Chapter Seven

Some of the vacuum tubes had shattered. Shirley and Sir Joseph had discovered this unfortunate fact upon returning from supper one evening, intending to continue with some tests on Console Three before ending the day’s work. They rushed to Consoles One and Two, the nearest consoles with broken tubes, examining the sparkling mess on the floor. Shirley bent down to pick up one of the larger shards of glass, holding it as gingerly as she might hold a scorpion by its tail.

“What happened in here?” she asked aloud, turning the shard around so that the low light caught it from different angles.

“Sabotage, if I had to guess,” Sir Joseph rumbled from behind her. Even without looking at him, she could sense how angry the baronet was. “If I find out who it was, they’ll rue the day they came in here!”

“You don’t think it was one of the staff, do you?” she asked, putting the shard down. “Or Mr. and Miss Avondale?”

Sir Joseph thought about it for a moment before responding. “I’m nothing like the Sherlock Holmes fellow from the stories in The Strand, but I don’t think they’re likely candidates,” he answered, his voice calmer. “We saw all of them at supper, and even the ones who had to step out for a minute couldn’t have done all this in the time they were gone. Even if they had, none of them looked like they’d exerted themselves causing destruction.”

Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. She may not have been a maid anymore and most of the staff continued to treat her coldly, but she still felt a certain camaraderie with them. When she had heard Sir Joseph jump immediately to sabotage, she had noticed the irrationality of the accusation and had feared for her comrades’ positions. The help, after all, were always blamed for anything broken or missing within the confines of the house.

Her relief turned to unease, however, as Sir Joseph continued to make his accusations of sabotage. “If I have to guess, the most likely culprits are people from one of the villages. Or perhaps one of my enemies. There are plenty in the scientific and religious communities who, if they knew of my work, might want to sabotage it. Many in the former regard me as a quack, and many of the latter think of me as a necromancer or sorcerer! Either one would feel threatened if they knew about the Engine’s progress! We should draw up a list and then investigate thoroughly!”

Before Shirley could ask how many people that would require (she suspected it would be in the hundreds), there was a cracking noise from deeper in the room. She and Sir Joseph froze before turning their heads, their necks making an almost-audible creaking noise. Even in the low light, they could make out a wide crack forming in one of the vacuum tubes connecting Consoles Six and Seven.

Without a word, they rushed to the giant central console as more cracks formed in the tube. Just as they arrived, the entire tube broke apart and shattered, the pieces falling to the floor in a rain of shiny pieces. At the same time, Shirley spotted a puff of dust rise into the air from where the tube had been a moment before, dissipating even as she caught sight of it.

Beside her, Sir Joseph whispered, “So that explains it.”

Shirley turned to him, confused. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but what explains what?”

“The glass shattering!” he exclaimed, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. The same sort of gleam he had shown when he had taken Shirley on as his assistant. “It wasn’t sabotage after all! This is a discovery of how to improve the Engine!” When Shirley still did not understand, he explained, “When I first began building this machine, I made two orders for glass tubes, not realizing they would be of different thicknesses when they arrived. There was a batch with thinner glass and a batch with thicker glass. I didn’t think much of it at the time; I was building the Engine as I was going along, making changes as my research and experimentation demanded.

“But this!” He pointed at the pile of broken glass at their feet. “This means something! All the tubes that have shattered were from the batch of thin glass tubes!”

Shirley let Sir Joseph’s revelation sink in before looking around the room, comparing the broken tubes to the intact ones. They were about even. Her mind, already beginning to think like a scientist’s, was running through possibilities of what this could mean. In two seconds, she hit on one that seemed likely to her.

“The vacuum tubes carry along the energy from the Pure World,” she said. “But if only the thin ones are breaking…they can’t contain the energy?”

“They can’t contain the energy!” Sir Joseph repeated, his eyes as bright as Christmas lights. “At least, not the amount of energy we’re siphoning off. Whatever that energy is made of, it takes a thicker glass in order to contain it and funnel it through the Engine.”

