by Eytan Kollin
“There is also the son,” Jane added. “They are fairly inseparable.”
“I see no reason to suspect that William Franklin is attuned to the available magic. Much like your husband, he has no sense for it and would be better served kept in the dark. But the father is a different matter. If we do not take action, he might someday serve our enemies.”
“Surely not. There is a natural opposition.”
“You are young, Mrs. Loxley. In my time I have seen hunger for power overwhelm much greater walls.”
The bitter note in Gasparini’s voice was new to Jane. It both hinted of mysteries and warned against their exploration. She gently pushed a finger against her hip while thinking, tracing out small circles. “We have six years before the comet comes. Can you keep Mr. Franklin in check that long? Or must you . . . ”
Gasparini smiled. “Kill him? No. First we will see if discouragement suffices. As long as he stays in the Americas, he is not a serious threat—a concern, yes, but not a threat. In a certain light, I might even be able to use his placement here to our benefit.”
“So you will wish me to continue to observe and to report.”
“As you can, yes. But Mr. Franklin was not, in fact, the primary reason for our meeting.”
Jane looked at her Lord quizzically. “Then what was?”
Gasparini took a sheet of rough paper and a pencil from the room’s small desk and sketched while talking. “The Society faces a more immediate difficulty. In response to your letter, I traversed from England to the residence I maintain in Boston with an artifact I call the Manydoor, then traveled from there to here as Gasparini.”
“The Manydoor?”
“Yes. It is a series of door handles that all connect to each other, no matter where in the world they may be. Now, as I prepare to return, I have received word that my Boston lodgings, and several other homes on the street, have burned down during my absence.”
Jane’s eyes widened in surprise. “But there are preventions—”
“Yes. There are. Rather, there were.” Gasparini looked up from his drawing and focused on Jane intently. “Our opposition is skilled, and these fires are their doing, I’m sure. I was set upon by two of them on my travels here. Somehow they followed me. Despite my shields, they must have detected the use of the door and determined that the risk of exposing this ability might be worth the reward. According to my agent within the civil authorities, a search through the debris revealed no hardware from the house at all. Everything—including the door handle—was gone.”
Jane sought to control the fear that rose within her. “The Manydoor is in the hands of our enemies?”
“Calm yourself, please. It may be so, or it may not. I am informed that urchins and other scavengers are routinely chased away from burned-out homes and businesses. It is possible that one such has taken it, unaware of what they carried.”
“How can I help?” Jane asked.
Gasparini handed her his finished drawing, a careful rendering of an intricately shaped metal door handle. “Once I am done with Mr. Franklin, I must return to England, and, without the door handle, I will have to take passage on a ship like anyone else—there won’t be power enough to traverse without aid until the time is upon us.” Gasparini shrugged. “It is not ideal to lose so much time to idleness, but there is no choice. While I am shipboard, I must rely on someone else to manage the search for the Manydoor. For that task I have chosen you.”
Jane knew that her surprise and uncertainty were self-evident. She studied the drawing intently, making no attempt to hide what she was feeling.
“You honor me.”
“I do not. You are best suited for this among our colonial fellows and have earned my trust—and this commission—through your own intelligence and capabilities. Use the Society’s resources here as you must, under my Seal. The task is clear, if not actually simple—do your best to locate and recover the lost handle for the Manydoor. Failing that, seek any indication of a trail.”
“I will, Signore. I will also keep my ear to the ground for gossip of people disappearing unexpectedly and without a trace, as could easily have happened to someone taking it by mistake. Any such report might help us narrow down the location.” She paused before continuing. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“This alone,” Gasparini answered seriously. “There are few enough objects of power scattered across this world, and the Manydoor is singular amongst those artifacts. Nothing else has its power, reach, or focus of ability. Better it be lost or destroyed than in the possession of our foes.”
“I’ll find it.”
“If you don’t, my task in London will be—” He clenched his jaw. “Just see that you do, Mrs. Loxley.”
The
Franklin Home
Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania Colony
December 1st
9
Mind Your Anger
Ben Franklin shivered as he sat in the yard outside his kitchen, huddled naked under a blanket as was his morning ritual. He often rose at five to allow for the solitary thought he felt ensured a productive day; on this morning he particularly wanted to have time to himself. True dawn was still more than an hour away. The stars above him were undimmed, and to the east only a first elusive hint of light was cresting the horizon. Behind him, inside the house, the rest of his family slept. Even the servants were still abed.
He sipped a bowl filled with watery, warm porridge, a breakfast habit he had adopted in London in his early twenties. Other workers at the press would drink beer on waking up to avoid getting sick from drinking fouled city water. They also believed the beer gave them much needed energy in the form of golden liquid bread. Ben had different ideas. Not liking the way morning beer stripped him of his faculties and made the world seem less sharp, he devised his porridge recipe that used boiled water instead. Satisfied with the results, he swore by his recipe to this day.
He chuckled as he reminisced. Back then, he had lent weekly wages to other press workers at a modest profit—a practice that simultaneously controlled, and enabled, their beer intake. He had built the foundation for his first fortune, a few pennies at a time, on other people’s drunkenness.
