A Spark Unseen

I dreamed of Lane that night. Maybe because of the search I would start the next morning, or maybe because of the afternoon I had spent with my uncle, watching him “play,” as Lane and I had done together so many times before. Though I doubted even Lane had ever seen the state my uncle Tully had been in that afternoon. The contents of Mr. Babcock’s box — coils of wire, jars of hazy fluid, and other things I did not understand — had my uncle’s attention at such a fevered pitch, an almost manic intensity, that I wasn’t certain Uncle Tully ever fully realized I was there. In any case, I dreamed of Lane, as I often did, but this was a dream that felt more like memory, though I knew it wasn’t real.

“Fais attention,” he was saying, “aux femmes determinees. That’s what my dad always told me.”

We were in my green morning room at Stranwyne, and Lane had his elbows on the back of my chair, toying with one of the small curls below my hair knot. He was unshaven, uncombed, and just a little annoyed with me, but I did not move away or reach for the stack of ledgers that lay waiting on the desk.

“You know I don’t speak French,” I replied, deciding to feign petulance. He knew I was pretending.

“He said to ‘beware of strong-blooded women.’ And good advice that was, too. Don’t you think that was good advice, Miss Tulman?” I smelled the outdoors and molten metal. I’d never been aware of scents in a dream. “Come with me now. Work’s done for the day.”

I was pulled from my chair in mock protest, and I saw that it was not annoyance but mischief glinting in his eyes, like sun on a choppy gray sea, and with the current running high. I allowed myself to be led out the morning-room door, not quite successful in hiding my smile, past the stone stairs, through a gaslit corridor, around the corner, and all the way to one end of the dim and silent drawing room. Lane dropped my hand and left me at the bottom of the wide, curving staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. He stood for a moment at the top, grinning down at me, straddled the banister, and then he slid, very fast and quite gracefully — though I would not tell him so — back around the curve and to the bottom, where he leapt off, dark hair now wild from the brief burst of wind. I crossed my arms.

“You are not going to get me to do that.” But we both knew he was going to get me to do that. “I’ll get my dress dirty.”

“Oh, no.”

“I’ll fall off and break my neck.”

“My, my. Just make sure you fall off on the side with the stairs. Are you going up or not?”

“Do I have a choice?”

His smile was wicked. “Not really.”

And inevitably I was sliding, the wind of my speed rushing past for a few precious seconds before I hopped off lightly at the bottom. He laughed when I ran up to do it again, and the next time I slid down he caught me, still laughing, and put his mouth on the bare place just beneath my ear.

When my eyes opened, it was to the dark of a bedchamber in Paris, my neck still warm and tingling.

I was ready to go early, too early, as the sun was not quite high enough to allow me to pin up my hair without a gaslight, though far enough along to let me ascertain that no one waited outside beside the lampposts. Mr. Babcock had reassured me again, advising me to be cautious, but not fearful, that this was most likely a quest for information, not my person, and that he would take care of the situation in due course. I wondered what that could mean. What could he do if the slouching man was from the French government, or if he was from the British, for that matter? I shoved in the last pin. Whatever it was, I was certain it was for the best. I’d never known Mr. Babcock to do otherwise.

I stood up from the dressing table and examined the mirror. The bruise on my cheek had lightened, the cut on my neck hardly showed, and I had a bag with me that matched my dress, a dusky slate blue, holding my passport and all the French documents Mr. Babcock had given me. Proper or no, I did not plan on finding Lane in a mourning dress. The silver swan glistened dully in the gaslight, and my grandmother looked down on me from her portrait, now hanging on the wall beside the bed. Eighteen months of being powerless to affect my situation, and today I was stepping forward to change that. My feet fairly flew up the stairs to the next landing.

But Mr. Babcock’s bedchamber door was still shut, and there was no sound when I pressed my ear to the door. So I went downstairs alone, ignoring the temptation of the banister, set my bonnet ready on the table in the foyer, and went through toward the dining room, where I stopped, openmouthed, in the doorway. The crystal and gilt chandelier was sparkling, reflecting brilliantly on the carved surface of the sideboard, where a feast had been set: scones, croissants, marmalade, tea and chocolate, bacon, sausage, boiled eggs, kidney, and I knew not what else under the silver dish covers.

I sighed. Mr. Babcock had had some sort of talk with Mrs. DuPont, to “make matters clear,” as he put it, the result of which had been to pat me on the arm, say that all was “understood,” and that he had given Mrs. DuPont seven days to find other accommodations with the strict stipulation of remaining downstairs. I suspected that a substantial chunk of money might have gone with this. Mr. Babcock was the shrewdest man I knew, but his heart did have its soft places; I trusted him to deal with governmental spies more than I did the wily Mrs. DuPont, who was nobody’s fool. Dinner last night had been exotic, delicious, and overabundant and, like this morning’s breakfast, told me without question that she planned to play every card in her hand, to make herself indispensable and intimidating all at once. I would have to put a stop to it; the waste was a crime. But I decided to do so after I’d eaten.

Thankful there had not been a single soul to see how I stuffed myself, I stole quietly back upstairs, four scones wrapped in a napkin.

The sun was bright now. I could hear horse hooves and French noise coming from the street, and a peek through the shutters showed me an empty lamppost. When there was still no movement from Mr. Babcock’s room, I set aside my growing impatience, continued up the stairs, unlocked the storeroom, and slipped through the shelf door.

The workshop was beginning to look like a workshop now, littered with the debris that was the hallmark of my uncle Tully’s presence. He sat cross-legged on his floor pillow, white head hunched over some sort of paper, the epicenter of a metallic explosion that had scattered tools and little bits to every corner of the room. Mary came out of the bedchamber, folding a blanket.

“Ain’t you gone yet, Miss?”

“Mr. Babcock is still asleep, I’m afraid. Here, I’ve brought Uncle Tully some scones.”

“Well, good luck to you getting him to eat them,” Mary commented. “It’s playtime.”

“I can see that.” Uncle Tully was intent on his paper, a pamphlet called Philosophical Magazine, which he held exactly one inch from his battered face. I had watched him examining this for a good part of the afternoon yesterday, but now he had some sort of wooden box beside him, not clockwork as far as I could tell, but with two small poles sticking up from the top on either end, wires connected to four of the fluid-filled jars I’d seen the day before. I frowned at his wrinkled jacket. “Has he been doing that all night?”

“Most of it, I’m thinking, Miss. He’s needing rest, but he’s all out of schedule, and you know there’s no talking sense to him when —”

“Little niece!” Uncle Tully called suddenly. He had looked up, his eyes bright globes of burning blue, shining out over the blackened bruises beneath. “Come here! Quick! It is ready! Come quick!”

I went to my uncle and crouched down beside him.

“Look, Simon’s baby. You must watch carefully. It is not out of my head. This is from someone else’s head, but it is splendid, just the same. …”

He had a clock key connected to a little lever, almost like a telegraph key, with wires running from it to the wooden box. I could not imagine what this key was for, but when he pushed it down, suddenly there was a spark, a strange crackling, and blue flame shot between the two poles on the top of the box. I jumped back, nearly sitting down in my surprise as Mary shrieked. My uncle let go to clap his hands, and the blue flame disappeared.

“Is it not right?” he cried. “Is it not just so? It is lightning, Simon’s baby! A machine that makes lightning!”

He pushed the key down again, held it, and an even bigger flame sparked and shot between the poles, the