Stephen’s inventions, in various stages of completion, filled the castle. They were his companions, his friends, his family. Most of the time, he didn’t need anything or anyone else. Machines were better than people. They could be counted upon to do exactly the thing you expected them to do, with no surprises or misunderstandings.
If Stephen did occasionally crave connection with others, he achieved it through science and mathematics. The farmers using the all-weather irrigator or the mechanical poultry feeder would never know their modern conveniences were thanks to Stephen Lenox. Itdidn’t matter. He was useful, and his efforts were important in their lives whether they realized it or not.
“Aha!” Triumphant, Stephen pulled a fresh stick of chalk from a newly opened box. He tucked the white stick carefully into the lined inner pocket he’d had sewn into all his waistcoats for just this purpose.
Nowhe could attend to his cousin’s latest correspondence.
Stephen carried the letters to the table he’d placed at the center of the four largest machines in the Great Hall. He supposed he could have commissioned a nice, heavy desk, but Stephen liked to keep things light and movable, when possible. He settled himself in the single, padded, high-back chair.
“I suppose some portion of these letters shall require a response of some type,” he said aloud to the cavernous room. “Which meansIshall require a plume.”
He pulled the third of four levers attached to the table.
The slight action of having pulled the lever caused a slack rope to tighten. The rope stretched to the tall ceiling, slipped through a metal hoop screwed into the stone, and traveled several feet before terminating in a knot.
The knot was attached to the metal handle of a wooden pail. The sharp motion of the rope upset the balance of the full pail, and a gallon of water poured straight down into a basin perched atop a seesaw mechanism installed high above Stephen’s head. As the basin filled with water, its side of the seesaw sank in a rush.
The opposite side of the seesaw therefore thrust upward—launching a fat red marble into the air, where it landed on the outermost edge of a long pipe cut in half lengthwise. The marble zigzagged along the floating metal track, until it shot out of the final opening and crashed into the back of a ragdoll.
The doll tumbled from its precarious perch and landed on abattledore racket, the netting of which slapped down as the corresponding handle shot up. This handle was attached to a string that knocked a rubber mallet against the first in a long row of dangling glass vials.
Each of the transparent cylinders banged against the next in turn, the varying levels of water inside causing a recognizable melody to the sound. Stephen had chosen a popular reel for the tune. He was not one for dancing—such steps usually required a partner—but he did enjoy music, and thought a few bars of a Scottish reel added a sophisticated touch.
The final glass vial swung into a hook, which engaged a pulley, which pulled a wire, which activated a funnel, which released a sack of pebbles, which traveled down a tube, which led to a book, which fell against the rear of a small wooden horse on wheels, which rolled until its muzzle hit a button, which opened a hatch, from which tumbled a boot, which fell atop a cushion, which nudged a teacup, which spun into a domino… that had been placed in a long, snaking line of its brethren.
Each domino banged into its neighbor in quick succession, a rather melodiousrat-a-tat-tatas the ivories clinked against each other faster and faster around a wide wheel suspended horizontally above Stephen’s head. The fall of the final domino caused an infinitesimal gust of air, too small to be detected from where Stephen sat below, but just strong enough to knock a whisper-light feather free from its perch.
Thanks to a small weight attached to its nib, the feather fell slowly, lightly, tipping this way and that in its graceful descent until it landed at last in the center of Stephen’s upturned palm.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “Much better. Now we can begin.”
He retrieved a knife from his pocket and began shaping the tip of his new plume.
Yes, of course there was a simpler way to retrieve a feather. But who said simpler was better? Stephen abhorred being bored and prevented such an atrocity from ever occurring by applying himself to chalking theorems and resetting machines while he waited on deliveries of the materials needed for his next inventions.
And now, correspondence.
As usual, the majority of today’s batch of correspondence was from Richard Reddington, Reddington’s man of business, Reddington’s lawyer, Reddington’s other lawyer, and Reddington’sotherlawyer.
Stephen would not be putting in any Court of Chancery appearances in his cousin’s name—he rarely stepped out of doors at all, except in the pursuit of pistachio ices—so he placed the legal inquiries to one side. Later, he would insert the documents in a machine that would raise them up to Densmore’s study to be filed with the others.
He did, however, read the latest personal threat from Reddington.
The war enthusiast’s vast country estate abutted the eastern border of Castle Harbrook. Only a strip of dense woods separated the two properties, half belonging to each of them. Well, it belonged to Reddington’s father, anyway. But the viscount rarely left London, which put control of the country estate fully in Richard Reddington’s hands.
This proximity to Castle Harbrook was the reason Reddington positively foamed at the mouth to take possession. He could not bear to live in the shadow of a castle that did not belong to him. And it would be the perfect site for Reddington’s upcoming reenactment of the battle of Waterloo. He inundated the “earl” with missives alternatively demanding legal action, or felonious imprisonment, or demanding satisfaction at dawn in a duel to the death.
“I politely decline,” Stephen murmured. “Yet again.”
He had never shot a pistol, and did not intend to take a bullet for his cousin. Stephencouldbe talked into creating a remotely detonatedprojectile-firing machine, but it would most likely be too unwieldy to take to a clandestine clearing for a duel of honor.
What Stephen really wanted was to go home. He wished he hadn’t given his word to guard the castle until Densmore returned. In an abundance of caution, Stephen had taken it upon himself to reinforce the security of the entrance to the castle.
“‘Choose your seconds,’” he read aloud from the latest missive. “‘This is not an invitation. It is a command. Hand over the castle as promised, or prepare your dueling pistol.’”
Stephen rolled his eyes. He didn’t have a “second.” He was arecluse. If he were forced to name a cohort, the only person he’d be able to come up with would be his cousin, the Earl of Densmore. And if Stephen knew where to findthatroguish scamp, he wouldn’t be in this position to begin with.
He tossed the letter onto the pile without responding. Reddington was Densmore’s problem, not Stephen’s.
