Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order) (11 page)

Mrs. Brindle did her best to keep shop, but she became very concerned for me. Several times she implied that it simply wasn’t natural for a young girl to think of nothing but figures and calculations. On one occasion her advice pushed me over the edge, and I snapped at her that while well-meaning, she knew nothing about what I could or could not think.

I was determined, but it hurt. I ached with exhaustion. My eyes would burn with fatigue, and my body grew stiff as I studied for hours before the dying light of the lantern in my workshop. I was living two separate lives stacked atop one another. My sleep paid the price.

I didn’t feel like myself. Instead I was becoming a machine. My mind worked through problems the way pins and wheels seamlessly fit together, but there was no emotion in it, just the drive of never-ending pressure.

One evening I returned from my lessons with my mind spinning like a web of intricate gears. I couldn’t make it stop. Visions of joints, pins, bolts, and springs arranged themselves over and over in my imagination. I could hear the endless drone of my instructors prattling off a ceaseless string of numbers. I didn’t see the toys as I passed through the shop. It was a blur of shadows and color. Instead I stumbled into the parlor and fell into the chair by the fire. I didn’t even bother to say hello.

Mrs. Brindle came in carrying tea. She placed it on the table, but I still couldn’t bring myself to speak. The instructor for the day had been from Belgium. He had been fair, but every time he’d asked a question, David had stood and said, “I believe Miss Whitlock knows the answer, sir.”

Bastard.

I found myself repeating the same responses over and over as the instructor struggled to comprehend me. Eventually I forced David to quit his game by giving my responses in French. While my versatile language skills had put David in his place, it had been taxing.

Mrs. Brindle gave me a concerned smile and placed an envelope on the tray beside the teapot. “This came for you, dear.” She folded her hands and left the room.

I glanced down at the battered envelope, then blinked. It took me a moment to find the courage to reach out and grasp it. I turned it over and recognized the writing at once.

Will.

My heart nearly burst with everything I was feeling at once. Elation that he had written, fear of what he had said, deep and terrible grief that he was not with me, and more than anything else, I felt relief that he thought of me at all.

With fumbling fingers I tried to open the envelope gently, but it was no use. I tore it as I revealed the single page of neat, blocked writing.

Dear Meg,

I hope you are well. I am happy here in Scotland. The others at the Foundry took me in at once, and it is good to feel I am part of a clan. Our last conversation didn’t end well. I want you to know, I think of you often.

In spite of all I have discovered here, my life is not the same as it was in the spring. I am doing my best to make my name one you can be proud of. I hope your fortunes are as favorable.

Until we meet again. I hope it will be soon.

With love,

Will

I read the note over and over, my eyes tracing each careful stroke of ink on the paper. It must have taken him hours to write the letter. On the one hand, I wished for more. I wished that he’d filled the page with declarations of love and remorse at leaving me. On the other, the note was genuine Will, through and through. He was never one to waste words.

Tracing my finger over the sentence “I think of you often,” I felt something in me break. Like a spring that had been pushed too far, my thin control snapped, and every other thought in my head fell apart. All my worries, all the pressure, fell away and was replaced by a new image of Will in my mind, happy and surrounded by friends.

A tear splashed onto the page, and I cried. Pressing the letter to my chest, I cried until sleep claimed me by the fire.

As I arrived in the carriage bay for my next set of instruction, my spirit felt lighter than it had in months. I could feel the crinkle of Will’s letter tucked into the pocket I had sewn into the folds of my skirts. Usually the pocket held small springs, gears, writing utensils, and other sundry things I tended to need on hand. Today it held my heart. As I caressed the corner of the paper, I could think of nothing else I wished to have so near.

It felt freeing to think of something other than formulae and mechanics for a change. Will thought of me often. I was determined to do the same.

I actually found myself smiling as I ascended the ramp into the courtyard. Unfortunately, David was there with Samuel by his side as always.

Still, the pair of them couldn’t dampen my mood. “Good day,” I greeted with an even brighter grin.

“What’s come over you?” Samuel asked with his usual scowl. David just watched me closely with his disconcerting light eyes, like a Siamese cat, intent and curious.

“Am I not allowed to smile?” I grabbed the side of my skirt and gave it a playful swish. The letter crinkled softly, as if laughing with me. Samuel took a step closer to me, leaning forward to force me to back down with his bulk.

I sidestepped and nodded to the boy with the knotted turban, standing on the steps that led inside. He kept his eyes trained on Samuel.

“You wouldn’t smile if you knew how poorly you were doing,” Samuel taunted.

I tilted my head in a saucy manner. “I know I scored twice as well as you did on our last exam.”

A ginger-haired boy who had just reached the top of the ramp guffawed. Samuel lunged, but David grabbed him and held him back. “Don’t,” he warned.

I started up the steps to put distance between us, even as the boy with the turban took a step down toward the courtyard.

“What are you looking at, Punjab!” Samuel shouted. Then he straightened his waistcoat with a stiff jerk. I turned away and entered the safety of the halls.

Peter met me there and walked with me to the lecture room. He gripped his handful of books tightly. “You shouldn’t provoke him,” he warned.

“He’s like a dog barking from the other side of a gate,” I said. David was irksome, but at least I could grudgingly acknowledge that he was intelligent and had a mind for numbers. But he was arrogant, privileged, and a general thorn in my side. Samuel was worse, insulting others from the safety of David’s coattails.

“He’s also the headmaster’s son.” Peter opened the door, and we found our place in the back of the hall.

