LaFarge stood and crossed to the corner of the workshop he claimed as his own. A high apron went over his shockingly green waistcoat. After a bit of rummaging, he returned with a glass jar of red liquid and a brush.

  “Is that…?” Brionie’s mouth twisted and she didn’t finish the question.

  “Blood?” LaFarge smiled broadly, showing more teeth than a shark. “But of course, mademoiselle. It is necessary to charge the runes with blood. Do not fear, this is rat blood. We only want to charge them partway, enough to open the cylinder, not enough to activate the other runes. Somet’ing this complex, it must ’ave a higher grade of blood to engage all of ze inscription.”

  Brionie seemed doubtful of his assertions. She shook her head once and returned to her notebook. Joseph and Isabella stood back while LaFarge painted over the marks running through the seam. He took his time, painstakingly reconstructing each rune. Finally, he stood back and stared expectantly at the cylinder.

  Nothing happened.

  “Zut alors.” His brows knit together as he glared at the offending cylinder. “Something, she is amiss.”

  Brionie checked her notebook, then looked back at the painted device. She put the fingertips of her left glove between her teeth and pulled it off. Never letting go of the notebook, she licked one fingertip and sighed before leaning forward. She sketched a quick correction to two of the runes before looking back at her notes. Another lick of the finger, ignoring the specks of rat blood now upon it, and Brionie amended one more rune. Isabella could have sworn her hands were shaking. There was nothing upon Miss Riley’s face to betray any discomfort, but the tremor, while barely perceptible, was still there.

  The cylinder popped open with a clear clang, like someone had dropped a bell on a stone floor. Brionie snatched her hand back before it could get hit. Her face paled considerably and she backed away a half step before steeling herself. Isabella didn’t think the men had noticed. They both leaned forward to get a better view of the device’s inner workings.

  “Ah!” Twin exclamations issued from each man’s throat, Joseph’s of disappointment and LaFarge’s an excited yell.

  “Are you all right?” Isabella kept her voice down, not wanting to draw the men’s attention to Brionie’s discomfort.

  She got a stiff nod for her pains. Miss Riley’s lips were clamped together and she breathed harshly through her nose.

  “Suit yourself.” Isabella shrugged and took a look inside the cylinder. Right away the reason for her father’s lack of enthusiasm was obvious. Isabella shared his disappointment. The cylinder’s interior was almost as featureless as its exterior. The drive shaft ran straight through it. A gear at either end of the cylinder would serve to turn the shaft, but that gear meshed with nothing.

  “Out of the way.” LaFarge bent over the interior with his grease pencil. It took him much longer to complete the markings this time. When he was finished, he sat back, mopping his brow on one sleeve. “I ’ave never seen anything comme ça, uh…like dis.” He wasn’t exaggerating either. When Isabella peered over his shoulder, the interior was covered with grease marks. Not an inch went uninscribed.

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “This one is beyond even me. Certainement, there are some parts I can make out.” He pointed with the nub of a pencil. “For example, dis part drives the shaft. And over dere, it allows for changes in speed based upon the driver’s input. Dis area draws power from ze charging cylinder. But the rest.” LaFarge shook his head in wonder. “I would love to meet the inventor. ’E is nothing short of genius.”

  Isabella thought perhaps he was laying it on a little thick. This amounted to little more than magic; there were next to no mechanics here. As far as she was concerned, magic was cheating.

  There was warmth at her back, Isabella realized. Brionie stood there, looking over her shoulder and taking more notes. She scribbled furiously, the scratching of her pen loud in Isabella’s ear.

  “Do you want me to move?”

  Brionie shook her head, dividing her attention only between the notebook and the cylinder. Finally, she lowered the pen.

  “Thank you, Isabella. Gentlemen. I believe I have what I need. Please reassemble the earl’s carriage.” She walked back over to her bench and sat, watching
them expectantly.

  “Can you close the device?” Isabella asked LaFarge.

  “Of course I can. It is simply a matter of reversing the runes that opened it.” He produced his jar of rat’s blood and the paintbrush. Even to Isabella’s untrained eyes, the runes he put down seemed slapdash and malformed compared to those he had so recently traced. When he finished, he sat back and waited. Once again, nothing happened.

  LaFarge blew out his mustaches in irritation. If he was trying to impress Brionie, so far he wasn’t doing a very good job. He muttered to himself in harsh consonants and guttural vowels as he traced a finger over the markings.

