"An absurd bedtime story." Snips stepped forward, detaching the trigger from its battery with a snap of her fingers.
"It's hogwash. Besides, I don't see the big deal. So Basil invented a light you can turn on from far away."
William's head slowly dropped back into place. "He proved that electricity travels instantly. He invented a way to communicate across vast distances with impossible speed."
"And so Hemlock flew down in a steam-powered chariot and blew Basil to kingdom come to protect us from the horrors of reliable mail service," Snips shot back. "By Jove, I think you've done it, Mr. Daffodil! Excellent work!"
William's distant look was dispelled by a flash of anger.
"Simply because you do not understand the significance of Mr. Copper's invention, Miss Snips—"
Marge cleared her throat. Both Snips and William turned, their faces flushed with frustration.
"Yer lookin' for blueprints, right? Because if you are, they're right over there." She pointed the frying pan to the far wall, where several blueprints and notes for Basil's various inventions had been plastered.
"Yeah," Snips said, glaring at William. "Yeah, that's what I was looking for."
"If there's nothing else you need, Miss Snips," William began, gritting his teeth and stepping up to the wall to snatch the blueprints up. It was only then that he noticed the small niche that had been hidden behind the documents. "What on earth—"
He began, but never finished; at that precise moment, the device that was contained within the hidden space activated. The string that had been carefully hooked to the back of the posters was snapped by the violence of his motion, which caused it to wind back into the contraption. It produced a hiss followed by a distinct and unpleasant odor.
And then it exploded.
They had less than half of a second to react. William did nothing but stare with blank-eyed surprise at the blossom of flame that belched forth from the alcove; it was Snips who darted forward and snatched the umbrella out of his hand, unsnapping it as she thrust herself between him and the device.
A wave of fire splashed across the parasol's iron-reinforced canopy, rushing around its edges to eagerly tickle at their shoulders. William coiled an arm around Snips' waist as the force of the explosion repelled them violently back into the room, tumbling toward the exit; when they at last came to a rest, they were left bruised and dazed.
"Oh dear," William muttered in confusion.
"Fire!" Marge roared. "Fire!"
They looked up. The explosion that had been designed to kill them had ignited several small fires throughout the workshop.
Bulbs of glass began to pop; tools were engulfed in the rapidly spreading blaze. As they watched, the grease-soaked room went up in a brilliant flash of heat—and the fire showed no signs of contenting itself merely with the basement.
"The rest of the building," William panted. "We need to evacuate it immediately!"
Marge charged out of the room at once. William carefully disentangled himself from Snips, glancing back at the table full of Basil's work.
"We cannot leave his machines," William said, and Snips caught the quivering reluctance in his voice—as if he were under great spiritual duress. "We must—"
"No time. We've got people upstairs we need to warn."
They ran.
~*~
CHAPTER 13: IN WHICH MR. TWEEDLE BEGS FOR A CELL WITH A VIEW AND OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MAKES A LEAP OF FAITH
~*~
Mr. Tweedle threw himself down at Miss Primrose's feet.
"Please, I beg of you," he said with a wet and sloppy sob. "I beg of you! Cease with your tireless interrogations, your endless questions! All I ask is that I be given a dry, warm cell. Perhaps one with a view—maybe where I can see a pretty bird once and a while. Maybe a tree?"
Miss Primrose scowled. "Mr. Tweedle, contain yourself. I haven't asked you anything yet."
"But you will!" Mr. Tweedle said. "And then you'll figure everything out. You detective types, you're all so desperately clever."
"Have some dignity, Mr. Tweedle!" Miss Primrose shoved the weeping bureaucrat back towards his desk with the tip of her foot. "Seat yourself at once."
Still cowering and whimpering, Mr. Tweedle crawled his way back to his chair.
"Now, Mr. Tweedle," she said, taking her seat. "Let us start from the beginning, shall we? And this time, try to have a little backbone, please?"
"I'll try," Mr. Tweedle said.
