cables attached to the sedan chair snaked across the floor, eventually connecting to an oversized electrical generator which sat quietly humming and emitting the odd crackle. Heat rolled off the generator, testament to Asher’s industry.
Worktables shoved to the sides were covered with coils, wires, tools and odd bits of metal. A desk in a corner held books and a few sheets of paper scribbled with numbers and calculations. The floor beneath the curious sedan chair was very black, and the air smelled faintly of charred, damp wood. Asher appeared as disarrayed as his workshop. His windswept hair rioted across his brow, his cheek was smudged, his hands grimed with dirt and his cravat entirely missing.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he picked up a rag and scrubbed at his hands. “As you can see, I’m not exactly dressed for visitors.”
Minerva pressed her lips together. “Is that all I am to you these days? A mere visitor?” The tinge of bitterness in her voice surprised her.
He glanced up, pausing in his cleaning. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to imply…” An awkward pause developed before he said, “I’ve had some time to think since your visit yesterday. About your mysterious letters…”
“Oh. Yes. Those. The ones from my secret beau, according to you.” She shouldn’t have baited him, but she couldn’t help it. That he could think her capable of such duplicity still rankled her.
He shook his head, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “That was silly of me,” he sheepishly confessed. “But I thought perhaps it was the work of someone who wanted to brew some mischief between us.”
“Who would want to do that?”
Tossing aside the rag, he rested hands on hips. “What about Dorian Monk? Does he not still hold a candle for you?”
“No, it’s not possible—”
“Isn’t it? I remember the look on your face when you thought he’d died. You do care for him, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you before, Dorian is only a friend…” Her voice trailed off as it struck her forcibly that Asher was jealous of poor Dorian Monk. Which meant that, in his own misguided way, he did still love her. A warm glow blossomed in her chest, spreading heat to every part of her body. But then she remembered the other Asher waiting for her in the carriage, and confusion clouded her emotions. How could she be in love with two men at the same time? Who was the real Asher?
She shook her head. “The letters don’t matter for the moment. I have something far more important to tell you.” She gestured towards the sedan chair contraption. “It has to do with that, your millennium machine.”
In an instant his demeanor switched to intense wariness. “What of it?”
“I know what it is you’re building here.” Moving forward, she pointed at the black discs studding the copper outer shell. “The promethium magnets, the electrical generator.” She paused to peer into the interior of the sedan chair. “The levers and dials inside. I know all about it.”
Without warning he pounced on her, squeezing her upper arm in a painful grip. “Who?” he demanded, his eyes blazing. “Who told you all this?”
She winced. “Asher, my arm.”
With a bitten-off curse he released her while still remaining a hair’s breadth away, so close she could feel the anger shimmering off him. “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for the fire?” he barked, his temper crackling like an electrical thunderstorm. “Do you know how much damage you caused? By some miracle the machine was only marginally impaired, but you destroyed all my calculations!” He gesticulated accusingly at the desk. “All my calculations! Weeks and weeks of mind-numbing work. I couldn’t contemplate re-doing it all. In the end I was forced to ask the help of—”
He broke off abruptly, his gaze veering away from her.
It was Minerva’s turn to glare at him. “I can guess why you’ve suddenly fallen silent. There’s no need to be coy. I know who
Worktables shoved to the sides were covered with coils, wires, tools and odd bits of metal. A desk in a corner held books and a few sheets of paper scribbled with numbers and calculations. The floor beneath the curious sedan chair was very black, and the air smelled faintly of charred, damp wood. Asher appeared as disarrayed as his workshop. His windswept hair rioted across his brow, his cheek was smudged, his hands grimed with dirt and his cravat entirely missing.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he picked up a rag and scrubbed at his hands. “As you can see, I’m not exactly dressed for visitors.”
Minerva pressed her lips together. “Is that all I am to you these days? A mere visitor?” The tinge of bitterness in her voice surprised her.
He glanced up, pausing in his cleaning. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to imply…” An awkward pause developed before he said, “I’ve had some time to think since your visit yesterday. About your mysterious letters…”
“Oh. Yes. Those. The ones from my secret beau, according to you.” She shouldn’t have baited him, but she couldn’t help it. That he could think her capable of such duplicity still rankled her.
He shook his head, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “That was silly of me,” he sheepishly confessed. “But I thought perhaps it was the work of someone who wanted to brew some mischief between us.”
“Who would want to do that?”
Tossing aside the rag, he rested hands on hips. “What about Dorian Monk? Does he not still hold a candle for you?”
“No, it’s not possible—”
“Isn’t it? I remember the look on your face when you thought he’d died. You do care for him, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you before, Dorian is only a friend…” Her voice trailed off as it struck her forcibly that Asher was jealous of poor Dorian Monk. Which meant that, in his own misguided way, he did still love her. A warm glow blossomed in her chest, spreading heat to every part of her body. But then she remembered the other Asher waiting for her in the carriage, and confusion clouded her emotions. How could she be in love with two men at the same time? Who was the real Asher?
She shook her head. “The letters don’t matter for the moment. I have something far more important to tell you.” She gestured towards the sedan chair contraption. “It has to do with that, your millennium machine.”
In an instant his demeanor switched to intense wariness. “What of it?”
“I know what it is you’re building here.” Moving forward, she pointed at the black discs studding the copper outer shell. “The promethium magnets, the electrical generator.” She paused to peer into the interior of the sedan chair. “The levers and dials inside. I know all about it.”
Without warning he pounced on her, squeezing her upper arm in a painful grip. “Who?” he demanded, his eyes blazing. “Who told you all this?”
She winced. “Asher, my arm.”
With a bitten-off curse he released her while still remaining a hair’s breadth away, so close she could feel the anger shimmering off him. “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for the fire?” he barked, his temper crackling like an electrical thunderstorm. “Do you know how much damage you caused? By some miracle the machine was only marginally impaired, but you destroyed all my calculations!” He gesticulated accusingly at the desk. “All my calculations! Weeks and weeks of mind-numbing work. I couldn’t contemplate re-doing it all. In the end I was forced to ask the help of—”
He broke off abruptly, his gaze veering away from her.
It was Minerva’s turn to glare at him. “I can guess why you’ve suddenly fallen silent. There’s no need to be coy. I know who
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