Godspeed (17 page)

“I was at the end of my strength, so I said yes. I came back here and he introduced me to Jib and the girls, who were sitting in the red
room waiting for him to prepare dinner. I was so focused upon the task of reading his lips that it wasn't until we got back and I lost track of the conversation between Jib and Schuyler that he determined that there was something not right about me.

“He took me into the kitchen, away from the others, and he asked me outright if I could hear. I admitted that I could only hear a little, and that I had nowhere in the world to turn. He told me then that he owned Ruby Road Art and Antiquities, and that he had been looking for a shop boy, to sweep up and run errands. He said that the position paid mostly room and board with a small allowance, and then he suggested I might like to meet a friend of his, who could possibly help me, if anyone could.

“When Doctor Godspeed arrived for the first time and I saw him, I could not believe my eyes. It was enough to make me believe in Providence yet, that I had come to find him in this way, after my searching had been fruitless. It was a miracle that he lived, though immediately I began to wonder why the fabrication of his death.”

“What was the reason?” I asked, finally able to hold back my curiosity no longer.

“I still don't know the answer to that question,” Penn admitted. “I was just told that it was necessary, and that no one was to know that Quinn Godspeed was still alive, let alone that he had been practicing medicine. I was sworn to secrecy, as all of his projects are.”

“Projects?” I bristled. “Is that what he calls us?”

“Not he. Schuyler.”

I disliked the idea of being called ‘project’, but I supposed that being called ‘experiment’ would have been far worse.

“The doctor agreed to help you?”

“Immediately,” Penn confirmed. “He didn't even think twice about it. He said he knew that he could help me to understand speech again, but he warned me that it would not be—”

“Without sacrifice.” I knew those words, and their true meaning, all too well.

“Precisely.” He reached up again and traced his fingertips along the external evidence of the mechanics that Quinn had implanted into his body. “The noise, with the exception of speech — which I still struggle to comprehend — everything in the world is so loud. So incredibly, maddeningly loud.”

“Can he not compensate for the difference?”

“He's still trying. It is not an easy thing to do. If I lose the amplification of some, I lose speech altogether. Though sometimes…” His words died; his youthful innocence bled away with them as he descended into melancholy.

“Sometimes what, Penn?”

He sighed. “I don't mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You won't,” I assured him. “Remember to whom you're speaking. Tell me.”

“Sometimes, I wish that I could just escape from all sound, from everything. No more train whistles. No more senseless banging upon piano keys because my mind cannot pick out the music from the noise. No more.” He stopped and wiped at his eyes to deny the tears. “No laughter in the world is beautiful enough to make up for the pain of hearing someone cry.”

I reached out and gathered him into my arms. We both blanched when the charm made contact with the fabric of his shirt. Me, because it hurt, and he, I am certain, because he was afraid of causing me pain.

“I understand,” I whispered, and he nodded to indicate that he'd heard me. “I truly do, Penn. If anyone can find a way to make it better, Godspeed can.”

“What about for you?” He drew back; finally blinking away the remnants of his unshed tears. “Will he be able to make it better for you, Else?”

“I don't know,” I answered truthfully. I wondered if I would live long enough for him to even have the chance to try.

“I hope so.”

I dug deep into what little reserve of energy I had to apply a false smile to my face, though from the look on his, I knew that he was not convinced my mood had changed at all. “Tell me about the others.”

“Their stories vary, but all are vastly different from my own.”

“How so?”

“Well, Jib, for one. You know he comes from an exceptionally well-to-do family. They could buy and sell Schuyler's entire shop a million times over.”

“How did they find out about the doctor?”

“Schuyler has known the Weatheralls since childhood, and I believe that they knew the doctor's family as well, though again that is another story half told. I cannot seem to pry full disclosure out of either of them. The way Jib tells it, his parents told everyone that he was going off to boarding school in the country after he fell ill. They really had sent him place to place, seeking some kind of treatment that would work. Only at the end of that search did they come to Godspeed, begging help.” He shifted uneasily. “I don't know if Jib understands just how bad things really are for him.”