  “There is the problem,” he finally proclaimed. “There is a failsafe. Once ze cylinder is opened, it may not be closed again using a reversal charm.” He stood and looked over at Brionie. “I am afraid it will take some time before I will be able to close the engine, if at all. I am désolé, mademoiselle.”

  A muscle jumped in Brionie’s jaw. “That is quite impossible, monsieur. I require the use of the carriage to return to the earl. We have an afternoon appointment.” She pulled a pocket watch out of her reticule, opened it, then closed it with a snap that cut through the air. “If I do not leave immediately, I shall be late, and that is unacceptable.”

  “You can use our carriage to get back,” Isabella said. “I’m sure the earl has more than one vehicle.”

  Brionie ignored her and leaned forward. She snatched the paintbrush from LaFarge’s hand and glanced over his runes. What she saw did not please her. She hesitated a moment, then clenched her jaw and moved right up to the engine. With a hand that trembled slightly at first, she applied the brush to the brass cylinder. “You will want to make sure your hands are well removed from the engine,” she said.

  Isabella yanked her hands out of the way, as did LaFarge and her father.

  “…and there.” Brionie made one last swipe of the brush, completely obliterating a section of LaFarge’s symbols. He opened his mouth to protest. The engine snapped shut with a hollow clang. LaFarge closed his mouth.

  “I shall be over here while you reassemble the device.” Brionie turned on her heel and marched over to the far side of the shop from where she’d been watching most of the afternoon. Isabella didn’t think the others would notice, but the further Brionie got from them and the engine, the less tense she became. By the time she reached the stool, she looked quite at ease. Or as much as she ever did. Her back was still ramrod straight, but that was normal. If the woman ever unbent completely, Isabella would probably go into shock. Millie would have the vapors.

  Isabella followed along behind her. “I’d like to take a look at the rest of it. There’s some sophisticated work that’s been done here.”

  “I need to leave as soon as possible. I have an appointment.”

  “Of course you do. And this has nothing to do with the fact that you’re terrified by your employer’s new toy.”

  “I am not frightened.” Brionie drew herself up to her full height. “I am merely concerned. And I need to be on my way. I shall wait above. Please send Johnson around to wait with me. I expect the horseless will be reassembled with all due haste.” She swept over to the lift and waited impatiently, her fingers tapping a rapid tattoo on the top of her thigh.

  There was no more to do except let Brionie have her way. Isabella should have been happy to have Brionie’s imperious presence out of her shop, and she was. At the same time, disappointment lurked that she hadn’t gotten to show Miss Riley any of her own devices. Hopefully there would be more time for that later. So far, this was much more exciting than dancing lessons or picking out silks for a new ball gown. She turned back to where Joseph wrestled with the axle. The real fun hadn’t even begun yet.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later found Briar ensconced in a small cab with Isabella. Being in a horse-drawn conveyance after so long dealing with horselesses was no treat. She’d managed to forget the smells associated with the animals until she’d climbed inside. When Isabella had sent round a note saying she’d be by to pick Briar up before lunch the next day, Briar had been less than amused. One of the earl’s new collections had arrived and she had been happily sorting and arranging the various papers and books when the poor footman had appeared at her elbow. To her embarrassment, she’d been less than cordial to him.

  There she’d been, gloves off and handling a stack of correspondence, tracking the connections she felt through the papers. Typically during this part of the process, she insisted on being undisturbed, but she had informed the staff that she wanted to receive notes from Isabella Castel immediately. The chagrin she felt now was as much because of her ill temper as a result of her own instructions as it was the unwanted thrill she had received handling Isabella’s note with unprotected hands.

  And now the object of her distraction was crammed right next to her on the small bench seat. One of the earl’s carriages would have been much more comfortable, but Isabella had insisted on the cab. Apparently, they were supposed to avoid attracting notice.

  Briar shifted on the bench, trying to open some space between them, but she only succeeded in digging her elbow into Isabella’s side.

  “Are you all right?” Isabella asked. “You’ve done nothing but fidget since you got in here.”

  “I am quite fine,” Briar said. “There isn’t as much space as I’m used to.”

  “We’re going incognito.”

