The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  “The German couldn’t have gone far. Thomas, go up there and tell me if you can see him.”

  His eyes widened in panic as the fatter man climbed the steps. Immanuel stared up at the inlaid ceiling, taking long, slow breaths to keep from hyperventilating. The fidgety man peered out the window for their prey while their leader lingered under the walkway on the opposite side of the room. The paunchy criminal looked out across the library, gripping the railing until his meaty knuckles turned white. With a final steadying breath, Immanuel knew what he had to do. He clutched The Theatrum Chemicum and began his silent shuffle toward the intruder. In the shadows, the man never noticed as he slunk behind him. Raising the tome high above his head, Immanuel brought it down so hard on the back of the heavy man’s skull that he crumpled against the rail. Immanuel dashed the book to the floor and jumped over the edge. His leg gave out under him as he stumbled forward, ignoring the pain radiating up from his ankle.

  For a few fleeting seconds, he thought he would be able to escape until he heard the sound of a bench crashing to the floor and boots thundering behind him on the ancient planks. His satchel slapped against his thigh as the shelves blew past him on either side. Immanuel slammed his wobbly ankle down step after step despite the pain. The door was only feet beyond the deserted librarian’s desk, but as he rounded the corner, the footsteps finally caught up with him. They collided in a pile of wool and leather and fell to the ground with the brawny man easily pinning him. Immanuel flailed and thrashed wildly until he was able to work his arms free from under the man’s body. The bug-eyed Higgins soon joined the pile, but as he reached for Immanuel’s arms, the younger man sent his elbow into the criminal’s nose. When his attacker fell back onto their commander, Immanuel rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet. A claw wrapped around his sore ankle and yanked him back down. Immanuel lay on the floor panting, the wind knocked out of him by the fall, as the man knelt on his back and tightly bound his hands with the strap from his satchel.

  “I knew you were in there. Even if I could not see you, I could sense you,” their leader explained in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so close to Immanuel’s ear he could taste the puffs of hot tobacco-ridden breath with each syllable. “I did not expect such a fight from you.”

  “The money is in my pocket. I swear, I have nothing else of value,” Immanuel cried with his face pressed into the floor from the man’s weight, but his hands worked frantically against their binds.

  “Oh, you have something much more valuable than money that I want. Stop struggling, boy. We are just going to have a little talk.”

  Before Immanuel could reply, a sharp pain followed by a flood of cold ran through his arm. Then, the world went black.

  ***

  Hours later, Immanuel’s blue eyes finally fluttered open and roamed across the brick walls of the catacomb and up to the beams and floorboards of the house only a few feet above his head. His back hurt, but as he shifted uncomfortably, he found his hands and legs were both tied to the back of the chair on which he was seated. He blinked and groaned, still too groggy to panic.

  “Good, you are awake.”

  Immanuel turned toward the voice and came face-to-face with a man in a leather mask and golden eyes. From his voice, he recognized him as the muscular man from the library. “What do you want from me?”

  “Information. What was in that potion you gave to Emmeline Jardine?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl at the river. If you tell me what was in the vial, I will let you go, and you will never see me again. That way we both get what we want.”

  “But I do not know, I did not make it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Immanuel stared at him, picturing his dear mother held captive in this place. “I found it in my grandmother’s attic.”

  His voice took on a hard edge as he enunciated each word, “Who made it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The blow came so hard and fast across his cheek he didn’t register what occurred until he felt the lingering, stinging ache.

  “Is that all you know how to say? You don’t know,” he spat mockingly back at him. “What do you know?”

  Immanuel closed his eyes against the abashed warmth flushing his cheeks where the handprint burned as he replied through clenched teeth, “Nothing about what was in it or what it did. I only used it because I had no other way to help her.”

  The gentleman in the mask gripped the younger man by the jaw and pulled his face to his until their eyes met. Immanuel defiantly held his gaze as his captor squeezed until his nails punctured the soft flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood and tears. The devil’s eyes flashed, and he roughly released Immanuel’s face before casually walking toward the door with the lantern at his side.