“So, all we need to do is replace the tubes with ones made of thicker glass—” Shirley began.

“And we’ll be one step closer to completing the Engine!” Sir Joseph finished, clasping her hands. For a moment, they held each other’s hands, their shared excitement overtaking all other thoughts. Then they remembered how inappropriate it was for them to be holding hands and let go, taking a step back and clearing their throats.

“Well, I’ll just clean this mess up, then,” said Shirley, desperate to clear the awkward atmosphere between them. “Can’t leave it to just anyone, can we?”

“I suppose not,” the baronet agreed. “Would you like my help?”

Shirley cocked her head in surprise. A nobleman, or someone as close to nobility as a baronet, offering to help clean when there was a willing former maid to do it? She almost said no, but recognized the look in his eyes and replied, “I would be grateful for your help. Thank you.”

A comfortable hour passed in which they gathered up and disposed of most of the broken glass, shut down any machinery that was still running, and made notes so new tubes could be ordered in the morning. While they worked, very little was said. Despite how quiet it was, however, Shirley found the work somewhat pleasant. Maybe a little fun. Even Sir Joseph appeared to be enjoying himself, especially once Shirley showed him how to properly hold a dustpan.

By the time they were finished and she had been dismissed for the evening, Shirley was in a good mood. Sure, it would take some time to get the Eden Engine back up and running without the vacuum tubes. But they were making progress and had some ideas about what adjustments and modifications to make to the consoles in the meantime. All in all, everything was going right with Sir Joseph’s—no, with their work.

We will make history with this device, she mused. No matter what Mrs. Preston says.

She entered her bedroom, feeling as light as air.

Then she switched on the lights and her eyes fell upon a note that had been left on her bedspread.

Curious, she picked it up and read the message written upon it. When you get this, meet me in the library on the third floor. The handwriting was unfamiliar to her. Still, it was neat and tidy, so whoever had written it had probably taken lessons in penmanship. Shirley knew Nellie’s handwriting was much messier than this, and she was certain Sir Joseph could not have written this, as she had been with him all day. So, who had left it? Lucinda? Mrs. Preston, maybe?

Frowning, Shirley considered tossing the letter into the rubbish bin and being done with it. Night had fallen and her warm bed was calling to her. Still, whoever had left this note for her had gone to great lengths to speak privately with her. Whatever they wanted to discuss must be important.

With a sigh, she pocketed the note, turned out the lights and left the room, heading down the hallway to the central wing, and then taking the stairs to the third floor.

The third floor was small and consisted of only a narrow hallway flanked on either side by stairs leading to the second floors of both wings, as well as the two doors which led into the Lodge’s library. Shirley entered from the door on the north side and inhaled the smell of paper, leather, and ink.

Surveying the room, which was kept in much better condition than the rest of the house due to how many important tomes Sir Joseph kept in this room, Shirley’s eyes settled on a figure sitting in one of the window alcoves. While light did reach into those alcoves, they weren’t as well-lit as the rest of the library. It was perfect for hiding your face in plain sight. Still, Shirley squinted her eyes to try to make out the library’s other patron. “Were you the person who wrote this note?” she asked, pulling it out of her pocket.

The figure stood and walked into the light. “I was starting to worry you would never show up,” Griffin Avondale informed her, leaning on the mahogany table dominating the center of the room. “You kept me waiting, Shirley.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Avondale?” asked Shirley, regretting that she had closed the door behind her upon entering. He was not thinking of doing that with her again, was he? Yes, they were alone and the nearest person was probably at the other end of the north or south wing, but she was no longer a maid! He would not dare. Unless—

“I’m here to ask about my sister,” he replied. “I understand you and that other maid from London had ice cream the other night?”

“Oh!” Her cheeks reddened as she remembered that night. She was still in disbelief that she had allowed herself to get drunk! And on ice cream, no less! “Y-Yes. I mean, yes we did. Had ice cream, I mean. It was delicious.”

“And how was Lucinda? Is she well?”

