Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  Amanda looked down into the black hole that appeared. Janine clomped forward and joined her.

  Stone steps spiraled down into the darkness.

  “I will go with you, mistress,” Janine offered.

  Amanda shook her head slowly. “No. Thank you, but you… don’t walk very quietly. I need to go myself.”

  She looked for another moment, then turned, gripped the edge of the hole, and lowered herself onto the steps.

  “Be careful,” Janine said.

  “I will.” And Amanda began her descent.

  The steps were small, and she climbed down backwards as though the passage were a ladder, clutching the steps above her as she went. The square of light above her framed Janine’s face, but as the stairway spiraled downwards, her view of the opening became obscured until all she could see was the glow of sunlight tinted with blue.

  She stepped as quietly as she could, making her way down until she tried to find the next step and met level ground instead. The light from above was now so dim that she could barely see her hand in front of her face.

  Breathing deeply, she turned around and walked forward slowly, taking small steps, hands extended.

  A few steps in, her fingers met wood. She felt along it until she found a knob, which she turned.

  The light that met her eyes as the door opened was faint, giving her a view of only vague shapes in the room beyond. She continued walking forward with her hands in front of her and only a few steps brought her to another door. This one had light struggling from underneath it and indefinite sounds came from the other side.

  She swallowed and closed her eyes. Then she located the knob, turned it, and opened the door less than an inch.

  She opened her eyes and peered through the crack.

  The basement.

  She let out a breath and opened the door another fraction of an inch.

  At first, the vast space looked empty. The huge generator still glowed in the middle of the room. Other than the whistling of steam valves and the cranking of gears as the generator powered the mansion, she heard nothing.

  “That took you long enough.”

  Her heart nearly flew out of her chest as the words broke the dullness. She fought to keep from slamming the door, and kept her eye to the crack.

  Another voice answered. “I know. He said to apologize. He wanted to test it first.”

  “As if I’ve ever failed to deliver,” the first voice responded dryly.

  A chill tickled over her. She knew that voice.

  Rumpled.

  She dared to crack the door open further.

  Two men stood to the left of the generator. One was tall and nearly bald, and he was counting what looked like a great deal of money. The other was a little shorter, with shoulder-length hair and a stiff, expensive-looking suit.

  The tall man finished counting the money and put it into the pocket of his wrinkled coat. “I suppose you want a receipt?”

  The man in the suit nodded and pulled out a pen and paper.

  Amanda stared, hardly daring to breathe as the tall man turned his face in her direction to take the pen.

  It was him. He lacked the eye, but a black eye patch took its place. But how was he tall?

  He pressed the paper against the surface of the generator and turned his back to her for a moment. Then he handed pen and paper back to the other man. “Always a pleasure,” he said, without expression.

  The other man pocketed the two items. “He wants to order two more.”

  “Well then, he’ll have to talk to me about that himself.”

  If the man in the suit had a tail, it would have been tucked between his legs as he retreated.

  Rumpled turned to the generator again as the other man’s footsteps died off.

  Amanda closed the door and pressed her back against it.

  He was a scientist. Of course he could find an ingenious way to hide his height. Leg extensions of some kind.

  But that didn’t matter. She was here to find his name.

  Mail. He had mentioned getting mail.

  She reached along the wall on both sides of the door, shaking, desperate for some switch or chain to turn a light on. She finally located a chain and yanked it.

  Dim orange light illuminated the space.

  It was a very small room. She saw a bed much like the one upstairs against one wall, a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf loaded with ragged books.

  She didn’t have time to think or to explore. She just needed a name.

  The desk was covered in papers. She rushed to it and scanned every sheet for a name. Plans. Equations. Calculations. She saw no letters.

  Stress rising to a fever pitch, she began lifting pages and looking beneath. More pages. More equations. More plans.

  Drawers. There were drawers under the surface of the desk. She pulled one open and there, on top, she found an envelope. It was addressed to the palace.

  To a name she had heard before.

  She took it in at a glance, then shoved the door closed and jumped across the room to turn off the light. Then she took small, rapid steps back through the room to the door she’d come in by, left, and scurried up the stairs as though the mysterious man were chasing her all the way.

  She had never watched so intently for her husband’s return as she did that afternoon. As soon as she had gotten upstairs and closed the trap door, she had written the name down, even though she knew there was no chance of forgetting it. Not a name like that.

  Suppertime arrived, and still Byron had not returned. She tried to eat, but couldn’t down more than a few bites. She had only sat there for a few minutes when Frank the footmen entered the room and told her that the carriage had just come back with a message from the governor for her. He would be back in another hour or two—he was finishing up a few things.

  Poor Byron. He was no doubt exhausting every last measure at his disposal still, not having any idea of her adventure. If she’d had any idea where to find him she would have sent him a message of her own, reassuring him that everything would—hopefully—be all right.