  “Where are you going?”

  The man ignored him as he slammed the door shut and slid the bolt. “Maybe a night down here will make you more cooperative. You better have something useful for me tomorrow, or this will not end well for you.”

  “But I do not know anything!” he called desperately.

  His heart pounded in his throat as he stared at the barred oak door. How was it going to end for him? Immanuel had nothing to tell his kidnapper. No one would believe him if he said he had a necklace filled with liquefied lapis philosophorum. He wanted to know why they wanted the secret of the potion so desperately, but more importantly, he wondered how they were able to find him after nearly a month. The young man’s blood ran cold as he realized the man with the yellow eyes had been there that August day. He had carried the girl away after her mother arrived.

  The wind whistled through an unseen crack and wafted down his neck in an icy draft, snuffing out any tatter of warmth or hope he had left. Immanuel shivered against the darkness of the stone sepulcher as it rose around him, engulfing his senses until all that was left were his thoughts in the musty earth. Everything else disappeared from his mind as it raced to the girl with owl eyes. What would happen to her if the man realized he didn’t have anything to tell?

  Chapter Three:

  Samhain Night

  “I don’t know,” Emmeline frowned as she scrutinized her reflection, her eyes running over the dark tendrils of hair that hung down from the sides of her coiffure. “Is this style what a fairy would wear?”

  Her long-suffering lady’s maid sighed as she held up the hand mirror, so her indecisive mistress could inspect the back of her head. It was the fourth style of the night, and the tips of her fingers were beginning to grow numb from the constant stab of hairpins.

  “Oh, yes, just like a fairy princess! It will be perfect for the ball,” Abigail tittered as she pressed in beside her queen at the looking glass and adjusted her own hair.

  At Emmeline’s insistence, the small group of girls all dressed as flower and crinoline clad fairies with Miss Jardine as the leader of their little band. She eyed the light-haired faces behind her reflection before staring at her countenance contemptuously. Why did she, the oldest of the four girls, have to look like a child? Abigail and Annette Raleigh were twins born over a year after her, but they were half a foot taller and were already beginning to fill out into curves. Adele, their younger sister, was Emmeline’s size but had waves of angelic hair while Emmeline had thick, dark curls and dark eyes. She stared at her chubby cheeks and small mouth, envying their high cheek bones and swan-like necks. If she couldn’t be an ideal beauty, then she only had one hope, to grow up to be just like her mother. Despite her dark features, Madeline Jardine appeared radiant and even stately with her exotic looks and majestic bearing. Everyone adored her, but while she accepted their praise, she never took a second husband. The freedom of early widowhood had been her reward for marrying strategically, placing her among high society and garnering clients at the height of the Spiritualist Movement’s popularity.

  “Do you think there will be a séance?”

  Emmeline arched one dark brow in disgust. “Don’t be vulgar, Abigail. We don’
t hold séances during parties. How would we hear the spirits over the music?”

  Abigail’s cheeks reddened. “How should I know? Unlike you, our parents only started going to the Spiritualist Church last year. It’s as boring as regular church. All we do is sing hymns and listen to old men drone on about responsibility and God. I always hope the vicar will perform a séance since I have never seen one, but apparently only mediums do that.”

  “We believe in other things besides talking to the dead, you know,” Emmeline snapped.

  “Like what?”

  “Spirits still learn in the afterlife, they can know things the living can’t, God is an intelligent creator. I don’t know, ask my mother. All I know is this is just a party to celebrate Samhain.”

  From the vanity mirror, Emmeline could see the manicured lawns and the burnt orange and brown leaves of the trees that obscured the lights of the shrunken houses on the other side of the field. In front of the house, jack-o’-lanterns glared and grimaced. Flames lapped in their cavernous mouths and flared through their eyes with each gust of wind. Servants heaped log after log onto an unlit pyre as the girl’s mind drifted to stories of martyrs and saints who had been set ablaze.

  “What’s Samhain?” Adele asked dreamily.

  “It is a feast for the dead. Mama says we deal with them so often that we should honor them even if it is a pagan festival.”

