A distinguished looking gentleman with golden hair burnished liberally with white sat at the large desk in the study writing in a journal.
“Uncle Elliot!”
She reached out and hit hard air, as if thick glass separated them. A lump formed in her throat and the backs of her eyes burned. She shouted, but he didn’t look up from his work. She pounded several more times at the invisible barrier until she realized that she was no longer in the study and that the blurring figure of her uncle was not simply due to tears.
Taking a step back, her bare feet crunched on dry leaves. The dead forest lay fallow under the cold light of a waning moon—the tree branches jutted up towards the sky, naked after the falling of golden leaves but before the onset of winter. Something tugged at her hair.
“A pity. A pity that you aren’t interested.”
She whipped around, seeing nothing. “Who’s there?”
“I’m here.” The Voice was soft, a whisper, strangely familiar.
“Who are you?”
She sensed rather than heard laughter. “Oh? You’re interested in who I am?”
“Yes, I’m interested. I like talking to people face to face—so show yourself.”
“Impatient as well, are we?” Warm fingers suddenly touched the side of her throat. She jerked away, but those phantom fingers remained on her skin.
“What do you want?”
Instead, the Voice ignored her. The fingers became a hand and it closed around her throat. A heavy musky scent of damp forest left her gasping. “Hmm,” purred the Voice, “I wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell.”
She cried out and tried to claw her way out of her invisible captor’s embrace, but the hand became two that clamped mercilessly at her upper arms, paralyzing her. Something slightly wet and feather-light traced the tendon and muscle and the pounding pulse just under her skin.
“Shh. You know who I am.”
A sob wrenched itself from her mouth and the Voice released her. She fell and the dry leaves crackled under her knees.
* * *
Zan took in a few vigorous breaths of air on the steps outside the massive institute called the Academy. The building had been built a century before dedicated to the Queen’s grandfather. The Academy faced Old Amanthus with solid and solemn columns. To the north was the Weaver’s District and to the south, the Museum and Market Row. Vestiges of the previous night’s dream still lingered at the edges of her mind like a malicious fog. Hot tea and a hackney ride had done nothing except to set her teeth on edge. Perhaps she was becoming as paranoid as her uncle at the end. Perhaps in a very near future date, she would even start considering burning her uncle’s remaining notes and moving elsewhere—she had heard about the warm islands of paradise in the South Seas….
“Ah, Miss Hu, fancy meeting you here at the Academy so soon.”
The voice was an irritating mix of a wheeze and a squeak and unfortunately, its intrusion destroyed her brief daydream of lying in a hammock and napping as the ocean crashed on the beach.
“My condolences on your uncle’s passing.” The second voice was smoother and cultured although it had a strong Iberian accent. Zan finally focused and realized that a woman was speaking to her—a woman in a fashionable red gown and equipped with a frilly lace parasol leaning against her shoulder. Greta Del Rassa. “I am glad to see that you are holding up. I had heard rumors from other quarters that you were quite devastated and perhaps also caught an infection of the lungs on the day of your uncle’s funeral.”
Zan narrowed her gaze at the gypsy woman in front of her. The Academy fraud—as she had privately dubbed her. Then she shifted her view to the men beside the woman—one, Del Rassa’s latest conquest, a Lord What’s-His-Name who was the wealthy son of some count on the Continent. The other was Pendergrast—the man who had initially greeted her—stout yet tall, balding although in denial by the few hairs combed meticulously over a shiny palate and in possession of a nose too round for its own good.
“I am glad to see you are hale and healthy as well,” added Pendergrast with a too bright smile. “Good to see you about. It’s entirely unproductive to be moping about.”
“Thank you for your well wishes,” Zan replied in a stiff, formal tone, wondering why these two who usually hobnobbed with the rich and famous were talking to her. “It’s a relief to find such a well of support during one’s time of need.”
“Speaking of time,” said Del Rassa, “We are heading to the Amanthus Club for brunch. You are welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, but no. I have some business I must attend to.”
“Ah, sorting out your uncle’s personal affects?” said Pendergrast with a sharpening eye. “Papers and notes about his experiments?”
“Actually, no,” she replied curtly. “I’m attending to my own business.”
Then the count’s son, Del Rassa’s besotted aristocratic admirer, exclaimed that his carriage had arrived and Del Rassa bid her a good day before she climbed into the coach with his help. Zan stifled a grin when Del Rassa tripped on her skirts and went sprawling on the floor of the vehicle.
Pendergrast ignored the debacle as he said, “Miss Hu, if you have any need of help in sorting through your uncle’s things, I would be pleased to be of assistance. After all, I am well versed in your uncle’s field and may be able to shed some light on some things that as a chemist you are not aware of.”
“That is very kind of you to offer, Mr. Pendergrast.”
He nodded. “Then good day, Miss Hu.”
For a moment, she watched Pendergrast struggle to get into the carriage before she turned back to the Academy.
Beyond the heavy brass doors and the foyer of the building were stairs leading both to the upper levels and the basement. She took the stairs to the lower level in search of Henry Tarlton’s new laboratory. Tarlton’s experiments, unfortunately, had the penchant for backfiring badly. Not too long ago, one of his experiments had ended spectacularly in the shed located in the backyard of his residence. No one had been injured, thank God, but the resulting bonfire had attracted the attention of the volunteer fire department, the police, the irate neighbors, and gawking passersby.
After that disaster, Tarlton’s wife had stolidly put her foot down that he not conduct any of his research in or around their residence. This, of course, left the Academy’s unused basement rooms. So far, Tartlon’s experiments had set fire to a table, flooded the basement, and punched a hole through a brick wall. At least the Academy members were not yet aggravated enough to kick him out just yet. So far, all they were doing were shaking their heads and muttering, “Ah, Tarlton’s at it again.”