Miss Primrose gave him a polite smile. "Good evening, Mr. Tweedle. My name is Miss Primrose."
"Good evening, Miss Primrose," Mr. Tweedle said with a sniffle.
"I'm here on an investigation on the Steamwork's behalf.
Would you mind if I asked you a few questions—"
"I did it!" Mr. Tweedle cried, throwing his hands to the desk and dropping his head into his arms. "I admit to it! Please, just take me away—"
Miss Primrose scowled once again. "Mr. Tweedle!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just can't take it anymore. The terrible guilt, the horrible crushing despair—"
"What precisely is it that you're confessing to, then?"
Mr. Tweedle looked up with one glassy wet eye. "What is it you're investigating again?"
"Mr. Copper's recent demise."
"Oh yes, that. I killed him! I admit to it! Take me away!"
Mr. Tweedle shoved his wrists out in front of him, offering them to Miss Primrose. "Lock me up and throw away the key! Take me somewhere I'll never have to look at another bank figure again!"
"Stop being ridiculous," Miss Primrose said. "You couldn't have killed Mr. Copper."
"Why not? I'm perfectly capable."
"You're an idiot," Miss Primrose said. "And you don't have enough spine to murder a fly. What has happened, Mr. Tweedle?
Why is the bank in such a state of chaos? Why are you so desperate to enter into our prison system?"
"You're—you're not going to arrest me?" Mr. Tweedle asked.
"No, Mr. Tweedle. I am not."
"It's so awful," Mr. Tweedle said, sinking his face into his hands. "So wretchedly, terribly awful! I cannot take working at this bank for a day more."
Miss Primrose's hard glare softened a bit. "Why do you not simply resign, Mr. Tweedle?"
"Because I don't know where the resignation forms are! The investors have hidden them from me, the wretched monsters!"
Miss Primrose pursed her lips. "Why do you wish to leave the bank? Certainly, it cannot be that difficult."
"Ever since this whole Steamwork matter has started, it's constant stress," Mr. Tweedle said. "That and this awful Hemlock business. Before that, it was absolutely lovely." He lifted his head, his eyes getting a far-off look. "Every day, I'd come into the bank office, and the secretary would ask me—'One lump or two, Mr. Tweedle?'—and I'd say—'One lump, of course'—and then I would spend the rest of the day enjoying a cup of tea, reading my paper, and watching the birds in the tree from my window..."
"I don't quite understand, Mr. Tweedle. What has changed?"
"Now they expect me to make decisions!" Mr. Tweedle cried. "Big, important decisions! Every day—I have to decide this or that. And what's worse is that they took my window away!" He pointed to the side of the office, where a window had been recently bricked up. "My investors said it was 'distracting me from the important business of a bank'."
"I, er, see, Mr. Tweedle. Still, I only wanted to ask you about some curious matters that I discovered while investigating several of the Steamwork's patents. It seems you’ve cosigned several of the patent licenses, and I merely wanted some clarification as to why."
Mr. Tweedle wetted his lips. "Tell me something, Miss Primrose. Do you think—if someone does something illegal, and someone else helps them in a rather roundabout way, fully aware that the act is illegal—is that second person performing a crime?"
"In most cases, yes," Miss Primrose said. "They are an accomplice."
"And could they go to prison
?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Tweedle." Catching on, Miss Primrose added: "In fact, I am quite sure of it."
"Hm. Interesting. Very interesting." Mr. Tweedle leaned back, twiddling his thumbs. "Well, if I tell you everything I know, and you discover that Mr. Eddington is doing something illegal, would it be too much to ask that you assume I knew about it all along?"
"I, er, that is," Miss Primrose said, trying to follow the man's runaway train of logic. "I suppose I could."
"Then it might be worth mentioning that Mr. Eddington is up to his ears in debt," Mr. Tweedle said, leaning back with a serene smile. "And that he is probably willing to do anything to escape."