  The child’s eyes widened at the prospect of half-rotten couples in torn dinner suits and gowns popping out of the lawn like daisies and sitting beside her at dinner. She imagined an eyeball plopping from a dead man’s socket into her soup. “How dreadful! I don’t want to see a dead person!”

  Emmeline sighed as she glared at the girl through her reflection in the glass. “Don’t be hysterical, there won’t be any—”

  “They’re here!” Adele squealed with delight. “The London Spiritualists are here! I cannot wait to see their costumes. They always have the latest fashions.”

  Emmeline and the twins bustled over, shoving the younger girl out of the way to get a better view of the caravan of steamers rolling toward the portico below. The liveried footmen opened the doors of the cabs, allowing the brilliantly dressed lords and ladies to enter the masquerade in grand style. The three faces pressed against the panes as a set of broad shoulders clad in carmine velvet and a blonde head emerged from the coal steamer and swept out with a great flourish of his silk cape. He extended his hand to the lady who trailed behind in an equally gay costume of red and black, whom Emmeline recognized as the opera singer Henrietta Wren. Her nose crinkled in thought. She could have sworn that last time she was in London he was courting Lord Waters’s daughter.

  “What is Lord Rose dressed as? I couldn’t see with your big head in my way,” Emmeline scolded as he slipped out of her line of sight.

  “A devil. All the London Spiritualists are devils!”

  “Well, Annette, as I was saying before, that is what Samhain is about. Mama says it is the day when everything in the spirit realm comes into our world. All the ghosts—”

  “He has the body of a pugilist,” Adele sighed, her nose still pressed to the glass.

  Emmeline settled back in at the vanity and began adding the subtle details to her costume while picking through her box of pins and earrings to find the enamel and pearl forget-me-not brooch her mother allowed her to borrow. “When have you ever seen a pugilist?”

  “I haven’t, but I have seen pictures.”

  The twins appeared on either side of her reflection. “You know what they say about him. He won medals for gymnastics at Cambridge supposedly, and he climbs cliffs all over the countryside.”

  “I don’t know why you three even bother to look at him,” the dark-haired girl began. “I am the one going into society this year, and he will obviously be interested in me.” She narrowed her eyes as the other girls suppressed peals of laughter. “Why wouldn’t he? He is only seven-and-twenty. Older men marry young girls all the time, and it would only make sense to pick me. He is the head of the London Spiritualist Society, and mama runs the Oxford branch. He is one of the queen’s favorites, and mama and her brother are very close to Her Majesty. I am the obvious choice.”

  Before the girls could reply, the maid, who had slipped out when they rushed to the window, poked her head back into the room. “Her ladyship requests you come down to the party now.”

  Emmeline grabbed her silk and boning fairy wings from the bed and slipped them onto her back. Abigail cranked the clockwork mechanism, and with a faint click, the wings began to flutter. With one final look in the mirror, they marched into the hall with Emmeline in the lead and Adele trailing behind. They held their heads erect with their backs and necks straight to give the illusion of maturity and grace. It was their first real ball, and they had to make a good impression just in case their future husbands or mothers-in-law were down there.

  From the upper railing, Emmeline watched as the couples below collided and twirled in brilliant pinwheels of silk and brocade to the lively notes of a waltz. In the nebulous light of the candles and gas lamps, the cast of revelers were transformed into an otherworldly parade of demons, fairies, and spooks. She could scarcely believe they were real as she descended the staircase and entered their world. Her eyes roamed over the throngs of guests in their elaborate costumes they had made especially for the party, but she closed them, taking in the energy from all around her. There was something different about this party. It wasn’t a dull dinner party where the guests never seemed to leave the table or one of the barely audible parties she had listened to from the upper rail at her governess’ side. Tonight the guests seemed less inhibited, the dances faster, the music louder. It had a life of its own that pulsed with the tempo of the orchestra and filled every room of the manor with heat despite the brumous day.

  A hand lightly gripped Emmeline’s arm. She looked up expecting to see her mother when she met the light eyes of Henrietta Wren behind a devil’s mask. “Have you seen Lord Rose?”

