by Anthea Sharp
The laboratory was equipped with a crushing machine, yet she felt reluctant to consign the stone to its jaws. Moving on a hunch, she instead went to the large teardrop-shaped copper boiler in the corner.
She opened the small bulb on top of the steamer, careful not to dislodge the copper pipe that snaked from the top. Inside its box, the starstone gleamed even more brightly than she recalled, as if lit with interior radiance.
Though not given to such things in general, she whispered a small prayer, then set the starstone on the metal grating of the upper bulb. The lower portion of the distiller was filled with fresh water, specially transported to London from Seven Springs; the source of the Thames River, unsullied by soot or effluvium.
She closed the bulb, then lit the ring of gas flames beneath the boiler. The fire, blue shading to yellow, licked at the rounded copper underside. Overhead, the tube snaked the length of the laboratory, ending at the glass apparatus of the essencier.
Charlotte considered the still. Oh, she was a fool to think she could extract anything from a stone. Almost, she flung open the bulb and snatched the starstone, consigning it to the jaws of the pulverizer.
But she had learned to heed her instincts. She would let the process work for three hours, then check the essencier. Meanwhile, she would turn her attention to the rest of the perfume components.
The tall clock in the corner ticked off the seconds as she bent over her work table. Light from the mullioned windows high overhead filtered through her vials and bottles of oils, ranging in color from palest honey to an indigo the color of midnight. She had no need of belladonna for this concoction, however.
Using tiny pipettes, she placed her chosen scents in a small glass bowl. Three drops of balsam, the freshness balanced by two drops of tea rose. Then the too-feminine result smoothed by a drop of chamomile, and her signature—a single drop of violet essence.
Violet was the most complex of the floral scents, due to its singular property of temporarily stealing the sense of smell. With judicious use, however, even the simplest of perfumes could become ever-engrossing; tantalizing the nose, then retreating, only to return again in a waft of awareness.
Her mixture was not yet complete. The addition of ambergris for the fixative added a particular, musky component that attracted men and women alike. Charlotte measured the smoky brown oil, then stirred the contents of the bowl with a long glass wand. It was far too strong. Six parts of diluent would follow, the alcohol she made herself when the still was not otherwise engaged.
A pity she had to keep the diluent locked in the cabinet, but after one of the scullery maids had stolen a bottle, Charlotte took extra precautions. She shuddered at the waste. Imagine, drinking the highly-refined liquor she had worked so hard to produce. The reverse alchemy of the human body would transmute the liquid back into something far more base.
“Miss Charlotte?” Hetty’s voice sounded from the speaking tube mounted beside the door.
“Yes?”
“If you’re free, it’s time to dress for dinner. I’ve laid out your green taffeta gown. Does that suit?”
Charlotte cast a glance at the distiller, which seemed to be boiling merrily away. According to the clock, she had been in the laboratory a little over an hour.
“Very well. I shall be up shortly.”
Preparing for dinner, and the meal itself, should while away another hour or more. It would prove distraction enough from the question of whether the starstone would yield up its essence.
In truth, dinner took nearly two hours, due to the presence of Lord Barrington’s favorite guest. Sir John Holcomb was an inventor, and his thoughts on simulacra and automatons were always fascinating. Only a half-decade older than herself, Charlotte was usually more than happy to spend time in his company. His face was handsome enough, but it was the quickness of his mind that most engaged her.
Still, she could not help peeking at her pocket watch at regular intervals.
At last her uncle folded his napkin and set it on the table.
“You are welcome to join us for an after-dinner aperitif, Charlotte,” he said. “However, I have the sense you are eager to return to your laboratory.”
“Have you a thrilling experiment brewing?” Sir Holcomb leaned forward, interest flashing in his hazel eyes.
“Perhaps.” She smiled, but said nothing more.
