“What about the engines we rebuilt today?” Ikey asked.
Cross lifted an eyebrow. “What about them?”
“You said we were going to give them a try tomorrow.” A flicker of the rage from the Kittiwake’s envelope tickled him.
Cross shrugged his shoulders as he poured more liquor into his cup. “Doesn’t matter. They’re not going to work.”
“How do you know?”
Cross set down the bottle and picked up his cup. “I know.”
“So why are we—”
“Oy! Excuse me, Captain. I thought I was in charge here.”
Ikey flushed and averted his eyes to the table. A tightness threaded through his muscles.
Cross took a drink, then placed the cup back on the table. “As I was saying, we need to build an engine that will generate enough hydrogen to lift the Kittiwake. Here’s what I was thinking.” Cross chopped the air in front of him with both hands as if placing the idea before himself. “If we increase the rotational rate of the magnetic rod, we should increase the rate at which electricity is generated. If we can zip more current through the wires, we can increase the hydrolysis rate in the tanks. A greater hydrolysis rate generates both more hydrogen and more oxygen. Greater lift and a hotter fire. We’ve modified the engine every which way. It might be time to consider the boiler assembly.”
Cross arched an eyebrow at Ikey. “Thoughts?”
Ikey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Concentrate. The engine components assembled themselves in his mind, along with the boiler and its pipes. The steam rushed through the pipes and the turbine turned.
“What if we…” Ikey grasped the air before him, then drew a circle in the air. “A bigger wheel. For the turbine. It would turn the rod faster.”
“Nah,” Cross said. “But at least you’re thinking. A bigger wheel means a greater force is required to move it. Unless you also have a way to increase the force generated by the boiler…”
Ikey’s hands fell into his lap.
Cross took a sip from his cup. “What if we…” and he began to spool out a great line of technical jargon that surged up around them until it crested as a wave and swamped Ikey’s ability to follow along, and so Ikey’s attention drifted across the table and snagged on the lantern. The yellow tongue of flame drifted back and forth under the shimmering eddies of heat and light that rippled the air.
“Heat,” Ikey said.
Cross stopped mid-sentence, mid-gesticulation, his fingers splayed out before himself to illustrate some point Ikey had missed. “What?”
Ikey sat up on his stool. “Heat. Hot air rises. In the summer, it’s always cooler on the floor. What if we heated the gas? What if we replaced the hoses with pipes, and then we wrapped them in copper tubing and piped steam through it? It’d heat the gas. It would rise.”
Cross drained his cup, then sucked at his teeth as he stared across the room. “You’re on to something.” He shook his head. “No. No, it wouldn’t work. If we pulled more steam off the boiler, we wouldn’t have enough to run the propellers or the turbine as hard as we need. We’d have to get another boiler. But nice try. Glad to… Wait a minute.”
Cross rubbed his chin, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “That’s it! Wait! What if we ran exhaust from the fire through those copper coils? The exhaust could heat the hydrogen before it is vented outside. And if it has a chance to cool down—Wait, no. Soot would build up in the coils in no time. Occlude the whole mess… Oh! But if…”
And on Cross went in stops and starts before he grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and sketched a design for the boiler that would suit his needs and heat the hydrogen as it passed into the cells. Ikey watched him address each problem. Instead of coming up with a proper solution as he and Uncle Michael might have done, Cross tried to pass the problem around the system. Instead of designing a device to remove soot from the exhaust, he designed an exhaust system that gave the soot someplace to go and wait to be collected by Sharp or someone else when it came time to clean.
It seemed inevitable that every music box, and even Rose herself, was governed by a series of counterweights. It was what Cross would do; spread the problem around. Balance. Whether he designed an intricate little device to turn vibrations into melodic, haunting tunes, or designed an automaton to cook his dinner, clean his house, and knit him sweaters, it was all a trick of balance, of measuring out precise movements and passing them around the system through an array of weights and counterweights—the chimes themselves.