  She shook her head, but as she opened her mouth to reply, the woman released her arm and disappeared into the crowd in a huff. Suddenly, the music stopped and a hush fell over the guests. Emmeline turned to see hundreds of masked faces staring up at the grand staircase. Standing on the center landing was a Pre-Raphaelite goddess bedecked in purple crepe and jewelry of the richest gold. Her jet hair tumbled down her back, but in the front, it was interwoven around a crown of spikes. Emmeline never heard a call for order or saw a hand raised for silence; her presence was enough to snuff out their voices.

  “Welcome to the Oxford Spiritualist Society’s Samhain Ball,” Lady Jardine began, her voice ringing through the foyer as if it were empty. “Many of you may not know the origin of Samhain, but it is an ancient pagan festival, old as England herself, marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. Tonight is the night when the dead walk among us and our worlds spin closer until they nearly touch. To keep the demons and fairies at bay and lead our dead to the otherworld, we will appease them with food and drink and a bonfire to light their way to the afterlife.” The great doors were thrown open to reveal a massive pile of wood stacked on the lawn. “May you all find peace and safety in the coming year.” The torch kissed the kindling and within seconds, a fire roared up toward the moon. “And may our loved ones find their way home.”

  Applause erupted, but by the time Emmeline’s eyes moved over the revelers who began to drift into the parlors and drawing rooms, her mother was gone from sight. The Raleigh sisters giggled with delight as the orchestra began to play a familiar song and rushed off to find dance partners, but as Emmeline was about to be pulled back into the throng, she spotted the familiar blonde head of Lord Rose. She tugged her hand out of Abigail’s and pushed her way through the forest of fabric, watching his head bob in and out of sight. She cursed her height as she lost him in a crowd of particularly tall gentlemen in front of the dining room. Her mother was holding court near the tables of elaborate puddings and stea
ming dishes of meat and poultry, so Emmeline tiptoed casually past the doorway, hoping she would not be noticed and called in. She walked toward the back parlor and sighed; he was gone. A sweet yet acrid vapor wafted from the unfastened mullioned door. The fairy stepped onto the balcony and found her devil with his head resting against the brick façade of the house, blowing smoke rings into the midnight air.

  She let her gaze rest on him for a moment. Lord Alastair Rose was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. Every time he was near, her pulse raced and heat flushed her breasts, making her acutely aware of their swollen prominence beneath her camisole. He was perfect; tall, strong, and the third son of a marquess. He was her Lancelot, her Darcy, her Prince Charming even if he didn’t know it yet. Finally his persimmon eyes languidly fell on her before rolling back to the copse of trees ahead of him. He brought the cigarette back to his lips and drew a long breath as if she was not even there.

  “Are you enjoying the party, Lord Rose?” Emmeline asked, deepening her voice until it sounded like her mother’s.

  He flicked the burned out nub into the bushes and pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket and lit another. “It’s a party.”

  “The Sleeping Beauty Waltz is coming up soon. It is one of my favorites.” She leaned closer, glancing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. “I asked mama to have them play it just for me, but I have not found a partner yet.”

  Smoke seeped from his nose as he exhaled, keeping his eyes locked on the conifers and oaks beyond the ring of the balcony. His eyes flickered and slowly he half-turned toward her. “Where is your mother?”

  “In the dining room.”

  Lord Rose abruptly dropped the hot cigarette and nearly crushed it out on the hem of her dress. Before she could speak, he pushed past her and walked inside. Emmeline lingered in the haze for a moment as the cold air dashed the burning in her eyes. Other people were dancing inside her Headington Hill home. Their faces were alight with the laughter she longed for, and she could hear their jubilant cries above the clinking of glasses and scuff of slippers and boots. Several songs passed before she took in a ragged breath and charged back inside toward the dining room. She would get her dance even if her mother had to make him do it. The dining room was empty by the time she got there, but as she turned back down the hall, voices rose behind the shut pocket-door of the library. Emmeline pressed her ear against the wood, fighting the apparatus of her wing as she tried to get close.