  She excused herself, picked Lizzie up from her high chair, and retreated to the library, heart fluttering with hope.

  And there she sat. Waiting. Waiting for her husband, waiting for Rumpled. Waiting to discover her baby’s fate.

  Waiting for mercy.

  With each automated announcement of the clock, she grew more nervous. What if she were wrong, and this wasn’t his name after all?

  “It is now seven thirty p.m.,” the voice announced.

  She clutched her baby close and closed her eyes.

  She heard the faint brush of the library doors against the carpet, and opened her eyes.

  Rumpled stood in the doorway.

  Her heart thumped. Where was Byron? It had been nearly two hours.

  She took a deep breath. Calm. She had to be calm. She had the answer, she was sure of it.

  Once again, the little man stepped forward, red eye blinking at her. He stopped about three feet from her chair and waited.

  With one hand, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the list of names the servants had helped her compile. She had decided to read off several of them before getting to what she was sure was the answer, to avert his suspicion.

  Her voice shaking, she began at the top of the paper. “Is your name Llewellyn?”

  He shook his head.

  “Alonzo?”

  Another shake.

  She read on down. Mordecai, Harland, Cephas, Hubert, Zedock, Meriwether, Columbus, Ora—it was none of these. She continued into names she had made up in her earlier desperation. Winneston, Shanedan, Tornestol. He didn’t crack a smile at the unusual concoctions, just went on shaking his head.

  “Amanda!”

  The library doors burst open and Byron rushed in, covering the distance between the door and her chair in a few strides.

  Rumpled, who had turned his head when the governor first entered, turned back to her.
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br />   Byron knelt beside her, and the desperation that danced in his eyes pierced her heart. “Don’t give her up. We can leave here. Run away somewhere. Somewhere he won’t find us.”

  He spoke as though their tormentor were not there in range of hearing.

  A flow of peace poured into her soul as she looked down into his eyes and she smiled. He loved her. He loved their child enough to give up everything for her.

  Perhaps if there was a higher power, it was not punishing her after all.

  She laid her hand over her husband’s. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She turned back towards Rumpled, who took another step forward.

  “Is your name Junidell?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Is it Franquellen?”

  “No. And you cannot simply keep stringing sounds together for the entire evening. If you are finished guessing, I will take my child.” He held out his arms towards Lizzie.

  Byron jumped up, but Amanda hastened to read aloud the last name on her list.

  “Is your name Tyrellian?”

  The way he stopped short and stared at her, both eyes unblinking, confirmed her hopes. She relaxed her grip on Lizzie and couldn’t hold back a smile.

  “Is it?” she asked again.

  The little man’s one visible eyebrow furrowed deeply and his fists clenched. “You cannot have guessed that! Who told you?”

  “Nobody told me,” she said.

  “You cannot have guessed! How did you find out? No one here knows. No one.”

  “Is it your name, or isn’t it?”

  The red eye darted from her to Byron and back again, and his one natural eye narrowed at her.

  “Wait…” Byron stood up slowly, letting his hand slip off her arm. “You’re him? You’re the founder of the Tyrellian corporation?”

  Tyrellian just glared.

  “But… Tyrellian wasn’t that short…”

  Amanda looked up at her husband, wondering.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the little man insisted.

  Byron took one step forward. “It is you! I remember you now. How did you make yourself tall?”

  The rumpled man said nothing.

  “How do you have money, then? Aren’t you an indentured servant here?”

  Looking like a cornered wild animal, the man darted a glance over his shoulder.

  “There’s nowhere to go. Especially once news of your alterations gets out. Which it will.”

  “I have no money,” Tyrellian said at last, voice calm but strained.

  “You told Amanda you were a wealthy man.”

  The little man pounded one foot on the floor. “I lied! Of course I lied. Who told you? No one knows my name! No one!” His voice rose with each word, and woke the dozing Lizzie, who began to cry.

  Amanda held her baby close, heart light with relief.

  They were safe now.

  Byron was still talking. “You will be confined to a room in the servants’ quarters for the evening, and we’ll settle this tomorrow. I’m sure my lawyer will have some interesting research to do regarding your employment here and your medical status.” He stepped to the side and pulled a chain, which sent Frank to the room.

  “Take this man to an empty room downstairs, and keep a guard at his door, please.”

  The footman nodded and escorted the little man out.

  “I know you didn’t guess!” yelled Tyrellian on his way out. He looked over his shoulder and glared at Amanda with both eyes. “I tried to help you. I did help you. We had a deal. A child to raise without prejudice. One child, in all the world. Is that too much to ask, of you in your silk and your opportunity and your perfection? Is it?”

  Her husband strode to the library doors and closed them behind the two, shutting out the rumpled man’s voice.

  He turned to her. “Are you all right?”

