by White, Gwynn
“I will.” Diana hoped, anyway.
“There’s a handheld you can use, in the far bedroom. Good luck.”
Before Diana could thank Nails, the guard slipped out and pulled the door closed behind her. The sound of running water and the smell of orange blossom soap filled the flat.
“Don’t let it flood,” Diana called. “When you get in the tub, the water will rise.”
“I know that!” Despite the confidence in his voice, Tipper shut the water off immediately.
She paused outside the bathing room door. “Would you like help?”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Well, don’t drown. And don’t just pretend to bathe, either.”
She heard a snort of derision. Smiling to herself, she moved on into the kitchen. It was well stocked with dishes and an assortment of gadgets, most of which she didn’t have the faintest idea how to use. To her surprise, one of the cupboards held a few food items: cooking oil, spices. Nothing she could make a meal of, however.
There was a dishcloth beside the sink. She wetted it and removed the smudges her fingers had left on the white cabinets during her explorations. While she was at the sink, she washed her hands. Brown water flowed down the drain, and it took a rather long time until it ran clear.
Before she went into the tub, she’d rinse off, like they did at the Turkish baths. No use sitting in water scummed with her own grime.
The bedrooms were as bright and airy as the rest of the flat, though one was certainly smaller. That one would be Tipper’s. Her room, at the back corner, held another spectacular view. For a while she simply stood there, hugging herself to prove that she was real. That all of it was real.
The sound of splashing and off-key singing drifted down the hall. She hoped Tipper remembered to wash his hair, too.
There were two doors on the far wall. She opened one to find a spacious closet. The other opened into an alcove holding a second commode and a small sink.
Such luxury.
For a moment she faltered, her throat tightening with fear. What if Director Quinn decided he’d made a mistake? What if she arrived at the spaceport on the morrow to find everything taken away again, as easily as it had been given?
Well then. She swallowed and squared her shoulders. At least she’d be cleaner than she was now—and a bit richer as well. She’d buy clothing for both of them, and a hearty breakfast, and then conceal the rest of the money about her person. Just in case.
“I’m done,” Tipper announced, stepping out of the bathing room.
He was wearing one of the dressing gowns, and even with the sleeves rolled up, it was ridiculously overlarge. The sound of water glugging down the drain came from the bathing room, and his bare feet made damp marks on the golden wood.
“Well, look at that,” Diana said, inspecting him. “Your hair is lighter than ever I thought. Not dark brown, at all.”
He made a face at her. “Do I really have to wash it every time?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing that he’d do no such thing. But as long as he didn’t get too greasy, they could both pretend he was.
“You get the small bedroom,” she said. “Don’t make too much a mess of things while I’m bathing.”
“’Course not.”
Hoping he’d be true to his word, Diana went to take her bath.
13
The next afternoon, at a quarter-to-one, Diana presented herself at the private lift leading to Director Quinn’s office suite. Her new clothing felt stiff and strange; the boots tight about her feet, the bodice of her dark blue dress hugging her form, instead of disguising it. Diana fought the urge to slouch, and instead made herself march confidently through the shiny corridors of the spaceport.
No darting from corner to corner, no glancing back over her shoulder. Still, she couldn’t help but calculate the movement of the crowd, idly noticing purses and pockets ripe for picking. A harried-looking matron shepherded two boisterous boys in front of her. Diana correctly interpreted their darting movements and nimbly slipped past, smiling to herself.
It wasn’t as though her skills were going untapped, after all. The entire array of the spaceport was hers, hundreds of ships a day waiting for her to watch them go. It was an exhilarating thought.
She touched the crystal button she still wore beneath her clothing, for luck. Instead of being threaded through a dirty bit of string, it now resided on a fine silver chain.
In addition, she wore a ring set with jewels that could be pried out, and had an ornate gold pocket watch pinned to her dress. All small items of value that could be easily sold, if it came to that.
She wore a corset, too. The woman at the shop had insisted that a young lady going about without a corset was practically naked. Diana hadn’t argued too much, as the garment provided an excellent hiding place for her bank notes, especially if worn loosely cinched.
“Miss Smythe?” the guard at the lift said.
Diana was sorry to see it wasn’t Nails. Well, perhaps tomorrow.
“Yes,” she said, showing her temporary badge.
The guard nodded and keyed open the lift, then stood back to let her enter. Somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t accompany her in.
Of course, she wasn’t a prisoner wearing a stun cuff this time.
Keeping her chin high, Diana waited for the doors to close. No doubt there were hidden monitoring devices inside the lift. Probably all over the spaceport. She and Tipper had been quite deluded about not getting caught, but the excitement of it all had swept away her common sense.
And it had worked out for the best, hadn’t it?
At least, she hoped so.
The door swooshed open at the top floor, and Diana stepped out. She swallowed past the fear drying her throat and nodded cordially to Le at his desk.
“Good afternoon,” she said, hanging her hat and new umbrella on the nearby stand.
Gloves on, or off? It would be difficult to use her new handheld with them on, and besides, they were still so new. Better to keep them as clean as possible. She pulled them off and folded them carefully away into her reticule.