And in Rose?
He gritted his teeth. Traditional weights and counterweights worked in the music boxes because they were stationary. They sat in an upright position and never moved. But Rose? She moved about. If she lay down, the counterweights would rest against her chest and become useless.
Ikey sat up straight, eyes wide. He never saw her lie down. Could she? If she did, if she was knocked over, would she cease to function as would a grandfather clock laid on its back?
Cross dropped his pencil to the table with a clatter, then slumped onto his stool. With a chuckle and a shake of his head, he filled the cup halfway, then pushed it towards Ikey.
“Go ahead, my good man. You deserved it. That was brilliant. Absolute brilliance. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Ikey smiled. A warmth spread through him, and the heat was fanned as Cross clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. Ikey picked up the cup, sniffed, and took a sip.
It burned and tasted like acetate or worse. He wrinkled his nose and placed the cup back before Cross.
Cross threw his head back in laughter. “You’ve had a good life, chum, if you can turn your nose up at that. But you’ll find over time that this,” Cross said as he picked up the cup and held it between them, “this is a less bitter flavor than the waking moments of a man’s life.” He lifted the cup in salute, then took a drink. “Ah!”
Ikey took a couple breaths to clear his chest of the burn. Cross’s praise still lit him, however. Confidence bubbled up his back, and for a brief moment Ikey felt like he might figure anything out.
“Can Rose lie down?” Ikey asked.
The wide, sloppy grin on Cross’s face shriveled into a low grin, sharp and full of points. “With you?”
Ikey’s heart stuttered. He buried his gaze in the table. “I didn’t mean—”
Cross erupted into laughter again. He howled and pounded his fist on the table until the lantern jumped and the shadows around the room shivered and quaked in nervousness. Ikey worked on the courage to stand and leave, but the old reflexes held fast. He remained motionless, afraid to do anything that might remind Cross of his presence.
“Oh!” Cross gasped. “Oh, man! Sure. Why the hell not? If you can talk her into it, then you’ve earned it. But,” Cross grasped Ikey’s shoulder and gave it a shake, “you think my scotch is sour? Man, wait until you get a taste of her snatch!”
He threw his head back and howled with laughter again. He slapped his knee and thumped his fist on the table again and the pounding filled the shack like cold water.
Ikey slid from the stool. He took a step towards Cross. His fist crashed into the man’s gaping jaw.
The laughter stopped as Cross tumbled backwards. His knees and shins caught the underside of the table and flipped it up as he fell; his long, thin body acting like a lever.
The junk on the table crashed to the floor in a shower of jangling metal and shattering glass punctuated with the thump of Cross hitting the ground.
Light blossomed around the room as oil leaked from the upset lantern. Orange flames spread across the darkening ground and crawled for the front wall of the shack.
Ikey glanced at Cross, still out on the ground.
In quick motion, Ikey grabbed the lantern and set it upright. A few drops of burning oil landed on his fingers. He wiped his hand over his trousers, then yanked his shirt over his head. He whipped the flames and kicked at the dirt until the last lick of fire poofed out, except for the flame s
till flickering in the lantern.
The shirt was surely ruined. Ikey held it before himself and began to examine it. Something moved. He looked up in time to catch Cross’s fist.
The punch struck above his eye. Ikey’s head snapped back. Surprise and momentum carried him into the wall. As he began to slump to the ground, Cross grabbed him by the arm, yanked him up, then buried his fist in Ikey’s gut.
Ikey sank to his knees, hands clutching his stomach.
“You think just because you have one good idea, you can replace me, do you?” Cross asked. “That one good idea is the only reason I didn’t just kill you.”
Cross turned towards the damage dealt to his workshop.
“Get out of here,” Cross said.
“Why do you say such things?” Ikey rasped. “About Rose.”
“You still here?”
Ikey struggled to his feet beneath the weight of his throbbing head. He leaned back against the shack wall, his hands clutching at his stomach as if a pin secured him to the wall like an insect specimen. “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her. I’ll take her and leave right now.”