“Oh! Um, yes. She’s fine, I guess.”

Suspicious lines appeared between Griffin’s eyebrows. “Is something the matter?”

Shirley struggled to come up with an answer. After all, how could she tell Griffin that his little sister had tricked them into getting drunk?

“Well,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “I believe she’s beginning to think of Nellie and me as friends. She certainly acts like we are.”

The lines on Griffin’s forehead smoothed out and a smile peeked from between his lips. “I see. All her friends are back in London, so I guess writing to them weekly was not enough for her. Obviously, she would seek companionship with women near her own age. Er, you consider Lucinda a friend, do you not, Shirley?”

The question surprised her, and she had to think for a moment before answering. “I know Nellie is fond of Lucinda. But I…Lucinda is—”

“Somewhat spoilt and entitled,” Griffin finished. “I know. I lived with her before going off to Eton, after all. I can see why you would hesitate to call her a friend.”

She laughed. “Well, she’s improved a little. She’s certainly kinder than she used to be.”

They laughed together, but Shirley’s mind was running through possibilities again. Were she and Lucinda friends now? Granted, the girl had been spoilt and entitled, as Griffin said, but the death of her parents had made her mature a little. These days, she treated Shirley and Nellie like equals, rather than targets to annoy and tease. However, Lucinda seemed to have forgotten her behavior from when her parents were alive, and Shirley was annoyed by that. If she was expected to be Lucinda’s friend, was she not at least owed an apology for being treated so poorly?

Also, was there not the issue of their social statuses? Lucinda was still a company president’s daughter, and the great-niece of a baronet. Up until a month ago, Shirley had been a maid, and she did not think being a scientist’s assistant raised her value in society that much. Perhaps being friends with Lucinda, even if she decided that’s what she wanted, was too much to ask for.

Before she could consider the matter more, however, Griffin said something that she missed. “I’m sorry?” she said, clearing her throat.

“I love you, Shirley,” he repeated. To her horror, he walked around the table to her, bent down on one knee and grasped her hand. “Please marry me.”

“You really must stop joking about this,” she said after a moment. “I mean, it can’t still be funny to you, can it?”

He shook his head. “I’m serious. We should get married. If you’re worried about class issues—”

“That’s one concern,” she replied coolly. “And may I remind you, you’re a gentleman on his way up and I was a maid up until last month? This is not a romance novel, Mr. Avondale. I do not have a secret relative or inheritance that will wash away all issues of my birth. We cannot simply overcome all obstacles. Life does not work like that.”

And there was her answer: if she could not marry Lucinda’s brother, she could not be friends with Lucinda. Of course, it would take Griffin’s antics to make her realize it! Life was funny that way sometimes. Though she would appreciate it if life made someone else the butt of its jokes once in a while.

Pulling her hand back, she turned to leave. “It is very late, Mr. Avondale,” she informed him, “and I have a long day of work with the baronet tomorrow. So, if you’ll excuse me—!”

“Shirley, wait!” Griffin shouted.

At that moment, one of the electric lights buzzed loudly before suddenly shattering. Shadow fell where its light had previously shown, and an acrid smell filled the room. Shirley and Griffin paused, examining the broken bulb from where they stood with narrowed eyes. For some reason, the hairs on the back of Shirley’s neck were standing on end.

“That was odd,” Griffin commented. “I wonder what caused that?”

Suddenly, the light next to the shattered one flared and exploded. Shirley cried out and held up her arms in a protective X. She lowered them slightly when no glass fell near her and watched as the light next to the newly shattered one flared and exploded as well. And then the next one. And then the next. One by one, the electric lamps in the library brightened and shattered, plunging the room into darkness. A darkness so heavy and complete that not even the wan light from outside could be seen.

“Shirley!” Griffin called from next to her. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here!” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. She felt cold and on edge and there was a stench in the air that she recognized. The stench of soot, alcohol, poverty and despair. What was it doing here?