~*~
Fire seeped up from beneath the floor, unfurling into tongues of flame that painted the walls black with their hungry licks. Snips and William gaped at the sight; Marge emerged from nowhere, carrying snot-nosed bratlings under either arm. She gave Snips and William a glare, then started firing off orders with all the bravado of a general on the front lines.
"Upstairs. More folks. Get 'em downstairs as fast as you can," she snapped. "I'll try to rustle up a bucket brigade."
She turned and crashed through the front door, leaving the two blinking. Slowly, their sense of obligation began to reassert itself.
"Upstairs, Miss Snips," William said.
"Right," Snips replied.
They turned and ran up the stairs. Men, women, and children were already tumbling out of their rooms, coaxed into the hallways by the sound of an explosion below. Several looked up at the scorched pair—William in particular, with his charred umbrella and clean suit—and gawked.
"Fire," Snips shouted, flinging her arms back the way she came. "Everyone out!"
Only later would Snips ponder the wisdom in shouting 'fire'
to a crowd of people as she stood between them and the nearest exit.
Both William and Snips fought their way through the retreating throngs, working to stay afloat and not be dragged out by the currents of fleeing families. They struggled to the next set of stairs, making their way step by step through the narrow halls.
The flow soon quieted to a trickle, leaving the task of gathering up what few people remained to Snips and William.
They knocked on doors, shoved through living rooms, and hollered into bedrooms; it soon became apparent that no one remained.
"Let's cut out," Snips said, eagerly heading to the exit.
William was sure to follow. But as they descended down, they found themselves confronted by a suffocating wall of smoke.
"The fire has already spread to the lower level," William remarked between coughs. "We must ascend."
They ran to the top of the apartment, briefly savoring the sweet aroma of air not choked with smoke, but this relief quickly faded with the realization of their situation.
The apartment roof was far above the roof of its neighbors.
The smoke that had run up the stairs was now emerging from all sides of the building, engulfing them in a growing shell of ash.
"Problem," Snips said, braving the smoke and scooting near the edge to peer down at the street below. "We may have to jump."
William tapped his umbrella against his palm. "How much do you weigh, Miss Snips?"
"Hundred and ten, maybe. What's it matter? We're likely to break a leg with this. Do you know much about—" Snips cut herself off at the sight of William licking his finger and holding it up to the air. "Uh."
"Miss Snips, could you please remove your belt?"
"Huh? Pardon?"
"Your belt," William asked, struggling to be as polite as a gentleman asking for a lady’s article of clothing could be. "Please, remove it and give it to me."
Snips glared, but did as he asked. She handed it over and watched with confusion as William wrapped it around his arm and buckled it into a loose loop.
"Your arm, if you would?"
"You know, I'm not sure what you're doing, but—"
"There isn't much time. Please, Miss Snips. Trust me."
Snips sighed. Something about his tone made her relent; she held out her arm. William fed it through the loop, tightened it until they were linked together snugly, then nodded in satisfaction.
He raised his umbrella over his head, stepped up onto the roof's ledge, and turned to Snips.
Snips balked. "You—you can't be serious."
"I am dead serious, Miss Snips."
He drew Snips close to him with a strength that took the thief entirely by surprise and then leapt off the building.
~*~
CHAPTER 14: IN WHICH WE ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THE PAST, TO LEARN OF MATTERS CONCERNING BUTTERFLIES, GENIUS, AND THE DANGERS OF TRUSTING MAD SCIENTISTS
~*~
With gentle but urgent key-strokes, Nigel coaxed the probability engine to life.
Gears ground their precisely cut teeth against his formula, working their way through the problem. Nigel watched intently as his notes unfolded into a symphony of clicks and clacks, building its way to a crescendo; when it was at last finished, the engine offered him a punch card containing the solution.
"A destined life," he said, standing to take the card. He held it with reverence, as if a single misstep would bring his work to ruin. He made his way to the back of the room where a cleverly designed device had been placed.
It was a column of iron half his height and a foot in diameter. Inside of its hollowed shell was a web of exquisitely crafted mechanisms, designed to turn even the most complex mathematics into simple and elegant action. At its very top—
connected to intricate geography of ticking pendulums and coiled springs—was a magnificent clockwork butterfly.
