Crimson wax impressed with the silhouette of a mushroom caught her eye. She dispatched the seal with a swipe of a butter knife, keen for Helena’s account of the D.O.G.S.’s latest mission. The brief missive in her friend’s climbing-ivy penmanship made her smile.
Dear Maggie,
You may rest easy concerning the ensnared robin I made mention of in my previous letter. After acquiring the proper tools and the aid of some mutual friends, the bird was successfully freed from the thorny bramble-wood tree without incident. Though understandably shaken, the robin was otherwise in good health, and I expect it to make a full recovery now that it’s been relocated to a safer habitat.
Yours truly,
Helena
A sigh of relief mingled with gratitude escaped Margaret’s lips. The Parasol Grappler had worked as intended, and the rescue mission had gone as planned.Thank You, Lord!
Folding Helena’s letter, Margaret returned her attention to the envelopes yet stacked on the tray, all addressed to her from the patent office. It was the first of the month, so these would contain the royalties her patented devices had accrued in March.
“Papa, would you mind depositing these checks in my account?” That would spare her the spoons a visit to the bank required.
“Of course. It’s on my way to the shop after all.” He leaned toward Mama, lips quirking in a lopsided grin. “Our girl had another profitable month, it seems. I daresay her inventions will be supporting us all one of these days.”
Mama’s eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Taking up her tea, Margaret mirrored her parents’ proud smiles, albeit dimly. She merely hoped to be able to support herself. Relieve her parents of the burden of her care in their dotage. With eighty-nine patents to her name thus far, she was well on her way to achieving that end. Thanks, in large part, to her most lucrative invention to date—a machine thatautomated the manufacture of flat-bottomed paper bags, performing the various folds and adhesive application, thereby allowing for industrialized mass production.
Papa’s pocket watch chimed. “Right-oh, I’d best be off. After I pop in the bank, I need to procure an order of supplies from Cogsworth’s Workings for my newest commission, a malfunctioning polyphon music box.” Kissing Mama and Maggie in turn, Papa departed with a jaunt in his step that accentuated the unique percussion of his familiar gait, the dull thud of a leather boot juxtaposed with the metallic clank of a prosthetic one crafted of brass and bronze.
Despite being given the honorary title of Marquess of Marlow by Queen Victoria, Papa continued to work in Great-Grandfather Drosselmeyer’s old clock shop, earning him both renown for his ability to fix unfixable machines and a reputation as an eccentric. The latter of which he wholeheartedly embraced. After all, Mama’s family had always been notorious eccentrics. Papa said it was one of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with his Clara.
Mama rang a bell, and a maid appeared to clear the breakfast dishes. The set of blue-and-white delftware was a souvenir from one of the last trips Margaret had taken with her parents to the Netherlands, back when they could set off on a grand adventure at the drop of a top hat, gathering fantastical tales for Mama to include in her bestselling travel guides. Back when Margaret was able-bodied instead of . . .
“An exhausting chore. Isn’t that why you don’t travel anymore, Clara? Just because you’re willing to sacrifice your comforts and dreams doesn’t meanmy child should have to do the same.”
The harsh words of a childhood friend’s mother shouldn’t affect Margaret so after all this time, and yet her hand quaked. She lowered her cup and saucer to the table, disturbing the pottery with a jarring clink. Shutting her eyes, she strokedFigaro’s ears, willing the tremors to still and the memory of Mama’s muffled sobs to quiet.
“Has the pain worsened, dear one? Is there anything I can fetch you? Anything I can do?”
Margaret sighed as she opened her eyes. How she wished there was something Mama could do, if only to smooth the furrow from her brow. How she hated to remind those she loved, time and time again, that the arduous effort they put into her care was a futile endeavor. Hers was a pain that couldn’t be relieved, only managed.
“It’s not the pain. I ... I’m just tired.” So very tired.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t venture to headquarters today. I’m sure the inspectors have yet to be assigned another case so soon, which means you shouldn’t have new gadget requests awaiting you just yet.” Leaning across the dining table, Mama secured Margaret’s hand, which had fallen limp beside her abandoned cup. “Your father and I fear you’re working yourself too hard. It’s not as though you’re a paid employee, expected to labor for certain number of hours per day, lest you lose your position. The lady inspectors have always been volunteers of independent means. Yes, you’ve sworn an oath to the D.O.G.S., but you’ve liberty to take extended leave for recuperation. The Widow, the Professor, your friends ... they care for you, dear one. They’ll understand if you need to rest.”
