Legerdemain Chapter 7

[foolish_m0rtal]

Title: Legerdemain or The Enchanting of Charles East
Genre: Fantasy, Steampunk, Alternate History
Rating: PG- some swears. Ladies cover your sensitive ears.
Summary: In 1800s London-Aldwych, stage magic always comes second to the scientific and engineering advancements that are quickly becoming the new marvel of the age. But Charles East (The Enchanting East, Monday-Saturday at 1:30PM, half-price on Sundays at 4PM) stumbles upon other magic that is practiced by an altogether other sort of Londonite. And sometimes when you pull a rabbit out of a hat,  there is no place to put him back.

Notes: Bit of a long chapter- might put some of it into chapter six in the final draft. (OH the pdf version of this looks so pretty! The only problem is I have trouble keeping track of edits. Some of my documents on my computer are old and all the new edits to this story are in the Livejournal posts)

 So I finally full out crashed from sleep deprivation. I fell asleep standing up on the train and then again over dinner (bought at the konbini store because I was too tired to cook). Then thought I would rest my eyes and ended up sleeping for five straight hours. Woke up feeling much better and finished this. Yay! ^__^
 

It was incredibly hot in the scrap yard by the time Charles got there. First he had woken up late because the Spiveys upstairs had been up fighting half the night. Then Mrs. Taylor had stopped him on his way to the door to have a stern word about leaving the door open the day before. (It seemed his heroic efforts in the melodograph affair had been forgotten already, and Charles had perhaps left the door open for five whole minutes while he went up to check his rain catches, but apparently someone in the boarding house had it in for him)

His usual shortcut by Craigs had been caught in the middle of some sort of accident involving a buggy automaton and a carriage which was blocking all thoroughfare traffic. And then halfway there he realised he’d forgotten his wallet in his other jacket, so he’d turned back to face his landlady’s terrible wrath a second time.

He was well on his way to sweating a hole in his clothes by the time he got to Finley's Scrap Yard, so he took off his coat and crammed it into his briefcase, because everyone here was too busy hauling scrap to care about propriety. The scrap yard reminded him of a large game board or a jungle with squares of tall metal shelves overflowing with parts for every kind of machine. Everything was arranged into open air or covered lots for different types of scrap with the main office at the gates and private warehouse near the back. The private warehouse was usually where the Finleys stored the scrap they used themselves. It also had a space for anything the Finleys thought some of their favoured customers would be interested in. Charles had a box all to himself.

Someone whistled long and low as he walked in through the gates, and Charles spun around because it was too familiar a harassment to be anyone else. “Afternoon, Charlie,” he said.

“Afternoon, Charlie,” Charlotte Finley replied and dropped her end of the roofing beam she had been carrying. “You’re late. By about a week.”

She had rough hands and powerful arms for a woman, but she had been Charlotte Jennings of Jennings Smithy and Ironworks before becoming a Finley. It was extremely unusual even in London-Aldwych for a woman to apprentice in a smithy, but her Father Robert Jennings had been a decidedly unusual man.

The man carrying the other end of the beam staggered. “Oy! Charlotte, give a man a warning!” He dropped the beam where it was. “And what are you doing flirting with my missus, East?”

“She was flirting with me,” Charles protested, smiling.

“Can I help it?” Charlotte grinned and brushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Her bun had become a curly sweaty mass in the heat and looked like a thorn bush on top of her head.

It had been love at first sight, Jacob Finley liked to say, when he’d come into the smithy to pick up a few mended parts and the young woman at the counter had coolly haggled up his price, all the while passing a pair of heavy long-handled tongs causally between her hands.

“Yes you can, woman!” Jacob told her. “But it’s my fault- I always forget to ugly him up every time he visits.” He grabbed Charles’s hand in a powerful grip and shook it before Charles could protest. “You missed last Sunday.”

“Accident,” Charles said, wincing in pain. “For Ruthie’s sake, Jacob!”

“Uh?” Jacob looked at the bandage going around Charles’s right hand and let go quickly. “Ah, damn. You alright?”

“Yes,” Charles said, prodding the hand gently. He offered his left hand to Charlotte, who wiped her hands on her brown scrap yard coveralls before taking it. They still hadn’t found a coverall in Jacob’s size so he wore whatever he wanted, but his work shirts made his bulky frame look even more intimidating. Charles supposed they were just lucky Tom the Hook hadn’t taken Jacob under his tutelage.

