Rise of the Arcane Fire

by Kristin Bailey

  A ginger-haired boy who had just reached the top of the ramp guffawed. Samuel lunged, but David grabbed him and held him back. “Don’t,” he warned.

  I started up the steps to put distance between us, even as the boy with the turban took a step down toward the courtyard.

  “What are you looking at, Punjab!” Samuel shouted. Then he straightened his waistcoat with a stiff jerk. I turned away and entered the safety of the halls.

  Peter met me there and walked with me to the lecture room. He gripped his handful of books tightly. “You shouldn’t provoke him,” he warned.

  “He’s like a dog barking from the other side of a gate,” I said. David was irksome, but at least I could grudgingly acknowledge that he was intelligent and had a mind for numbers. But he was arrogant, privileged, and a general thorn in my side. Samuel was worse, insulting others from the safety of David’s coattails.

  “He’s also the headmaster’s son.” Peter opened the door, and we found our place in the back of the hall.

  “Is he really?” I’d had no idea. They didn’t resemble one another much. While the headmaster was slight with light hair, Samuel was dark and burly. He probably took after his mother.

  “Talk of the Devil,” Peter whispered as Samuel entered the room, his eyes still burning with fury.

  “Hey, see here,” Samuel called to the class. “Both ladies are in the back tittering like old hens.”

  Peter flushed and looked down at the desk.

  “Why don’t you sit in the front so no one can see you moving your lips while you write,” I suggested to Samuel.

  Again a couple of boys punctuated the insult with a low ooh and a laugh.

  Samuel could have spit fire at me.

  I crossed my arms. “Care for another go, or is it too taxing?”

  “I wouldn’t mind doing battle,” David interjected as he came through the doorway.

  I swung my gaze to his, and my confidence dropped, along with half of my innards. Thankfully, I didn’t have a chance to retort.

  “Take your seats, everyone,” a familiar voice called.

  Oliver!

  My smile stretched across my face as I watched Oliver enter through a narrow door at the corner of the room behind the large table. His wild hair was as messy as ever, but his face glowed with good humor as he tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and looked over the class. I pressed a hand to the letter in my pocket. For a moment it felt as if the sun had broken through the endless fog of winter.

  “David, to your seat,” Oliver said with casual warning in his voice. David marched down the stair, brought to heel by his older, richer, and higher-ranking future brother-inlaw.

  I could have done a jig.

  Peter opened his books and prepared his inkwell, but before he could dip his pen, Oliver held out a hand and said, “Books away, if you please. Today will be a practical lesson. Bring only a small notebook and a drawing stick.”

  Everyone in the room spoke in hushed voices at once, and the excitement in the air was palpable. We could actually do something, instead of listening to a lecture and writing notes.

  “Very good,” Oliver announced as we scrambled to collect our things. “Follow me, if you will.”

  We arranged ourselves into file as Oliver led us back down the hall and out to the courtyard. Once we had grouped together in the large space, he led the way to the aviary of mechanical birds standing silently in the corner.

  He clapped his hands together once, then addressed us. “So far you have been learning theory and mathematics, which are all well and good.” Oliver placed one hand behind his back and gestured with the other. “But being an Amusementist is not simply about numbers. We find solutions to problems.” He paused and gave us a playful shrug. “Or we create problems and force another to fix them. It’s a long-standing tradition, I’m afraid.”

  I edged around the back of the crowd, unable to see over the tall boys in front of me.

  Oliver continued. “As you can see, this Amusement has been corroded by age. When it was first invented, the birds could sound a whistle using steam channeled through the pipes. We used them to call those in the courtyard to meetings. The birds haven’t worked in more than twenty years. Your assignment is to inspect the birds and before our next meeting come up with a design that can either repair the aviary as it stands or create something even more spectacular.” The light caught on Oliver’s spectacles and he grinned. “You have three days. We’ll implement the best design, and together hear the birds call once more. Good luck!”