Ben took another sip of porridge. Though it was quickly cooling, there was still enough warmth to spread across his stomach as December’s cold pinched at his cheeks and nose. He rubbed his belly, absentmindedly feeling the curve of hanging flesh. He poked his finger into his belly button and wiggled it for a second, then sighed. How he missed the flat abdomen and unending energies of his youth!
But that was another world, and long ago. He could only reflect on it for so long before returning to the more pressing concerns of the moment.
The taxation problem, for one. The Penn family withheld monies earned by the colony, flatly refusing to follow the laws set by the Assembly, much to the colony’s detriment. It was vexing. The Assembly had a duty to protect the people, even if that duty meant standing up to the proprietorship, and Ben could not help but feel ineffective in all the ways he publicly and privately sought to change this situation for the better.
William, for another. Though he couldn’t ask for a more dutiful son, behind the appearance of filial devotion Ben sensed increasing doubt, and the shadow of serious disagreement. In all honesty, he felt compelled to admit that William was becoming a stranger to him, as if a void had opened between them that might never be bridged . . . a void first noticeable in the aftermath of the experiment, and one which only grew with each new piece of mastery he attained over his magic.
Magic was the center of it, of course. The Key was the center of everything, the sign that he was no longer the man he had been; even as he had no idea of who, exactly, he now was, or what sort of man he might become tomorrow.
Porridge or not, I’m cold, he thought, reaching for the Key where it hung around his neck, beneath the blanket. He stroked the plain metal with chill fingers and said, quietly, “Et calor,” whereupon a gentle heat ra
diated outward from the Key, warming his bones and dispelling all discomfort. Could the press worker do this? The printer for hire? Or even the much-lauded statesman and inventor? Who am I now?
He prided himself on being a rational man. Yet magic was clearly, inarguably, real, and greater than natural law: he could not argue with the evidence of his own senses and experience. It excited and frightened him to face something beyond the ken of his mind; indeed, beyond the ken of natural philosophy as it was commonly understood.
He took a final sip of the porridge and placed the bowl next to himself on the bench. Above him the first golden ray of dawn speared the sky, reflecting through the clouds in a pale web over Philadelphia’s architecture. Though it was only light, it seemed to Ben that a second city existed in the sky, with golden, pink, and red walkways of sunbeams—paths of the angels, never meant for mortal eyes. He wasn’t deeply religious, preferring reason to faith, but this sight still spoke to his soul. Mornings like this made it difficult to not see God’s hand in every aspect and beauty of nature.
Grunting, he pulled the blanket tighter. He felt like everything was coming to a head. It was only a matter of time before the Assembly and the Penn family would require intervention from the Crown. The Key, the lightning, his own abilities . . . only the good Lord might know what was in store for the future of natural philosophy and the study of electricity.
A sound from his workshop disturbed him.
Roused from thought, he spoke in a forced whisper—loud enough to carry to the workshop, but no further. “Peter? King? Jemima? Is that one of you?”
Silence was his answer.
Ben’s eyes narrowed. He stood, clutching the blanket one-handed, and tried to stay quiet as he inched around the corner of the house toward the workshop door. As it came into view, he heard another slight noise and all thoughts of politics and philosophy fled. There was definitely someone sneaking around within his workshop!
Who would dare?
He eased up to the door and wrapped his fingers around its handle, peering through the glass panes. There! A shadow, darker than the others, was doing something near his desk. With a quick twist of his wrist, he yanked the door open and jumped across the threshold. Shards of glass flew as the window broke upon the door’s hard impact against the wall.
“Who goes there?” He shouted. “This is not your place to be!” Without thinking, he dropped the blanket and picked up his cane, leaning by the inside of the door, which he brandished with both hands. “And you better be ready to pay for that window I just broke!”
A tall man—all angles and shadows—stood by Ben’s desk, holding one of the decaying journals Peter Collinson had sent the previous summer. By his manner he wasn’t at all surprised to be discovered. Calmly, without even bothering to look up, he continued to scan the pages in his hand. “One of the lost journals of Myrddin Emræs. One chronicling the founding members, and numbers, of his society, no less. How odd to find it here.”
The man spoke with a decidedly Venetian accent.
Franklin slowly lowered the cane in shock. “Gasparini? The itinerant magician? . . . what are you doing here? This is my home!”
Gasparini held up a finger in the direction of Ben, still not looking away from the journal. “One moment please, Mr. Franklin. I am here to correct one of those small mistakes that fate, in its blind fashion, will make upon occasion. You are in possession of a most unusual Key. I require it.”
“You are trespassing, sir. You will leave my house now, with nothing, or I will hold you here while my slaves bring a constable.”
“I don’t think you fully understand what is happening here, this is not a requ—” The magician, as he spoke, finally turned to face the outraged Franklin. “Mio Dio! Did you realize you are completely naked? What a strange man you are!”
Ben lifted the cane again, ready to swing, and took breath to shout.
