The back room of the repair shop consistently had the appearance of a recent explosion—sometimes literally. There were so many gears, springs, half-built machines, and tools, that the tabletops were barely visible. His uncle was always working on at least four projects at once, unable to slow down for long enough to dedicate himself to one task. Somehow, considering his pell-mell approach, Zacharias was a very skillful mechanic. He was a magpie, clever and curious, but easily distracted by the next shiny object.
“Come hold this lid back while I fix this gear into place,” Zacharias said, both hands deep in the bowels of a grandfather clock that took up most of one of his worktables. Zacharias was of a height with Domek’s mother, making him far shorter than Domek. He kept his thinning hair cropped tightly to his skull but rarely bothered to trim his beard, leaving him with more hair on his chin than on his head. He worked with a grease-stained apron tied over his plump stomach and a pair of spectacles perched on top of his head for easy access.
Domek followed his instructions, allowing him to work on the innards of the clock without worrying about the lid slamming shut on his fingers. His uncle worked in silence until he fixed the problem, seemingly forgetting that his nephew had shown up at all. Finally, once the clock’s gear was settled back into place, he straightened and grinned at Domek. “We didn’t say you’d work today, did we?” he asked suddenly.
“No. I was in the area and wanted something to do, if that’s all right. We can swap out the day I was planning later this week.”
“No, no, stick around if you have the time. I’ve been swamped this week. There’s something over on the other table back there that I think you’ll be interested in.”
The table in question was covered from one end to the other with matches, some in boxes, but most loose. Most had come from Vienna, their labels in German block letters, but Domek spotted a few written in scripts from other languages. One pile contained only the red phosphorus blocks that most of the matches needed to be struck against to ignite.
Domek examined the table, frowning. “What are these?” he asked, picking up a strange match from a jumbled pile of its brothers. It had a ball of chemicals on each end, one white, one red.
“Ah,” Zacharias said, plucking the match from his grasp. “These are French. This is a clever one. With these, you don’t need to buy a separate striking paper. They’d make your job much faster.” He snapped the matchstick in half, and then vigorously rubbed the two heads together. With a sizzling flash, the white end ignited, flaring up and blazing fiercely. The harsh smell of sulfur and burning wood filled the air, acrid and bright.
Zacharias beamed, and then quickly dropped the short halves into a pail of water before they could reach his fingertips. The pail was filled with half-burnt sticks.
“You have these just thrown in a pile?” Domek demanded, staring at the collection of two-headed matches in horror. “What if the wrong heads rub against each other and set the whole table on fire?”
Zacharias opened his mouth, and then frowned. “I didn’t think of that.”
Domek began carefully plucking the matches from the bundle and lining them in a row at the edge of the table. “Do you not remember the lucifer incident of 1859?” Zacharias’s previous experimentations with matches had resulted in an explosion that had required the rebuilding of half a room of the repair shop. His uncle’s eyebrows were still patchy and uneven from the burns. “This is why my mother worries about you.”
“Innovation always comes with some danger! I do keep the pail nearby,” Zacharias said.
“None of these are white phosphorous, are they? You know that’s dangerous. There have been rumors about people’s jawbones being eaten from the inside by that poison.”
“Yes, nephew, I’m aware,” Zacharias said. “I am an expert in this. I’m using red only. Don’t be such a worrywart. Don’t you want to hear what I’m trying to do? Or can you guess?”
Despite his reasonable concern, Domek couldn’t suppress a grin at the challenge. He looked over the collected matches with renewed interest, noting the prototypes Zacharias had started crafting along the left edge of the table.
“You’re trying to include the striking pad with the matches,” Domek said finally, picking up a prototype. It was a cannibalized matchbox with what looked like English written on the flap. Half of the box was filled with regular matches, and the other half had a miniature striking pad tucked inside.
“The modern world is searching for convenience. Who can keep track of their matchbox and striking pad, especially when they’re just trying to light a cigar?” He grabbed one of the two-headed matches Domek had half-sorted and held it up. “This is a start, but it’s risky. Who wants to break their match sticks in half? We’ve all had enough singed fingers.” He picked up the bastardized matchbox again. “This one isn’t good enough. The striking area is too small—you can’t get enough friction against it before you run out of room.”
“This is a great idea,” Domek said. It reminded him of the alchemic arc light experiment he’d seen in Imrich’s apartment, which had also brazenly wielded combustive compounds in the hopes of bringing light. There was a race between flame and electricity. There were some engineers who believed that the gas lamps only just spread throughout Prague would be replaced by some form of electricity in the next hundred years, while others—like Zacharias—saw fire as the eternal tool of man. Working with Zacharias, Domek could succeed where Imrich failed.
“If I can get it to work. Take some of these with you and think about it. This way you can waste them without having to explain the experiment to your bosses. If we can patent a portable combined form, we’ll be rich! Return Prague to the glory of the Empire!”
Domek took a handful of matches and a red phosphorous pad, setting them in opposite pockets so he wouldn’t risk accidental sparks. He didn’t want to know what might happen to the wisp’s jar if it caught on fire. “Thanks,” Domek said.
