revolution.”
Ernest frowned. “How?”
“The earth is a big ball, remember, making a complete rotation every twenty-four hours.”
“So it would turn the pendulum?” Ernest asked, his small brow furrowed.
“No, the pendulum stays exactly the same. The earth does the moving below it, so it only seems like the pendulum’s direction changes.”
I watched Ernest’s face, and I wondered how much of this he understood. I wasn’t entirely sure I understood it myself.
“How long does that take?” he asked.
“Hours before you’d notice.”
“Oh.” Ernest’s eyes strayed to the window, musing about better entertainments.
My father’s gaze settled on me briefly. “An excellent activity. Well done, Victor.”
And with that he left the room, saying he had some business to attend to in his study. I wondered if he was avoiding me-in the same way that, until today, I had tried to avoid everyone else in the house.
I looked back at Ernest, eager to recapture his attention. “But watch what happens when we attach the double joint,” I told him. “Now, I’ll need your help here. It’s a bit tricky…”
It took us some time to fix the double joint to the main pivot, but Ernest proved to be a very focused apprentice, as long as I let him hold a tool or occasionally twist a screw. When we were finished, we tied on the star-shaped pendulum weight once more.
“Now watch this,” I said. “There are two pivots, each at ninety degrees to each other.”
I pulled back the weight and let go. With each swing the weight careened in a new direction, completely unpredictably, as though it were doing some strange dance.
Ernest laughed, delighted. “It’s like it knows!”
I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Well, like it knows what it wants to do,” he said.
I smiled. There was indeed something eerily alive about the motion of the thing.
Elizabeth came back over and watched with interest as the pendulum flailed about.
“It goes and goes,” Ernest said.
“It will slow down eventually,” I replied.
I looked at my younger brother, pleased by his delight. “So, what do you say, Ernest? Is that a good toy?”
“Yes,” he said, stopping the pendulum and then setting it going in a different direction.
“It’s oddly hypnotic,” said Mother, “like looking at the flames of the fire-never the same from moment to moment.”
I wished Father had not gone off so quickly. I would have liked to feel his hand clap me on the shoulder.
I worried that he blamed me. It was never spoken; it didn’t need to be, but I felt it as an invisible barrier between us. During the quest to make the elixir I had deceived him, and kept secrets from him, and he’d ordered us to abandon the search. But I’d ignored him.
I wanted things mended between us. Konrad’s death felt like a great fissure through my being, and another blow would crack me apart entirely.
And yet here I was, about to deceive Father again.
As we were finishing dinner, Justine, our nursemaid, came to tell me that William, my littlest brother, had been calling for me from his crib.
I quickly finished my torte and left the table. In the dim nursery I saw William in his crib, still awake, lying on his stomach, with his arms circled around his favorite two toys, a knit elephant and a soft flannel horse. He was not quite one yet, and at the sight of me his legs wriggled against the sheets in excitement, and he beamed. A more blissful face I don’t think I’d ever seen.
“Tor,” he called me.
“What are you doing, wide-awake?” I placed a hand on his back, his warm head. He pushed up, and I leaned down to kiss him. “I love you, Willy. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah,” he said, and dropped back down, hugging his animals closer to his face.
For a moment my resolve melted. My apparatus was finished and waiting in my bedchamber for my midnight business. I could take it apart. I could put it away. I could sink the metal book in the lake. But I knew I wouldn’t. Once an idea had set its course in my head and I’d fixed my destination on the horizon, I’d never been able to tear my gaze away.
I embraced William once more. How I envied him-the world was such a simple, good place. All he needed was a soft bed, two toys, and a kiss on the head.
After midnight, by candlelight, I spread upon the floor the spirit board I’d fashioned. It was a large piece of leather on which I had written the letters of the alphabet, well spaced, around the edges, in the particular manner described in the instructions. Rising from the center of the board was the wooden tripod that held the pendulum.
I placed more candles around the periphery of the board so I could see properly. I had a sheaf of paper, two inkwells, and an extra quill nearby for good measure.
I skimmed over the instructions once more. Rain pattered against my window, and when I glanced up, I had the fleeting sensation that someone was looking in at me. I went to close the curtains, then returned to the spirit board. I crouched beside the pendulum and deliberately, in accordance with the instructions, pricked my finger upon one of the weight’s points. I felt its purposeful vibration and quickly stood. I picked up a piece of paper, dipped my quill into the well, and cleared my throat.
“I invite you to speak,” I said to the empty room.
No sudden draft chilled my flesh; no candles guttered.
“I invite you to come,” I whispered.
My door opened, and every hair on my neck bristled as a shadow darted into the room. Almost at once the flickering candlelight showed me the face of Elizabeth, and my terror was replaced with indignation.
“What’re you doing here?” I demanded.
“What is it you’re doing?” she countered, staring at the board, and then my pendulum. “I knew that machine of yours was no mere toy.”
I made no reply.
“What does it do?” she persisted.
“I don’t know yet.”
“What is it meant to do?”
“Allow me to talk with Konrad.”
Her face was waxen. “Is this some invention of yours?”
I shook my head. “In the bonfire there was a book that wouldn’t burn. Well, it wasn’t really a book but a metal box, and in it were instructions for conversing with the dead. It claims that their spirits remain a time on the earth, unseen by us, weak and powerless to communicate unless we help them.”
“And who was the author of this book?”
I shrugged. “Some magician or necromancer. What does it matter?”
“But you don’t even believe in such things!”
I chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. My faith in all things is shaken. Modern science failed me. Alchemy failed. I trust nothing but am ready to try anything.”
She looked horrified. “The occult? I actually believe in a world beyond ours, Victor. I haven’t seen them, but there may truly be ghosts-and devils, too-and I think it very unwise to try to summon them.”
“All I know is that I want to talk to Konrad.”
From the corner of my eye I saw the pendulum twitch.
“Look!” I whispered, pointing.
“It’s a draft,” she breathed.
“I feel no draft.” The pendulum weight flinched once more and quivered slightly, as though waiting.
