Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Part 13

"Let's cut out," Snips said, eagerly heading to the exit.

William was sure to follow. But as they descended down, they found themselves confronted by a suffocating wall of smoke.

"The fire has already spread to the lower level," William remarked between coughs. "We must ascend."

They ran to the top of the apartment, briefly savoring the sweet aroma of air not choked with smoke, but this relief quickly faded with the realization of their situation.

The apartment roof was far above the roof of its neighbors.

The smoke that had run up the stairs was now emerging from all sides of the building, engulfing them in a growing sh.e.l.l of ash.

"Problem," Snips said, braving the smoke and scooting near the edge to peer down at the street below. "We may have to jump."

William tapped his umbrella against his palm. "How much do you weigh, Miss Snips?"

"Hundred and ten, maybe. What's it matter? We're likely to break a leg with this. Do you know much about-" Snips cut herself off at the sight of William licking his finger and holding it up to the air. "Uh."

"Miss Snips, could you please remove your belt?"

"Huh? Pardon?"

"Your belt," William asked, struggling to be as polite as a gentleman asking for a lady's article of clothing could be. "Please, remove it and give it to me."

Snips glared, but did as he asked. She handed it over and watched with confusion as William wrapped it around his arm and buckled it into a loose loop.

"Your arm, if you would?"

"You know, I'm not sure what you're doing, but-"

"There isn't much time. Please, Miss Snips. Trust me."

Snips sighed. Something about his tone made her relent; she held out her arm. William fed it through the loop, tightened it until they were linked together snugly, then nodded in satisfaction.

He raised his umbrella over his head, stepped up onto the roof's ledge, and turned to Snips.

Snips balked. "You-you can't be serious."

"I am dead serious, Miss Snips."

He drew Snips close to him with a strength that took the thief entirely by surprise and then leapt off the building.

CHAPTER 14: IN WHICH WE ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THE PAST, TO LEARN OF MATTERS CONCERNING b.u.t.tERFLIES, GENIUS, AND THE DANGERS OF TRUSTING MAD SCIENTISTS.

With gentle but urgent key-strokes, Nigel coaxed the probability engine to life.

Gears ground their precisely cut teeth against his formula, working their way through the problem. Nigel watched intently as his notes unfolded into a symphony of clicks and clacks, building its way to a crescendo; when it was at last finished, the engine offered him a punch card containing the solution.

"A destined life," he said, standing to take the card. He held it with reverence, as if a single misstep would bring his work to ruin. He made his way to the back of the room where a cleverly designed device had been placed.

It was a column of iron half his height and a foot in diameter. Inside of its hollowed sh.e.l.l was a web of exquisitely crafted mechanisms, designed to turn even the most complex mathematics into simple and elegant action. At its very top- connected to intricate geography of ticking pendulums and coiled springs-was a magnificent clockwork b.u.t.terfly.

Nigel inserted the punch-card into the slot at the base of the column, giving the machine a single crank. Metal spokes wound their way through the card's holes, translating its data into movement. Slowly, the machine's mascot stretched out its colorful tin-framed paper wings; then, rotating two degrees to the left, it brought them down.

"With the new data we've gleaned from these sources, we can-"

"Abigail."

"-apply it to the equation thusly, here and here, I believe it may be feasible to accurately predict even smaller, more orderly systems-"

"Abigail!"

"-and perhaps even use the engine to-hm?" Abigail looked up from the chalkboard at Jeremiah, who wore a sullen expression.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said. "You've lost me."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must be explaining the premise poorly."

"No, you aren't. It's beyond me," Jeremiah admitted spreading his hands out helplessly. "I never thought I would be saying this, but you understand the fundamentals of my own theory better than I do."

"You're just saying that to be kind," Abigail said.

"No." Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. "I am not a kind man, Abigail. And I do not hand out compliments lightly."

Abigail hesitated, setting the chalk aside and staring at the dense knot of tangled equations she had scribbled down. "I cannot explain it. It almost feels as if I am merely learning something I already knew-reminding myself of ideas that I had once been acquainted with, but had long forgotten."

Jeremiah rose from his seat. "My mother says it was the same way for my father."

"You rarely speak of them," she said, hesitating. "Your parents, I mean."

"My father is missing, and my mother is quite mad,"

Jeremiah stated rather dourly.

"I've heard stories of your mother. Terrible stories," she said, but her voice possessed no trace of fear-rather, it had a dash of excitement. "They say that she was a monster in her youth; that she terrorized cities in the seat of mechanical monstrosities."

Jeremiah chuckled. "Oh, yes, she most certainly did. I wasn't aware that you were interested in 'mad' science, Abigail."

"Not at all!" Abigail quickly replied, a swell of heat breaking across her cheeks. "I mean, I am merely curious, is all."

