Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order) (12 page)

Peter’s round face went slack with relief. “Brilliant!” He hurried to my side, and together we swung open the doors.

A rat scurried out, squeaking as it did so. I squealed, jumping behind Peter. He laughed at me so forcefully, he nearly doubled over. I shoved him hard on the shoulder, and he stumbled to the side.

“It was just a rat,” I grumbled.

“I’m not the one who leapt to the ceiling.” He wiped his eyes, then stepped closer for a better look. A large boiler took up most of the chamber, but there was little extraordinary about it, just a firebox steam chamber and pipes. “What a mess.”

“There’s your problem,” I said, pointing at a large crack in the pipe leading from the old boiler.

“Well, you certainly saved me a lot of work.” Peter closed the door. “This should be simple to repair.”

I nodded, but already I was thinking far beyond repairing a cracked pipe.

Back in my workshop I hastily pulled journal after journal from the shelf above my desk. I flipped through the pages with a driven urgency, searching for something I had read months before.

This was the one time Simon’s prodigious volume of notes became a terrible hindrance.

One of the leather-bound books fell to the floor with a soft thud. I stooped to retrieve it, then thumbed through the pages. Finally I found it.

Simon Pricket had taken elaborate notes on the inner workings of several Amusements that had been created by the Order. Sure enough, within the journal he had created a detailed map of the flow of steam through the pipes of the gilded aviary at the Academy, as well as the inner schematics for the birds.

A rudimentary whistle was embedded in the body of each bird. Simon had noted which tone each bird in the aviary emitted. He had also noted that as the pressure built, it opened various valves and the chorus of birds would chirp at random.

I could do better than that.

If I could find a way to time the release of steam into the body of each bird, I could make them sing not at random but in chorus.

It would be brilliant.

But I only had three days.

If I had intended to draw a sketch of a replacement for the cracked pipe, it would have taken me all of an hour at most. What I was proposing would either make my idea stand out from the rest of the apprentices for its creative genius, or it would make me look like an overambitious fool.

If I wished my idea to be a success, I needed time. Time was the one thing I never seemed to have enough of.

I pulled out a large sheet of clean paper, took my drawing stick in hand, and set to work.

I worked all day and night. Even when I was trying to eat or help customers in the shop, I found my thoughts wandering back to my great plan. It became my obsession, but in a way that made me feel alive and powerful. I could only imagine how it would feel to put my plan in place and have it work.

While the idea was simple, the application of it would not be. I had to create a large music-box tumbler with raised bumps to signal the note from each bird. As a spring lifted over each bump, it would pull open a valve, allowing steam to enter the correct bird and sound a note through the whistle.

I chose a simplified version of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The rhythm and progression of tones of the famous
Ode to Joy
were easily recognizable and fit the tones I’d be able to produce through the birds.

I became so fixated, I found myself humming the tune constantly and making up words to fit the song, about whatever I was doing at the moment. One morning I began singing in a loud, boisterous voice, “I need butter for my crumpet, and perhaps some jam and tea. If I’m hungry, I’ll have biscuits, and eat them with revelry.” Obsession had turned me into a poet.

After figuring out how the maze of valves and triggers could tie back to my springs, I worked on the pattern of notes as they would have to appear as bumps on the tumbler. I nearly drove myself mad with the details.

By the end of the third day, thank heaven, I had something of worth. I looked at the sheet of paper with my careful drawings and detailed notes. Pride that I could not begin to describe welled up in me. It was beautiful.

I gingerly rolled the large sheet and tied it with a rose-colored ribbon before meeting Bob behind the mews so he could take me to the next lecture. I could hardly contain my excitement.

The trip to the monastery took little time. It was early, and London had barely opened its eyes to greet the sun by the time we reached the secret carriage bay.

I flew up the ramp, feeling a bit like a bird myself. I wasn’t watching and accidentally ran right into David.

He caught me before I stumbled, his grip firm on my arm as he waited for me to find my feet. My drawing had fallen to the ground.

“Good morning, Miss Whitlock,” he greeted me as I reached for the drawing, but he picked it up before I could. “What’s this?”

“Give it back, David.” My heart pounded with both fear and anger as he slipped the ribbon off and unrolled it. He had no right to it. I kept my teeth clenched tight as I held out my hand.

“Just taking a look.” He flashed me a smile filled with arrogant swagger, and I lunged for my drawing. He pivoted on his heel in a graceful turn he had learned either in his fine dance lessons or perhaps from some expensive Italian fencing instructor. Each time I moved closer, he expertly feinted to the side. His pale eyes darted over my drawings, and the half smile I found so irritating slowly faded.

That’s when Samuel and four others approached from David’s other side. My fear sharpened to panic as Samuel reached David. “What have you there?” he taunted. “Did she want to decorate the birds with ribbons and lace?” Samuel picked up the discarded ribbon like a hunting trophy, then peered over David’s shoulder.

As his eyes skimmed my drawing, the cruel smile disappeared from his face.

I couldn’t scream or cry. I knew I couldn’t lose my control in any way, or they would have gotten exactly what they wanted. Both of them would like nothing better than to reduce me to the antics of a little girl begging for her toy.

“I said,
give it back
.” I don’t know where I learned the tone that came from my mouth, but it was not the voice of a frantic child. The boy from Ireland and Noah took a step back as I marched forward.

David seemed stunned. That’s when Samuel grabbed the paper from him, nearly ripping it. I felt a sharp jab in my chest as I squared myself to him.

“Give it back to me, now,” I demanded.

He bunched the plans in his fist and held it behind his back. “What are you going to give me for it?” There was a mad look in his eye as he pushed forward directly in front of me. “Surely it’s worth a kiss.”

