“Exactly. Even I felt the cold coming off the shoulder you were giving him.”
“I can’t help it,” Chance shrugged. “He gets under my skin.”
“Is it really him getting under your skin, or are you letting yourself get worked up over nothing? He’s a pleasant man. Right, Rhett?”
“I like him,” Rhett said. Chance hadn’t realized, but the boy wasn’t sitting at his stool anymore. He was over in the corner crouched down by the rattrap.
“Not the Welch I know,” Chance insisted.
“He’s not the same man he once was.”
“That’s what I mean,” Chance said. “The old Welch I could stand. Now he’s all talk about his new morality or whatever—I can’t stand it. If it were up to me, I’d have the old Welch back. At least then I could share a room with him and not feel so uncomfortable.”
“Bite your tongue!” Liesel waved the knife in front of her as she spoke, and Chance leaned back a little. “You should feel ashamed of yourself, wishing that kind of ill on another man. You may have known of him back then, but I knew him. No man should ever have to suffer so deeply as Welch has, and if his new ideologies keep him from suffering like that again then I’ll listen to them until the sun goes out. Gladly, even.”
“Alright! I take it back,” Chance said, putting his hand up in surrender. “I’m just saying, I’m sorry if I can’t stand the self-righteous type.”
“From where I’m standing, he’s not the self-righteous one.”
“You think I’m acting self-righteous?”
“I never said acting,” Liesel grinned. “All I’m saying is I hear a lot of griping coming from those lips about how unfair life is. If you’re unhappy with the way things are, do something about it!”
There was a loud snap from the corner, and everyone looked up to see Rhett frantically tugging at the corner of his coat, which had tripped the spring and was now caught in the rattrap.
“Leave the traps alone,” Chance said. “They’re Liesel’s.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Rhett apologized.
“It’s alright,” Liesel said. “It was just an accident.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Chance said. “I don’t think he likes that your traps kill them.”
“Well, it’s the unpleasant side of owning a business. Right, Malt?”
“It’s either the rats or the grains,” the cook agreed.
“I’ll set them up again when he’s gone,” Liesel whispered once Rhett managed to get his coat unstuck. He shuffled back to his stool.
“All I’m saying is if you gave Welch half a chance I bet you’d get along just fine. He’s a good man, and he deserves some hard-earned respect after what he’s gone through.”
“Yeah well, I think I’ll stick to avoiding him if that’s alright. Everyone’s better off that way.”
Liesel looked like she might have said more, but Welch came through the door at that moment.
“Am I interrupting again?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Chance said. “We were just about to leave. We’ve still got to make a trip down to the Exchange before it gets too late.”
He set the slab of meat back on the counter and stood to leave.
“Hold on! Before you go—” Liesel stepped into the other room and left them standing where they were.
“So, eh,” Welch began. “How’ve you been, Chance?”
“Fine,” Chance sighed, sitting down again.
“Eh, very good. Very good.” Welch stroked his beard. “And you, Rhett? How’s Ashworth treating you?”
“He’s treating me fine.”
“Very good. Very good. I wouldn’t have expected less.” Welch smiled. “And Ashworth? He’s doing...?”
“Fine.”
“Good. All very good.”
Chance poked at the table while Welch rocked on his feet.
“How’s the trade these days?”
“Slow,” Chance said.
Welch nodded as if he understood, which of course he couldn’t. He knew nothing more about alchemy than he did about how little Chance wanted to engage in small talk. Chance did his best to avoid Welch’s eyes, focusing instead on the cook as he added his diced meats to a large pot.
“Working on anything interesting?” Welch asked. “I talked to Ashworth a while back. He said you were puzzling a bit over a transmutation?”
Chance bit his tongue. Now Ashworth was telling people what he was working on?
“I asked Ashworth a question about it, that was all. It was just something to break the silence at dinner,” Chance lied. “I wouldn’t have time to worry about some fool’s errand like transmutation anyways. I have a lab to run.”
“You might know this already,” Welch continued, “but often when I think I put something out of my mind it keeps picking and puzzling over it—sometimes for years even—until, without realizing, the solution is right in front of me and I wonder how I’d done it. The mind is a tenacious thing once it grabs hold of an idea.”
“Thanks,” Chance said, his voice tired. “I’ll remember that.”
“Perhaps I could lend my mind to your problem,” Welch offered. “I’ve got thought to spare between work. Maybe you and I can make headway of it together.”
“What do you know about alchemy?” Chance snapped.
“Not a lot,” Welch shrugged. “But, Ashworth has used me a time to two when he gets stumped. He said I have—now this is what he said, not me—’an intuit’s mind’. I always thought that was kind of him to say. Very kind.”
“Well, I’d rather work this one out on my own. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” Chance stood again. “Where did Liesel go? The Exchange is going to close before we get there.”
“Keep your pants on,” Liesel said, coming back into the room. “You’d think you had an appointment with the electors, you’re so tightly wound.”
Taking Chance’s hand, she placed a stack of banknotes in it.
“No,” Chance objected, turning up his hands to refuse the offer. He glanced uncomfortably at Welch.
