Demon in the Machine

by Lise MacTague

  “Wait for us, my good man,” Isabella said to the cabbie, a scrawny man who had developed a permanent hunch from years of driving the hack. He nodded without looking their way and settled the reins over the horse’s back.

  “Where are we going?” Briar hissed to Isabella as they mounted the office building’s stone stairs. She had to admit her grey gloves and parasol looked quite fetching with Isabella’s dress. She on the other hand looked like something out of a carnival and a cheap one at that.

  “You’re worried about Mirabilia, so I thought we should check them out.”

  “Of course, but this isn’t their factory.”

  “I couldn’t find their factory.”

  “You also had difficulty there?” Relief filled Briar. She had started questioning her research skills when she could unearth nothing about the manufactory’s location.

  “So I thought we’d ask.”

  “Have you lost your wits? We don’t want anyone to know we’re curious. They’ll… ah!” She suddenly understood the wisdom of Isabella’s plan of going incognito. No one would ever believe Briar would be out and about in such an outfit.

  Isabella grinned and nodded once. She opened the door to the building’s small foyer. A short register on the wall directed them to the third floor.

  The third floor hallway was populated with doorways every ten feet. Etched glass windows in many of the doors announced this company or that corporation. They walked down to the end of the hall without seeing one for Mirabilia.

  “Which office are we looking for?” Isabella asked.

  “Three-naught-six is what the register said.”

  Armed with the information, they made their way back up the hall. Briar stopped in front of the only door between offices 304 and 308.

  “This must be it.” She stared dubiously at the blank door. There was nothing to indicate it was anything other than a janitor’s closet.

  “Must be.” Isabella grabbed the handle, then paused. She looked over at Briar, smiled brightly, took a deep breath, then pulled the door open. She swept into the office beyond as if she owned it. Briar followed along in her wake, trying to match the confidence Isabella projected.

  “Ladies!” A man behind a small desk tried to finish the bite of his sandwich, wipe his mouth, and leap up all at the same time. He looked like the personification of the concept of accountant. A receding hairline combined with thick glasses that reduced his eyes to the size of almonds gave him the unfortunate appearance of the naked mole rat Briar had once seen on display at the natural history museum in Suffolk. His jerky response to their intrusion resulted in his collapse back into the chair. He coughed out the mouthful he’d tried to inhale into a handkerchief which he then stowed in his waistcoat pocket. “May I help you? Whose office are you looking for?”

  “Why yours, of course.” Isabella laughed, a high brittle sound not at all like the warm chuckles she’d produced in the cab. “This is the main office of Mirabilia Carriageworks, is it not?”

  “It’s Mirabilia Manufacturing now.”

  “Of course it is.” Isabella waved off the correction. “My ladies’ garden club is so interested in your horseless carriages. We’d like to book a tour for your manufacturing facilities.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Isabella drew back, her hand pressed to her chest before stooping forward like a particularly garish hawk. She peered at the nameplate on his desk, then back at him. “Mr. Atwater, we simply must view your facilities. If it’s a matter of cost, that won’t be a problem, will it, Mildred?”

  With a start, Briar realized Isabella was addressing her. She assumed a sour expression. “If we must.”

  “She’s our treasurer. We can barely pry even a farthing from her grasp, unless it’s for perennials. Still, it’s why we voted her in. No one watches our money like Mildred does.” Poor Mr. Atwater nodded, looking very confused. His gaze was pinned on Isabella, similar to the way a small rodent watched a raptor in full stoop. “So money is no issue. How much will it be for…” Isabella looked away from Mr. Atwater and he relaxed visibly. “How many of the ladies were interested?”

  “Twenty-seven, I believe.” Briar considered for a moment. “No, twenty-eight. Millicent had been on the fence, but she has decided she’d like to come. ’Twill be twenty-nine if her husband decides to join us.”

  “So we’ll say twenty-nine, including us, of course. What do you say to that, Mr. Atwater?”

  “St-still impossible, my lady.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing crazily among the folds of his neck. “No one is allowed to visit. Trade secrets, you know.”

  Isabella pinned him back to his seat with her glare, then seemed to relent and turned away. She wandered around the front of the office, peering at the sparse decor, lips pursed. Briar watched her, breath half-held wondering what she would try next. This side of Isabella was not exactly unexpected. It rather reminded Briar of the Isabella she saw at parties, though this one was much more forceful.

  “I have it!” Isabella whirled around in a dramatic swirl of orange silk. “We’ll simply have your founder visit our garden club! It’s genius, isn’t it, Mildred?”

  Briar hoped her nod was convincing.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Holcroft doesn’t do appearances, madam.” Mr. Atwater pushed himself to his feet. “He hasn’t the time, too busy running the company and devising new inventions. Now, I must ask you to leave and not to return without an appointment. I must finish my lunch.” As he said the last, he wilted back into his chair, his backbone having run its very short course.

  “Very well, then.” Isabella sniffed audibly. She swanned over to Briar and linked their arms together. “But do not think we shall forget your intransigence. Our husbands shall hear about it, shan’t they, Mildred?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Propelled smartly along by Isabella’s arm through hers, Briar hastened to keep pace with her. Their footsteps sounded almost as one across the bare floors of the office; they were muffled into next to nothingness when they hit the carpeted floor of the hallway. Briar tried to reclaim her arm, but Isabella was having none of it.