The secretary watched her, unblinking. “At least you’ve cleaned up well. The director is waiting for you in the conference room.”
Le pointed, and she followed his direction, trying to ignore the man’s rudeness.
The conference room was furnished with a large wooden table polished to a high sheen and several leather-upholstered chairs, two of which were occupied. Director Quinn, at the head of the table, stood and greeted her with a smile as she stepped inside.
“Miss Smythe, welcome. I’d like you to meet your new colleague, Lord Atkinson.”
He gestured to the man on his right, who had also risen. Lord Atkinson was a younger fellow with dark brown hair, sharp-faced, and very well dressed. A diamond stickpin sparkled from his blue silk necktie. The color of the cloth precisely matched his eyes, which Diana knew was no accident.
“Lord Atkinson,” she said, dropping a curtsey. The move felt much more graceful when performed in skirts and petticoats rather than trousers.
“Miss Smythe, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said in a voice as smooth and rich as dark honey.
Despite his cordial words, there was a faint edge in his tone—something Diana couldn’t quite place. Probably just annoyance that he was being forced to be polite to a mere streetrat. The gentry were very particular about such things.
“Please, have a seat.” The director gestured Diana to the chair across from Lord Atkinson. “Now that you’re here, Le will bring us in some tea.”
The men waited until she sat, before taking their seats, which she found amusing. If she wanted, she had the power to fuss about in her reticule and keep them standing an uncomfortably long time. But not today.
“Lord Atkinson is working on that exciting project I mentioned yesterday,” the director said. “Perhaps you might explain it, my lord. You’ll find that Miss Smythe will follow you quite well.
”
She sent Director Quinn a grateful glance. He, at least, seemed to hold her in some esteem.
Lord Atkinson’s eyebrow went up, but he didn’t hesitate to speak.
“I’m building a Calculations Device,” he said. “Have you heard of Babbage’s work?”
She tilted her head, rummaging about in her memory. The name sounded familiar, a far echo from her past, but she couldn’t place it.
“I’m afraid not, my lord.”
His smile was indulgent. “Of course. Well, he pioneered a machine called the Difference Engine, which could perform all kinds of rapid computations. Far faster than a human mind is capable of.” This was accompanied by a rather pointed look.
Diana nodded. There was no use in trying to defend herself. Most people didn’t share her odd ability. Perhaps no one did.
“I am building upon Babbage’s work,” he continued, “and creating a device capable of tracking the ships as they come in and out of the spaceport. As you know, Director Quinn is very interested in finding ways to increase the efficiency and safety of operations here, at the gateway to the Empire.”
“Yes.” The director steepled his fingers and gave her a genial look. “I thought you and Lord Atkinson could collaborate. Your insights would be invaluable, and he might be inspired in different, more effective directions by watching your mind at work.”
“My device is well on its way,” Lord Atkinson said, a touch defensively. “And while Miss Smythe’s input might be helpful, it’s certainly not essential.”
“Still,” Director Quinn said, “I’m sure you’ll find the workings of her mind to be well worth studying. And if your machine cannot fulfill the necessary requirements, then we are most fortunate to have Miss Smythe at hand to take its place.”
Lord Atkinson scowled. “I assure you, I will be able to fulfill this commission.”
“Let us hope so.” The director paused as Le came into the room bearing a tea tray.
Diana feared she’d be asked to pour out, and embarrass herself by missing some crucial bit of etiquette, but it fell to the secretary to hand around the cups and saucers. A pure white tower of sugar cubes followed, and Diana carefully used the silver tongs to place a lump into her cup rather than the more expedient tool of her fingers.
She poured a dollop of milk in, too, then stirred. The clink of silver against porcelain sent up another echo of recognition. Surely her mother had taken tea like this, in a wallpapered room full of gossiping ladies.
Le withdrew, and for a moment they all sipped their tea in silence.
“Then it’s settled.” Director Quinn set down his cup and beamed at her. “Lord Atkinson will observe you at work each morning, Miss Smythe, and hopefully apply what he learns to the completion of his new device. I’m certain it will be a most fruitful partnership.”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”
Lord Atkinson smiled at her, though his eyes remained cold. “I look forward to it.”
He did not sound pleased, however, but Diana didn’t fret. As long as he wasn’t outright hostile, she could manage perfectly well. A little animosity from Lord Atkinson was a thousand times better than a beating from Breggy and his crew in some back alleyway.
“Let’s begin right away, then.” Director Quinn said, rising. “I’ve set up a desk for you by the windows, Miss Smythe, plus a workstation where Lord Atkinson may sit and take notes. In addition, you’ll have a direct comm line to the control center. They’ve been instructed to act immediately upon any information you give them. We don’t want any more close-calls like the incident yesterday.”
He came around to pull her chair out for her, just as Diana pushed herself away from the table. The director stumbled back, and Lord Atkinson let out a sniff of disapproval.
“Thank you,” Diana said, standing awkwardly.
“Yes, yes.” Director Quinn waved his hand at her. “You’ll pick it up, soon enough.”
