Diana Pho - Steampunk World

She looked up at him, both of them pressed against the railing of the bridge. Isaac was older than her, surely in his thirties. Wouldn’t Abram listen to him? All he had to do was say he couldn’t take her, couldn’t marry her. He didn’t touch her, but he stood closely, body radiating warmth.

“Perhaps the dream is about a triumph of yours, Margarita. Of winning against impossible odds.”

“Winning a war for Venice?” She laughed, the sound cold and broken.

“Winning a war for yourself. I…I am no prophet. And I think you know that both my household and your own, we know things few do, or would expect us to.” He placed his hand on the railing, close to hers, yet still not touching. “What he is asking, we must both agree to do. I will not touch you, put a hand upon you, or force you to do anything as my wife. I will not let him make you do this, if you do not wish to. If you doubt his intentions, his methods, I will continue in my life as you do in yours. But if you believe the counsel of your Uncle, that this is a task only you can accomplish, there are many engineers in the Empire. Forges and foundries would not be hard to find. And there is a man, in another part of the Empire, who seeks to build an engine to drive machines—one made of steam.”

Steam and smoke. Her gasp was slight, but her thoughts were already tumbling. Depending on the placement and size, perhaps a dual—

Perhaps it could be done. And if it could be done, if it was even possible , perhaps this would cure her dream.

Margarita shook her head, glancing down at their hands. “You will help protect me?”

“With all I have to offer to that service.” Isaac was serious, sincere, and did not smile when she looked back up. Their hands stayed as they were, next to each other.

If it was possible that she could do what had been asked of her, children like Lorenza and Fiora might not have to die.

“When could we leave?”

Thilini Rothschild saw the green fireball streaking across the sky above the coconut palms before her father did. “Look, Papa!”

“Why, that’s an extraordinary meteor! I’ve never seen one of such color.” He peered out at the night sky through his workshop window. “Good thing that will crash far out in the Indian Ocean and not in a city!”

Thilini gazed at the fireball’s sparkling emerald tail, entranced and yet feeling a bit crestfallen. “I hoped it was falling star so I could wish upon it.”

“Why, I’m sure a fine meteor such as that is just as wish-worthy!”

So she closed her eyes and thought, I wish for an adventure!

Three years later, Thilini had forgotten all about the meteor. She woke before the first crows of her mother’s junglefowl, wound on her favorite green sari, and slipped out to the kitchen to gather some cold chickpea fritters and jackfruit in a basket. Her father would still be at his workshop by the harbor; no doubt he’d been working on his wireless telegraph machine all night. He’d probably forgotten to eat.

Excitement jittered in her stomach. Today was the day the Southwind would return, her hold creaking with goods. If the special gears and glass panels her father had commissioned from his partners in Switzerland arrived with it, that meant they might finally be able to assemble the submarine prototype she and her father had been working on for the past year. Thilini couldn’t wait to see the ocean from beneath the waves.

She hefted the reed basket over one shoulder, slipped into the sandals her mother made her leave by the front door, and ran down the wagon-rutted road to the harbor shops. To her surprise, a stout, balding man was standing in the shop, arms crossed. Her father frowned up at him from his workbench, his eyes shadowed in the flickering candlelight. Biting her lip, she pushed open the front door, quietly so the bells wouldn’t jingle.

“You’re wasting your talents here,” the stranger lectured in German. “You need to go back to Europe. Or at least come to our estate in Kandy.”

Her father pulled off his wire-framed round glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His long curly brown hair had come loose from its queue. He looked exhausted. “I’m fine, Martin. The clean air here suits me more than the noise and stink of Frankfurt or London.”

He looked past Martin and his eyes focused on Thilini.

“Ah, you brought breakfast?” he asked her in Tamil.

“Yes, Papa. Who is this?”

“Your uncle Martin,” he continued, still speaking in her native language. “Pay him and his unpleasantness no mind.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“‘Attān’?” Martin said, repeating her endearment, staring at Thilini. Recognition seemed to dawn; he grimaced in disgust. He stared back down at her father, eyebrows raised. “Are you this little pickaninny’s sire?”

Her father turned red as a berry, his fists clenching in his lap. “I’ll not have you speak about my daughter in such a debased fashion.”

“Debased?” Martin exclaimed. “It is you who have debased our family! Rothschilds dance in the courts of every ruler in Europe, and yet here you are, tinkering in the sand, breeding like a mongrel with the first brown bitch who wiggles her tail at you.”

It was Thilini’s turn to feel the blood rise in her face. She could bear insults to herself with all the quiet grace her parents had taught her, but she would not stand by while this stranger spoke so badly of her mother. But her father responded before she could open her mouth.

“I have lived upon five continents.” Her father’s voice shook with rage. “And Thilini’s mother is the finest woman I have ever met. None of the simpering court ladies you and your brothers deemed so suitable as matches have half the beauty, intelligence, or courage of my dear Anula.”

“Indeed,” Thilini replied in her best German. “If my mother is such a poor match for my father, I should be a useless idiot, should I not? So, test me. Ask me any question you like, in any language you like.”

Martin was clearly surprised she knew German at all. “Who’s the tsar of Russia?”

“Alexander the Third.”

“And the President of the United States?”

“Grover Cleveland. Please, do ask me something difficult, dear Uncle.”

Martin frowned. “What’s the square root of eighty-one?” he asked in French.

“Nine,” she replied in English.

“What are the components of black powder?” he asked in German.

“Sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter,” she replied in French. “I can make you some if you like. The recipe is easier than my mother’s fish soup.”

“Why doesn’t your father’s wireless telegraphy machine work?”

She smiled at him. “And now you’re fishing for trade secrets, Uncle.”

Her uncle stared at her. “How old are you?”

“I shall be thirteen in two months.”

After Martin left, her father fussed at her a bit for speaking so boldly to her uncle, but clearly he was proud of her. They ate the breakfast she brought, and then he sent her down to the docks with their portable telegraph prototype. It was based on some of the correspondences he’d had with the American inventor Brooks. The device almost worked, but the power supplies they’d tried were insufficient for the components.

“I’m sure the new electrochemical cells will do the trick. It’s just a matter of fine-tuning the equipment,” he said as he loaded the sixty-pound rig onto her little palmwood wagon.

“Can we make it smaller?” she asked doubtfully.