  “Keep walking,” she hissed. “Is he watching?”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Briar. Now that they’d left the office, she’d assumed they could drop the charade. She sneaked a glance back over her shoulder. Mr. Atwater was indeed watching them. When he caught her eye, he disappeared back into the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Not anymore,” Briar whispered back.

  Even with the reassurance, Isabella refused to relinquish her hold upon Briar. She marched them down the stairs, out the front door and into the waiting hack, refusing to drop her facade of outraged haughtiness until they were well away from the office building.

  “That was exciting!” Isabella said through delighted laughter. She squeezed Briar’s arm one last time and finally let go. “Not as informative as I’d hoped, but better than nothing.”

  “I suppose.” Briar was less amused. “Mildred?”

  “What? It was perfect for you.” Isabella’s face split open in a wide grin that Briar had trouble not returning, irritated though she was. “When you make that one face, you’re most assuredly a Mildred.”

  Briar wrinkled her brow and looked Isabella straight in the eye. “What face is that?”

  “The one you’re making now is pretty close. Tilt your chin up a bit and straighten your back, and you’ll be right there.”

  She had to be teasing, thought Briar. This was what people did to each other when they got along, or so she’d observed. Her opportunities to be this close to anyone else were limited. The only one she ever teased was Imogene, though she feared that one day soon the girl would be too old for such a level of familiarity.

  “You need to loosen up, Brionie,” Isabella said. “You’re wound tighter than the springs in my workshop. Too much more of that, and you’ll snap.”

  “I am not wound too tightly, Miss
Castel.” The use of the given name she used in the mortal plane warmed her. Even Imogene called her Miss Riley.

  “See, right there. You should really call me Isabella. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I think we know too much to keep calling the other ‘Miss.’”

  She had a point. “Very well. Isabella.” At Isabella’s encouraging nod, Briar took a deep breath and continued: “I would like it very much if you would call me Briar, then.”

  “Briar?” Isabella cocked her head to one side, eyes twinkling. “As in a bramble? Something prickly?”

  “Yes. It’s what my mother calls me.” Only because it was the name Carnélie had given her, but Briar was aware the name would be considered highly unusual here.

  “Very well, Briar.” Isabella gave the appearance of tasting the name as it passed over her lips. Distracted, Briar couldn’t help but watch her mouth closely, thrilled at the hint of Isabella’s tongue hiding behind white teeth. “I have to say, it fits.”

  “Of course you do. And I have to say, Isabella fits the girl I see at balls, not the one who crawls around in her father’s workshop.”

  Isabella lifted her shoulders, then let them fall. “We can’t all be what we’re expected to be. The world would be a boring place indeed.”

  Briar didn’t miss the implication. She knew she seemed boring, both by the standards of the Isabella she saw at parties and the Isabella who worked with machinery and broke into people’s homes at night. That was fine. Boring was better an option by far than chaos.

  They passed the rest of the ride in silence that no longer felt awkward or strained. Isabella was a reassuring presence at her side.

  “You should come in,” Briar said when they arrived back at the earl’s townhome. “We still have much to discuss. I’ll ask Johnson to take you home when we are done.”

  * * *

  The suggestion seemed like a good idea to Isabella, and she counted it as a victory of sorts that it was a suggestion and not an order. She followed Briar through the house, taking it all in. She’d been here before, to be certain, but everything looked so much different in the light of day. Servants bustled here and there, never getting in their way, but always on the business of keeping a large household running. Her own home looked positively rundown in comparison to this gleaming, spotless jewel.

  The library was a little different than the last time she’d been here. The table upon which Briar had placed the box to entice her was now covered with papers and books. A desk not far away was even more overfilled with paper. It felt dusty in here. She could see gleaming motes dancing in the sunlight coming through a crack in the room’s heavy curtains, but not a piece of it marred any of the library’s surfaces. It was as if the dust dared not settle in Briar’s domain. Isabella couldn’t blame it; she could barely conceive of settling here either. Of course, the last time she tried, she’d been held in a cage of magic.

  “I know we didn’t get all the information you wanted,” Isabella said, taking a careful seat on an old chair that managed to look comfortable without being ragged. “I think we have a good start of it, however.”

  “We still have no idea where the factory is,” Briar said, her voice sharp with frustration. “Whatever they’re doing to create those damnable engines, it’ll be happening there. The gloves, if you please?” She pointed to Isabella’s hands. “We need the grimoire they’re using. That will tell us what they’re up to.”

  “Grimoire?” Isabella dropped the grey gloves in Briar’s outstretched hand. “I haven’t heard that word before.”

  “No? Surely your Monsieur LaFarge uses a grimoire.”

  Isabella shook her head to the contrary. “And he’s not my Monsieur LaFarge.”

  “He must have something he uses to look up his…spells, for lack of a better term.”

  “He has an old notebook. Sometimes he uses it to copy out of, and sometimes he makes notes in it.”