“Take it,” she insisted, “to cover your losses. It’s just spare winnings I’ve set aside. I can do without it.”
“I’m not looking for charity.”
“Then call it a loan. You can pay me back whenever you have the money.”
“I wouldn’t be able to come through on it. You know that.” Chance donned his coat. “We can get by on our own. Come on, Rhett. Let’s get going.”
Rhett leapt up from his stool and grabbed his satchel.
“Chance, let me help you,” Liesel begged. “I want to help. Let me be some of that good luck you’ve been looking for.”
“You said it yourself,” Chance frowned. “There’s no such thing as luck.”
He retrieved his satchel from the table, and Welch stepped aside so he could pass.
Outside, Chance took a moment to regain himself. His whole body hummed with pent-up frustration. Frustration toward his circumstances. Frustration toward himself. He silently cursed himself from every direction he knew, until his loathing was too much to contain. He lashed out at the bricks with his injured fist, striking its rough surface with all his might.
Looking down at his knuckles, he could see fresh patches of red form underneath Liesel’s bandage, yet he couldn’t feel the pain. His mind was too numb. He watched with a strange disconnect as the faint red streaks overtook the white fabric, traveling in small channels between his knuckles.
As he stood there, Rhett came hurrying out the door and down the steps, two halves of a sandwich in his hands.
“Liesel said I should take this in case you and I got hungry later,” he explained.
“She gave you the money?” he asked, not looking up.
“Huh?”
“Her winnings. She gave them to you?”
Rhett’s gaze dropped. “Yes,” he said softly.
Chance clenched his fist tighter, a drop of blood falling to the ground.
“It bl
eeding again?” Rhett looked concerned, but Chance ignored him. He felt no better than the street-side beggars he heard crying out every day. Against all odds, he made a silent promise not to leave his debt to her unsettled.
“Come on then,” he said, beginning to walk. “The Exchange is closing.”
Chapter Eight
Introductions
And if we succeed, what then? One thing is surely to give way to another. Can we fully comprehend the weight of what we’ve accomplished?
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
S toddard pulled at his new suit with a tense hand. He’d had Donovan purchase it earlier that morning. It was stiff and clung stubbornly as he moved, tailored after the latest fashion—though notably less trendy. It lacked the flourishing embroidery on the vest and cuffs which had recently become popular, but it would have to do.
Despite his discomfort, he did his best to appear poised else he give off the impression he didn’t belong. Squaring his shoulders and stiffening his jaw, he approached the host, who greeted him with a pleasant smile.
“Welcome to the Souit’de Laurue.”
“Thank you,” Stoddard said, sweeping the room once for Sinclair and his party. The restaurant was filled to capacity, though the space itself wasn’t crowded. Servers and busboys slipped between tables carrying large platters of dishes as the patrons chatted in a low drone.
There was no sign of the elector.
“May we check your coat, sir?”
Stoddard allowed a boy to help remove his coat, and was handed a number punched on a ticket stub.
“And will you be dining alone?”
“I have an invitation to dine with Elector Sinclair,” Stoddard said, producing his invitation. “Doctor J. Collins Stoddard.”
“Of course,” the host said. “If you’ll come this way, the elector’s party has already been shown to the garden terrace.”
Stoddard followed the man through the main dining area, admiring the general aesthetic. The tables were laid with clean white linens, with bright floral arrangements placed in the center of each. More plants hung from the ceilings and others still sat shelved along the walls. It gave the atmosphere a natural contrast when juxtaposed with the heavy iron support beams and rich patterned paper which coated the walls.
Much of the lighting was natural, pouring in from large windows along the bayside of the dining room, though he noted that each table had its own hanging electric light—unlit—for the evening hours.
He spotted some more noteworthy figures of the meritocracy, a few lords and their wives amidst other military gentle and business men. Stoddard did his best to walk a little taller, and to greet those who met his eyes as naturally here as he might in his own study. He acknowledged each with a quick, formal nod, which was returned politely.
By the time they’d reached the opposite side of the room he sensed his presence had caused something of a stir in the conversation. It thrilled him to have their attention, after so many long years working in the background, and he felt his confidence bolstered.
His moment had indeed arrived.
But his confidence was quickly challenged as he was led to the patio. The patio floor was entirely made up of glass panes supported by great iron trusses which ran along the underside of the glass and anchored it to the cliff. The host walked on it without the least sign of hesitation, while Stoddard found his steps awkward and uncertain.
“Do not be alarmed by the glass, sir,” the host said, noting Stoddard’s hesitation. He tapped a foot with force to demonstrate his confidence in the surface. “It is quite safe. And it provides a pleasant view, does it not?”
It was true. The full curvature of the bay’s majestic cliffs sprawled before him all the way down to the Basin. The sun shone brightly on the scene, illuminating the bright blue of the water and the colorful gas balloons of the airships which floated inside the bay.
Stoddard couldn’t think of a grander view in any part of the city which could rival the one before him. “Indeed,” he managed to say. “Though a little overwhelming for those of us who are accustomed to more solid ground.”
“Of course,” the host smiled. He gestured to a place near the end of the patio. “Your party, sir.”