“He understands. There is no way that Godspeed would allow him to hold onto hope that has no basis in reality. If he isn't sure he can help, he tells you so.”

“That is true,” Penn concluded, beginning to gather up the cups and the tray. “He has never made a promise to me that he could not readily keep.”

C
HAPTER
19

DINNERS WITH GUESTS
became a daily affair, and I didn't know if it was more for their benefit or mine.

Clearly, Jib's condition was worsening, and I came to believe that Quinn was trying to buoy Jib's spirits by keeping him as much as possible in the company of friends.

Just before the next dinner, the doctor sent for me.

“Lilibet has taken quite a shine to you,” he announced, striding across the laboratory, arms laden with books. “I am wondering if that might not be a help to her in the near future.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

I waited to see if he would elaborate; if he had any interest at all in indicating why it was that he felt this was so. When he was not forthcoming, I found that as usual it was up to me to fish for whatever information I could catch.

“Why would you think that she's even noticed me?”

Quinn set down the pile of books and stared at me for a long moment. So long, in fact, I wondered if I had truly irritated him this time. But finally he widened his eyes at me just a little, and in as close as he ever came to a teasing tone, he whispered, “Wise Doctor Godspeed knows all. Sees all.”

“I don't doubt it,” I muttered, absently beginning to pick up the books and file them onto the bookshelves into their correct sections. By this point, I knew exactly where Quinn liked to keep each category of books, in a filing system that was as unique as he was and had
absolutely nothing to do with alphabetical order, or even author's names or specialties.

No, Quinn had his own way of doing things, and I hadn't realized how much time I'd spent watching him, how much time I'd spent staring at the shelves on that bookcase, until this moment when I began to put the items where he would have put them without even thinking about it.

Apparently this gave him pause as well, because he looked up, raised a hand in the air as if to ask me what I thought I was doing, but then he stopped. He simply nodded, the closest to a show of approval that I could possibly expect from him. Then he turned toward the stack of leather journals on the edge of the desk, picked one up, and began scribbling in it with his usual speed and intensity.

How curious I was, to ask if he was writing down the fact that I now knew exactly where to add books to his library.

After I finished putting the books away, I noticed a coating of dust had begun to form on top of the case, and I reached for the feather duster that Schuyler kept in the far corner. I picked it up and, without thinking, prepared to use it.

“Don't do that,” Quinn snapped, turning toward me suddenly and fairly tearing it from my hand.

“I'm sorry.” How stupid I'd been, didn't I realize that the dust being stirred up into the air could likely damage the machinery all around me? Was it any wonder I'd never seen the doctor actually let Schuyler use the duster anywhere near him or his equipment? Was it…

Seeing the look upon my face now, Quinn's countenance altered. It went from the stern look of irritation he'd had a moment earlier to something that bordered upon wonder. It was an expression I was unaccustomed to seeing in him, and it bewildered me.

Not knowing what else I should say or do, again I apologized.

“No need to say sorry…” His voice trailed off as he shook his head and looked down at the duster, still between his fingers. “It's just that you're not a servant in this house. You… you don't do the tidying up.”

I felt my cheeks turn from pale to crimson. “Sir?”

“You are a resident here, a—” He seemed to stutter slightly, something I had never heard him do, and could not imagine him doing until this moment. “You… you're not the help. You've no need to
earn your keep. By this point, if you know anything of me, I would hope that you would know that.”

I was absolutely dumbstruck, and so I just folded my hands and lowered my head. I was shocked when, just an instant later, I felt his hand beneath my chin, as he gently lifted my face until my eyes were forced to look into his.

It is said that there are but a few, critical moments that define a human lifetime; the most meaningful a being will ever experience. The one when you are born (which you can't remember) and the one when you die (which I could tell you from personal experience you wish you could forget) are supposed to be among those most significant.