Jacob clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder instead and steered him towards the warehouse. “How did it happen, then? Fight at the pub? You like juggling knives?”

“During a performance,” Charles replied, eying some interesting looking coolant parts in the lot five bins as they passed.

“How? Cut yourself on one of your lacy scarves while you were pulling them out of someone’s ear?” Jacob jeered good-naturedly.

“Actually, I was trying to put a rabbit back together.”

“Oh yes, that’s man’s work,” Jacob agreed and grinned when Charles punched his arm. Jacob punched him back amicably, but Charles still staggered, because Jacob Finley wasn’t the best scrap hauler in his father’s yard for nothing.

“How’s Thomas?” Charles asked, rubbing his arm discreetly as Jacob took out his ring of keys and started hunting for the one to the warehouse doors.

“Eh.” Jacob shrugged. “Says the scrap crew is more trouble than they’re worth, his leg’s bothering him, the scrap yard is a money sink hole, and he should have become a butcher like his brother and Grand-da.”

“So he’s doing well then?” Charles asked.

“Hell yes,” Jacob answered. “I haven’t seen him this cheerful since Charlotte found that antique pipe converter a customer needed for his automaton project.”

“Why?” Charles asked, and then looked at them suspiciously. “Why did you want me to come last week, anyway?”

Jacob and his wife were barely restraining grins as they heaved the door up and pushed Charles inside. Charles searched for his designated box and frowned, because there were a few useful parts there, but nothing he really needed.

“Couldn’t really fit it in your usual space,” Charlotte said casually.

Charles looked curiously around at some of the lumpy shapes around his box and then stopped dead in front of one of them. “Oh, you little beauty,” he breathed and crouched down to touch the battered up engine.

“A little banged up,” Jacob said, but he was grinning widely.

“She’s perfect,” Charles said, smoothing his hands over the surface.

Jacob laughed, a low booming sound. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll have a hard time getting my da to sell it to you at second-hand cost. And this’ll cost plenty as it is.”

Charles tore his eyes away and looked at him in alarm. “Er, I mean- look at all these dents! It’s a wonder this rust box is still functioning.”

“I would use ‘bolt bucket’ instead,” Jacob said critically. “And try pestering him about the time you fixed the heater in the office last November.”

“But otherwise not bad,” Charlotte added.

 

“We are working on this now,” Charles shouted, running forward into the workshop with some pieces of the engine. Several mech-techs were following him carefully carrying the bulk of the engine that couldn’t be taken apart.

“You’re late,” Henry said accusingly and then lifted his head from the workbench. “What is that? Something for the Dissassembler?”

Charles waved his hands. “No no, it’s got nothing to do with the show.”

“Then why is it here?” Henry demanded.

“Because I found it at Finley’s,” Charles said, carefully laying his piece of the engine in a corner and then spreading out a tarp for the rest of the pieces. “It’s a Stirling. Finley let me have it for twenty percent off. I’m still going to be eating soup for three months,” he added happily.

“Good,” Henry muttered. “I hope you drown in it.”

Margaret walked in yawning and waved offhandedly at Charles. Why do you look like a dock worker? she signed, and Charles self-consciously put his coat back on.

“And how did you get all these people to help you?” Henry asked, waving a hand at the mech-techs. “They barely turn off the sweeper for me.”

“It’s a Stirling engine, Jones,” one of them said excitedly. “Hey, East- what are you going to use it for when you fix it?”

“Maybe one of my old projects,” Charles said thoughtfully, but really hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Really, he had just been fixated on the engine. He watched them all file in and set up their parts on the tarp. “Is that all of it?”

“Yessir,” the mech-tech said, giving him a sloppy salute. The mech-techs always gave him rubbish like that, mostly because they felt he should have been working with them. Charles suspected they were hoping once he was in their ranks he would replace cantankerous old Mech Master Phillips, who could bring even Big Harold to tears for not having one of the stage lights at precisely the desired angle.

“Good,” Charles said, feeling uncomfortably like a general addressing the troops. “Thank you for your help. Now get out of here before Eichmann finds out you’ve been shirking.” He turned around to Henry and Margaret. “We’ve got work to do.”

