Behind the room’s lone battered desk sat the records clerk, Mr. Glidden. Graying whiskers framed his wrinkled face, and his lanky frame was slumped like a question mark, due to a lifetime of hunching over file cabinets for hours on end. The latest model of typewriter was a prized new addition to the office, one he carefully polished at the end of every workday.
Crossing the tiny workplace, Margaret rapped her knuckles upon the desk to get the hard-of-hearing man’s attention. “Good day, Mr. Glidden.”
A pair of cloudy eyes raised at the sound, going cross behind the lens of his pince-nez spectacles before coming into focus with a gleam of recognition. “Ah, Lady Margaret, my favorite inventress. What brings you to the labyrinth today?”
Act normal.“I’ve a new device I’m interested in patenting, but I’ve heard whispers around my favored machinist’s shop—”
“Cogsworth’s Workings, if memory serves?”
“Indeed. They produce the highest quality machine parts in Greater London. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve heard whispers around the shop that a gadget like mine has already secured a patent and is soon to be on the market. I’d like to go through the records to verify those whispers before I subject myself to the lengthy application process—and before I burden you with potentially pointless paperwork.”
“That’s what I like about you, Lady Margaret. You’re as thoughtful as you are full of thoughts.” Creaking to his feet, he withdrew a single key from a waistcoat pocket and unlocked the unassuming door behind his desk, of which he was the sole guardian. Mr. Glidden held the door open for her, gesturing her inside with a wave of a gnarled hand. “Best of luck to ye in the labyrinth, m’lady. Keep your eyes peeled for the minotaur.” He chortled, tossing her a wink.
Margaret grinned. The well-worn quip was not nearly as humorous as the man’s enduring amusement at his own jest. “As always.”
“Oh, and make sure to—”
“Sign the logbook before I leave. Will do, Mr. Glidden.”
Margaret proceeded down the vacant hallway to the records room, or as Mr. Glidden so aptly called it, the labyrinth. Innumerable filing cabinets stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a dense forest of furniture on either side of her as she followed the lone pathway, which looped in concentric circles towards the vast room’s interior. The first time she’d entered the labyrinth’s dark and dusty passages she’d felt so overwhelmed, so small. Now, the place felt rather cozy.
Every cabinet contained approved patents, organized first by invention type and then alphabetically by the patent applicant’s name. Margaret located the section of cabinets that stored patents for children’s items, working her way to the toy section, and then spied the cabinet labeledDolls. She pulledout the cabinet drawer, her eyes glazing over at the sheer number of files. Great gadgets ... this was going to take longer than she’d anticipated!
With a determined sigh, Margaret began to peruse the doll patents individually. Who knew there were so many different types of dolls? Dolls cast in porcelain. Dolls sewn from cloth. Wide-eyed dolls that winked and blinked. Curly-headed dolls that toddled and cooed. File after file, cabinet after cabinet, she looked for the patent she sought. Soon her muscles began to protest the repetitive motions.
Each time Margaret stood to reach higher drawers, her low back spasmed. When she yanked open a rolling wooden drawer laden with myriad files, pain flared in her side. After combing through the tenth cabinet, she was out of breath. She collapsed into her chair, wincing against the pain pulsating through her body. Was this little errand for a friend going to prove too much for her after all?
Tears welled in her eyes. How she hated to fail such a simple task ... how she loathed the notion of letting everyone down. Margaret inhaled a shallow breath that warred against the pain and exhaled, swiping the moisture from her eyes with her sleeve.Give me strength, God, for just one cabinet more. Surely,I must be getting close. Surely, I can do this much for my friends.
Gritting her teeth, Margaret opened the next drawer. A doll that tilts her head. Alas, no. A doll that eats and ... oh my, “realistically mimics the processes of an infant’s digestive system.” She scrunched her nose. Most definitely not. Ah, here ... at last, one that appeared promising!
Patent Number 423039: Chatsome Catherine, a talking doll,says words, all sorts.
Margaret set the patent on her lap and withdrew the noblewoman’s original design from the pocket of her tea gown. She compared the two sketches side by side. Not a single deviation.The rejected design was, in fact, identical to the design on file. A statistical impossibility—except in cases of theft. Reaching back into her pocket, she secured an unassuming pocket watch and clicked its crown. The case opened, allowing the hidden camera’s retractable lens to expand like accordion bellows. Quickly, she snapped a few pictures, documenting the identical designs, which would be logged as evidence once the photographs were developed back at headquarters. Snapping the retractable camera watch shut, she stowed it out of sight before Mr. Glidden chanced to enter the room. Before returning the file to its place, she shifted her inspection from the design itself to the approved applicant’s name. Her jaw came unhinged.
The patent was held by none other than AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated, meaning London’s most famous inventor was now Margaret’s number-one suspect.
Chapter
7
Schubert and Strauss, this place was confusing.
Halting in yet another identical corridor at the patent office, Charles attempted to get his bearings. What had that chap in the lobby mumbled? Was it two lefts and a right, or two rights and a left? The frazzled fellow hadn’t enunciated, let alone slowed down, when Charles had requested clarification. All the hallways and doors looked the same. Navigating them felt akin to his first attempts at learning to read music. Except he wasn’t a three-year-old clambering atop a piano bench. He was a grown man, and as such, he ought to be able to manage the benign task of finding his way to the correct office. Theoretically.
Shaking his head, Charles turned and strode back up the corridor. There was nothing for it. He needed to locate someone capable of giving coherent directions so he could find the clerk of applications and be about his task.
After accepting the position of event coordinator, Charles had pitched the idea of transforming Westminster Hall’slengthy expanse into a veritable timeline of the company’s fifty-year history, starting with a commemorative display near the entrance showcasing its humble beginnings. A group photograph from Mr. Harrison’s office, taken at a patent office company picnic when he’d been a young man just entering the workforce, would be featured alongside the original application for Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated’s very first patent. He’d already received Mr. Harrison’s hearty approval. Now, Charles just had to secure the proper permissions from the elusive clerk of applications and, you know ... pull the thing off.
An old man with pince-nez spectacles came blustering out of a room.
“Hello, there. Is this—”
The old man, stooped over, gaze cast down, walked on as though he didn’t hear him.
Charles entered the office the man had exited, intent on finding someone he might ask for aid, and came to a standstill. For there, sitting at a desk before a typewriter, sat the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld. He’d read in an article that, thanks to the invention of the typewriter, many businesses had taken to hiring female secretaries, much to the chagrin of the formerly all-male clerical workforce. Therefore, he shouldn’t be surprised at the presence of a woman in an office. But this ... this was no mere woman.
This was the very personification ofReverie—the last piece of music he’d rehearsed prior to Father’s stroke ... the piece he was to have debuted in London for Debussy ... but never actually got to perform.