“Now, come on. I have a double-action revolver in need of touching up before the owner comes by tonight. This gentleman managed to completely cock up the cock, if you can believe it. People shouldn’t be wielding guns if they don’t know a bolt from a spring.”
This was just what he needed. He would have to make a decision about the wisp soon, but for now, it was just his hands and the simple act of creating and repairing. Tucking his satchel under his worktable, close enough to touch, he began to work.
* * *
By the time Ora arrived back at her home, her hand had begun to heal. It would take a long time, possibly weeks, to be normal again. Once, on a ship to China, Ora had opened the wrong door and had been confronted with the full force of the noonday sun. She had crawled back to her cabin, half-blind and scorched to the bone, and had not moved again until the ship had docked two weeks later.
One of her maids, a young girl named Mila, greeted them at the door. Lina slid past her and took the stairs beyond. Ora watched her go, wishing there were words to fix what she had broken.
Mila was twisting her hands anxiously when Ora looked back to her. “Lady Fischerová, you have a guest. Nedda,” the cook, “has given her tea and pastries in the sitting room.”
Ora frowned. “You let someone in when I was out?” She kept a small staff, just enough to maintain the house and appearances. With Lina and Ora out for the day, Mila and Nedda had the run of the house, and they kept it well in order. Though Mila, being young and still awed by Ora’s wealth, was shy, Nedda was a brusque older woman who normally had no compunctions about standing her ground. After two years in Ora’s service, Nedda had uncovered her mistress’s unusual appetite. Instead of alarm, she’d only yelled at her for a half-hour about all of the food she’d wasted by having Nedda prepare meals anyway, and had designed a plan to continue masking her grocery purchases without needing to send any food to the trash. Even better, Nedda had briskly taken over the collection of blood for the household, managing a deal with the butcher for it as easily as she haggl
ed for vegetable prices at the market.
Nedda and Lina were key allies in keeping her secret from the rest of the servants. To them, Ora was just an eccentric widow with a deep fear of the wrinkles any time in the sun might cause.
“She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I told her you would be out for an unknown amount of time, but she was determined to wait for you.” Mila cleared her throat. “It’s your sister-in-law. She said that you’d been avoiding her.”
Ora swore quietly. This was the last encounter she needed today.
Quickly, she darted upstairs to pull on a shawl over her bloodied dress and found a pair of purple gloves to hide her burnt hand. Then, Ora sniffed the air, and realized the back of her dress had been smeared with bird droppings when Czernin had tackled her to the ground. Lina was nowhere to be found, so Ora found the jacket of her riding habit and pulled it on. It was stiff with disuse—Ora did not ride horses, and had bought the outfit to complete her closet—and did not match the fabric of her dress, but any longer and her guest would be suspicious. Ora patted her hair, plucking out feathers of both Lina’s placement and from Czernin’s attack.
She took a moment to open a drawer and place a hand over her pocket watch, a gift from Franz. The metal was cool under her touch, ticking steadily into the future. Then, she went downstairs.
The woman perched in the sitting room, sipping her cup of tea quietly, had hair whiter than the first snowfall. Her wrinkled face was nearly the same color, suffused with a pale pink that stayed uniform even at her lips, though her cheeks were slashed with heavy blush. Instead of making her look younger, the effect was funereal. Or maybe that was just Ora’s mood.
“There you are, Ora,” Lady Alena Nováková said, setting down the porcelain cup. It clattered slightly as it hit the saucer, betraying the tremor in her hands. “I was starting to wonder if you were going to keep hiding upstairs. I know how quiet you can be.”
“I just got in,” Ora said. “You should have told me you were coming.” She bent to brush a quick kiss across her withered cheek. She smelled of lavender powder and sugared plums, with the same underlying scent as an aging tome on a back shelf of the university library. Decay.
“If I had, then you would most definitely have been hiding,” Alena said. The half-smile that stole onto her lips was the same as always. “You’ve been avoiding me, and you can be creative when you’re determined. You might have shut the entire neighborhood down if you’d had to. Sit down. Don’t make me look up at you.”
Ora sat. “I haven’t been avoiding you, Alena. I’ve been busy.”
“You lie as beautifully as ever,” Alena said. “Your face hasn’t changed, my dear. Your tells are the same ones I learned at twenty-five. Now, I want to hear about how you’ve been.”
“There’s a beautiful art gallery at Sternberg Palace. Have you been? Probably not—you’ve always thought art was boring. I’d also rather read a good book or go to a lecture any day, but you always can meet the most interesting people at galleries.” Ora chatted about the exhibit for several minutes, and then slipped into recounting a discussion she’d had with the new theology professor at Charles University. If she talked enough, perhaps they could get through this whole visit like a stroll through a meadow, surrounding themselves with sweet-smelling things and not lingering in any shadows.
Alena let her chatter while she finished her tea, laughing at the right moments and adding comments when Ora let her. Alena had never cared about academia the way Ora did. Before she’d gotten married, the only thing that could interest Alena was horses. After her marriage, she’d learned how to gossip with the best of Prague, but she’d never developed a taste for culture. She’d always said that if she needed a dose of pretension, she could just go visit Ora and her husband at Mělník.