With idle unconcern, Gasparini waved the fingers of one hand in Franklin’s direction and said “Slæp. I had assumed the Key would be stored here among your things . . . but I see you are wearing it, instead.”
In an instant, Ben tottered backward and slumped against the wall beside the door, dropping the cane as his body slid to the ground. He could still see and hear, but he no longer had control of his muscles.
“You see,” said Gasparini as he approached, “you are an infant in this world, Mr. Franklin. And as such, this Key and this journal, they are not for you. You’ll hurt yourself and others should you continue.”
Red tinted the edges of Ben’s vision, and he could feel the blood pounding through his body. Stand, damn you! he screamed inside his own mind. He tried to force his lips and tongue to form the Latin word for “stand,” but only a breathy whisper issued from his mouth.
“And now I will take what I have come for.”
The magician knelt down, reaching for the Key.
NO. The thought was not a cry of desperation, but rather a command, echoing in Ben’s mind. He felt magic surge through his torpor-stricken muscles, coiling like a serpent around his heart.
Before Gasparini’s fingers could touch it, a single actinic tongue of electrical fire leapt up to meet them. The bolt sizzled as it wrapped around Gasparini’s hand and arm and then, for all Ben could see, appeared to squeeze. The man fell back in surprise, crying out as he jerked his arm away. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from ragged burned strips in his coat sleeve.
Still unable to speak, Ben felt his palsied features form a savage smile.
Gasparini’s eyes flared with anger to match. He stretched his hand out toward Franklin, clearly intending to try again, and Ben could hear the Key come back to life, humming loudly—even threateningly—like some guard dog crouched and ready to protect its master. Electric fire crackled and sparked in a dozen colors along its surface.
Gasparini narrowed his eyes, studying the prone Ben intently. He moved the fingers of his hand as if trying to turn the tumblers in a lock, listening intently to the subtle changes in the hum that resulted. At last he stopped, frustrated, and let his arm fall to his side.
“Interesting. You’ve made the artifact part of you.”
“G-g-etttt youuuuu . . . ” Ben finally found a shred of voice, exulting as he felt the fingers of his right hand come together in a fist.
Gasparini stood and retreated two steps, then took a moment to dust himself off. “You have done something you should not have been able to do, Mr. Franklin. If there was the slightest chance that you knew how, I would stay and try to learn what you are. But you clearly don’t and would, I suspect, discover more in the exchange than I adjudge safe. We may yet speak, under different circumstances, when I am ready—and you are not.” He retreated further, to the desk, and picked up the journal he had dropped there. “’Tis almost a pity that I cannot leave this with you, just to see what you could grow into. But it would risk too much.”
He held the journal from one corner, between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, and said “Beswæle.” With that word, it flashed brightly into a small fireball. The timeworn pages flared up in a heartbeat, and Gasparini dropped the burning covers and spine, now bereft of their content, to the ground.
Brushing his hands off, the traveling magician walked to the door. He paused and squatted down at a safe distance, meeting Franklin’s eye.
“Excæ . . . ,” Ben raged quietly.
“Si, si. You do not like me. In your position I would not like me either. As to the sleep power, well—a normal man would have been rendered inconscio for a full day, but you are no normal man, clearly. I suspect you will be fine in an hour or two, so long as you don’t burst your own blood vessels trying to yell like that. You really should mind your anger. It is not healthy at all.” The magician patted Ben’s cheek, then stood and walked to the open door. “Cessa la tua, Mr. Franklin. I will see myself out.”
Ben heard the door creak closed, then nothing. He tried again to move; sparks crackled around
the Key and his weakly clenching hands for almost a minute before he was too exhausted to continue. As consciousness faded, two thoughts fought through the growing fog of sleep: a determination to examine the remaining journals Gasparini had not found as soon as awareness returned; and the curious observation that when the Key had caught the magician by surprise, he had cursed in an unmistakably English accent.
1753
The
Stevenson Home
Craven Street
London, England
February 12th
10
The King's Law
Polly watched in frustration from the receiving room on the first floor as the Thomas Lobsters of the King’s Company First Guards stomped by her. Piece by piece, they collected and packed the second- and third-floor possessions of Mrs. Stevenson’s lodger, then removed them from the premises.
“I don’t understand, Mother.”
Margaret hushed her daughter. “He has violated the King’s law, Polly. We are lucky they are only taking Mr. Overton’s things and not us as well.”
The red-coated guard who stood between them and the hallway, keeping them in the receiving room, chose this moment to finally speak. Surprisingly, his voice revealed a posh north London upbringing. “He’s a criminal, my dear. Nothing but a scoundrel and common cur headed for the gallows.”
Polly bit her lip and grabbed her skirts to conceal the involuntary fists she was making. She was fuming and could barely contain herself. During the six months of Mr. Overton’s absence she had continued her studies by devouring the fascinating contents of his books at will, leaping from volume to volume as curiosity pushed her ever deeper. She had come to think of them as her own. And now these loud, pompous men in the colors of the King were taking all her treasures away.
She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the guard. “What if he comes back and finds his property gone, Mother? Shouldn’t we be protecting it? He is our lodger and these men—”
