Eros Element (10 page)

“Not at all. If we're to succeed, he needs to remain stable.”

“Fine.” She turned to leave, and the golden case bumped the window through her skirt.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” Bledsoe asked.

“It's none of your business.”

She expected him to challenge her, but he shook his head, the dark circles under his eyes apparent in the harsh midday sunlight.

“You do have the most interesting things in your pockets, Miss McTavish.” And with that, he left her alone in the lounge.

Chapter Eleven

Somewhere Over the English Channel, 10 June 1870

Edward started the two burners and the miniature Watts, engines that would suck the air out of containers and leave only light and aether. He reached to unpack the glass instruments, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Not now,” he called and tried to convey his disgruntlement in the glare he shot at the person who opened the door in spite of his admonishment not to disturb him. He'd even put a
Do Not Disturb—Aetherist at Work
sign on the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Bledsoe said. “But Cobb wants us in the conference room. He has some information for us he couldn't share at the university.”

Edward sighed with his whole torso. “Can't this wait? I was just getting started.”

“He timed it according to when I told him you take your afternoon tea,” Johann said. “He's trying to accommodate you. Might as well return the favor.”

Edward pulled out his watch and glanced at the dial. Bloody hell, Johann was right. It was teatime, and he suspected it would be the one meal this week that would occur when it should.

“Very well.” He shut off the burners. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the hydrogen-filled balloon above them. Or the relative weightlessness. Either way, he was conscious of its high flammability.

Johann looked across the hall at the set of double doors, which led to the lounge as Edward recalled. He'd studied the schematics and layouts of the major airships at one point in his youth and recognized the design of the Senator as a classic Van de Venden, a Belgian plan. While the Germans were more efficient—they would have put the kitchen and lounge on the same level—the Belgians were more concerned with aesthetics and placed rooms for the best light exposure and views.

“So what was with the little jog across the landing field?” Johann asked. “That wasn't like you.”

Heat came to Edward's chest and neck, and he adjusted his tie before the blush reached his face—he hoped. “I am aware of that. It was an impulse, nothing more. Aren't you excited to be on this grand airship? It's my first time on one.”

“I've traveled on them before when I've played in Europe. It's nicer than the passenger ones, but stop trying to distract me. Are you all right? Is this trip becoming too much for you?”

Edward was happy they had to ascend the stairs in single file so Johann couldn't see the smile trying to come to his face at the memory of running with Miss McTavish across the grass. He'd felt simultaneously free and anchored with her hand in his, now that he thought about it.

“You're always encouraging me to break out of my patterns. It seemed a good opportunity to do so.”

“Not with her. Remember what happened the last time you lost your head over a woman named for a flower.”

“Miss McTavish is nothing like Lily Corvender. She's more clever, for one.”

“And has more secrets.”

The same sensation of being pricked with a green needle occurred in Edward's middle as when he'd watched Johann fixing Miss McTavish's hair. “And how would you know?”

Johann glanced over his shoulder. “Trust me, I know women. Remember, I've had more experience than you.”

“Yes, a disgusting amount,” Edward said. They reached the conference room, where Cobb waited for them in front of the windows. He had a large pad of paper on an easel beside him. Three chairs stood on the other side of the table, and Johann took the one on the left. Edward, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, took the one on the opposite end. In spite of the delightful smells of tea and scones, he squirmed with an unsettled feeling, particularly since this teatime, which should have been one of his anchors, now seemed like an interruption preceded by a series of uncomfortable emotions.

Who was he kidding? All emotions were uncomfortable, but particularly when they occurred in the context of a conversation about a woman and his behavior toward her. Lily had trained him in that. Perhaps he should listen to those old lessons—whatever his fascination with Miss McTavish's intellect and ability to make him think of things he hadn't considered, she was a woman, and women were trouble, especially ones who made a rational man like him
feel
things.

