The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  “Smoking is absolutely forbidden inside the Compound,” Court warned, as he pulled out a paper packet of cigarettes. “You just let Niko catch you at it and see what happens.” Lighting up, he blew smoke over the hedge. He offered Will one, but Will waved it away—he’d never picked up the habit, and if Tesla didn’t like it he didn’t want to. “But don’t worry, Grig watches out for all of us. He’s like a mother hen. You’re lucky to have gotten on this team. We’re the best in the whole compound.”

  “So there are other groups?” Will asked. Court nodded.

  “Three total,” he said. “Mr. Tesla has a mania for the number three. He does everything in threes, or multiples thereof. If you ever have to help Grig with a report intended for Mr. Tesla, make sure you never send it up with an even number of section headings.” He looked regretful, as if freshly reliving some painful section-heading related mishap. Then, having worked through the trauma, he took another drag on his cigarette and continued.

  “Now, my personal area of expertise is geophysics,” Court said. “I was recruited because Tesla’s big project right now is using the resonant frequencies of the earth to transmit electric power wirelessly.”

  “Sounds interesting,” said Will, carefully. Even with Court, who had been friendly and open, he didn’t feel safe venturing more than that. He’d been at Tesla Industries less than a day, but already he was feeling wary and overwhelmed, like he was sure to give the wrong answer at any moment. Will was not used to being around people who were as smart—and likely smarter—than he was. It was ... well, it was terrifying, that’s what it was.

  Court, perhaps sensing this anxious disquiet, peered at his face in the gloom.

  “You really are just a kid,” he said wonderingly. “What are you, fifteen?”

  “I’m eighteen,” Will said curtly. “And I’m not a kid.”

  “Clearly not, since you’ve got a wife.” Court smirked. “You do realize that they’re bending over backward for you, right? You must be hot stuff.”

  Will snorted with amusement. If only Court knew how far from “hot stuff” he felt like at the moment! But he didn’t say this, and after a moment of silence, Court took the hint and changed the subject, leaning in closer to whisper, “So what’s your wife like? Pretty?”

  Will frowned at him, waved cigarette smoke away.

  “Fine, fine,” Court sighed, leaning back. “You’re not the kind to kiss and tell, huh? Not going to have any sympathy for us poor souls trapped behind these iron fences? Well anyway, everyone here is positively furious that you’ve found a way to get around the celibacy requirement.”

  “Roher already hates me,” Will said.

  Court shrugged. “Roher doesn’t hate you because of that. He hates you because you’re younger than him and quite possibly more talented, if they want you so bad. Roher’s more interested in physics than he is in sex.” Court rolled smoke in his mouth, blew a perfect ring before adding: “And someone who’s more interested in physics than sex is a dangerous person to have hating you.”

  “From his response to my work, I can’t see why he’d hate me,” Will muttered, still stinging from the embarrassment of not having thought to put a fuse into his Flume. Adding to the humiliation was the fact that Roher had been absolutely right. A simple breaker would have stopped the overload in its tracks. “Apparently he thinks I’m an idiot.”

  “The more Roher acts like you’re an idiot, the more he thinks you’re a threat,” Court offered sagely. “You and he share similar specialties, except he’s more theoretical while you’re more practical. He’s one of the new high-energy physics boys. He’s been trying to figure out how to entangle the output of multiple Otherwheres to generate amplitudes of current far greater than any we’re now capable of. But he hasn’t been able to get past the Connection Drop problem. And you’re working on that, right?”

  Will nodded. Court smiled broadly, clearly amused.

  “That’s why Grig called him over to look at that cigar box of yours. Grig’s always looking for ways to get Roher to work more collaboratively with the other apprentices, and he knows Roher is just dying to pick your brain. But Grig gives the kraut too much credit, I’m afraid. Roher’s too proud. He’ll never ask for your help in a million years. He’ll just sit and stew about the fact that you’ve figured it out and he hasn’t.”

  Will said nothing. It was nice to imagine that he had something over on Roher. And really, Roher’s intransigence might be the one thing protecting him from having to share the secrets Jenny had made him promise not to spill.

  But any further confidences between Will and Court would have to wait for another time, as Grig’s voice, calling their names, rang through the frosty night air. Court hastily ground out his cigarette and waved out the fumes. Emerging from their hiding place in the laurel, they hurried back to Building Three.

  The first thing Will discovered was that at Tesla Industries, work did not follow any kind of regular schedule. The apprentices worked as long as Grig worked, and Grig worked as long as Tesla worked. Thus, it was not until nearly nine, after Grig had returned from yet another meeting with the reclusive genius, that he finally said, “It’s been a long day, Mr. Edwards, perhaps you’d like to get some rest.” They left the other apprentices still hard at work over their desks; Roher shot Will a sour glare as he followed Grig out.

  They walked the short distance back to the apartment under the pale artic glow of one of the nearby moonlight towers. Will was exhausted and his head was spinning and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. When he went inside, Mrs. Kosanovic was waiting in the common room. Her incredibly complicated knitting project seemed only to have expanded in complexity. As Grig climbed the stairs to his apartment, Mrs. Kosanovic called to Will.