  I surged forward, ready to pull the entire aviary apart if I had to. This was what I had been waiting for. I embraced the challenge as I caught a glimpse of Headmaster Lawrence watching us from the top of the steps.

  I had to be the one to come up with the very best solution. This would be my chance to shine.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Unfortunately, I was not the only one eager to inspect the birds. The other boys crushed forward, and I feared they would knock the entire Amusement over in their haste.

  Realizing it was a futile effort, I took a step back and sketched what I could of the upper portions of the cage of pipes. I needed a closer look. I couldn’t force my way in, and I couldn’t see anything useful if I did. Sometimes being a head shorter than all the others was a real hindrance.

  I looked away in frustration, and noticed a small portion of dark pipe running along the base of the high stone wall. Curious, I stepped over to it and kicked the dirt. The pipe continued along the entire length of the wall. It disappeared into a small hole along the portion of the wall that stood above the sunken carriage bay. The skin on my arms tingled.

  There was more to the aviary than it appeared. I needed to find the rest of it. Holding my sketchbook close to my chest, I made for the ramp and hurried down.

  “Miss Whitlock, giving in already?” David called out. I didn’t bother to look back at him. Fools could follow their own folly. I was on the path of discovery. I only hoped it wouldn’t lead to a dead end.

  As I glided down the ramp, only the light from the archway behind me lit the long corridor beneath the ground. I took a step to the right and inspected one of the braziers that illuminated the passage when the carriages came through.

  It had a flint-wheel above it. I had seen similar torches before. The mechanism was fairly simple; when a line was pulled, the wheel above the torch spun. The outer edge of the wheel was lined with flint. As it spun it rubbed against the striker and showered the torch with sparks, allowing it to light.

  I just had to find the line. Following a thin pipe that linked the torches together, I traced the connections to a small lever near the bottom of the ramp. It stuck a bit, but I managed to pull the lever. There was a popping sound, and then the flint-wheels spun in a rain of sparks. The torches caught fire, lighting the passage.

  I peered up and down the passage, not forgetting the strange footsteps I had heard the last time I had wandered down the ramp alone. I couldn’t be certain that the man with the mask had been lurking in the darkness, but I had to be careful. I took a turn to the right and walked along the carriage bay, until I found a large metal panel easily six feet tall affixed to the wall, with two doors bolted to it.

  I reached out to open the door.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  I jumped and spun around, bringing my hand to my

  throat. “Peter!” I gasped, suddenly dizzy from my shock. “Don’t ever do that again.” He held his hands up. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  I motioned for him to come closer. “I think I found the engine.”

  Peter’s round face went slack with relief. “Brilliant!” He hurried to my side, and together we swung open the doors.

  A rat scurried out, squeaking as it did so. I squealed, jumping behind Peter. He laughed at me so forcefully, he nearly doubled over. I shoved him hard on the shoulder, and he stumbled to the side.

  “It was just a ra
t,” I grumbled.

  “I’m not the one who leapt to the ceiling.” He wiped his eyes, then stepped closer for a better look. A large boiler took up most of the chamber, but there was little extraordinary about it, just a firebox and pipes. “What a mess.”

  “There’s your problem,” I said, pointing at a large crack in the pipe leading from the old boiler.

  “Well, you certainly saved me a lot of work.” Peter closed the door. “This should be simple to repair.”

  I nodded, but already I was thinking far beyond repairing a cracked pipe.

  Back in my workshop I hastily pulled journal after journal from the shelf above my desk. I flipped through the pages with a driven urgency, searching for something I had read months before.

  This was the one time Simon’s prodigious volume of notes became a terrible hindrance.

  One of the leather-bound books fell to the floor with a soft thud. I stooped to retrieve it, then thumbed through the pages. Finally I found it.

  Simon Pricket had taken elaborate notes on the inner workings of several Amusements that had been created by the Order. Sure enough, within the journal he had created a detailed map of the flow of steam through the pipes of the gilded aviary at the Academy, as well as the inner schematics for the birds.