Cross turned around. Shadow obliterated his face. The lantern on the ground cast everything in blunt, angled light.
“You’ll take her, will you? Like she’s some piece of baggage? An old trunk with a stubborn lid you’ll take off my hands, eh?”
Ikey sucked in a lungful of air. “You don’t want her.”
“How do you know what I want?”
Cross crouched and picked up his bottle. It had escaped the upset unscathed. A few ounces of scotch remained inside. He wiped the lip of the bottle on his sleeve, then took a drink.
Ikey dropped his hands to his sides. “I think you have what you want.”
Cross tilted the mouth of the bottle towards Ikey. “What I want is for you to know you’re a snot-nosed hooligan who fancies himself far more clever than he really is.”
Ikey’s throat clenched. Cross’s accusation stung like one frequently made by his dad.
“You understand bunkum,” Cross continued. “You think you can tear down an engine and rebuild it, so that makes you special. You think you deserve some kind of…” Cross waved a hand in the air, “some kind of damn honor for something I can teach any kid old enough to hold a screwdriver. It makes you nothing, do you understand?”
Ikey looked away. His blood burned. He wanted to slither away, disappear through the crack under the door.
“It doesn’t matter because you’re only undoing and redoing something someone did before. You’re aping, you big bloody monkey. Clever is thinking up something no one has ever thought of before. Clever is invention. But you ain’t clever enough to get that through your thick head.” Cross leaned in toward Ikey and tapped at his temple with his finger.
“You’re like everyone else. You don’t have original thoughts. You can’t think anything someone hasn’t thought before and put in your head. And since you’ve never met anyone like me or Rose, you can’t figure out what to make of us, can you? You can only think in terms of what is already familiar to you. So why do you think I’m mean to her? Because your daddy liked to rough up your mommy?”
Ikey’s fists clenched and he pushed himself off the wall.
“Ohhh,” Cross cooed as he stepped back. “That’s it, ain’t it? Well, lad, since you ain’t smart enough to figure it out on your own, let me spell it out for you. I ain’t your bloody father.”
Ikey wished to explode. To erupt into a cloud of shrapnel and take out Cross and the workshop at that moment. To obliterate the accusations buried in his gut like heavy, weighted handles for Cross to grip and twist.
Ikey’s jaw ached. His fists trembled and his eyes blinked back water with increasing urgency.
Cross sneered and stepped over to the table. With one hand, he tilted it back onto its feet. He took another drink before placing the bottle on the table.
“I get it now,” Cross said and turned around. “I understand what’s going on. Your daddy was mean to you. And you never got a chance at retribution. Never got a chance to stand up to him before Daughton whisked you away, right? So you’re going to take it out on me, are you? You’re going to haul off and hit me because you never had the bollocks to hit your old man. And you’re going to save Rose because you couldn’t save your mommy. I’m right, ain’t I?”
Ikey wanted to yell and scream and tell him how absolutely wrong he was. But he dared not open his mouth. Or even unclench his jaw. He’d waver and crumble. He’d crack and fall into a pile of flaky pieces in front of Cross as the disgusting lout stood and laughed at all Ikey amounted to.
He whirled to his left and yanked open the workshop’s door.
“Go on!” Cross yelled. “Get the hell out of here. Come back when you’re ready to be a man.”
The door slammed behind Ikey, and the night yawned out before him.
Chapter Eighteen
Ikey stormed across the yard and slipped into the house. As the back door closed, he leaned against it and choked back a mouthful of tears. Genius wasn’t necessary to know that Cross was mean. Mean to him and mean to Rose. The things he said. Only an idiot would have thought otherwise.
Ikey rubbed his palms against his cheeks and took a deep breath, then stepped over to the sink. He turned on the cold water and listened as the slop and splash hid the noise of his ragged breath. He splashed water across his face. The coolness soothed. It peeled away the heat as it ran down his arms and dripped from his elbows.