Of all her acquaintances among the gentry, Sir Holcomb was the only one who had never expressed doubt that she could carry on her parent’s legacy as London’s premier parfumiers. Still, she did not want to speak of what she was attempting. The chance of failure lay too close, like a noose waiting to tighten about her neck.
When she took her leave of the gentlemen, they were already embroiled in a lively discussion about the advances in self-guided airships.
Her heartbeat thumped more loudly than her footsteps over the thickly patterned hall carpet as she headed toward the laboratory. Despite her hopes, she knew that stones did not contain oils. She was a fool to think otherwise.
The quiet hiss of the gaslights filled the laboratory as Charlotte hurried to check the still. She slid back the small door on the upper bulb and peeked at the starstone. It appeared darker, but that might owe more to being saturated with moisture than to any distillation of its radiance.
Biting her lip, she followed the copper tubing to the glass chamber of the essencier. The glass cylinder was partially filled with water, the hydrosol of any extraction. In the usual course of distillation, the essential oils would be floating, lighter than the water below.
There was no substance lying above the hydrosol.
Charlotte’s anticipation clicked to a stop, like a clockwork device left unwound. The process was a failure.
The sour taste of defeat filled her mouth as she turned away.
Something caught her eye, glimmering at the bottom of the vessel. She whirled, taffeta skirts rustling as her hopes began ticking again. A silvery substance lay beneath the water, metallic and otherworldly-looking; somewhat akin to liquid mercury
Of course! The starstone’s essence was not lighter than water—it was heavier. Charlotte tipped her face up to the distant, invisible sky in thanks. Relief eased her breath, sweetened her blood.
Still, it would not be an easy task to obtain the starstone essence from the vessel. The glass cylinder was constructed to pour oils off the top. Instead, she needed to remove as much of the water as possible, without disturbing the essence, in a sort of reverse-process.
Droplets continued to fall into the essencier from the copper tube overhead. She leaned forward and studied one. It looked perfectly clear as it slid down the narrow opening of the vessel to meet the water below.
Her goggles lay nearby. Donning them, she bent until her eyes were level with the hydrosol, then adjusted her lenses to their maximum magnification.
The next drop slithered into the hydrosol. It was pure, with no hint of brightness occluding the water. She crouched and looked up through the liquid, but could see no trace of essence floating downward.
It appeared the starstone had been sufficiently extracted. She pushed her goggles to the top of her head, ignoring the way they mussed her coiffure. Appearances were one thing, but this experiment was of paramount importance. Certainly, she might change out of her gown, but she simply could not wait. The cupboard held a number of large aprons, and sturdier gloves than her silken evening ones.
Once she was better garbed for laboratory work, Charlotte shut off the boiler and closed the condensing tube. She removed the starstone back to its velvet-lined box, noting that the distillation process had not reduced its unusual weight.
Walking carefully, so that her footsteps did not disturb the concoction inside the essencier, she fetched a large glass ladle and bowl. She lifted the top of the vessel and began ladling out the hydrosol. Who knew what properties that water held? Unlike rose or lavender water, she did not think it would have a salubrious effect upon the skin.
Slowly, slo
wly, she skimmed the water out of the essencier until the ladle dipped perilously close to the starstone essence. Evaporation would have to do the rest, but she could not risk the turbulence of boiling.
It made her want to stamp her feet with impatience. So close!
She might be able to draw out a small amount of the substance, though—enough to mix with her test perfume. Resolutely, she pulled her goggles back on and decreased the magnification to normal.
With her longest pipette, Charlotte succeeded in capturing a few drops of the starstone essence. She carried it carefully to her work table. Holding her breath, she let a single drop fall into the bowl containing her perfume.
She could not help flinching back as the essence reached the mixture—but this time there was no explosion. Indeed, a faint, sweet scent drifted from the bowl. Charlotte sniffed. It was her perfume, certainly, but with an ethereal note even her trained nose could not identify.
The true test would be whether or not the perfume reacted beneath filtered light to produce the effect that would save Mlle Violetta’s Parfumerie Extraordinaire.