  A rudimentary whistle was embedded in the body of each bird. Simon had noted which tone each bird in the aviary emitted. He had also noted that as the pressure built, it opened various valves and the chorus of birds would chirp at random.

  I could do better than that.

  If I could find a way to time the release of steam into the body of each bird, I could make them sing not at random but in chorus.

  It would be brilliant.

  But I only had three days.

  If I had intended to draw a sketch of a replacement for the cracked pipe, it would have taken me all of an hour at most. What I was proposing would either make my idea stand out from the rest of the apprentices for its creative genius, or it would make me look like an overambitious fool.

  If I wished my idea to be a success, I needed time. Time was the one thing I never seemed to have enough of.

  I pulled out a large sheet of clean paper, took my drawing stick in hand, and set to work.

  I worked all day and night. Even when I was trying to eat or help customers in the shop, I found my thoughts wandering back to my great plan. It became my obsession, but in a way that made me feel alive and powerful. I could only imagine how it would feel to put my plan in place and have it work.

  While the idea was simple, the application of it would not be. I had to create a large music-box tumbler with raised bumps to signal the note from each bird. As a spring lifted over each bump, it would pull open a valve, allowing steam to enter the correct bird and sound a note through the whistle.

  I chose a simplified version of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The rhythm and progression of tones of the famous Ode to Joy were easily recognizable and fit the tones I’d be able to produce through the birds.

  I became so fixated, I found myself humming the tune constantly and making up words to fit the song, about whatever I was doing at the moment. One morning I began singing in a loud, boisterous voice, “I need butter for my crumpet, and perhaps some jam and tea. If I’m hungry, I’ll have biscuits, and eat them with revelry.” Obsession had turned me into a poet.

  After figuring out how the maze of valves and triggers could tie back to my springs, I worked on the pattern of notes as they would have to appear as bumps on the tumbler. I nearly drove myself mad with the details.

  By the end of the third day, thank heaven, I had something of worth. I looked at the sheet of paper with my careful drawings and detailed notes. Pride that I could not begin to describe welled up in me. It was beautiful.

  I gingerly rolled the large sheet and tied it with a rosecolored ribbon before meeting Bob behind the mews so he could take me to the next lecture. I could hardly contain my excitement.

  The trip to the monastery took little time. It was early, and London had barely opened its eyes to greet the sun by the time we reached the secret carriage bay.

  I flew up the ramp, feeling a bit like a bird myself. I wasn’t watching and accidentally ran right into David.

  He caught me before I stumbled, his grip firm on my arm as he waited for me to find my feet. My drawing had fallen to the ground.

  “Good morning, Miss Whitlock,” he greeted me as I reached for the drawing, but he picked it up before I could. “What’s this?”

  “Give it back, David.” My heart pounded with both fear and anger as he slipped the ribbon off and unrolled it. He had no right to it. I kept my teeth clenched tight as I held out my hand.

  “Just taking a look.” He flashed me a smile filled with arrogant swagger, and I lunged for my drawing. He pivoted on his heel in a graceful turn he had learned either in his fine dance lessons or perhaps from some expensive Italian fencing instructor. Each time I moved closer, he expertly feinted to the side. His pale eyes darted over my drawings, and the half smile I found so irritating slowly faded.

  That’s when Samuel and four others approached from David’s other side. My fear sharpened to panic as Samuel reached David. “What have you there?” he taunted. “Did she want to decorate the birds with ribbons and lace?” Samuel picked up the discarded ribbon like a hunting trophy, then peered over David’s shoulder.

  As his eyes skimmed my drawing, the cruel smile disappeared from his face.

  I couldn’t scream or cry. I knew I couldn’t lose my control in any way, or they would have gotten exactly what they wanted. Both of them would like nothing better than to reduce me to the antics of a little girl begging for her toy.