Iris wasn't alone for long. Marie found her in the lounge staring out the window at the endless expanse of dark water beneath them. She faced south and wondered if she could already see a smudge of land on the horizon. Calais, perhaps? That was always where boats landed in novels if they were crossing the Channel from England. Not that she'd had time to read many. Her interests had always been in the latest archaeological and geological papers.

But a dashing hero would be nice. Not to marry, but perhaps a kiss…

“Mister Cobb would like everyone to meet in the conference room, which is off the dining room,” Marie said and made the image of a raven-haired hero with a charming French accent flee from Iris's mind. “I can show you where it is.”

“Thank you.”
But not really.

“How is your stomach?” Marie asked once Iris turned to follow her. The maid led the way into the narrow hallway and up a flight of stairs.

“Much better. The peppermint tea seems to have done the trick.”
And getting furious at Bledsoe. Who knew anger could cure motion sickness?

“Good. Please let me know if you need anything else. Afternoon tea service is set up in the dining room.”

“What's on the other side of the hall from the lounge?”

“Oh, that's a small laboratory Mister Cobb set up for Professor Bailey to do experiments at high altitude.”

“I'm sure he's very excited.” The memory of his delight at running across the meadow to the airship came to mind. Yes, he would be like a child in a candy store with the ability to run his experiments here. Maybe some of the agony over picking what equipment to pack had paid off.

“I was afraid he'd be difficult to extract from the lab for the meeting. Luckily, Mister Bledsoe came along and helped me.”

“The professor does seem focused on his work,” Iris said and grabbed the hand rail when the gondola lurched. Her stomach tightened, but no nausea ensued.

“Don't worry, Miss. Sometimes a cross current makes her do that. As for Professor Bailey, I'm sure he will find the meeting to be as informative as his own work for the purposes of your mission.”

They crossed through the dining room and into another room lined with windows. Iris stuck close to the walls in case of any more jolts. So far Iris had counted three levels not including the engineering and navigation level, which must be above them.

When they entered the conference room, Cobb gestured for Iris to sit at the table between Bledsoe and Bailey. The professor wore a pout, Bledsoe a frown. Iris wondered if Bledsoe had had a “discussion” with Professor Bailey, who her mind wanted to address as Edward in spite of no invitation having been issued to do such a thing. But if they were to travel into potentially perilous situations, shouldn't they be on familiar terms? Bledsoe tapped his index finger on the table, and Iris vowed not to ever call him Johann.

Insolent, vain man.

“Now that we're all here, we can get started,” Cobb said. “First, I wanted to show you part of what you're up against.” He gestured to Marie, who retrieved a mangled device of brass from a low shelf and placed it on the table. It was about the size of a human finger. Iris could barely make out a butterfly-like shape and wings. The middle oozed a yellowish waxy mess.

“Found this bugger flitting around the dining room,” Cobb said. “We think it must have come aboard in someone's luggage.”

“What is it?” the professor asked.

“It's a Clockwork Recorder,” Cobb told him. “The Clockwork Guild is very curious as to my activities, and I fear they suspect the nature of our mission.”

“How does it work?” Iris poked at the wax, which had already hardened to the consistency of soap.

“Very much like a phonograph cylinder. They have an array of small needles in them that respond to sound vibrations and etch them onto the wax cylinder. Then the device is collected and the etchings decoded with a cylinder player.”

“That's brilliant,” the professor said. “Is that what they were catching and destroying around the train?”

“Theoretically, yes, although obviously one got through somehow.” Cobb frowned at Marie, who looked away. “Since steam relegated clockwork mechanisms to the realm of toys, the Guild has branched into spying devices, which they use to stay abreast of new ideas so they can steal them. That's why I waited for you all to be aboard the ship before I revealed the most important information about your journey to you—I didn't want to risk us being recorded and the Guild knowing what is afoot.”

The look on Cobb's face left Iris with little doubt that anyone who crossed him would end up mangled and oozing like the recording butterfly, and chill bumps rose on her arms in spite of the ample heat in the room from the sunny windows. She decided to “read” something of his as soon as possible.