Jeremiah steadied his hands on the back of a chair, leaning over to look up at Abigail. He dropped his eyelids low, wearing a most unwholesome smile. "Are you, now? Perhaps you would like to terrorize a city with me, Madame?"

Abigail scowled, her face red. "Stop being absurd."

"I'm not hearing a no," Jeremiah said, laughing. "I've got a giant mechanical spider stored in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I could have it up and running in under an hour."

"I am most certainly not interested," she snapped, although she was quick to add: "You have a mechanical spider in your bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"And more. Some inventions are mine, some are my father's, some are my mother's," Jeremiah said. "All are quite dangerous." He waggled his eyebrows. "Would you care to see?"

The air in Jeremiah's bas.e.m.e.nt was pregnant with forgotten secrets and pa.s.sions long left for dead; countless projects were contained beneath cases of iron and gla.s.s, neatly labeled and organized. Abigail sprang between display after display, her fingers soon smeared with dust.

"These machines," she said, breathless. "Some of them are wondrous."

"Be careful," Jeremiah warned her, and then added: "I've been working on continuing a few of their projects, but I haven't had time what with the work we're doing on the probability engine."

"What is this?" Abigail asked, leaning forward to inspect a rusty silver pocket watch. It had been gutted and refitted with a myriad of gla.s.s bulbs, dials, and wires.

"That's my father's project," Jeremiah told her. "It was supposed to have been a time machine."

"Do not tease me, Mr. Daffodil," she said, glaring.

Jeremiah laughed. "I'm not teasing," he said. "It doesn't work, though. Not correctly, anyway. Far too unpredictable to be safely experimented with. Ends up stealing time rather than letting you move through it."

"I'm sure," she said, obviously not believing him. She moved to another device. It was one of the few projects not stored away beneath a frame; it consisted of a segmented lead encased sphere approximately the size of a fist, with various valves and pumps attached to it. "And what function does this serve?" She reached out to touch it.

Jeremiah was upon her in an instant. The force with which he seized her wrist gave Abigail a dreadful fright. "Don't touch that," he shouted, and at once it was clear that he regretted his ferocity. "I apologize." He released her, stepping back. "But that project is particularly dangerous."

Abigail rubbed her still-aching wrist, watching Jeremiah and the sphere warily. "Why?"

"It was an invention of my mother's," he said, clearly reluctant to explain the device's function. "Even she was sane enough to stop working on it once she realized its implications."

"What does it do?"

"She called it the radium generator. Under the right circ.u.mstances, she discovered certain very rare particles can exert an immense amount of energy for an untold length of time,"

Jeremiah explained. "For weeks, or years, or decades-perhaps even forever. My mother found a way to recreate those circ.u.mstances and harvest the energy."

Abigail's eyebrows shot up. "She created a way to produce a stable source of unending energy?"

"Yes," Jeremiah began. "A machine that creates a spontaneous explosion-"

"Remarkable!"

"-that might never stop," he finished.

The light in Abigail's eyes quickly dimmed. "I see." She shuffled uncomfortably, turning to look at the a.s.sortment of machines and struggling to find some way to change the subject.

"Is there anything in here that is yours?" She asked tentatively.

Jeremiah grinned. "A few of these things here are mine, but my favorite invention is upstairs. It's not all that amazing, but I'm actually quite proud of it."

"May I see it?"

"On one condition," he replied.

The highest peak of Jeremiah's home brought them well over the roofs of the other houses in the neighborhood; Abigail stared down at the sight, s.h.i.+fting nervously.

"I have reservations, Mr. Daffodil," she admitted.

"Do not worry," Jeremiah said, standing on the roof's edge with his stylized umbrella in his hand. "Your arm, if you will."

Abigail shuffled. "You said you wanted to show me your invention," she pointed out. "But all you have in your hand is an umbrella."

"The umbrella is my invention. Please, Abigail. You gave me your word that you would trust me."

Abigail hesitated, squirming with displeasure. "You asked me to trust you before you brought me up on the roof," she said, wringing her hands.

He laughed, still holding out his arm. "Yes, well, that's often how it goes, isn't it? Please, Abigail. I won't harm so much as a hair on your head; you have my word."

At long last, Abigail submitted; she held out her hand to Jeremiah, who took it into his own, drawing her close.

"Hold my waist tightly, Madame," he told her, and then he lifted the umbrella high above their heads.

CHAPTER 15: IN WHICH OUR t.i.tULAR PROTAGONIST FLIES, AND MATTERS CONCERNING PERSONAL PROPERTY ARE POLITELY DISCUSSED.

Being dead, Snips decided, was a lot like flying.

There was a strange sense of weightlessness along with the peculiar feeling that came with having one's heart dive straight into the belly, only to change its mind at the last moment and slingshot back up through the throat. There was also very little to see.