It was with some trepidation then, that Zan stood in front of the door leading to Tarlton’s laboratory with a hand raised to knock. She heard a sudden burst of shouting.
“Faster! Faster I say! We’re never going to get it up to speed if you slack off!”
She knocked.
There was a crash.
“Erasmus, get the door!”
The door opened, revealing an out of breath youth who had probably just reached his majority wearing work pants and shirt, his face beet red from exertion and his mousy hair sticking up at odd angles. “Morning, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. Is Mr. Tarlton here?”
“Miss Hu! What a surprise!” A fit middle-aged man in similar work clothes like his young assistant Erasmus and spectacles perched on the tip of an aquiline nose ambled toward the door. He wiped his hands on a rag and then shook Zan’s hand. “I see you’ve completely recovered.”
“Recovered?” she said, wrinkling her brow.
“Yes. I heard from the grapevine that you were suffering from a dreadful lung disease after attending your uncle’s funeral. An absolutely dreadful disease. And my condolences on your loss of course.”
“Thank you, but I wasn’t sick. I never came down with a lung disease.”
“Oh? Then perhaps I got it wrong and it was someone else. Now what brings you to my laboratory?” He turned back to his lab bench which was littered with odds and ends, bits of metal, containers made of various materials, vials of liquid and powder. Tarlton perched on a stool and licked his pen before making a notation in a notebook lying on the table surface. “All right Erasmus, let’s take it from the top.”
The assistant groaned and did an exaggerated shuffle as he went over to a strange contraption that looked like a mess of wires connected to a wheel with a handle. “Sir, it didn’t work last time….”
“But we must try again!” Tarlton exclaimed. “Now, Miss Hu, what were you here about?”
“I believe my uncle had consulted with you concerning some of his experiments?”
“He did?”
“Yes. One of his previous….”
Tarlton held up a finger. “In a moment, Miss Hu. Now get it turning, boy.”
Erasmus spit on his hands and then began to crank the wheel in earnest. With a bit of scrutiny, Zan realized that the wheel was rotating a block of material inside the coil of wire. The block spun faster as the youth cranked the wheel faster. While wondering what all the fuss was about, Zan gave a surprised cry as several sparks flew from the metal coils. One spark fell on the youth’s sleeve and caught fire. Erasmus noticed the flames and shrieked before stumbling backward and waving his arms wildly. Immediately, Zan grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the youth.
“Mr. Tarlton, are you completely out of your mind?” demanded Zan as a wet Erasmus gingerly poked at his arm to check its roasted condition. “Of course you have to stop, or you’ll burn the Academy down. What were you trying to do anyway?”
“Testing something I thought about,” Tarlton replied. “I had noticed, not so long ago, that when I brought a magnet close to a coil of metal wire, there was a bit of spark. Like electricity. But is it the cause of the magnetic field generated by the magnet? I’m not sure exactly what it is—but it was similar to what your uncle had told me at one time.”
There was a loud, imperious knock at the door. Erasmus gave up examining his arm and said, “I’ll get it.” And stomped off towards the entrance of the laboratory.
Tarlton slumped over his stool in thought as his eyes behind his spectacles misted over. “In fact, Elliot had told me that he had gotten the idea from you. That when two objects rubbed together, those objects began accumulating charge. Of course, it would have to be certain combination of objects. Elliot had coined the term triboelectric effect for the phenomenon. It was from tribos which was the Ancient word for rubbing.”
Zan heard the door open and the assistant’s greeting. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. She turned her head slightly to see a dark haired man in the doorway replying to Erasmus. Then the man caught her eye and his mouth curved. How on earth did Caradon find her?
“What your uncle had mentioned was amber and wool,” continued Tarlton, oblivious of his newest visitor. “But he wanted to use some materials on his experiment that could test—that could perhaps create a bigger potential of charge. I suggested using different combinations: silk, rubber, various metal. You know, the usual sort of things, because, of course, no one had tested them before.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” interrupted Zan, “but what was the material for?”
“Why for his machine—the interior of it. There was a belt that rubbed along a series of spikes at the base. You do know that one?”
“Yes, I know it. I do recall about the belt and the spikes, but I didn’t know what my uncle used to make them.”
“I would assume the spikes would have been metal and the belt some sort of fabric. Elliot never did get around to telling me what he did before he passed. Of course, you have the machine, don’t you? I suppose you wouldn’t mind satisfying my curiosity by taking a peek inside the thing and telling me?”
Caradon had stepped fully into the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move closer to her and Tarlton. He stopped beside Tarlton’s machine, merely a few paces away. She tried to ignore her patron. “I’m afraid I don’t have my uncle’s machine anymore, Mr. Tarlton. He had donated it to the Museum.”
“Well the Museum could certainly let you look at it since you are the niece of the inventor and all. I think it would be very interesting to see if he had tried some of the stranger materials that he had mentioned that he had obtained from some amulet shop in Old Amanthus. He was really excited about something he called duality, but he never bothered to explain that to me.”
Zan blinked. “Old Amanthus? I never knew about this.”
“You didn’t? Well, that’s strange. I thought he told you everything. Even his plans to visit certain places in the old part of the city to test some of his theories…” Then Tarlton snapped back to himself. “Well, I thought it was all talk anyway. Old Amanthus is a terrible place to do experiments—I thought Elliot was just joking. Now the cliffs at the coast—there’s a place to do it. Wonderful place. Anyways, to the next trial. Erasmus!”
Tarlton’s assistant gave a frustrated yell. “But sir, if we do this again, I’m going to turn into a roasted marshmallow!”