“But I don’t even understand what this is,” Henry said blankly, staring at the tarp. “Charles, what the hell have you got us into?” He pointed a finger. “You said the last time with the pneumatic compressor was the last time!”

“But that was last time,” Charles protested.

“Exactly!”

Charles had anticipated this and rooted around in his briefcase for a bit before taking out a small package wrapped in the morning’s paper. He looked around to make sure all the mech-techs were gone before holding it out to Henry. “Would some of my aunt’s fruit pudding help convince you?”

“With-the-oranges-and-brandy-oh-yes,” Henry said in one breath and snatched the package from Charles’s hands. Charles watched as Henry and Margaret set upon it like they had been starving for days.

When did she mail this? Margaret asked, and Charles had some difficulty understanding her with her hands full of pudding.

“My uncle brought it yesterday when he came to see me,” Charles admitted, because Magnus was miles and miles away by now.

They stared at him.

“Why didn’t you tell us he was coming to London-Aldy?” Henry demanded.

“Because Tom the Hook threw you out of his shop,” Charles lied comfortably. “And you are far too nosy about my family.”

“Yes, who are they, again?” Henry asked innocently.

Charles just raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

“Fine. Don’t tell us,” Henry said indignantly, his mouth full of pudding. “Margaret thinks you’re part of some crime family anyway.”

Margaret nodded and mimed aiming a gun and shooting Henry in the face.

“Haha,” Henry said, waving her hand away. “But really, you should tell us before we report you to the jules. Or you turn up dead in the Thames.”

“Very encouraging,” Charles said dryly, checking the clock. “Now I think it’s time we finished our break and-”

“Mmrph!” Henry said quickly. He swallowed and threw his hands up. “Oh no, I’m going up to make us some tea for this pudding. It would be insulting your aunt if we didn’t.”

“This of course has nothing to do with working on the engine,” Charles said pointedly.

“Yes yes, you work on your stupid tea kettle for a bit,” Henry replied, ignoring Charles and finishing off his slice of pudding. “But the Disassembler’d better be ready to go by Thursday. I’ll be back in five-”

Hours, Margaret signed sourly, but Henry was already gone.

They stared at the empty doorway and then back to each other.

“So, engine?” Charles asked Margaret weakly.

Don’t even think about it, Margaret replied and sat back to cross her legs. More pudding.

“Yes, madam,” Charles sighed and slid it over before getting up to work on the engine himself.

It was actually quite peaceful working alone with a Henry-less hush upon the room, broken occasionally by Margaret’s contented chewing sounds or the whoosh of her bored little sighs. She could have helped at least hand him tools or hold the dynamo, but she seemed satisfied just to pick out pieces of fruit from her pudding and watch the sweeper play havoc with the techs in the opposite workshop.

He could have married her, Charles thought, watching the light from their tiny window light up her hair before turning away to open his toolbox. His uncle was right. He could have married her and convinced himself to love her at least as well as she deserved and reasonably within the bounds of what he himself could offer. Because he did love her anyway, after a fashion- she had been there with her silly expressions and indecently high-heeled shoes and petulant charm for much longer than most.

He thought about it as he checked the fluid compartments. Seemed one of them had a hole somewhere- he could hear the high-pitched squeak of air rushing out. He got out one of his modelling pads and felt like he was in class again, diligently sketching some machine Professor Sharp had on display at the front of the room. He started with the fluid compartments first, stopping to circle places he thought there might be leaks. The modelling pad always perplexed Henry, who would hold it out by the tips of his fingers like an insect and ask him how he could do anything with paper that had both horizontal and vertical lines.

He supposed he loved Henry too- he couldn’t say Henry reminded him of his brother, because after a certain age Mousie had stopped involving himself in childish games or letting Charles have the last piece of minced pie at Christmas. It had probably been more his father’s influence than Morganshire that had made Mousie suddenly become so studious and reserved, but either way Charles had been alarmingly relieved to go back to university and get away from him a bit.