Stoddard saw the small entourage clustered together, chatting under the bowers of a small garden terrace. He caught sight of Elector Sinclair, recognizing him immediately by his black uniform and bright red sash. The man stood as the obvious head of the little company, flourishing tactfully as he spoke—about some important topic no doubt.
For a moment, Stoddard worried that he’d kept them waiting, but it was soon apparent that none were in any real hurry. Sinclair commanded their attention well.
“Doctor J. Collins Stoddard,” the host announced as they entered the terrace.
The company turned and Stoddard caught a foot coming up the stairs when he recognized who else was in attendance. He was only just able to recover himself as he was greeted.
“Doctor Stoddard,” Sinclair said, dismissing the host with a wave. “Our celebrity of the hour. I’m glad you were able to join us. I imagine your company is in high demand.” He removed his cigarette from his lips and offered a hand to Stoddard, who shook it gratefully.
“The pleasure is mine, Elector. I consider myself most fortunate to have received your invitation.”
“To be sure,” Sinclair grinned. “It is a mutual treat then. Are you acquainted with my other guests? Lord and Lady Worthington? And their daughter, Miss Emmaline?”
Stoddard felt his heart rate rise, and he swallowed hard.
“I have had the fortune of knowing them for some time, actually.” He bowed to both Lord and Lady Worthington in turn.
“And me?” Emmaline beamed, stepping forward. “Has it been a good fortune to know me as well?”
Her eyes alighted with a playful mood, and Stoddard quite lost himself in them. Significantly younger than he, she was a dainty thing from crown to hem. Her dimpled cheeks and soft chin gave her a porcelain look.
She was, in his opinion, the most curious creature he’d ever set eyes upon. Or, perhaps, it was the way she drew out emotions he’d quite forgotten he possessed that was the true source of his curiosity.
Whatever the source, he couldn’t deny the joy he felt seeing her again after so much time, despite the circumstances of their parting.
“A fortune without compare, Miss Emmaline,” he said. He took her gloved hand and kissed it lightly.
Lady Worthington let out a terse sigh.
“And this is my son, Arden,” Sinclair said, introducing the even younger lad beside him.
The boy was perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, a full head shorter than Sinclair. He bore all the signs of a youth accustomed to privilege, yet Stoddard detected in his expression and manner of standing that he was an unsure one. He wore a dark uniform, similar to his father’s, though it displayed no distinctions or honors of any kind.
Side by side with the elector, he was quite underwhelming.
“Master Arden,” Stoddard bowed.
“Overjoyed to finally meet you,” the young man said with apparent enthusiasm.
“Haven’t we exchanged enough pleasantries for one afternoon?” Lady Worthington asked, interposing herself strategically between Stoddard and her daughter. “I’m positively famished.”
“Of course,” Sinclair acquiesced. “Shall we?”
He gestured for his guests to take their seats at the table. Mrs. Worthington took Emmaline’s arm and led her to her seat. Stoddard followed them, falling in beside Lord Worthington.
“Don’t mind her shortness with you,” Lord Worthington said in a low voice. “She is an insufferable woman. Always has been, and I fear she always will be. There is no cure for it, I’m afraid.”
“Yet, you suffer her so well,” Stoddard pointed out.
Worthington chuckled. “It’s a husband’s solemn duty, else he make the most dreadful misfortune his closest bedmate. You’ll
know what I mean, one day.”
“If fortune favors me.”
“Oh, I think it has,” Worthington smiled.
Lord Worthington took a seat next to Sinclair and his wife, and Emmaline was directed by her mother to sit beside her. Stoddard was quick to occupy the seat next to her, which prompted another perturbed noise from Lady Worthington. Her husband gave her a severe look, however, which silenced any vocal protest.
Arden took a seat between Stoddard and his father.
At a signal from Sinclair, a small army of servers appeared and soon a diverse spread of seafood and vegetable platters was wheeled out, richly seasoned with spices imported from across the sea.
The aroma teased the senses and made Stoddard’s nose twitch. He placed his napkin in his lap as the first dish was placed before him.
“I must say again what an honor it was to receive your invitation,” Stoddard said.
“I make it a point to acquaint myself with the more noteworthy figures of the city,” Sinclair smiled. “Naturally, I’m as intrigued by the work you did for our good captain as the rest of the world.”
“With all the time I’ve spent in my work, I admit I lose track of the world sometimes.”
“Understandable,” Sinclair said. “It’s better you’ve been spared the political arena until now, but I believe your days of obscurity are winding down. Your name has been circulating among the meritocracy for some time. Though, I admit, it was at the request of my son that I specifically invited you here today. He’s built something of a hobby following your work.”
“My father was able to arrange a seat for me in the medical dome,” Arden said. “After seeing you work, I knew I had to meet you in person.”
“I’m flattered to hear that. I hope you found the experience insightful.”
“Yes, I did!”
“My son has a mind to follow in your footsteps. Though time will tell if he’s serious or if this is just another fad of his youth.”
“My father thinks I’m too flighty in my interests,” Arden confessed. “I fear he may be right.”
“You’ll prove your merit in time,” Worthington reassured him.
Aether Spark Page 8
