A Study in Silks

like my toy bug, but true union of mind and machine. A completely rational flesh with all the godlike intelligence of spirit.”

Evelina tried to envision Bird as the expression of divine truth and failed. Still, Magnus was as equally curious as she was about blending magic and machine. The apprehension in her chest was joined by a fugitive flutter of excitement. Even better, he was willing to discuss it. “What would the combination of machine and spirit accomplish?”

Magnus put down his fork, his expression deadly serious. “Freedom from pain, for those who suffer it. Unlimited mechanical power, for those who need it. Genius, for those who know how to find it.”

“Genius?”

“Imagine the swiftness of human thought combined with the tireless strength of brass and steel. What brilliant computations could not be achieved then? And that would just be the beginning. Imagine the wisdom to be gained by true immortality.”

Evelina stabbed a bit of potato with her fork. She couldn’t decide if Dr. Magnus was insane or a revolutionary genius. “Is this philosophy of your own making?”

“Not solely. I seek to further my work by studying ancient writings, and by creating my own examples. Old devices and new freaks of nature, you might say.”

Something in his expression said that was a private joke. Irritation pricked her, but she moved on. “Have you applied these theories?”

“I have. My greatest limitations have always been my mechanical abilities. I am competent, but not a virtuoso. My greatest achievements have always occurred when I work with another who takes up that share of the burden.”

Does this explain his interest in Tobias? “And then?”

“Oh, there have been a few solid victories. I made some automata, truly fine ones in their day. And there was a longcase clock that had some of my best work. I wonder if Bancroft still has it.”

“He certaintly does.” Evelina put down her fork, suddenly glued to Magnus’s words. “I have always been fascinated by that piece. Would you please explain it to me?”

“There it is,” said Magnus, once they had escaped the dessert course. “It’s been many a year since I saw this beauty.”

The clock on the second-floor landing was a familiar part of the house. It was a large, walnut affair with an arched top framed by carved finials. It was the most complex clock that Evelina had ever seen, with seven moving dials besides the regular face and chimes. The top part of the arch showed the zodiac. The lower part showed the phases of the moon, each with a delicately painted face.

Below was a slot where punch cards emerged at random intervals, usually fluttering to the floor to the annoyance of the maids. Only Lord Bancroft seemed to understand the cards’ meaning. Evelina detested the fact that she could never figure them, or the rest of the clock, out. And so her curiosity pushed aside all caution about Dr. Magnus. This man had built the machine and that frustrating gulf of ignorance could be bridged within minutes.

She turned to him, forced to look up to meet his dark eyes. “The face shows everything. Time. Date. Barometric pressure. Every second of every minute. And it’s accurate. Lord Bancroft said that he has to adjust the workings only once every year, and that by only a matter of seconds, and then only due to the slope of the floorboards affecting the balance of the pendulum.”

Dr. Magnus bowed slightly, accepting the acknowledgment of his superior creation.

“But,” Evelina said, tapping the side of the glossy case, “the dial that shows the weather has never worked. In most clocks, the weather reading follows the barometric pressure, fair if it is high and foul if it is low. But here it seems to operate independently—and it’s wrong. Tonight, the sky is perfectly clear and yet the clock’s hand is pointing to storm clouds.”

“Indeed?” Magnus smiled.

Evelina frowned at his amusement. “It is a critical flaw in the design. Perhaps the technology is lacking. I’ve opened up the case to see that part of the mechanism is connected to vials of fluid rather than to a recognizable barometer.”

Magnus stroked the side of the clock as fondly as if it were a favorite cat. “Who is to say that the reading refers to literal weather?”

“What other kind of weather is there?”

“The predictive value of this feature is metaphorical.”

“Metaphorical?” Evelina parroted in disbelief.

“Have you not seen the cards it emits?”

“Of course I have. They’ve been coming fast and furious of late. They’re gibberish.”

“Not gibberish, a cipher Bancroft and I wrote together. The cards are prognostications and warnings. This clock is of my own design and is attuned to currents in the aether. Whenever there is a disturbance, the clock reports it.”

Evelina put a hand to her forehead, as if trying to ease her pounding thoughts. “Let me understand this. Those vials of colored fluid inside the clock somehow detect fluctuations in the aether?”

“Simplistically, yes. They are chemical compounds of my own devising with varied levels of viscosity. They are tuned to detect the slightest energetic vibrations. If someone ill-wishes you in Turkestan, this device will know of it. And it will tell you, if you understand the cipher.”

Twenty more questions crammed into Evelina’s skull, including why Lord Bancroft was so anxious to know what was coming his way. Of course anyone wanted to know about bad luck, but was he expecting particular trouble? Three murders. Enemies all around his table. Of course he is.

“Why did you make this clock?”

“Because I could. And, at the time, Lord Bancroft was a friend. I was happy to give him a tool designed to aid in his political ambitions. Unfortunately, he now professes to revile the magical arts.”

“Magic is forbidden in the Empire.”

“That is like saying the air is forbidden. It will be there whether you approve of it or not. I can tell you possess a talent, Miss Cooper, the same way you can sense mine. The question is whether or not you have the courage to learn how to use it to its fullest advantage.”

She thought of the implements in her train case—all the magical tools Gran Cooper had never explained. Someone like Magnus could teach her much about her birthright.

“Perhaps it is you who will find perfect wisdom.” The look he gave her devoured her face. He lowered his chin a degree, giving her the full force of his eyes. “Perhaps it is you that I have sought for so many years.”

“Um.” Evelina had been doing fine until he returned to the topic of perfect wisdom. That struck the same sour note as a huckster selling a bottle of cure-all, promising too much. “If I had the potential for such impeccable wisdom, I would not be standing on a dark staircase with a stranger, unchaperoned.”

She turned to leave, but he caught her arm in a bruising grip. Fear lanced through her. She gasped, jerking herself free.

He surged toward her, eyes flashing. “Don’t be a fool. I can open doors of impossible wonder. I can answer your every question. I can make your life remarkable.”

Evelina skittered away, cursing the encumbrance of her heavy dress. “If I live a remarkable life, it will not be at your whim, my lord!”

Magnus’s lips thinned. “Is that so?” And his hand snaked out to grasp her wrist so hard she thought the bones would break.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Nick ghosted past the parlor windows, keeping to what shadows he could find, his feet silent in the soft flower beds. He raised up just enough to peer inside. A lone maid mopped up a spill from the carpet. He ducked out of sight before she noticed him, feeling like the thief from a comic farce.