And for all that Henry was theoretically attractive, it wasn’t strange being around him because Henry had a way of irritating any small prickle of desire out of anybody. Henry was still quite popular with women, something he knew quite well and capitalised on often. Charles quite despised that sometimes, even though he knew Margaret was stringing Henry along just as much. They worried him because they were both people that hurt others so unthinkingly; sometimes he thought they were much too alike to have any business with each other. Charles always ended up being their counterweight, helping guide them home when they drank too much and quietly making breakfast while ignoring the closed door of Henry’s room. That made him angry too.

Didn’t they see that one day they would go off together, and Charles wouldn’t be there for them? That he wasn’t some piece of furniture they could pack up and take with them? They owned him far less than they thought, and Charles wondered if he wasn’t using them in turn to help him feel like a poor unassuming Londonite who had lived in the flat on Whiteshead forever.

“Oh er, pardon me.”

Charles snapped his head around and saw Perceval Fletcher poking his head into the doorway, but Fletcher was looking at Margaret. “I was told I could find Charles East here.” Then spotted him. “Mr. East.”

“Mr. Fletcher,” Charles said, standing up. “Good morning. Come in.”

So of course that was when Henry decided to come back with the tea. He saw Fletcher and stopped short.

“What’s Elevensies doing here?” he demanded, setting his tray of tea and cups down on the workbench with more force than necessary.

A corner of Fletcher’s mouth turned up. “Elevensies! I haven’t heard that one- oh, that’s good.”

“Marvellous, glad you like it,” Henry snarled. “Margaret, get that drop cloth over what we’ve got so far. Charles, cover the scrap parts and the tools.” He turned back around and folded his arms. “What do you want?”

“I hope you know,” Fletcher said, casually talking over Henry. “That the repairs shop on Seaton has blacklisted me for two weeks just for being seen talking to you.”

“Oh, is that so?” Charles asked, coming over while wiping any residual grease off his hands with a rag. Henry waved his arms, but Charles paid him no attention and shook hands, because he knew at least that Fletcher didn’t have a grip like a pipe clamp.

“Yes. Apparently it took them a few days to revert your commands on the automaton.” A smile wavered at Fletcher’s mouth. “During which time they were forced to keep it at the desk, where it would greet customers ah...uniquely every time they entered and left.”

Charles burst out laughing and had to sit down on top of the workbench. “Bad for business?”

“On the contrary, they’ve become quite popular,” Fletcher said, grinning now. “I think they’re not sure whether to hire you or shoot you on sight.”

“Either way I’ll make sure to stay away from that part of Seaton for a while,” Charles said dryly. “Thank you for the warning.”

Margaret clicked a heel impatiently.

Charles turned around. “Oh yes.” He gestured to her. “This is my assistant, Margaret Graham.” Margaret signed something. “She’s heard a great deal about you,” Charles translated obediently. She signed again. “She says you’re a good magician.” She signed again. “And she thinks you’re very ha- wait, what?” he demanded, rounding on her. “I can’t say something like that!”

Fletcher choked on a laugh, and Margaret winked at him audaciously.

“Now that we’re all finished flirting with our rival,” Henry pronounced sourly. “He can go on his way.” He herded Fletcher to the door, making shooing motions with his hands. “Thank you very much for stopping by, hope the rest of your day goes well-”

Oh, is that a reciprocating heat engine?” Fletcher asked curiously and spun neatly out of Henry’s path towards the corner where Charles had been working.

“Yes, I found it in the scrap yard today.” Charles put a hand over its misshapen body proudly. “It’s a Stirling.”

“You found a Stirling steam engine at the scrap yard?”

“Yes,” Charles replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was going to try and fix it up. Do you know much about engines?”

“Mm, a bit,” Fletcher said, looking at the engine thoughtfully. “It wasn’t my concentration in school, but in Keating one couldn’t help but get drafted into working in Professor Dactley’s laboratory.”

“You worked with Jeremy Dactley?” Charles demanded, a hot surge of jealously rising in him.

Fletcher shrugged. “I just checked the math and played mechanic’s assistant.”

“For Jeremy Dactley,” Charles said faintly. He held up a hand. “No, go away. I can’t look at you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Henry said brightly.

“You worked in Jeremy Dactley’s lab,” Charles repeated numbly, still looking rapturous. “The entire Mechanics Club went to his funeral. We still drink to him in our opening toasts.”