“Alright, reach for my hand,” he replied. She obeyed and, after a bit of fumbling in the dark, found Griffin’s hand. He squeezed it tightly but not painfully and then took a step towards her. “Let’s see where the door is,” he said. “Can you see the light from the hall?”

Shirley whirled her head around, but no matter which direction she looked, all was dark. A cold sweat broke on her forehead, and she reached up to make sure her eyelids were still open. When she had confirmed they were, Griffin spoke again. Apparently, he had taken her silence as an answer.

“The whole Lodge may have lost power. It may be some time before power returns. Come on, then; let us see if we can find our way out.”

Tugging her arm along, he led her in the direction he thought the door was in. A moment later, however, he stopped. “That’s odd,” he whispered.

“What is?”

“There’s a wall here,” he answered. “And it’s…made of stone. Brick, to be specific. How? The wall should be wood paneling, and it should be several paces away from us.”

Eyebrow raised, Shirley took a few steps forward, her free hand outstretched before her. When her fingers brushed solid wall, she froze. That was most certainly a brick wall. She could feel the grooves between the bricks and the chill emanating from them. Like a cold November night in Whitechapel.

She shivered, though it had nothing to do with the feel of the bricks. “I want to get out of here.”

“Let’s see where this wall leads.”

Griffin led them along the wall, moving leftwards towards the south-wing door. Shirley stayed a few steps behind, squeezing Griffin’s hand so tight she was sure she was hurting him. She did not care. A blanket of anxiety had wrapped itself around her, her heart was beating as fast as a train engine, and that awful stench, the stench of her childhood, was growing stronger by the second.

Griffin stopped. “There’s a turn here,” he said. A moment later, he added, “And a corner right across from it. It’s like someone put a winding hallway or a maze here.”

“Griffin—!”

“How is this possible? I’m sure one of my friends from Eton could tell me, a few of them were followers of Occultism and believed in all that supernatural tosh, but I never—what was that?”

As Griffin had been speaking, the sound of footfalls echoed somewhere behind them. They stopped as soon as Griffin had commented on them. For a moment, they listened for whoever had been walking behind them, but there was nothing. Or at least, Shirley didn’t think there was. The blood rushing in her ears was making it hard to hear anything.

“Is someone there?” Griffin called, his voice echoing through the space. Wherever they were, it was not the library of the Hunting Lodge anymore.

For a moment, no reply came. Whether or not that was a good thing, Shirley could not tell.

Then from far away, a voice with a thick Cockney accent echoed back to them.

“Have you been good, little girl?”

Shirley’s blood turned to ice. “Griffin,” she whispered. “Please, get me out of here.”

“Come on,” he said in a low voice, leading her around the corner he had mentioned a minute ago. Whether he had sensed her own panic or felt afraid himself, he seemed to be in a bigger hurry to get out of this place than before. From behind them, the footsteps resumed, their pace quickening.

They went down another brick-lined passage, Griffin slapping the wall to his side as he led them along. After several paces, he turned left again, which should have been impossible. There should only have been wall and bookcases in that direction, and yet they were going well past where they should have been.

From behind them, the footsteps stopped. There was a distant grunt, and then they resumed, only now they were louder than they had been before. As if whoever was following them had jumped over a wall to get closer to them.

Shirley could no longer contain her panic. “Run!” she screamed.

She dashed in front of Griffin, pulling him along behind her. Behind them, their pursuer ran down a passageway towards them, stopped, and grunted again before running after them, their feet even louder than before. Shirley increased her pace, tears rolling down her cheeks as her hand slapped against the cold stone. Behind her, Griffin quickened his pace as well, pulling up alongside her and slapping his own hand against the walls. Together, they navigated their way through the twisting passage, while their pursuer shortened the distance between them every few meters or so. By now, Shirley was certain he was jumping the walls, just like he had when she had seen him both times as a child.

But how could he be here? Here, of all places? He should be locked up in Berkshire!

Left. Right. Right again. Right a third time. Left, left, right. Left, left. Right once more. There was no rhyme or reason to the layout of this maze. By now, they should have doubled back on where they started, and yet Shirley was sure they were getting farther and farther away from that place, even as he got closer and closer to them.