“Is he really?” I’d had no idea. They didn’t resemble one another much. While the headmaster was slight with light hair, Samuel was dark and burly. He probably took after his mother.

“Talk of the Devil,” Peter whispered as Samuel entered the room, his eyes still burning with fury.

“Hey, see here,” Samuel called to the class. “Both ladies are in the back tittering like old hens.”

Peter flushed and looked down at the desk.

“Why don’t you sit in the front so no one can see you moving your lips while you write,” I suggested to Samuel.

Again a couple of boys punctuated the insult with a low ooh and a laugh.

Samuel could have spit fire at me.

I crossed my arms. “Care for another go, or is it too taxing?”

“I wouldn’t mind doing battle,” David interjected as he came through the doorway.

I swung my gaze to his, and my confidence dropped, along with half of my innards. Thankfully, I didn’t have a chance to retort.

“Take your seats, everyone,” a familiar voice called.

Oliver!

My smile stretched across my face as I watched Oliver enter through a narrow door at the corner of the room behind the large table. His wild hair was as messy as ever, but his face glowed with good humor as he tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and looked over the class. I pressed a hand to the letter in my pocket. For a moment it felt as if the sun had broken through the endless fog of winter.

“David, to your seat,” Oliver said with casual warning in his voice. David marched down the stair, brought to heel by his older, richer, and higher-ranking future brother-in-law.

I could have done a jig.

Peter opened his books and prepared his inkwell, but before he could dip his pen, Oliver held out a hand and said, “Books away, if you please. Today will be a practical lesson. Bring only a small notebook and a drawing stick.”

Everyone in the room spoke in hushed voices at once, and the excitement in the air was palpable. We could actually
do
something, instead of listening to a lecture and writing notes.

“Very good,” Oliver announced as we scrambled to collect our things. “Follow me, if you will.”

We arranged ourselves into file as Oliver led us back down the hall and out to the courtyard. Once we had grouped together in the large space, he led the way to the aviary of mechanical birds standing silently in the corner.

He clapped his hands together once, then addressed us. “So far you have been learning theory and mathematics, which are all well and good.” Oliver placed one hand behind his back and gestured with the other. “But being an Amusementist is not simply about numbers. We find solutions to problems.” He paused and gave us a playful shrug. “Or we create problems and force another to fix them. It’s a long-standing tradition, I’m afraid.”

I edged around the back of the crowd, unable to see over the tall boys in front of me.

Oliver continued. “As you can see, this Amusement has been corroded by age. When it was first invented, the birds could sound a whistle using steam channeled through the pipes. We used them to call those in the courtyard to meetings. The birds haven’t worked in more than twenty years. Your assignment is to inspect the birds and before our next meeting come up with a design that can either repair the aviary as it stands or create something even more spectacular.” The light caught on Oliver’s spectacles and he grinned. “You have three days. We’ll implement the best design, and together hear the birds call once more. Good luck!”

I surged forward, ready to pull the entire aviary apart if I had to. This was what I had been waiting for. I embraced the challenge as I caught a glimpse of Headmaster Lawrence watching us from the top of the steps.

I had to be the one to come up with the very best solution. This would be my chance to shine.

UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS NOT THE
only one eager to inspect the birds. The other boys crushed forward, and I feared they would knock the entire Amusement over in their haste.

Realizing it was a futile effort, I took a step back and sketched what I could of the upper portions of the cage of pipes. I needed a closer look. I couldn’t force my way in, and I couldn’t see anything useful if I did. Sometimes being a head shorter than all the others was a real hindrance.

I looked away in frustration, and noticed a small portion of dark pipe running along the base of the high stone wall. Curious, I stepped over to it and kicked the dirt. The pipe continued along the entire length of the wall. It disappeared into a small hole along the portion of the wall that stood above the sunken carriage bay. The skin on my arms tingled.

There was more to the aviary than it appeared. I needed to find the rest of it. Holding my sketchbook close to my chest, I made for the ramp and hurried down.

“Miss Whitlock, giving in already?” David called out. I didn’t bother to look back at him. Fools could follow their own folly. I was on the path of discovery. I only hoped it wouldn’t lead to a dead end.

As I glided down the ramp, only the light from the archway behind me lit the long corridor beneath the ground. I took a step to the right and inspected one of the braziers that illuminated the passage when the carriages came through.

It had a flint-wheel above it. I had seen similar torches before. The mechanism was fairly simple: When a line was pulled, the wheel above the torch spun. The outer edge of the wheel was lined with flint. As it spun it rubbed against the striker and showered the torch with sparks, allowing it to light.

I just had to find the line. Following a thin pipe that linked the torches together, I traced the connections to a small lever near the bottom of the ramp. It stuck a bit, but I managed to pull the lever. There was a popping sound, and then the flint-wheels spun in a rain of sparks. The torches caught fire, lighting the passage.

I peered up and down the passage, not forgetting the strange footsteps I had heard the last time I had wandered down the ramp alone. I couldn’t be certain that the man with the mask had been lurking in the darkness, but I had to be careful. I took a turn to the right and walked along the carriage bay, until I found a large metal panel easily six feet tall affixed to the wall, with two doors bolted to it.

I reached out to open the door.

“What are you doing down here?”

I jumped and spun around, bringing my hand to my throat. “Peter!” I gasped, suddenly dizzy from my shock. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He held his hands up. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I motioned for him to come closer. “I think I found the engine.”