“Yes, I know,” Fletcher said. “I knew some of the upperclassmen in your club. You always drink to Dactley, Brunel. Juliet Radford- oh, I was in love with her when I was young.”

“Bavoux,” said Charles, who’d privately been horribly in love with Michael Rook and his thirty percent efficiency engines till he was sixteen. “Torregrossa. Stephenson, of course.”

“Jesus, Father Christmas, Queen Bellcroft,” Henry added sarcastically. “Can we get on with it? We’re wasting valuable time. We could have been fixing the Disassembler if you-” He stabbed an accusing finger at Charles. “Hadn’t dragged along that sterling silver engine or whatever the hell it is! And you-” He said, pointing now at Fletcher and looking as if he was steadily gaining momentum. “You with your dropping by unannounced and Cheating University and Jeremy Dotty-”

“Do they know anything about Stirling engines?” Fletcher asked doubtfully.

“No,” Charles said dourly.

“Ah. Pity.” Fletcher cast a longing look at it. “It’s a beautiful piece of machinery.”

“So is the Disassembler,” Henry said pointedly. “And we have to fit the new blades into it before our next show. So if you would-”

“Five minutes,” Charles pleaded. “Five minutes, and then I’ll stop working on the Stirling.”

“Bot-brain,” Henry said exasperatedly. “Can you even conceive thinking about something else? Alright, five minutes.” He turned around to Fletcher in a manner that clearly indicated he was wondering why Fletcher was still here. “Yes? Was there something else?”

“Er, well.” Fletcher looked around at the three of them and then just at Charles. “Mr. East. If you will be working on the engine, may I...help?”

“Er,” said Charles, who was reluctant to let anyone else touch the engine.

“Er,” Henry repeated stiffly, perhaps thinking about the best way to kick Fletcher out of their workshop.

Margaret just took off her oversized work apron and held it out to him. Charles wondered how she always ended up making decisions for all three of them.

 

“Arg,” Charles said. “No, left. Do you see the- there! Right there- the Chatham spanner.”

“Can’t help it that you use an English style toolbox,” Fletcher said, reaching over to hand him the spanner. “I’m still not too familiar with it.”

“Ah, Dactley would have used a German style, wouldn’t he?” Charles said absently. “Because he studied under Schuster.”

“Yes, even the tools themselves look different. Though I must say, I rather like the English ones,” Fletcher admitted, balancing one appreciatively in his hand. “They have a certain elegance to them.”

“Hm?” Charles said absently, checking the engine’s outer plating for bolts. “What do the German ones look like?”

“Compact, blocky. They look like you could kill a man with one just by swinging it the wrong way.”

Charles laughed and looked over his shoulder. “Here, hold this bit, would you? I’m going to try and pop out the plating.”

“Ah, yes, your hand,” Fletcher said, staring at the bandage. “Briggs said you got it caught in your dicer or er...whatever it’s called.”

“Our dicer,” Charles said slowly. “Why yes. It is called something like that.” Then he blinked. “Wait, how did Briggs know about it?”

“I think your Mr. Eichmann told him,” Fletcher said.

“Eichmann talks?” Henry asked from the other side of the room. Somewhere between the end of Charles’s five minutes and three o’clock, he and Margaret had started a vicious game of Old Maid as they watched Charles and Fletcher work, and he was taking the opportunity to peek at Margaret’s cards while she was gone.

“Yes,” Fletcher said, trying not to smile. “And Briggs does like to know what his students are doing- don’t let the way he avoids us fool you. He even remembered my name when we met, and I only worked with him for a few days in Keating for my senior project.”

“What did you read in Keating anyway?” Charles asked.

“Mathematics.”

“Ah yes, the Beautiful Science,” Charles intoned.

Fletcher shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Yes, I suppose we mathematicians are somewhat pretentious.”

“All I remember is your lot in Salt would always put a book in front of their faces and ignore me whenever I walked through the library,” Charles said. “Something about engineers being much too loud.”

It had always been the vice-president of the Higher Mathematics society that had shouted at them the most about squeaking their shoes and slamming books down too loudly on the study tables. Charles couldn’t remember much about him now except that he had been cold, arrogant, and handsome as anything. He’d been brilliant too- the government had snapped him up the instant he’d graduated, but Charles had always suspected he had been one of those mathematicians and would have wagered five pounds he was living in a sanatorium now, spending his time dribbling equations into his porridge.