Nigel inserted the punch-card into the slot at the base of the column, giving the machine a single crank. Metal spokes wound their way through the card's holes, translating its data into movement. Slowly, the machine's mascot stretched out its colorful tin-framed paper wings; then, rotating two degrees to the left, it brought them down.
~*~
"With the new data we've gleaned from these sources, we can—"
"Abigail."
"—apply it to the equation thusly, here and here, I believe it may be feasible to accurately predict even smaller, more orderly systems—"
"Abigail!"
"—and perhaps even use the engine to—hm?" Abigail looked up from the chalkboard at Jeremiah, who wore a sullen expression.
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said. "You've lost me."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I must be explaining the premise poorly."
"No, you aren't. It's beyond me," Jeremiah admitted spreading his hands out helplessly. "I never thought I would be saying this, but you understand the fundamentals of my own theory better than I do."
"You're just saying that to be kind," Abigail said.
"No." Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. "I am not a kind man, Abigail. And I do not hand out compliments lightly."
Abigail hesitated, setting the chalk aside and staring at the dense knot of tangled equations she had scribbled down. "I cannot explain it. It almost feels as if I am merely learning something I already knew—reminding myself of ideas that I had once been acquainted with, but had long forgotten."
Jeremiah rose from his seat. "My mother says it was the same way for my father."
"You rarely speak of them," she said, hesitating. "Your parents, I mean."
"My father is missing, and my mother is quite mad,"
Jeremiah stated rather dourly.
"I've heard stories of your mother. Terrible stories," she said, but her voice possessed no trace of fear—rather, it had a dash of excitement. "They say that she was a monster in her youth; that she terrorized cities in the seat of mechanical monstrosities."
Jeremiah chuckled. "Oh, yes, she most certainly did. I wasn't aware that you were interested in 'mad' science, Abigail."
"Not at all!" Abigail quickly replied, a swell of heat breaking across her cheeks. "I mean, I am merely curious, is all."
Jeremiah steadied his hands on the back of a chair, leaning over to look up at Abigail. He dropped his eyelids low, wearing a most unwholesome smile. "Are you, now? Perhaps you would like to terrorize a city with me, Madame?"
Abigail scowled, her face red. "Stop being absurd."
"I'm not hearing a no," Jeremiah said, laughing. "I've got a giant mechanical spider stored in the basement. I could have it up and running in under an hour."
"I am most certainly not interested," she snapped, although she was quick to add: "You have a mechanical spider in your basement?"
"And more. Some inventions are mine, some are my father's, some are my mother's," Jeremiah said. "All are quite dangerous." He waggled his eyebrows. "Would you care to see?"
~*~
The air in Jeremiah's basement was pregnant with forgotten secrets and passions long left for dead; countless projects were contained beneath cases of iron and glass, neatly labeled and organized. Abigail sprang between display after display, her fingers soon smeared with dust.
"These machines," she said, breathless. "Some of them are wondrous."
"Be careful," Jeremiah warned her, and then added: "I've been working on continuing a few of their projects, but I haven't had time what with the work we're doing on the probability engine."
"What is this?" Abigail asked, leaning forward to inspect a rusty silver pocket watch. It had been gutted and refitted with a myriad of glass bulbs, dials, and wires.
"That's my father's project," Jeremiah told her. "It was supposed to have been a time machine."
"Do not tease me, Mr. Daffodil," she said, glaring.
Jeremiah laughed. "I'm not teasing," he said. "It doesn't work, though. Not correctly, anyway. Far too unpredictable to be safely experimented with. Ends up stealing time rather than letting you move through it."
"I'm sure," she said, obviously not believing him. She moved to another device. It was one of the few projects not stored away beneath a frame; it consisted of a segmented lead encased sphere approximately the size of a fist, with various valves and pumps attached to it. "And what function does this serve?" She reached out to touch it.
Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Page 10