  “That’s his grimoire. Every practitioner of infernal magic has one.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not.” Briar seemed highly offended. She looked more like a Mildred than when she first joined Isabella in the cab. “I’m not a magician. I am an archivist.”

  The denial stopped Isabella cold. She stared at Briar. Was this an attempt at humor? If it was, there was no evidence of it on Briar’s face or in her bearing, but then the woman was almost impossible to read. “Surely you jest,” Isabella finally said slowly. She still watched Briar for any clue as to what she might be thinking. “I’ve seen you do magic. As far as I know, it was demoniac magic.”

  “Oh, that.” Briar had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “I don’t think you can really count that. It’s merely something I picked up in my studies.” She glared at Isabella when she opened her mouth. “As an archivist.”

  Whatever moment they had shared in the cab was over. Isabella had no idea what had changed, but the air between them was almost glacial now.

  “At least we have a name,” said Isabella, eager to leave the discussion of grimoires behind them. “Perhaps you could go from there?”

  “Me?”

  “I’m afraid so. I can break into whatever place you want me to, but I need to know where that is. You’re the archivist. Presumably you know records. See what they say about Mr. Holcroft, head of Mirabilia Manufacturing.”

  There was no question that Briar Riley was a deeply intelligent woman, yet she had some odd blind spots. Clearly, she was much more comfortable around books and papers than she was about people; checking the records was an obvious next step. Even Isabella knew there were records. Her father had applied for more than one patent over the years, though he usually let LaFarge apply on his behalf. That would be one place to start, but she knew her own limitations. The records were there, but Briar was much better equipped to search through them than she was.

  “Yes, the records.” Briar thought about it for a moment. “The company is leasing that office. There will be records of that. I could talk to the landlord.”

  Isabella nodded encouragingly. “The office was awfully strange, was it not?”

  “A little small, perhaps,” Briar said, her tone vague. Her eyes still looked inward, mentally pressing forward with the question of records.

  “Small. And Atwater was the only occupant. There were almost no personal effects aside from his, and those seemed to have been placed there to give the illusion of occupancy.”

  “Wasn’t there another room?”

  “An empty one. I could see through the crack of the door, when I was looking around. Atwater is supposed to be functioning as the clerk, but there’s no one else in there. I don’t doubt all he does all day is eat lunch and take the mail. Shouldn’t an organization the size of Mirabilia have employees to pay? Where were the records? I saw no boxes or cabinets for files when we were there.”

  “No employees?” That had gotten Briar’s attention. Her back was ramrod straight again. “That’s impossible.”

  “Either they have no employees, or they have ones they aren’t paying.” Both ideas were beyond comprehension. “Perhaps there is a payroll office at the factory. And accountants and receivables.” Having an office solely as a place to accept mail made no sense at all. Mirabilia was paying a man to do nothing or at least next to it from what Isabella could tell. “I need to take a closer look at the office. Tonight perhaps.”

  Chapter Nine

  The large leather-bound volume already smelled musty. Briar supposed it was the fate of all government records locked away on a shelf and used by precious few. Not that their keepers made access easy. Only the Earl of Hardwicke’s title had opened up the small room to her without an appointment weeks hence. She’d heard the London County Council was acquiring other buildings. Spring Gardens was much too small for their purposes, as evidenced by the cramped records office. The reading room consisted of two tables and a window where one might ask the clerks to procure relevant documents. She had the luxury of being the only one
using the room, though minor functionaries had been in and out of the office all day on this errand or that task. They frequently left with arms full of ledgers and documents and only rarely seemed to return them. That did not bode well for her search. Neither did the impending move. In her experience, people used a change of quarters as an excuse to shed themselves of materials they no longer deemed useful. Briar hoped they had a trained archivist to assist them; otherwise important information might be lost for all time.

  She leafed through page upon page of incorporation documents, trying to determine when Mirabilia had first come to life as a company. It was no easy task; London had hundreds, if not thousands of new businesses opening every year. Briar only had the barest idea when Mirabilia might have incorporated.

  She sighed heavily and turned another page. Normally the task would have wholly occupied her as she bored in to discover a single nugget of information that few other people could locate. The chase thrilled her and made her feel alive. Today, she would have given her eyeteeth to be anywhere else. The room was too small and the walls too close. The gas lamp on the wall didn’t give off nearly as much light as it should have.

  How many more pages did she have left in the volume? Briar sneaked a look and sighed again. Too many. But there was only one way to go, and that was forward. She had her own part in the task at hand, as surely as Isabella did.

  Isabella Castel. Now there was someone worth contemplating. It was funny. Two weeks ago, Briar would have politely told anyone who asked that Isabella was a simpering twit who had no more brains than a particularly dim chicken. And yet, there was far more to the woman than she could possibly have credited. Not only was she mechanically gifted, but she had the impertinence to bedevil the upper crust and avoid the authorities in a series of daring burglaries. Briar could have forgiven herself for missing all of that in view of Isabella’s prodigious gifts for dissembling, but she prided herself on her ability to read others. It was how she made her own living, after all. She had powers granted to no one else, as far as she knew, to read objects and connect them with their owners.