“Which worries me,” Fletcher continued. “Because if you mechies were too loud, where did the rest of us stand?”

“Oh Ruthie,” Charles groaned. “You really are a mathematician, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You just called me a mechie. Only someone who’d read mathematics would have done that.”

“So the old rivalries are still in place, are they?” Fletcher said, shaking his head. “What did your lot call us, again?”

Charles smirked. “Bean counters.”

“Ah yes,” Fletcher said with a sigh.

“Or bookers,” Charles continued, just to be cruel. “Because secretly we all hoped one of you would get your pointy noses caught in one.”

“You would be surprised how many near misses we had,” Fletcher said dryly. He snapped his fingers. “Which reminds me- I would imagine you’ll be going to the book sale on Paternoster tomorrow?”

“What?” Charles grunted a little as he took one of the bolts off. “You mean Nelson’s?”

“Yes. They’re having a spring sale.”

That got his attention. “Are they really?”

“Mm. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

“Perhaps you might,” Charles agreed and was pleased by how casual it came out sounding.

“Children,” Henry said patiently from his place at the bench, and Charles started because he had forgotten Henry was still there. “It is now four o’clock and your five minutes are long gone. But if you take me out for tea, I may forgive you.”

“Hang on, we’ve just got a bit more of this plating and-” Charles trailed off as Fletcher stood up and dusted off his trousers. “Where are you going?”

“I’m a bit hungry, myself,” Fletcher admitted.

“But...” Charles floundered, thinking of all people, Fletcher should have understood. “When you have a really elegant proof, let’s say- don’t you sometimes feel like working till it’s finished?”

“Ah ah,” Fletcher said, waving a finger. “That appeal won’t work, I’m afraid. I was only a mere mathematician. I know nothing about your gearing.”

“At least he’s reasonable,” Henry said grudgingly, standing up and stretching. Then turned around as he heard something in the doorway start clicking. “What-”

Sweeper, Margaret signed urgently, running in just past it.

“Yes, we know,” Henry snapped. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank God we didn’t start working on the Disassembler, or we would have given the damn machine indigestion.” He snapped his fingers. “Oy, Charles! Behind you!”

Charles wheeled around, but it was too late. There was a whirring sound in the machine and then the sound of cloth ripping.

“My gloves!” Fletcher said in dismay. The machine emitted a creaking clackity-clack sound that from any other organic thing might have been considered a belch and spun in a little circle before trundling back out. They all bemusedly watched it go.

Henry started laughing. “I change my mind. I’m taking Eichmann out and buying him a pint.”

Charles glared at him, but then Fletcher started snickering too and then Margaret with her quiet squeaky laugh. Charles had the sudden terrifying feeling that the only ally he might have had against the forces of Henry and Margaret was slowly going over to their side.

“I suppose this means it’s time for me to leave,” Fletcher said finally. “With my hands in my pockets so I don’t shock anyone’s sensibilities.”

Why did it only eat his gloves? Margaret signed over to Charles mournfully behind Fletcher’s back. Charles flushed and made a silencing gesture.

“Thank you for letting me help with the Stirling,” Fletcher said to him. “It was very exciting.”

“Thank you for your...help,” Charles replied inanely and could have kicked himself. “It was very...” He stopped himself before he said something idiotic like, ‘helpful.’ “Interesting getting a bean counter’s perspective.”

Fletcher’s mouth curled up wryly. “Best of luck with it.”

They shook hands, and Charles realised it was the first time Fletcher wasn’t wearing gloves. His hand felt oddly cool in the middle of London’s hot weather.

“Oy, help me with the front piece,” Henry called over, already setting up their...Dicer.

“Right,” Charles said and let go self-consciously. “Er, thank you. Again. Perhaps I'll see you at Nelson's.”

"Yes, perhaps." Fletcher bowed his head, cast a rueful glace at his bare hands, and left, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him. Charles appreciated the gesture, but Fletcher clearly didn’t know the sweeper could open doors like a sneak thief.

“Thank you, again?” Charles repeated to himself under his breath, locking the door so the sweeper couldn’t come barging in again. “Idiot!”