  “You said that already.” Briar stared at Isabella’s brilliant orange dress. “Though I fail to understand how you’ll avoid notice wearing that.”

  Isabella chuckled low in her throat; the sound tugged gently at Briar’s insides. “I said we’re going incognito, not that we’re avoiding notice. There’s an exquisite amount of difference between the two ideas.”

  “Is there really?” Briar wondered if she could get Isabella to make that sound again. “Enlighten me, O wise one.”

  The laugh wasn’t low and deep like the chuckle had been. This one was full-blown and surprised. Briar found herself smiling along in delight. When she caught herself, she schooled her features back into something more befitting a sober demeanor, though one corner of her lip refused to be completely tamed.

  “They’re going to remember someone. What we want to do is make sure their memory is impossible to tie back to us.” She looked Briar up and down critically. “Would it have killed you to wear something colorful?”

  “This is colorful.” She’d carefully followed Isabella’s instruction and had picked out a blue dress suitable for being out and about in town. It matched her grey gloves and parasol quite pleasingly. “It’s the most colorful frock I own that isn’t an evening gown, which would be wholly inappropriate for our excursion.”

  “There is that. But the dress in no way qualifies as colorful. Maybe if we…” Isabella reached past her and plucked Briar’s parasol from where it was looped over the door handle. She replaced it with the orange one that had been lying across her knees. “Give me your gloves.”

  My gloves? Briar froze, panic racing through her body. I need those. She can’t have them! “What do you mean?”

  Isabella’s brow furrowed slightly at her obtuseness. “Those things covering your hands. Take them off.”

  “I can’t.” There would be no protective layer between her and the world. Briar would be paralyzed, under constant assault from the traces of people’s lives that saturated every inch around them.

  “Of course you can.” Isabella mimed peeling them off. When Briar mutely shook her head, understanding dawned in her eyes. “You don’t want to have your hands exposed in the kind of neighborhood we’re heading to, do you?”

  Close enough. Briar nodded vigorously.

  “Then take mine.” Isabella stripped off her virulent orange gloves in two quick motions. She shoved them into Briar’s cringing hands. “Go on. I haven’t any diseases.”

  Briar took a deep breath and carefully pulled off her beautiful grey gloves. She passed them reluct
antly on to Isabella and stared at the orange gloves she gripped in one trembling hand. Isabella seemed too engrossed in working Briar’s gloves on over her hands. Briar’s hands were slightly smaller than hers, so it took her a little bit of time.

  There’s nothing for it. Isabella’s gloves slid easily over her hands. Briar closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable visions. Faint impressions of Isabella donning the gloves on her way out the door skittered through her mind. Flashes of outdoor walks—some in London, others on an estate—came and went from her mind. Then she saw dusty roads and brilliant sun. Poorly constructed clapboard structures lined an unpaved street. Two rough men faced each other, pistols drawn while onlookers observed from areas of shelter.

  “What?” Briar came back to herself with a start. The vision was the last thing she’d expected to see. It had looked like one of the more fanciful illustrations she might see in the Times about America’s Wild West.

  “Are you all right?” Isabella removed her hand from Briar’s shoulder. Had she been trying to steady her or wake her up? And why did Briar’s shoulder tingle so pleasantly?

  “You said that already.”

  Isabella’s laugh snorted from her nostrils in equal parts relief and amusement. “Well, are you? You came over all strange for a minute.”

  “My apologies.” Briar smiled to appease Isabella’s concern and prevent further questions. “This cab is quite uncomfortable.”

  “I suppose it is at that.” Isabella might have been less than convinced, but she seemed willing to let it go. “I believe we’re almost to our destination, so your discomfort will soon be alleviated.”

  True to her words, the cab stopped shaking and clattering over rough cobbles a few minutes later. The cabbie rapped on the roof and they alighted cautiously. Despite Isabella’s words about the kind of neighborhood to which they were heading, they emerged into a pleasant middle class area. While not as splendid as the areas of town she usually frequented, it lacked the unpleasant smells of excrement and rot that overwhelmed the truly rum areas of London. The modest townhomes of red brick that lined each side of the street were packed cheek to jowl. An office building on the corner dwarfed the townhouses in the area, rising four stories to their two. The grey stone gave it an imposing look, as did the pseudo-crenellations that defined the roofline. It gave Briar the impression of an autocratic teacher overseeing rows of schoolchildren.