  She stroked her baby’s hair and smiled at her husband. She had so many questions and so many regrets. She had pity for the man and gratitude for the turn of fate. She had many things to ask and to say, but in the moment all of it dimmed in the light of her new ability to rest. To enjoy her husband and her baby and her home and her inventions to the fullest, with nothing more hanging over her.

  To be free.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m fine.”

  XII.

  …And They Lived Happily Ever After

  Many years before, a brilliant young scientist named Tyrellian Hanover had arrived at the governor’s palace for an interview. Governor Samuel Weaver was obsessed with technology and artificial intelligence, and everyone knew that the depth of his pockets was nearly unlimited for anyone who could further these fields. Tyrellian had traveled far to show the governor his work, but regretted that he could not showcase his most impressive invention to date—the mechanical legs that allowed him to appear to be of average height when in reality he was only three feet tall.

  But that was a secret between himself and his mother. He was tired of being teased for both his height and his unusual name, but he knew that if his secret were known, he would be subject to the prejudices and discrimination that any altered human faced. The field of alterations was still new, but the reactions to the few cases had been pronounced enough not to leave any doubt.

  People were afraid of this unknown horror.

  One day, Tyrellian would show them. He would become famous for his inventions, and once he had proved himself, he would reveal himself. He would show them he was just like them.

  His AI, formed of bits and pieces from his mother’s farm, impressed the governor so much that he invited him to stay at the palace and continue his experiments. So Tyrellian did. The governor invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into his research. When Tyrellian wanted to start his own technology company, the governor invested thousands of dollars in that, too.

  Things were going well.

  But even while Tyrellian worked, running his factory or tweaking his latest marketable product, one experiment in particular coalesced his time and imagination. High-functioning AI. Artificial intelligence that could actually learn from people around it how to interact, how to behave, how to perform any action physically possible.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  He was still a long way from finishing the project when something went terribly wrong. One mistake caused an explosion which blinded one eye and nearly blinded the other.

  And what good was a blind scientist?

  He owed the governor over a million dollars. His own corporation booted him from the company, jaded to any technology too ambitious and unheard of. And there were very few jobs he could perform with such limited eyesight.

  Governor Weaver took pity on him and took him on as an indentured servant, running the palace generator until he could work off his debt, but he kept the arrangement quiet. There was too much scandal associated with Tyrellian’s name.

  The years dragged on. Servants came and went. The governor died, and his assets passed to his son, along with the governorship. Byron ran the generator.

  And he kept creating.

  First an electronic eye that would allow him to see well enough to continue even more delicate work. This took many years. When finally he could see again, he picked up his work.

  When he created his first machine, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t present it to his benefactor, because the governor would know there was no way he could do such work with his natural eyesight. And if he sold it through any traditional channels, word was sure to get around.

  So he turned to the black market. His first machine sold for only five hundred dollars, but as news spread through the seedy underground of advanced technology dealers, he was able to raise his prices higher and higher until he had more money than he knew what to do with.

  As his time of servitude drew to a close, he began to think of purchasing a cabin in the woods, somewhere near his old hometown, where he could live and work in peace.r />
  But alone. An island in a sea of prejudice.

  Then when the new governor sent down to the basement for loads of junk from the garbage, his curiosity was aroused. He didn’t like to draw attention to himself, and as he grew older it was getting more painful to walk up stairs with his leg extensions, so he snuck up the secret staircase from his room to the empty chamber. He had long ago rigged the door with his own mechanism for when he wanted to get some fresh air without having to hide his height or his eye.

  When he climbed out, he found a girl crying on a bed, surrounded by heaps of metal.

  And his heart went out to her.

  Amanda heard the story bit by bit later, some from her husband, and some in the courts when she had to go testify in the cases that came up between the governor and Tyrellian. They not only ruled that the contracts had been satisfied and that baby Elizabeth belonged to her parents, but they found that because the rumpled man had been using property of Governor Weaver to make the machines that he sold, the money made was forfeit, belonging now to the governor.

  Thus Tyrellian left the courtroom in the same condition he had started all those years before.

  A free man, a genius, but with nothing.

  Only now, everyone knew of his altered status, taking his chances of finding a job from scant to nonexistent.

  Amanda pulled Byron aside as people filed out of the courtroom and whispered to him.

  “Would it make you happy?” he asked.

  She smiled into his eyes and nodded.

  And always after that, when visits were made to the basement of the governor’s palace, one would find a small man in a wrinkled coat working there faithfully for a modest salary. And when asked his name, he would look at the questioner with one natural eye and one red one, blink, and say, “Rumpled.”

  And that was all.

  The End

  About J. Grace Pennington

  J. Grace Pennington has been telling stories since she could talk, and writing them down since age five. Now she lives in the great state of Texas, where she recently became engaged to her own personal prince charming. Her time is now mostly dominated by wedding planning, but when she has a spare moment she loves to write, read good books, and eat dark chocolate.