Alena had always loved to tease her older brother.
When Ora paused to accept a tray of slivers of raw venison from Nedda, Alena finally interrupted her. “I did come to see how you were doing. I think you’ve answered my question.” She sighed. “You’re still sad.”
Nedda left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
“Not everyone sees salons and lectures as torture,” Ora reminded her airily. She ate the venison ravenously, unworried about decorum in front of her sister-in-law. Her body was screaming for replenishment to heal her burnt hand.
“Ora, I’ve known you since I was practically a child. You can’t bluster your way around me.” She waved a hand. “I thought you might have started to settle by now.”
“No one comes to Prague to settle,” Ora pointed out, waving a slice of raw meat at her.
“I did,” Alena said. “It might not be Mělník, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find stability here. That you can’t find happiness here.”
“Alena, you can’t think to tell me what happiness is.”
“I didn’t know you before you met Franz, but I saw how he changed you. You loved each other deeply. The home you built together was full of the steadiest love I’ve seen. In the early days, before he proposed, I thought you were like a dandelion seed that would be caught on the wind forever. But you made roots with him. You were a better country wife than I think even you thought you could be.”
Ora laughed. The sound was bright and harsh. She’d met Franz in Vienna. At that point, she’d thought she’d never go back to Prague. It was the city she’d been born in, the city where she’d met Czernin and fallen into his tangled web. She had been traveling the world since she’d fled Czernin’s decadent estate, and Vienna was the closest she’d gotten to Bohemia in decades. When she’d met the shy but charming Lord Fischer, she’d dallied with flirtation, but told him during the first night that she would never move to his estate and play the good wife. She’d had brief love affairs across the world, as delectable and thrilling and empty as the dregs of a honey wine: Herman in Oslo, Vihaan in Bombay, Clara in Paris. She was not interested in settling with someone from her homeland.
Within three months, she’d fallen hard, and found herself with a ring on her finger and a house in the country.
If Ora were a moon, she had waxed during her time with Franz, full and bright, and had been waning ever since.
Alena shook her head. “Art galleries, the friends you have flitting in and out, your trips to the theater—do you talk to anyone, Ora?”
“Some would say I talk their ears off,” Ora said.
“I don’t have time for you to dance around me,” Alena snapped, showing some of her old temper. She’d mellowed in the years since her own husband had died. For her, it had been nearly twenty years, and though she’d gotten along with him, there had been no great love between them. Her husband had left her with a title, an expensive home just down the road, and eight children who had already moved on.
“You know I have no interest in slowing down,” Ora said. “I’ve been this way for nearly a decade now, Alena. There’s no reason to change it now.”
“But there is,” Alena said quietly. “I want to know that I’m not leaving you suffering.”
Ora clenched her fists. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m old, Ora. We both know it. Nothing will make this easier. Let me at least try to make sure I’m not leaving you completely alone.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Ora couldn’t meet her eyes. “I know it killed you when Franz died.”
“It didn’t kill me,” Ora said. “I kept on living, and I’ll keep on living long after you follow him.”
“For your definition of living,” Alena allowed. “I miss him too. But you can find happiness again.”
“I loved Franz more than I’ve ever loved anyone,” Ora said. “I traveled for half a century before I met him. I saw India and Russia and England and China. But none of those places compared to the home I made with him. I would have given up a lifetime of exploring the world for another day with him. He was the soul I lost when I was turned into what I am. But now he is gone, and I have to find a version of happy I can live with. I
’m sorry it doesn’t look how you want it to.”
“It doesn’t look like happiness at all. Franz wouldn’t want you to be alone,” Alena said.
“Then he shouldn’t have died,” Ora replied.
“Franz knew about our eternal life in heaven. I know you must be frustrated he left you behind, but you can’t begrudge him his peace with God. You may be damned, but he wasn’t. He had to move on.” Her voice was gentle, comforting, despite the words. Ora stared into her kind eyes and saw Czernin again. Why let him die?
“He wanted to become a pijavica,” Ora blurted. “He begged me for the change. He wanted to be with me forever. He wouldn’t have chosen some unknown heaven over the life we had together. He loved me.”
“There was a reason he chose not to become a demon in the end,” Alena insisted, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “If all of that is true, there’s still a reason you didn’t turn him. And why you haven’t offered to turn me. You loved him back. I know you did. You wanted to save him.”
“We wanted to save you,” Ora said. “When he got sick, I had to tell him my final secret. The pijavice are more demon than you know—we’re drawn to our own bloodline like rabid dogs. When we first turn, we can’t rest until all our living relatives are dead and the blood that used to be in our veins is eradicated. I knew he wouldn’t take the change knowing that. I loved you like a sister. The thought of him killing you, of both of us living with that, sickened us. But I gave him the option anyway because I knew this would happen. I knew that someday, you’d grow old and die, and then I would have an eternity alone without either of you. Killing you would have haunted us forever. It was the right choice. But now it’s all for nothing anyway. Watching you die has been the slowest torture of my life.”
The Lights of Prague Page 14