The Transference Engine Read Free Page B

she’d only been married a few weeks when her husband was killed at Waterloo. She never remarried. How romantic.” The girl sighed and held her hand to her heart.
    At least the myth I’d created to give me license to run my own business and control my own affairs held true.
    â€œI don’t know any way to birth a child but the natural way,” I muttered. If they wanted to parrot my new name and way of life they should use the appropriate term. Bastard. Yet I was sure they considered themselves upright and faithful daughters of the Church of England, too proper to use such language.
    Hastily, I shoved my goggles atop my leather flying helmet and peered at the crowds of people on the walkways and spilling over into the carriage-jammed road. A number of genteel couples adjusted their path around me. My leather jacket atop jodhpurs and high boots couldn’t disguise my feminine figure, even if I did stand taller than most of the men. Many of them let their gaze linger while their female companions sniffed in disdain.
    â€œToo damn many people in London these days,” I said. The crowd gave me more room to move out of their way as I found the key to my café and reading room in a convenient pocket. The dustmen were late, and the back door was more than a bit noisome in the June heat. Otherwise I’d have used it and avoided the contemptuous crowd.
    I sniffed and peered around to see if any of the passersby bore the taint of magic manipulation. Nothing. Whoever spied upon the crowds today had not used magic. One more piece of a giant puzzle of odd bits of information I stored for Ada Byron King, Countess Lovelace. Yes, the dark-haired and frightened little girl I had nurtured through adolescence and taught to appreciate the joys of life as much as the beauty and magic of numbers had grown up and married a wealthy man who adored her. She had helped me purchase the café and left her name off the deed so that our inquiries could not be traced back to her ever-so-proper husband and his titles: the gift of Victoria.
    I’d heard rumors that Victoria would return a semblance of propriety to English society after the . . . delicious . . . scandals of her royal uncles. At least her mother hoped so.
    I hoped not. Life would be ever so dull without new scandals every other day.
    A “lady” jabbed my knees with her parasol as she passed. “Thank you for reminding me that if I linger gawking I’ll be late to my own salon,” I whispered just loud enough to make sure she heard me.
    The bells inside my door tinkled invitingly as I strode inside with long, mannish strides. I know I should affect a more feminine walk. But why waste the freedom of trousers and boots?
    That freedom was short-lived. I needed to bake sweet and savory delicacies for my guests as Violet, my assistant, would not return from her free morning with her mother until the afternoon. Then I would repair to my quarters upstairs to prepare myself so that I could greet my guests properly corseted, beribboned, and draped in fine silk. I wondered if anyone new would grace us with scintillating conversation or controversial issues to debate. Hmm . . . I needed to collect the latest newspapers from Hong Kong, New Delhi, Peking, and Tokyo, delivered weekly by dirigible express, so we’d have new information to dissect. Amazing what insights and patterns of unrest or transfer of raw goods to indicate a petty tyrant was building an army of automata I could uncover when I listened while others read aloud interesting tidbits from afar.
    Those automata might also serve the purpose of housing the soul of a necromancer after the body had succumbed. I didn’t know how or why, but Lord Byron’s quest for the perfect body might involve an artificial one. The metal men were still crude devices. Scientists worked hard at making them more human looking.
    I kept a neat kitchen, but no order survives the