“Ikey?” Rose asked from far off.
Ikey turned off the water and snatched the towel dangling from its peg in the dark. He buried his face in the cotton and gave a quick rub. As the towel hit the tender spot above his eye, he winced.
“Ikey?” Rose asked again. “Is that you?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
He snagged the towel back onto its peg. “Yes.”
The music boxes began a slow, sloping song in the drawing room, their tune measured by the long, cautious clips of Rose’s boots.
“What’s the matter? Is anything amiss?”
Ikey grabbed the edge of the sink. The coolness of the metal further soothed him.
Rose stopped into the doorway. “What’s that odor? Did you burn yourself? Is Cross all right?”
Ikey’s grip tightened.
“There was an accident,” Ikey said. “We knocked over the lantern. I put it out.”
“Was Cross injured?”
“No,” Ikey said. A twinge of embarrassment flickered through him.
Silence stretched out the darkness between them until it felt like Rose stood an ocean away. As Ikey parted his lips, Rose asked if Cross was drunk.
“He’s been drinking.”
Rose tsked. “I assume he’s been drinking, as I assume, until I hear otherwise, he’s also been breathing.”
“Is Cross mean to you?”
Rose’s dress whispered about her movement, her shifting posture. Ikey wished he could see it, could take in the shape and assuredness of her presence. He inhaled deeply, seeking the scent of her. He got a lungful of soap, and since she had mentioned it, burnt hair.
“Cross is fair to me.”
“Cross says mean things. About you.”
Another gulf of silence widened between them.
“I likely have nothing to say about him that isn’t in kind. Fair is fair, I suppose,” Rose said.
Ikey let go of the sink. Unmoored in the dark, he drifted in the direction of Rose, guided by her voice. He opened his mouth to speak, to provoke a response so he could find her, and he meant to tell her of his suspicion that Cross knew about them. What they had done. But he didn’t say it. If Cross had forced the information from her, he didn’t want to embarrass her.
“I would never say things like that,” Ikey said instead. “About you. I never will.”
Nothing approached him from the dark. Ikey extended his hand. His fingers hovered b
lindly before him and tingled to touch anything. Her words. Anything.
He stepped forward. His hand brushed against something smooth and hard. And warm. Ikey pressed his hand to it, and then Rose’s own hand came to rest on his arm, on the side of his bicep.
“Your shirt,” Rose said as the pads of her fingertips traced up to his shoulder. “What happened to it?”
The words vibrated under the tips of Ikey’s fingers. He pressed his palm against the side of Rose’s torso. It felt stiff and unyielding. He moved his hand down, and then back up a few inches. No ribs.
“I used it to put out the fire.”
Rose gasped. One hand clutched his shoulder. The other hand wrapped around his waist until the tips of her fingers landed like raindrops in the small of his back. “Are you all right? The workshop?”
Ikey nodded in the dark. His left hand found the groove of her waist. It was firm, solid and sturdy like a great tree to clutch and cling to. He stepped forward.
“I’m fine,” Ikey said. “So is the workshop. I think my shirt is ruined though.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rose said and drew Ikey into an embrace. “I’ll make you a new one.”
Ikey slid his arms around Rose’s torso and settled his head against her chest. His heart thundered in his head. As he pressed the side of his face against her breastbone, he winced at the pain in his eyebrow, yet pushed his ear against the stiffness of her flat chest.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered as her hands rubbed up and down Ikey’s bare back.
Ikey trembled. Rose tightened her grip. And his ear filled with a steady tick-tick tick-tick tick-tick like the paper cube in the heart of the music box as it fluttered under a tiny hammer.
Ikey traced the swell of her back, drew his fingers alongside her torso, and drifted his fingertips up to her shoulder. There, they paused a second, then slid softly up the graceful length of her neck.
Rose tilted her head a bit, her neck exposed. Ikey’s fingers brushed against the swell of her jaw.
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