I would argue that it is moments like this one; the one in which I found myself staring into those fathoms deep, bluest of all eyes, and starting to tremble at his touch, that defined the life I would
wish
to lead.

“Don't ever lower your head in shame that way in my presence. Please. It…” He withdrew his hand, but still stood so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body and into mine. “It troubles me.”

I nodded. As if under a power not my own, my hand elevated and reached out to brush against his sleeve, and the instant that it did, his eyes closed. Just as quickly, though, he seemed to startle, and before I knew what had happened, he was behind his desk and I was left standing there, arm still outstretched toward nothing.

*   *   *

It was a new ‘day’ for me, and as had become standard procedure, I found myself in the laboratory with Quinn. This particular evening, we had company.

“The mystery of the ailment is its inconsistency,” the doctor explained. “Observe.” He turned Penn away from him. Once the boy fully faced the wall, the doctor retrieved a heavy medical text from his shelf and then dropped it down onto the desk.

The noise caused Penn to jump. He spun around, his chest heaving with the short, uncertain breaths of a person caught completely unaware.

“Sorry.” The doctor shrugged, gently patting Penn on the arm. He lowered his head, and his voice, and turned back toward the shelf to restore the book. “Now, young man, if you would be so kind. Please, take a seat.”

Penn's head tilted curiously to the side. He knew the doctor was speaking; yet he was unable to make out the words. His fists balled up in impotent frustration, wishing to strike out in vain toward a world that was too big to be felled by the blows.

Quinn sighed, and adjusted the amplifiers back to their previous setting. “We'll keep trying, Penn,” he promised. Penn simply nodded and then left.

“I am so sad for him,” I said.

“We must do what good we can,” Quinn replied, “and we can. Come on, follow me.”

I tried to keep up, but it was nearly impossible.

“Lilibet can read,” he announced, as he rushed through the back entrance to the shop and started bellowing for Schuyler. He gestured for me to stay just the other side of the threshold.

“How do you know?” I asked, as I tried to catch my breath.

“I've seen her,” Quinn replied, before shouting Schuyler's name again, emphasizing each syllable in the manner of an impatient child.

“What!” Schuyler raced into the stockroom, clearly winded. “What's wrong?”

“Typewriting machines,” Quinn said, offering nothing more.

Schuyler and I exchanged a glance, and with it I indicated to him that I had no more idea what Quinn was on about than he did.

“What of them?”

“I need them. Any you have on hand.”

“For the love of God, Quinn, they're huge, heavy things. Are you certain that you need them?”

“They won't be huge and heavy when I'm done with them.”

“What are you—”

“Come now, time is wasting! How many do you have?”

“Just the two in back stock, in addition to the one that's in my office, but that's for… QUINN!” Schuyler watched as Quinn strode down the hall and into his office. “I need that one!”

“I'll replace it in the morning, with the latest model available,” Quinn promised, as he picked up the cumbersome machine and moved past me without another word.

“Why? What are you going to do with that one?”

“Spare parts.” Quinn's voice replied, already sounding far away as he hurried back the way he'd come. “I'll be back for the other two!”

“What in the world?” Schuyler shook his head. “Have you any idea what this is about?”

“I think I might,” I confessed. “But it is much too early to say.”

*   *   *

Schuyler and I stood just outside the door to the laboratory. Our curiosity had the better of us both by this point, and we looked at each other over the tray of tea and biscuits that he held in his hands.

“Do you think he'll let us look?” I asked.

“There's no saying with Quinn. Some projects, he reaches a point of excitement at which he can no longer bear to keep his inventions to himself. Others, however…” Schuyler's face clouded. “He likes to keep all to himself, indefinitely.”

I knew something in this instance that Schuyler did not, and it gave me both an advantage and disadvantage in this situation. I was better off than he in that I knew this had something to do with Lilibet; worse in that the suspense of not being able to confirm if he was doing what I thought he was doing was driving me fairly mad.

“He'll see right through the attempt to bring him tea,” Schuyler warned. “Be prepared. Our stay here may be brief.”