Holding his breath, he then pressed the button immediately beneath.
With a tiny shudder, a soft buzz, and then a firm beep, lights began to illuminate, and the soft whirl of gears filled the room.
Lucas’s mirror-engine was fully up and running happily for its master once again.
In less than half-an-hour, he shut it down. His worst fears had just been confirmed by a series of numbers displayed on the small viewer tucked beneath the now-open lid of the desk. He had copied them onto several sheets of paper.
This was definitely some sort of attack on the entire system. But not one of brute force or obvious manipulations. Someone had learned how to whisper to it.
And that realisation scared the daylights out of Lucas.
*~~*~~*
That gentleman probably would have been pleased to know that someone else had passed a restless night.
Verity had managed to sleep more than he had, but it was a restless kind of sleep, plagued with images and sensual dreams. The kind of dreams that stirred and confused her, made her ache for more, and left her half-awake and wishing for things she knew were impossible.
So she too had begun her day early, following a routine that was as normal as she could make it. Sprocket had made breakfast and laid out her clothing for the day, so she’d prepared herself to face whatever came next as best she could. Her dress was a sensible navy blue, her jacket the same colour, trimmed with light blue and white embroidery. She loved the soft lace blouse with the ruffled neck and the corset, featuring the same embroidery as the jacket, completed the image of a sensible and stylish woman of good standing.
The lily of the valley perfume she lightly misted around her neck? Well, it was her favourite fragrance. That was the only reason she used it.
After acknowledging that she was lying to herself, she sighed, and walked to the hall, where Sprocket had just received a few notes and messages along with the morning paper.
“And don’t you look a picture this morning, my Lady.” Her tickerkin gave her an approving nod. “That’s the perfect ensemble for this day, since it’s bright and sunny.”
“Good,” Verity nodded. “Anything interesting there? I’ll take them in if you’d make me a cup of tea?”
“It’s all ready, my Lady. Go along and I’ll set the pot to steeping.”
Verity idly glanced at the notes and then took a quick peep at the newspaper headlines.
“The Forge produces Miracle Nail Clippers” screamed one headline, making her chuckle. They must have been very low on news to dig that one up.
Setting the paper aside, Verity buttered a piece of toast and turned to the notes, perusing them as she ate.
“An invitation to tea”, she wrinkled her nose. “Miss Stansby. I don’t think so. She’s yet to learn that men don’t always like young ladies who gush, and her Mama is even worse.”
“Miss Stansby?” Sprocket entered in time to hear the last of Verity’s comment to herself.
“How did you guess?”
“When it comes to gushing young ladies, Miss Stansby wins by a mile.”
“Hmm. Can’t disagree with you there. So ‘no’ on that one. How about this...I’m invited to a small dedication ceremony. A new trammelbuggy station is opening, named after someone from the Forge, who—I assume—did something amazingly brilliant. Not sure who or what, it doesn’t say.”
“Not a well-written invitation,” said Sprocket, nose in the air. “They should know better down at the Forge.”
“They probably do. But heaven knows who wrote the invitations. Anyway, ‘no’ on that one as well.”
She opened the next one and chuckled. “Oh my. A special pre-opening opening.” She blinked. “I swear that’s what it says, Sprocket. Here look...” she held out the card. “See? A pre-opening opening...and for our dear friend Albermarle de Montclair. Goodness, he’s even going to be there in person to sign his art for the lucky attendees who reserve pieces for themselves.”
“Reserve pieces?” Sprocket sounded puzzled.
“Yep. Reserve pieces. It means you can pre-buy a painting at the pre-opening. Stay with me here, Sprocket. By purchasing the painting up front, nobody else can buy it, but it can still be on display so that other art-lovers can be impressed by its magnificence and immediately desire one of their own.”
Her tickerkin considered that. “It’s...it’s an odd way of doing business, wouldn’t you say, my Lady?”
“Albermarle de Montclair is an odd sort of artist. And his paintings? Let’s just say I wouldn’t hang one in a trammelbuggy station, and that’s being generous.”