Once again, Margaret found herself grateful for the ability to speak freely with her parents about matters pertaining to the Daughters of Genuis Society. Before she’d joined the D.O.G.S. five years ago, she’d explained the reality of her condition to Professor Quimby, the society’s acting chief, and made her terms for accepting the invitation to join quite clear. If she was to swear the lady inspector’s oath, her parents had to know. It was a matter of principle, not to mention practicality. Given the nature of her chronic pain, she’d knownbecoming a lady inspector would affect her parents’ lives as much as her own. Even with the understanding that she’d never lead cases or participate in fieldwork, the position of resident tinker would take a physical toll. One she’d not be willing or, indeed, able to hide.
In making her case, Margaret had also presented her parents’ history of sterling moral character and experience in keeping peculiar secrets. A covert team of lady inspectors, she’d reasoned, was hardly more unusual than Great-Grand’s flying clockwork owl machine. Professor Quimby had presented Margaret’s terms to the society’s enigmatic founder known only as the Widow, and in an unprecedented ruling, she had conceded, granting Margaret’s parents special permission to take the society’s oath alongside her as lady inspector handlers.
Mama squeezed Margaret’s hand three times, a secret code between mother and daughter, passed down through the generations. Three gentle squeezes, three little words.I love you.“Shall I help you back to bed, dear one?”
Four gentle squeezes, four words of rebuttal.I love you more.“No, I’m sorry for upsetting you, Mama. I’m fine, truly. I ... I’ll proceed with my schedule.” It was the only thing she could do. Keep to the well-oiled tracks of routine.
Rolling her chair manually to keep her arms warm and limber, Margaret ventured to the parlor. Body nourished by a morning meal, she retreated to the piano for a minimum of two hours. She approached the grand piano, gleaming in the sunlight pouring from the large bay windows. The instrument had long ago been raised to accommodate her chair. Tracing fingers along the familiar keys, she took a deep breath and released it slowly, willing the residual tension in her muscles to uncoil. Aside from her work at the Daughters of Genius Society, the time Margaret spent at the piano was the part of her routine she enjoyed most. Though it didn’t providethe same sense of purpose as her tinkering, those hours immersed in melodies were vital.
Nothing else nourished spirit and soul quite like music.
Figaro leapt from Margaret’s lap and onto the piano with a jarring cacophony of notes. White mittens strolled across the keys, playing a tune as endearing as it was dissonant. Ah, to be as unbothered as a deaf cat composing a symphony. Finishing his composition with a flourish and a satisfied meow, Figs climbed atop the piano and nestled among the automaton figurines waiting to provide her accompaniment.
One by one, Margaret wound up her inventions or, as she preferred to think of them, her fellow musicians. The top-hatted hare on violin. The spatterdashed duck on flute. The bow-tied turtle on accordion. And, of course, the frock-coated chipmunk on harpsichord. One by one, the mechanical musicians came to life, commencing a performance of Mama’s favorite hymn, “Abide with Me.” The hare’s ears twitched as his bow flew across strings of silk. The duck’s tail feathers waggled as the notes of his flute joined with the strings. The turtle’s head raised and lowered within his shell as the accordion picked up the tune, and the chipmunk’s cheeks expanded and contracted like bellows as the harpsicord set up her cue to join the song.
Margaret’s fingers alighted on the keys at the beginning of the second verse, and as the song progressed, she could almost see the notes taking form in the air. Like fragrant incense wafting heavenward, her praise was born of fire. It burned, acknowledging the difficulties of life to the One who stood beside her in the flames instead of delivering her from them. It ached, this daily choice to cling to God through music rather than push Him away. Some days, clinging looked like pounding on His chest and on the keys in anger. Some days, it took the form of drenchingthe hem of His garment and the ivories in tears. But always, it concluded with thankfulness. Because though the flames remained, so did He. No matter how much she railed or doubted, He was steadfast. Sustaining her amid the trials of life. Helping her to see the glimmers of beauty amid the ash and smoke.
As the hymn concluded and the mechanical musicians stilled, Margaret carried on playing through her repertoire of beloved hymns. She was transitioning to a classical piece by Haydn when the doorbell shushed the illustrious composition with a plebeian priiiiiiing.