  “I have given you and your wife Number 20. It is on the second floor, down the hall. You will find her there. Also, a telegraph boy delivered this.” From her pocket, she retrieved an envelope from the Western Union Telegraph Company. Before giving it to him, she added: “Collect.” Will fished in his pocket for a few pieces of silver.

  The telegram was addressed to Jenny, and whoever had stuffed the envelope had left it unsealed. Will paused as he climbed the carpeted stairs. He had promised himself he’d respect Jenny’s wishes and not pry into her affairs, but curiosity got the better of him. Sliding the typed telegram from he envelope, he read:

  Received your message. Hart has been informed of your arrival. Waste no time. Hetty.

  Well. That didn’t tell him much. He tucked the telegram back and moistened the gum, pressing the flap shut.

  Number 20 was a corner apartment at the back of the building. He felt rather silly knocking at the door of what was supposed to be his own home, but Mrs. Kosanovic hadn’t given him a key. Jenny flung open the door.

  “You’re home!” she said, hugging him and pulling him inside in one movement. She must have had a bath, for her hair was damp and she smelled of steam and Ivory soap. “I thought you’d never come!”

  “I didn’t know if I ever would.” Will looked around the apartment. It was furnished exactly as Grig’s had been, with solid, new, unassuming furniture. The high ceilings were ornamented with elegant plaster reliefs, and the hardwood floors were polished to a gleam. Will emitted a low whistle.

  “Wow,” he said. “Swell.”

  “Isn’t it?” Jenny chirped, as she gestured him to follow her down a short hallway. “I even managed to get two bedrooms. That was heck to square with Mrs. Kosanovic, let me tell you!”

  “How’d you manage?”

  Jenny shrugged dismissively. “I just told her we had to have a nursery.” She patted her stomach. “I suggested that the need was urgent and impending.”

  Will threw up his hands. “They’re already upset enough about me being married!”

  “You’re the one who came up with the story in Stockton,” Jenny reminded him. “And besides, I don’t plan on being pregnant long. Grieving a miscarriage will be just the thing to make that
landlady leave me alone. I can already tell she’s the nosy type.”

  “Jenny Hansen, that’s awful!”

  “That’s Mrs. Edwards to you,” Jenny corrected him. “And the word you’re looking for is brilliant.” She showed him one of the bedrooms through an open door.

  “That one’s mine.” There was no doubt that she had commandeered the best for herself. The bedroom was large, and looked out over the back garden. “The bed is a dream.”

  There was no way for Will to confirm the accuracy of Jenny’s assessment, because all he could see of the bed was piled high with department store boxes. Clearly, she had managed to keep busy during his day at work. Jenny gave him no time to ask about them as she steered him across the hall and into the second bedroom.

  “This one’s yours.”

  The second bedroom was much smaller and its window overlooked the alleyway that separated the apartment building from its neighbor.

  Will raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”

  “There’s still power in firsties,” Jenny countered, referring to the old games of marbles they’d used to play. “Besides, just wait until you see all the wonderful things I got you downtown!”

  “Yes, I notice you’ve been spending your inheritance again,” said Will.

  “Oh no, I didn’t spend a dime of my own money.” Jenny’s blue eyes were wide with innocence. “You’ll be happy to know that the gold certificates have been safely deposited, so that’s one less thing to worry about. Now, sit”—she patted the bed—“and close your eyes.”

  Will did. Jenny placed something smooth and heavy in his hands. Opening his eyes, he beheld a small case of fine leather.

  “It’s your wedding present,” Jenny smiled. Her cheeks were pink and she looked slightly embarrassed. “Or, well, maybe a first day at work present. Something like that.”

  Opening it, Will discovered that it was a shaving kit—a very nice one. The straight razor had a handle of polished tortoiseshell and a gleaming steel blade. A whole panoply of grooming implements were neatly tucked in as well: brush and cup, soap and strop, comb and scissors.

  “There’s everything you need to grow a perfectly lovely moustache,” Jenny said. “You’d look good with a moustache.”

  Perhaps it was time to grow a moustache, Will thought, remembering what the lawyer had said about his family’s “urgent inquiries.” He stroked his upper lip thoughtfully but said nothing.

  “Also, I took care of your clothing problem.” She opened the closet, and inside hung three suits so new the creases hadn’t hung out yet. Will stood to examine them, and noticed a pair of uncomfortable-looking shoes sitting on the closet’s top shelf. He turned as he heard Jenny pull open a dresser drawer.

  “A half dozen shirts,” she said, showing him the drawer’s neatly folded contents. “White, of course. I don’t trust men who wear striped shirts. And linen cuffs and collars. I got you wing collars, is that all right?”

  Will didn’t answer. Office shirts were not his customary attire, and he’d certainly never developed a preference for any of the dozens of types of collars available. It was staggering how he could go from having nothing to having everything—right down to the linen wing collars—provided for him within the space of a day.

  “I once asked you if you had any witch in you,” he said finally. “I take it back. I should have asked if you had any quartermaster.”

  Jenny laughed. “If there’s one thing the daughter of a rich man knows how to do, it’s shop,” she said. “And believe me, I wasn’t just shopping for you.”

