“No, of course not.” I rose, aware of a sense of relief and anticipation that Princess Alexandra wanted to see us.
My first (and only) assignment with Miss Stoker had been thrilling and dangerous—and it had been completed more than a month ago. When neither Evaline nor I were contacted by Miss Adler in the weeks that followed, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the near-disaster that occurred during the Affair of the Clockwork Scarab (as I’d begun to call it) had soured our royal sponsor on the concept of pressing extraordinary young women like us into service. I’d tried to ignore the crushing disappointment—the fear that I’d bungled my first assignment and would be relegated to working alone in my laboratory and poring over books day after day in my father’s silent study.
Miss Stoker elbowed me as we followed Miss Adler out of the office. “All that worrying for nothing,” she muttered. “We’re going to meet the princess so she can thank us herself.”
When we left the Museum, we were obliged to employ umbrellas—a not uncommon occurrence in our dreary London. However, today the dampness in the air was hardly more than a drizzle, and I could almost feel my thick chestnut-brown hair begin to tighten and kink beneath my hat like the bric-a-brac that trimmed my gloves. I patted the tight coil at the nape of my neck, hoping it wouldn’t appear too disastrous by the time we arrived at Marlborough House.
I sat next to Dylan, in the carriage, and he seemed to take up quite a bit more room on the seat than I expected, for he was very close to me, and our arms brushed companionably. If it weren’t for the layers of petticoat beneath my narrow skirt, surely I would have been able to feel heat from the side of his leg pressing against mine. I confess, I didn’t mind his proximity in the least—although when I noticed Miss Stoker watching me with knowing eyes, that dratted flush warmed my cheeks again.
“London can be so dark and gloomy, even in the middle of the day,” Dylan observed. Despite the drizzle, he’d unlatched the carriage window and nearly had his head poking out the opening as he watched the sights. “It’s like dusk all the time, with the buildings so tall and close together and it being rainy and foggy almost every day. What’s that tall black one over there, with the spikes on top?”
I knew which structure had prompted his comment. “The Oligary Building. Mr. Oligary’s factories are the premier manufacturers of steam-cogs and gears. He manages his business from the offices in that building. Incidentally, Miss Adler—did you hear the news about Mr. Babbage’s Analytic Engine? There’s to be a small exhibition in the lobby of the Oligary, displaying all of Mr. Babbage’s notes and prototypes.”
“I would find that quite fascinating,” replied my mentor. “When is it to open?”
“The article in the Times said it opened today. Perhaps we can make a detour and stop there on our return.”
Miss Adler nodded, but once again I noted her tight, drawn expression. She appeared pale beneath her expertly applied rouge and was more subdued than usual. I wondered if she was ill or merely tired.
“That’s a creepy-looking building, if you ask me,” Dylan commented. “It looks like something out of Mordor. Tall, black, and shiny.”
I was used to Dylan’s references to unfamiliar places and people, as well as his odd vernacular. “I find the structure rather interesting in appearance. It’s very different from the rest of London, with our flat-faced, rectangular brick buildings lined up in a row like uneven teeth, gears and chimneys protruding from their roofs.”
Dylan turned from the window and grinned at me—an event that, I’m ashamed to admit, made my insides go soft. “And you didn’t even ask me what Mordor was,” he said in a low, teasing voice. “Surely you haven’t lost your sense of curiosity, Miss Holmes?”
My insides squished more. I hastily turned my attention back to the cityscape, studiously avoiding Miss Stoker’s gaze.
“Of course not,” I managed to say calmly. “For if I asked what you meant every time you made a reference I didn’t understand, we’d never finish a conversation. And look—there’s one of the new vendor-balloons. They make it easier for the merchants to travel without clogging up the streetwalks.”
Thus distracted, Dylan gazed out the window at the neat elliptical balloon with its small cart beneath. His thick blond hair ruffled in the breeze as drizzle splattered the windowsill, and I couldn’t help but admire his handsome features.
Unlike with Evaline Stoker, young men never teased me. They rarely even spoke to me, and certainly not with such familiarity and ease. Nor did I feel comfortable enough around them to do more than converse in a stilted fashion—or, worse, launch into some babbling lecture.
Despite the fact I rather enjoyed feeling Dylan’s solid arm jolting against me as we traveled through the clogged streets, I was impatient to arrive at Marlborough House and be apprised of the princess’s intentions.
We finally alighted from the carriage. Once ushered into the palatial home, we were directed to the princess’s private parlor. This entailed taking three steps from the threshold of the grand foyer, then stepping onto a slow-moving circular platform. When we came around to the proper direction, we stepped off the dais and onto one of three moving walkways that led to different wings of the palace. A page stood at the junction of each walkway and the circular platform, offering the assistance of a gloved hand to make the transition easier for each visitor.
The boy who handed our group off onto the walkway was wearing yellow livery, down to his gloves and shoes. Through simple observation, I noticed the young man had a fondness for caramels, had recently had his hair cut, and was left-handed.
“Notice,” I murmured to Dylan as the walkway rumbled along beneath our feet, “the pages here are dressed in yellow because they attend Prince Bertie and Princess Alexandra. The personal servants of the Queen always wear red, white, and blue.”
“Queen Victoria.” Dylan’s tones weren’t quite as circumspect as mine had been, but such wonder blazed in his eyes I didn’t have the heart to admonish him for it. “The real Queen Victoria. Do you think there’s any chance we might actually see her?”
“Not here. She is currently in residence at Buckingham Palace, and I can think of few reasons for her to come here. She is a grand lady, and very imposing, as one would expect. But she hardly ever leaves the palace anymore.”