  “I said, give it back.” I don’t know where I learned the tone that came from my mouth, but it was not the voice of a frantic child. The boy from Ireland and Noah took a step back as I marched forward.

  David seemed stunned. That’s when Samuel grabbed the paper from him, nearly ripping it. I felt a sharp jab in my chest as I squared myself to him.

  “Give it back to me, now,” I demanded.

  He bunched the plans in his fist and held it behind his back. “What are you going to give me for it?” There was a mad look in his eye as he pushed forward directly in front of me. “Surely it’s worth a kiss.”

  I retreated.

  “I heard you did a lot more with that gypsy mongrel you took up with,” he taunted. I felt my face burn red hot.

  “Leave her alone, Samuel.” I turned just as Peter came marching forward. He was not nearly the size of Samuel, but something in his demeanor had changed, and he looked menacing.

  “Are you going to fight me for it?” Samuel sneered, clenching his fist. “That should be good for a laugh.”

  To my surprise Peter stopped and leaned back, cocking his head in a jaunty way. “No, but I’ll make good on your other offer.”

  The boys in the yard howled like dogs, some of them gripping their sides as they puffed and hollered, smacking one another on the arms.

  Peter stood his ground while I tried to work through my sudden confusion. I was certain I hadn’t heard what he had said quite right. I couldn’t have.

  “What is going on out here?” We froze as Headmaster Lawrence descended the stairs with a regal air. Nothing escaped his scrutiny as his too-intelligent gaze swept over us all. He strolled to his son and held out his hand.

  Samuel scowled as he gave my plans to the headmaster. I held my breath as the headmaster snapped the paper to smooth some of the worst wrinkles, then perused it. One sharply angled eyebrow slowly rose. He didn’t take his eyes from the drawing. “Whose work is this?” His voice still carried a tone of disapproval, and the crowd seemed to step away from me as if I had just contracted the plague.

  My doubt pushed out every thought in my head, and I couldn’t seem to speak. Just that morning I had been so proud of my design, but I was only sixteen. I had more experience embroidering pansies on silk than I h
ad drawing designs and creating inventions. I worried it was horribly flawed and my ambition looked foolish. I should have simply drawn a plan to repair the broken pipe. I should have only attempted what I knew for certain I could accomplish.

  The headmaster swept his inscrutable gaze over the crowd. “Well?”

  “It’s Miss Whitlock’s work, sir.” Noah stepped forward, and I felt I was about to die on the spot. I glared at him, but he didn’t bother to look at me.

  “I see.” The headmaster hastily rolled the plan without bothering to look at me. He looked both disgusted and disappointed, and I felt as if someone had just trampled on my heart. “I will not tolerate a lack of discipline in these halls. At all times you are being judged, not just for your learning but for your behavior as well. A man without control has nothing.” He tucked the plans beneath his arm. “Please hand your assignments to Instructor Nigel, then meet Instructor Oliver in the lecture hall. You are dismissed.”

  The boys fell into line, handing their rolls of papers to Instructor Nigel as we entered the dark halls and trod down the familiar path to the lecture hall.

  I still found I couldn’t speak. I felt ill as I sat in my usual spot in the corner. David was cruel and Samuel a brute, but their taunting seemed small compared to the reaction of Headmaster Lawrence. He hated my work. There was no mistaking the look on his face.

  “Meg, are you well?” Peter whispered as he sat beside me.

  The use of my name shocked me, and I blinked, rapidly trying to fight the stinging in my eyes.

  I brushed a hand over them, making it look as if I were casually smoothing the front of my hair. “I’m fine,” I lied.

  For the rest of the day, Oliver had us split into teams. In the lecture hall one person would attempt to draw and describe a contraption that Oliver had placed on the front table. In another room, the other person on the team would then take the drawings and try to replicate the machine.

  I tried to concentrate, but my confidence was lacking. I drew the machine as best I could, but my hands were shaking, and my proportions were off. My explanations of how things fit together left much to be desired as well. I just wanted the day to be over.