Margaret patted his shoulder. I’ve heard worse, she said encouragingly, and Charles jumped, not realising she could hear him.

“So have I,” Henry said darkly. “So he just wanted to come into our workshop to tell you he’s been blacklisted and then just happened to poke around in our machines?”

“Why are you so angry?” Charles asked. “He was just helping.”

“Charles,” Henry looked exasperated. “You’re far too trusting. He’s running around our workshop and...naming our machines and seeing what goes on backstage. Trust me, this has happened more times than you know, especially in this business.”

“Fletcher is already better than I am,” Charles said. “Why would he steal from us?”

“How do you know?” Henry asked, rolling his eyes. “You think the worst things about yourself. Have you even been to one of his shows?”

“Yes,” Charles said before he could stop himself.

“You have?” Henry demanded, looking more surprised than angry. “Where? When?”

“The first week of his spring premiere,” Charles replied defiantly.

And then you saw him in Briggs’s theatre the day after your first performance, Margaret reminded him. Charles suspected she was just contributing to take a jab at Henry, and he was not grateful for the help.

Henry gaped and turned a bit purple. “What? Why would you go waste your money like that? Why would you ever go to one of his stupid shows? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have acted like this,” Charles replied.

Henry scowled. “What the hell do you mean, acted like this-” Charles raised an eyebrow. Henry snapped his mouth shut and subsided a bit, whooshing out a breath. “I suppose I would have,” he conceded, glaring at his shoes. Then, painfully, “How...how was he?”

“Brilliant,” Charles said earnestly. “Oh Ruthie, he was brilliant. I don’t even know how he did half of his tricks, and he just-” Charles waved his arms. “He had these household objects and he- oh, you had to have seen it to understand-”

Unexpectedly, Henry began to laugh.

Charles stopped. “What?”

“Have you listened to yourself? ‘Oh, he’s brilliant and worked with Dotty and counts beans.’” Henry snapped his fingers in Charles’s face. “You, sir, are a terrible rival.”

“I’m...sorry?” Charles said slowly, unsure what he was supposed to say.

Henry stared at him for a moment before sighing and looking away. “Well you can’t help it, can you? He’s a crazy nutter just like you.”

Charles had the feeling Henry had just given him his reluctant blessing, whatever that was. He attempted a smile. “So does that mean...we’ve been given permission to talk to him?”

Say, over dinner? Margaret asked slyly. Or if he-

“But you’re still taking me out and staying late to work on the Disassembler,” Henry interrupted sharply and grabbed his jacket. “And scones. I want scones.”

Blueberry, Margaret said, easily distracted. With sugar.

“Of course,” Charles said dutifully and shut the shop door behind her. “And I’ll work on the Dicer all you like.”

Perhaps they did own him more than he realised. And perhaps he didn’t mind.

 

----------------------------------------------------------

This chapter is inspired by Georg Cantor, a beautifully brilliant mathematician who created set theory, a main theory in mathematics that many of you may be familiar with from your educations. (Yes, he created set theory! All my classes last semester studied it in some form, and he created it!) And just like the vice-president of the Titus Salt Higher Mathematics society, it might have driven him a bit crazy. ^__^ I adore Georg Cantor, sanatoriums and all.

And on the note of Stirling engines, I'd like to see what NASA does with this type of engine in the future. And they might have some applications in hybrid cars, apparently.

 

Comments

[grimmsical.livejournal.com]

“Five minutes, and then I’ll stop working on the Sterling." Stirling, right?

Haha, Charles just had a major geek out. :B And hey, now he really does have permission to have, say, tea with Fletcher. I'm looking forward to them at the bookstore, though sad if what Henry's saying about Fletcher scoping out their show stuff is true. I hope it's not. :|

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

ah, thanks for catching that!

Haha, yes, their chaperone has given permission. Henry does have reasons behind his silly paranoia after all. :)

[mee-eep.livejournal.com]

Elevensies :D

Love the scrap yard and the geeking out and all the little details.
Sounds like MrElevenises was angling to see Charls again with that casual 'you'll be there tomorrow' rather than spying - hope so.

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

:DD

I like how everyone so far is all tense about whether Fletcher's a conniving bastard