Hastily, she added the diluent her mixture needed to attain the proper balance and consistency of perfume.
Now for the last step. Pulse ratcheting through her, Charlotte went to the shelf holding her optical lenses and filters. She pulled out the specially treated nickel oxide glass, nearly black in color. Grasping the wide plate between her hands, she carried it over to the lamp illuminating her work table.
She slid the dark glass in front of the lamp. The gaslight dimmed to dusk, strange shadows falling across her laboratory table. Her heart squeezed tight, barely daring to breathe, she turned to look at the glass bowl containing her perfume.
It blazed, like the center of a star, like all her hopes ignited, so brilliantly white she had to turn away.
Her mad gamble had worked.
She set the dark lens on the table, then sank onto her laboratory stool, her knees weak. Drawing out the golden locket she wore next to her heart, she opened it. The dear, lost faces of her parents smiled up at her—until her tears blurred everything to a wash of color and light.
***
The ballroom at Buckingham Palace swirled with motion. At one end of the red and gold room the orchestra played for a kaleidoscope of dancers. The stark black of the men’s evening coats contrasted against bell-skirted ball gowns in the palest spring hues.
A variety of clockwork animals were on display. One gentleman bore a bright blue macaw on his shoulder, while many of the women carried mechanical lapdogs. Overhead, miniature airships navigated the space beneath the chandeliers, weaving in patterns nearly as complex as the dancers below.
A cacophony of scents caught at Charlotte’s nose, but she recognized her perfume and smiled a private smile. Only Queen Victoria and the inner circle of her court knew what was about to transpire.
And Sir Holcomb, who had provided assistance with the airships.
The queen presided over the celebrations from her ornate throne at the far end of the room, her husband, Prince Consort Stephan, at her side. She received a constant stream of well-wishers: dignitaries from foreign lands, other heads of state, and the highest ranks of the gentry.
As the current set of dances came to close, the queen’s Master of Ceremonies rose. He beat his staff upon the parquet floor. When the room quieted sufficiently, he recited a prepared speech praising Victoria’s glory and majesty.
Charlotte glanced at the liveried servants stationed beside the wall sconces. Each held a long pole with a darkened lens mounted at the very top. Most of the mechanical airships overhead had reached their positions beside the chandeliers.
The Master of Ceremonies came to the conclusion of his oration.
“Ladies and gentlemen, help me celebrate our most glorious majesty, Queen Victoria the Second!”
The orchestra struck up a fanfare, and with breathtaking precision the servants placed their filters over the bright gaslights. Overhead, the airships performed the same action, shading the chandeliers. The sudden dimness caused the crowd to murmur—then exclaim in wonder as the queen rose and progressed the length of the ballroom.
She shone as brilliantly as the full moon on a dark summer night, her satin gown glowing with silver radiance. Her ladies-in-waiting surrounded her, attendant stars underscoring the brightness of their monarch. At her side, the prince consort glimmered.
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, scented with balsam and rose and the subtle grace of the starstone. The stunned acclaim of the ballroom further affirmed that her perfume, Jubilé d’Argent, was an overwhelming success. Tomorrow, she had no doubt she would sell out her stock, despite the extravagantly high price.
The royals stepped onto the dance floor and the orchestra segued into a waltz. For a moment the queen and consort danced alone, but soon an entire starlit contingent of the gentry joined them. From Charlotte’s vantage point, it appeared the galaxy swirled there, glittering and stately and full of promise.
Sir Holcomb appeared at her side and offered his hand. Smiling, her own gown dusted with silvery light, Charlotte accepted his invitation. Together, they stepped into the dance, another constellation turning in time beneath the violet sky.
~*~
For more Steampunk tales, check out Fiction River: Alchemy & Steam, where this story first appeared.
