The Transference Engine (35 page)

“Carrick, please bring tea to the front parlor,” I ordered as I herded the young people in that direction.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Byron demanded. She charged into the hallway with tendrils of hair dangling free of her coiffure, her gauze turban slightly askew and mouth pinched as she fought her headache.

I'd have a headache also if I'd consumed two bottles of wine and three snifters of brandy to “calm my nerves,” after the events at the musicale. Nothing like a short shot of whiskey to do the job without the morning after problems.

“My lady,” I said softly, mindful of the low murmurs in the room behind me. I leaned against the closed doors to make certain my girl and her swain had at least a few moments of privacy. “There are rumors from Kensington Palace that Lord William finds high favor with the Duchess of Kent,
and
Princess Victoria.” I couldn't add that I knew an earl's coronet was in the man's future. I knew that from my visions, but Princess Victoria did not yet know she would grant the title when she assumed the throne. “Would you rather be lady-in-waiting to the queen's mother, or to the queen herself? If Lord William courts your daughter as ardently as he fought for her life last night . . .” I let the assumption linger in the air between us.

The lady bit her lip in indecision. She took a step toward the front parlor and retreated, twice. Then she stood in indecision before summoning her companions into the second parlor.

Two months later I stood on the threshold of
my
new café. The old sign had been replaced by my new one only this morning. Proudly I turned the key in the lock and entered. It was late in the afternoon. The previous owners—my new employees—lingered while they cleared and cleaned at the end of a busy day.

My mind already planned changes. Big and small: move this table, replace the magazine rack with a larger bookcase, and most certainly update the windows to allow more light inside. Then I'd slowly move my things into the flat abovestairs. I couldn't leave Miss Ada until she married Lord William later in the summer. Oh, yes, that betrothal had happened within days of his returning her glass necklace.

The happy couple gave up looking longingly into each other's eyes long enough to follow me inside. Sir Drew lingered behind, frowning at the sign in full disapproval. Mr. Charles Babbage stumbled in after them. He surveyed the space, much as I did.

“This is where you want your machine?” he asked, a little disapprovingly.

“The space is too limited except for the operation console. That will be here, in the center of the café, in full view of the patrons. The rest can fill the cellars, the walls, the attics, and part of the building next door.” I waved my hands expansively.

“This will take time,” Miss Ada added. She, too, walked the space available. “How many books do you intend to store?”

“As many as we can acquire. Periodicals and newspapers from all over the world as well. The new dirigibles can bring them from Hong Kong, New Delhi, and New York, as well as Paris, Athens, and Cairo.” I smiled in satisfaction, already envisioning rows and rows and rows of books.

“Why do you need up-to-date information from all over the world?” Lord William asked. He trailed behind his ladylove, more interested in her than my plans.

“Need I remind you of a wild-eyed poet the night of the musicale?”

All of my co-conspirators froze in place.

“He did not act alone. There are others. We must look for patterns; watch the movements of those who seek to shift souls into and out of bodies, natural or mechanical. We must never allow Lord Byron's followers to succeed.”

Miss Ada nodded agreement.

“So you need my Analytical Engine to find and retrieve books and pamphlets and such, based on key data entered. Hmm . . .” Mr. Babbage stroked his chin in deep thought. Not much else mattered to him but the designing of his new invention.

“You don't have to do this,” Sir Drew hissed in my ear. “Please, let me take care of you.”

“Until you find someone younger and prettier, or your wife rises from her sickbed.” I shook off his restraining hand.

Just then I noticed two figures walking past my café, the tall fur trader—who had lost a lot of his limp—and Miss Aemelie Griffin. Arm in arm, they paused to read the closed sign on the door. They looked so very disappointed I couldn't help but open the door for them.

“Welcome to Madame Magdala's Book View Café. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked, the eastern European accent falling lightly from my lips. “And perhaps a bit of pastry. Or something to read?”

Acknowledgments

An author may write a book, but many others spend hours assisting with research and ideas, support and shoulders to cry on when characters will not behave and follow the original plot.

The Bookview Café, a publishing cooperative, graciously gave me permission to continue the adventures of Madame Magdala, a character I created for
Shadow Dancer
, my story in the
Shadow Conspiracy
anthology edited by Phyllis Irene Radford and Laura Ann Gilman, Bookview Café 2009. Christopher Doyle, who appears in these pages as Kit Doyle, delved into esoteric places to find a proper name from northern India for Ish. Facebook friends went beyond the call of duty to make math fun and hand me jokes: Tim O'Halloran, Amy Wood, and Paul Sanford. Bob Brown helped design the electric dress. ElizaBeth Gilligan came through with much knowledge of the Romany. And then there's Sara Mueller and Joyce Reynolds Ward who were always ready to brainstorm and critique the work over boar tacos.

Tim Karr, my beloved husband of many years, dragged me to every steam train and antique tractor show to help me understand how the engines really work. He also took hundreds of photos to remind me.

Agent Mike Kabongo of the Onyxhawke Agency and editor Sheila Gilbert at DAW were responsible for pushing me through to the end of this project.

Many thanks to all of you. I owe you more than you can imagine.

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