Emma Jane Holloway - 01 A Study in Silks by Emma Jane Holloway

Author:Emma Jane Holloway [Holloway, Emma Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

London, April 9, 1888

HQ, SOCIETY FOR THE PROLIFERATION

OF IMPERTINENT EVENTS

4 p.m. Monday

“A MAN HAS NEEDS BEYOND A STUFFED SHEEP,” TOBIAS SAID with the certainty of the extremely drunk.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Bucky replied, refilling his glass and proffering the bottle. He’d been in a fine mood since he’d arrived at the clubhouse an hour ago, rather like someone who’d won large at the gaming table. Tobias wasn’t sure what sort of a state he was in—except drunk.

Tobias waved the bottle away. The clubhouse—with its ratty furniture, litter of tools, and half-finished machines—was already rotating in that irritating way things had when one was snockered. The condition had crept up on him. He’d thought he was safe, since they weren’t actually drinking anything that had come from the in-house Steam-Accelerated Special Compression Distillery. That had exploded with spectacular gusto last week.

The accident had produced tragic results. The sheep, never of reputable appearance, was now minus one ear and several handfuls of fleece. Hence, Bucky had raided his father’s cellar for a supply of Bordeaux.

“What I’m saying is …” Tobias trailed off, forgetting what he had in fact been saying.

Bucky resumed his habitual sprawl. “The squid adventure is done, and now you’re bored.”

“That’s it,” Tobias pointed his wineglass more or less in Bucky’s (or one of the Bucky’s) direction(s). “That’s it exactly. We did the Dutchman. We need another sip to shink.”

Tobias looked proudly around the clubhouse. The Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events met in a converted outbuilding that looked over a walled patch of scrub a block and a half behind his tailor’s. It was everything his home was not. Except for the tools, there was nothing they had not built or scavenged. It was a house of imagination, not money. It was freedom from their birth and an opportunity to discover their merit.

Which, of course, was not the way most would view their pursuits. It was one thing to dabble with engines when one was a schoolboy, but real gentlemen didn’t actually get their hands dirty. Not with grease and rust and the guts and bones of machines. That went beyond even the politely eccentric.

Never mind that Tobias was happiest when he was deep in the bowels of a machine, the sharp smell of steel and oil grating on his lungs. He was actually affecting something, not talking or planning or critiquing, but actually doing.

It seemed a rare state of bliss. Not even the poor people got to do much tinkering anymore, since they weren’t able to buy parts to fix anything, thanks to the steam barons and the sneaky way supplies seemed to disappear on their way to store shelves. Even the fact that SPIE could get its hands on whatever parts it liked was proof they were a bunch of lunatic toffs and not real makers at all. Which made no sense, but then nothing did anymore. When did it all get so complicated?

“We need a new project,” he said. “We did the squid. We did the still—sort of, until it blew up.

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