“So watch out for brass butterflies, got it,” Bledsoe said. “What about the rest of it? I'm calling in a lot of favors and using a lot of connections to get us into the private collections and drawing rooms of Europe's upper class. What are we looking for?”

Iris shot a sideways glance at Bledsoe—no special talent needed to read his impatience. Was it sitting so near her that did it? Or was he irritable about his encounter with Edward?

Professor Bailey
, she corrected herself.

“I like it that you get straight to the point, Musician,” Cobb told him.

“And artist,” Bledsoe grumbled.

Cobb seemed to ignore him. He flipped the cover open on the pad of paper to reveal a drawing of a coin with a bearded man on it. “What do you know about Pythagoras?”

The name of his favorite mathematician—and yes, he'd been mocked for having a favorite mathematician—caught Edward's attention, and he couldn't help but sound like an eager student. “He died in the fifth century BC. Had a mystical bent as well as a mathematical mind. A lot of it overlapped, although I don't believe in the spiritual fluff.” He glanced sideways at Miss McTavish and saw she also leaned forward with an interested light in her eyes.

“It's not as fluffy as one would think,” Cobb said. “Think of his philosophy—that one can only know the true substance, the basic matter of the world, through placing limits on it. This is a principle of your beloved mathematics, professor—basic shapes are defined by their boundaries—and extended to physics, aether as what exists in the void or the space between things.”

“So are we looking for evidence of the void or the limits?” Miss McTavish asked.

“Hold on.” Cobb flipped another page, which showed interlinked spheres. “The Pythagoreans also spoke of the notion of harmony, the ‘music of the spheres'—and notice I've moved on from the great man himself. In other words, for the world to work, the boundaries and void must interact in a harmonious, or mathematically sound way.”

“Right, I've been working on that,” Edward said. “I've not yet found a frequency that will allow the aether to be stable and contained for long periods of time, much less harnessed.”

“But the Pythagoreans might have figured out something. Legend has it that they were hunted and destroyed—burned alive in one of their own temples—because of their political involvements. However, rumors have always abounded that they were driven underground for a different reason, because they found a way to harness the power of this void. They asserted it wasn't dangerous because they didn't have the technology to use it. The powers of the day tried to destroy them for all the usual reasons such as not wanting it to fall into their enemies' hands and concern about the secrecy surrounding it.”

“So are we looking for a device, then?” Bledsoe asked.

“No,” Edward said, making the connection. “We're looking for a formula or frequency, something that will guide me in making the aether stable and distilling it into an element more simple but also more stable than hydrogen so it can somehow be used in industry as a power source.”

“Yes!” Cobb clapped his hands. “Very good, Professor. I knew you were the right one to bring along.”

“So what is the purpose of Miss McTavish?” Bledsoe asked, looking bored. “It seems that Edward can look at things and figure them out for himself.”

“As you recall, it was to have been Professor McTavish,” Cobb told him. “And I chose him because of his knowledge of Classical Greek art and sculpture. Also because he had an interest in Renaissance art. I believe the neo-Pythagoreans hid clues for their future members in art from the second century on so the secret would not be lost, just split into pieces until a clever person put it together at the right time for the devices of the day to be able to use it.”

“And aether energy would be cleaner than coal,” Miss McTavish said. “And less harmful to workers.”

“Potential risks will of course be assessed before it's put to use,” Cobb agreed. “But first we need to figure out how to harness its power.”

“Don't worry, Master Bledsoe,” Miss McTavish continued. “I studied alongside my father and have read all his papers, published and unpublished, so I am familiar with the necessary subjects. Renaissance artists were fascinated by Classical art and sculpture, so they might have included clues without recognizing it.”

“Precisely.” Now Cobb turned his broad white smile to Miss McTavish. “You are indeed a clever woman, Miss. Once you accomplish this task, I shall be sure to work out a position at any university you like.”

“I need to finish, well start, my degree,” she murmured, but Edward saw the joy in her eyes, the same he felt when he made a brilliant breakthrough.