Passage Out
The roar and shake of spacecraft blasting off from Southampton had long since ceased to wake Diana Smythe from her ragged slumber. The door alcove she called home was scant shelter from the elements, but she’d learned to catch what rest she could. A stealthy approach or a whisper of malice, however, would bring her awake in an instant, hand tight around the hilt of her makeshift dagger.
She’d had a gun, once, a light-pistol that could slice a man’s arm off, or put a smoking hole in his chest at fifty paces.
Long gone, now, along with the rest of the remnants of her former life. Diana didn’t even have a gold locket with her parent’s picture, or a pocket watch with a loving inscription, or any of the tokens common to novels about orphan girls seeking their long lost home and family.
Her life was not a storyvid. She knew well enough that parents didn’t miraculously come back to life after a flaming carriage crash, and lost fortunes never magically re-appeared.
And the dream of the spaceport had long since become a grimy reality, measured in take-offs and landings, in the ebb and flow of her small store of coins. Not enough. Never enough to buy passage out, not even a berth to the moon.
“Di, get up.”
A toe in her ribs made her roll away and open her eyes. Dawn feathered the sky in blue and pink, and made the grungy corner she called home almost pretty. Silhouetted against the sky stood a young boy with matted brown hair and a chipped-tooth smile.
“Go away, Tipper.”
“Can’t.” The boy squatted down next to her and poked her shoulder with a grimy finger. “Found something.”
That woke her up. Diana sat, her holey woolen blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. The nights were still chilly, but at least spring had finally come. She’d made it through another winter on the streets.
“What did—” She broke off, waited for the roar of the blast-off to fade.
Both she and Tipper looked up. From the sound of that lift, it was one of the bigger ships; a Fauntleroy 220, she guessed. The gleaming silver shape arced overhead, catching the light that hadn’t yet reached the alleyways and streets. It was a Fauntleroy, just as she’d guessed. A year after she’d arrived in Southampton, hopeful and starving, she’d found she had a talent for identifying the ships, scanning the arc of their flights in a heartbeat, gauging velocity and lift, and guessing at their destinations.
If she couldn’t get to the stars, she could image others traveling there, and watch them go.
Tipper stared at the ship, the longing on his face so clear Diana had to look away. Sure, she probably had the same look in her eyes, but she’d had
a few extra years to hide it. Tipper was still a kid, for all his cockiness. Still dreaming the child’s dream of space—the blackness full of stars and possibility. A million futures to choose from.
Diana swallowed and ignored the tight clutch of hunger in her belly. When the sky was empty, she asked again.
“What did you find?”
Tipper darted a glance down the alley, then shook his head and motioned her to follow.
“If this is some kind of joke…” She gave him her best hard-eyed stare as she rolled up her blanket and shoved it into the satchel holding her possessions. The ones that mattered, anyway.
“Isn’t,” he said.
“Tally-ho, then.”
She brushed off her trousers, scooped up her bag, and grabbed the parasol she’d nicked from a highborn chit. It was battered and stained, but if she held it just right, wore her salvaged satin skirt, and did her hair up in style (fastened with string and bits of charred metal, not that anyone would get close enough to notice), she could pass for gentry. For a brief time, anyway.
Her accent helped, of course. At least, when she was in the better part of the city. Down here, in the rookeries by the spaceport, she pulled a covering of Cockney over the smoothly articulated syllables she’d grown up speaking.
Darting like a mongoose, Tipper led her through the twists of the alleys, through derelict buildings, and at last to the sheer, shiny wall of the spaceport itself. It rose a dozen meters into the air, silvery and impermeable, and so clean.
Diana went and laid her hand against the surface, the alien material faintly cool against her palm. There was no need for a stun current—the Yxleti-made wall was impervious to any human effort. No knife or gun, laser or explosive could even mar it, let alone break through.
There were only two ways into the oval-shaped spaceport district. Passengers and those with official business used the front entrance at one end of the oval. Cargo and employees went through the Spaceport Authority processing area on the other end. Between the two, nothing but sheer walls.