  For the first time, Will noticed that Jenny was wearing a pretty new gown of chestnut colored wool. As she led him out to show him the rest of the apartment, she stopped at the hall closet to show off her most prized new acquisition: a fur coat, plush and warm, the very same color as her own rich brown curls.

  The kitchen was of the modern antiseptic type: white walls, black and white checked floor tile and glass-fronted cabinets. Jenny clearly hadn’t found time to shop for groceries, for the icebox contained nothing more than a half-eaten sandwich, wrapped in wax paper. Just off the kitchen was a breakfast nook with high windows that looked out over the small back courtyard. Whatever time Jenny hadn’t spent buying clothes or depositing gold certificates she had apparently spent here. The table was spread with papers—evening newspapers (turned to the financial sections) and a large leather-bound volume on the subject of patent law, bearing the fresh stamp of the Detroit Public Library.

  “By the way, what do you mean all this didn’t cost you a dime?” Will asked.

  “I certainly don’t intend to touch those gold certificates for our day-to-day expenses!” said Jenny. “I stopped in at the National Bank of Detroit. It turns out your brother Ben was as good as his word.” She went to her purse and pulled out a small wad of cash. “That’s what’s left. From here on out, until I get your patent done, you’re footing the bills.”

  “Just like a good husband,” Will smiled.

  “Like a good client,” Jenny corrected. “You’ve retained my services. And I promise you, it will be an investment that pays off a thousandfold.”

  Will counted the money. There wasn’t much, just over two hundred dollars. Then he was surprised at himself. When did he start thinking of two hundred dollars as ‘not much’? The apartment and most of his meals would be taken care of by Tesla Industries. As long as Jenny would be satisfied with the shopping she’d already done, it was plenty of money to go on. He shook his head as he tucked it away. He’d been hanging around secretive heiresses too long.

  Thinking of heiresses and their secrets made him remember the telegram Mrs. Kosanovic had given him. Taking it out of his pocket, he handed it to Jenny without a word. She quickly opened it, scanned it, nodded. Then she opened her calfskin grip and tucked the telegram inside. For the moment the little suitcase was opened, Will saw several other envelopes and bundles of paper inside, neatly secured with rubber bands. She saw him looking and quickly closed the grip and tucked it under the table.

  “So, tell me about your first day. Did they ask about the Flume? Did you tell them anything?”

  “They asked,” said Will, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He stretched, rubbed his face. “I showed them the burned out wreck, told them what happened.”

  “Told them you’d build a new one?”

  Will shrugged. “They said I needn’t bother. Grig said there was plenty of time. He wants me to work with him on his project.”

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed, and she frowned in deep thought. Will was surprised by this reaction.

  “Now what’s wrong?” He threw up his hands. “You wanted me to stall them, and they’ve been stalled. I thought you’d be pleased!”

  “No, something’s not right,” Jenny interjected, concerned. “They were all very excited to get their hands on you and that Flume. But now you’re here, and the Flume isn’t working, and they don’t much care. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  It didn’t particularly, and Will was about to say so when Jenny released a little squeal of alarm. She put a hand over her mouth.

  “Criminy,” she whispered. “They’re heading you off at the pass.”

  Will was utterly lost. “What?”

  “What if they’ve already been working on something similar? Maybe it isn’t finished yet, maybe they’re not ready to submit it for a patent ... and if you got there first, all the work they’d put into it would be lost. So they deliberately sent us through the Dimensional Subway, knowing that it would destroy your prototype.”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs,” Will scoffed. “It’s also possible that they simply didn’t foresee what would happen, just like I didn’t.”

  “Maybe so,” allowed Jenny. “But then again, if that’s the case, why didn’t they set you to work rebuilding your Flume immediately? They were so interested in it before.”

  Will couldn’t explain that. He thought about Roher—Court had said that the two of them were pursuing th
e same lines of research. Could Roher have come up with something like the Flume? But if Roher already had the answers, why would he have taken such an immediate dislike to Will?

  Jenny took a deep breath. “Whatever the explanation, it’s a good thing I got these while I was downtown.” She showed him a box full of drafting paper, mechanical pencils, India ink, rulers and protractors. “The man at the scientific supply house said it was everything you’d need to draw up schematics for a patent.”

  “More than enough,” said Will, looking over the extravagant collection. Jenny set the box in his lap.

  “Good. We’ll start tonight. We’ll have to work fast!”

  “Jenny, I’m exhausted!” Will protested. “A fellow needs his rest! Besides, drawing up schematics can’t just be done in a couple of nights.”

  “The papers have to be submitted before the end of the year to be technically filed in 1910 ... and of course all the offices will be closed the week before Christmas. So we have to send everything off by the end of next week at the latest.”

  “There’s no way!” Will wailed.

  “Where there’s a Will there’s a way!” she said, clearly very pleased with her own brilliant wit. She put a mechanical pencil into his hand. “I’ll go put on a pot of coffee.”

  It was almost 3 A.M. when Will finally stumbled into bed. As exhausted as he was, there was one last thing he had to do before he turned off the light. He pulled out Ben’s letter, and discovered that news—especially in the Edwards family—traveled fast.