He opened the door, then paused with an expectant look, and Diana belatedly realized she was supposed to go first. Well, her mishaps would make a good story for her and Tipper to laugh over later, shaking their heads at the silly rules of the gentry.
Her new desk was easy to find. It stood almost exactly in the same spot where she and Director Quinn had watched the ships the day before. It was not as large as the director’s gleaming slab of wood, but big enough. A shiny metal box sat on one corner, decorated with knobs and switches. A metal cord snaked out from one side, with some kind of screen-covered nozzle at the end.
Lord Atkinson’s work station was set a half meter away, slightly back from the large expanse of the windows, but close enough that he could also observe the ships as they rose and landed.
Just like yesterday, the view made her heart clench with the sheer beauty of it all. While the spaceport itself held a pleasing symmetry, it was the dance of the ships in and out, the trajectories and possibilities, the lives humming and spinning inside, that stole her breath away.
“Will this do?” the director asked.
She nodded, hardly able to take her gaze from the window. “It’s splendid.”
Despite her own missteps and fears, despite the brooding presence of Lord Atkinson at her shoulder, her life was as near enough to perfect as made no difference.
Director Quinn patted the metal contraption on her desk. “This is your connection to the control center. When you need to speak to them, press the button, here, and use the microphone, like so.” He demonstrated, holding the nozzle up to the mouth. “Hello?”
A tinny voice emitted from a grill on the front of the box. “Control speaking.”
“This is Director Quinn, on Miss Smythe’s direct line. Make a note of it.”
“Very good, sir. As requested, we’re at the ready here.”
“Excellent. Goodbye.” The director released the button and set the microphone back in its holder. “You see. It’s a clever device, but quite simple to use.”
“Yes,” Diana said. “I think I can manage.”
Had there been a series of speaking tubes installed in the mansion of her childhood? She thought so, but couldn’t quite recall. The concept seemed quite familiar, even though the device on her desk was strange to her eye.
“Feel free to call upon me for assistance,” Lord Atkinson said, his tone implying that she would need his help.
Diana ignored him, pretending to be engrossed in pulling open the desk drawers to discover their contents.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” the director said. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. Although, as Lord Atkinson said, his help is at the ready.
Diana bobbed another curtsey and let her bland smile include Lord Atkinson. “Thank you.”
The director strode away, but Lord Atkinson continued to hover, his arms folded.
“Don’t get too cocky,” he said in a low voice. “You might be the director’s pet at the moment, but that could change.”
“I’m here to work. Same as you.”
That made him scowl faintly, as it was meant to. Diana pointedly turned her back on him and settled into her chair. It was one of the comfortable leather-upholstered ones from the conference room, though the seat was a bit too high.
She felt about the edges for a lever to adjust it, then blinked in surprise as Lord Atkinson went down on one knee beside her. He smelled of expensive cologne and freshly laundered linen, and his blue eyes were nearly at a level with hers.
“My apologies,” he said. “I’m… that is, this is difficult for me. Please try to understand.”
He sounded disarmingly sincere, and Diana blinked at him for a moment, trying to understand his point of view. Surely it couldn’t be easy, being suddenly forced to collaborate with some unknown girl fished off the streets. If he wasn’t a nob, it might be less of a problem for him, but he was gentry, and she was… well, a grubby streetrat.
And a mathematical genius, she reminded herself. She had every right to be the
re, and Director Quinn valued what she could do. Besides, if she did not stand up to Lord Atkinson now, she feared he’d always treat her with that edge of contempt.
“All right,” she said. “I forgive you. But you’ll have to stop being so ill-mannered.”
“Ill-mannered?” His nostrils flared. Then he shook his head, the spark of temper in his eyes fading. “I suppose I have been, a little. I’ll do my best to change.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she believed him, but perhaps he was telling the truth. She could at least give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Well then, Lord Atkinson, do we have a truce?”
She stuck out her hand. He gazed at it in surprise, then took it in a firm handshake. His palm was warm against hers, smooth and uncalloused, and she realized she’d made another error in judgment. Ladies didn’t shake gentlemen’s hands, apparently.
“Please, call me Christopher,” he said. “No need to be formal, since we’ll be working together.”
“I’m Diana,” she said. “Now, could you show me how to adjust this dratted chair?”
“The knob, here.” He guided her fingers to it, underneath the seat, then stood.
His expression was still a bit haughty, but softer about the mouth and eyes. For the first time since meeting Lord Atkinson, Diana thought that, perhaps, they’d be able to get along, after all.
14
Diana stepped through the door of Number 54, then paused at the delicious smells wafting through the flat. Baking bread, herbs, and was that the smoky sizzle of grilled meat? Her mouth watered at the thought.
In addition to shopping for new clothing that morning, she and Tipper had gone to the market and bought a variety of foodstuffs—at his insistence. She’d indulged him, figuring they’d eat takeaway most nights. But the smells that greeted her suggested otherwise.
“Tip?” she called, hanging up her hat and depositing her reticule by the door.
“Kitchen,” he replied.
The sight of Tipper wearing an apron down to his shins made her smile. He stood before the stove, a fork in one hand, prodding a pan full of sausages.