Another left. Another right. Down a passageway that seemed to last forever. Left again. Left once more. Then—

“Look, the exit!” Griffin shouted.

Up ahead, they could make out the edges and keyhole of a door, light spilling into the darkness and offering them the first glimmer of hope since they had first fallen into the dark. Shirley felt her heart soar as she rushed towards the door—

The footsteps were now coming from up ahead. Shirley stumbled to a stop as a form moved in front of the door, then rushed at them. “Come here, little poisoner!” he shouted. “I’ve gotta rip you up! Come and accept your punishment!”

Shirley screamed. Her legs had locked up, her mind had ceased to process rational thought. All she knew was terror. Terror, and the impending sense of death, about to happen in the most gruesome way imaginable.

“Shirley, come on!” Griffin ran ahead of her again, holding on tight to her hand as he pulled her along. Her legs unlocked and she stumbled after him, even as her mind screamed that they were heading for him, that he would get them. Or was she the one screaming all that out?

Ahead of them, he paused, probably to raise the knife Shirley knew he would be wielding. She closed her eyes and ducked her head down, waiting for the inevitable sensation of metal piercing flesh. Instead, she felt a breeze pass over her head and heard Griffin cry out in pain. They kept barreling towards the door, now not more than twenty paces ahead of them.

“Get back here!” their attacker shouted, chasing after them.

Fifteen paces. Ten paces. She didn’t dare look back, even as she sensed him lifting the knife to stab her.

Griffin slammed his body into the door. It swung open and they fell out into the lit hallway, landing on their sides with cries of pain. Shirley looked up and behind them and saw him. Saw his face. That thin, angular face, those wide, watery eyes, the scraggly muttonchops and mustache shaped like a crescent moon. The hair that should have been combed neat but was now wild and windswept. He wore the same long coat she had seen him wear on both nights six years ago, and his knife was covered in fresh blood.

“Come here, girl!” he shouted. “All poisoners should be ripped up!”

As he reached the doorframe, Griffin kicked the door in his face. He then let go of Shirley’s hand, jumped up, and planted his body in front of the door. From behind the door came a guttural scream. “Let me out!” he shouted, slamming his fists against the grain and twisting the doorknob. “Let me out! I have to rip her! She’s poisoning me! LET ME OUT!”

Griffin held firm, his face strained as he kept the door closed. Shaking on the floor, Shirley could only watch as he defended her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she should help him, but her fear kept her rooted to the spot.

Then abruptly, the noise stopped. No more shouting, no more banging or doorknob jiggling. Eyebrow raised, Griffin placed an ear against the door. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered.

“Don’t open it,” Shirley begged.

For a moment, Griffin appeared to listen to her. Then, before she could object, he stepped back and swung the door open. Shirley screamed and closed her eyes, holding her arms over her head as she waited for the knife to fall.

“What on Earth?” Griffin wondered aloud.

Shirley opened her eyes and lowered her arms. The library was back to its normal self. No darkness, no twisting labyrinth, and certainly no sign of their attacker. Pulling herself to her feet, she poked her head in and scanned the room. It was still the library, as unthreatening as ever, if now coated in a layer of black dust she did not remember being there before the darkness had fallen. The only vestige of the ordeal she and Griffin had gone through was a single broken light, its shards littered under the sconce. In fact, Shirley thought it might have been the initial bulb that had broken before the darkness had fallen.

For a moment, Shirley did not know what to say. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she found her voice again. “Did that just happen?”

“It did,” Griffin replied in a grave voice. She turned to him and gasped as her eyes lay upon his arm. His shirt sleeve had been cut, and blood was seeping out of a long, thin wound. Like a knife had cut him as he had been passing by.

Shirley’s insides froze again. Somehow, he had been here. He had found her. And he had tried to kill her. Just like he had promised to do six years ago, on a dark and chilly November morning. The blood-red proof was staring her right in the face.