I retreated.

“I heard you did a lot more with that gypsy mongrel you took up with,” he taunted. I felt my face burn red hot.

“Leave her alone, Samuel.” I turned just as Peter came marching forward. He was not nearly the size of Samuel, but something in his demeanor had changed, and he looked menacing.

“Are you going to fight me for it?” Samuel sneered, clenching his fist. “That should be good for a laugh.”

To my surprise Peter stopped and leaned back, cocking his head in a jaunty way. “No, but I’ll make good on your other offer.”

The boys in the yard howled like dogs, some of them gripping their sides as they puffed and hollered, smacking one another on the arms.

Peter stood his ground while I tried to work through my sudden confusion. I was certain I hadn’t heard what he had said quite right. I couldn’t have.

“What is going on out here?” We froze as Headmaster Lawrence descended the stairs with a regal air. Nothing escaped his scrutiny as his too-intelligent gaze swept over us all. He strolled to his son and held out his hand.

Samuel scowled as he gave my plans to the headmaster. I held my breath as the headmaster snapped the paper to smooth some of the worst wrinkles, then perused it. One sharply angled eyebrow slowly rose. He didn’t take his eyes from the drawing. “Whose work is this?” His voice still carried a tone of disapproval, and the crowd seemed to step away from me as if I had just contracted the plague.

My doubt pushed out every thought in my head, and I couldn’t seem to speak. Just that morning I had been so proud of my design, but I was only sixteen. I had more experience embroidering pansies on silk than I had drawing designs and creating inventions. I worried it was horribly flawed and my ambition looked foolish. I should have simply drawn a plan to repair the broken pipe. I should have only attempted what I knew for certain I could accomplish.

The headmaster swept his inscrutable gaze over the crowd. “Well?”

“It’s Miss Whitlock’s work, sir.” Noah stepped forward, and I felt I was about to die on the spot. I glared at him, but he didn’t bother to look at me.

“I see.” The headmaster hastily rolled the plan without bothering to look at me. He looked both disgusted and disappointed, and I felt as if someone had just trampled on my heart. “I will not tolerate a lack of discipline in these halls. At all times you are being judged, not just for your learning but for your behavior as well. A man without control has nothing.” He tucked the plans beneath his arm. “Please hand your assignments to Instructor Nigel, then meet Instructor Oliver in the lecture hall. You are dismissed.”

The boys fell into line, handing their rolls of papers to Instructor Nigel as we entered the dark halls and trod down the familiar path to the lecture hall.

I still found I couldn’t speak. I felt ill as I sat in my usual spot in the corner. David was cruel and Samuel a brute, but their taunting seemed small compared to the reaction of Headmaster Lawrence. He hated my work. There was no mistaking the look on his face.

“Meg, are you well?” Peter whispered as he sat beside me.

The use of my name shocked me, and I blinked, rapidly trying to fight the stinging in my eyes.

I brushed a hand over them, making it look as if I were casually smoothing the front of my hair. “I’m fine,” I lied.

For the rest of the day, Oliver had us split into teams. In the lecture hall one person would attempt to draw and describe a contraption that Oliver had placed on the front table. In another room, the other person on the team would then take the drawings and try to replicate the machine.

I tried to concentrate, but my confidence was lacking. I drew the machine as best I could, but my hands were shaking, and my proportions were off. My explanations of how things fit together left much to be desired as well. I just wanted the day to be over.

One by one the boys left and the lecture hall emptied, until the only other apprentice in the room rose and walked through the door, leaving me alone. Feeling the pressure of being last, I hastily finished my last note, then snatched the drawing and followed.

Peter’s eyes were wide and nervous as I entered the room where everyone had gathered. He looked at me as if to say,
Where were you?

I lifted one shoulder in a defeated shrug and handed him the drawing.

Thankfully, whatever skill Peter felt he lacked in comprehension of mathematics, he made up for in his ability to assemble complicated structures. His hands moved with certainty and speed as I watched the machine being born of a pile of parts.

He caught the attention of some of the others as he quickly surpassed their efforts. I watched in awe, feeling relieved and grateful to him.

Peter slowly pulled back a large spring-loaded hinge. Once he had it set in place, we would be the first team to finish.

I watched as he turned the clamp down to hold the hinge back.

It snapped, whipping a sharp edge of metal through Peter’s hand before striking the engine casing with a sharp
crack
that echoed off the stone walls.

Peter cried out, cradling his hand to his middle.

“Peter!” I shouted, and ran to his side. Blood poured from his palm as he looked at me in shock and pain. I snatched his handkerchief and used it to wrap his hand as all the others seemed to crowd in around us.

Peter hissed as I tried to press hard on the wound. “Leave it. You’ve done enough!”

“What’s going on?” Oliver pushed through the crowd. He took one look at Peter’s hand, then leveled me with a stern, accusing look. “What happened here?”

“I—I . . . ,” I stammered. “I must have made a mistake.”

I stood numb as I watched Oliver gather Peter and lead him from the room. To my left Samuel chuckled under his breath. I gathered my things to leave, feeling helpless, worried, and defeated.

That night as I sat in bed watching the candlelight flicker against the plain white walls of my unadorned bedroom, I tried to write a letter to Will. Sheets of paper littered the floor. None of the letters seemed right. I wanted to tell him I was happy too, and that the Academy was all I’d hoped it would be. I wanted to tell him that I was managing on my own, and that I was doing well.

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t regret my decision. I needed to tell him I was sorry.

Instead I placed a blank piece of paper on the bedside table and blew out the candle.