A chuckle vented the remainder of Helena’s irritation. “You’re quite right, as usual. Time mustn’t be wasted on the opinions of meddlesome matrons when there’s a maiden in need of liberation.” Her gaze lowered to the genteel-looking parasol with its canopy of silk moiré. “How is this bit of finery to aid me in scaling yond tower?”
“Quite expeditiously, I hope.”
Taking possession of the Parasol Grappler, Margaret led Helena to the rear wall of her workshop, which was covered from floor to ceiling by a three-tiered bookcase. Each tier was its own balcony, partitioned by scrolled wrought-iron railings and accessible via a spiral staircase. For the purposes of today’s test, the third balcony would serve as the entrapped heiress’ second-floor window at the asylum. With methodical concision, she instructed Helena on the use of her invention and then provided a practical demonstration. Once Helena was confident enough to give it a go, they proceeded with the official test.
Margaret made her way to the bottom of the spiral staircase, carefully positioning her shoes on the lowermost step and taking hold of the iron railing. She pressed a button obscured on the finial shaped like a kitten with a ball of yarn, and the step beneath her began to ascend. Following the spiral’s curvature, the stairs escalated to the third tier, where she disembarked, stepping onto the balcony. “Commence the test and run through all functions, starting with basic canopy deployment.”
Even from her higher perch, Helena’s eye roll was discernible. “I think I can manage to open a parasol, Maggie.”
“A test that is not thorough—”
“Can never be accurate. I know, I know. Proceeding with canopy deployment.”
Helena pressed Button A, and the parasol’s silken canopy opened. Closing the parasol again, she flipped it to grasp the opposite end, so that the curved wooden handle was upright. With a push of Button B, the handle separated into a steel grappling hook. Helena grinned, took aim, and pressed Button C, shooting the hook into the air via spring-loaded propulsion. A trio of grappler claws caught the railing and clamped down on the iron, latching securely and forming a tether to the ground with a retractable cord emerging from the parasol pole.
Margaret nodded, pleased but not yet ready to hail the device a success. Not until they determined if it would bear the combined weight of two ladies.
Opening the parasol once more, Helena placed the canopy upside down on the floor. She stepped inside the canopy, distributing her weight between two of the steel ribs. Securing a firm hold of the pole, she pressed Button D, and the cord began to retract, hoisting the canopy and Helena off the ground. When she reached the third-tier balcony where Margaret awaited, playing the part of the imprisoned heiress, Helena pressed Button D twice in rapid succession and the parasol halted midair. “Going down, m’lady?”
“If it’s most convenient.” Assisted by Helena, Margaret hiked her skirts and slipped over the balustrade. Slowly. Cautiously. The movement aggravated the pain that resided in her ribs and low back, not enough to incapacitate, but enough to noticeably increase her discomfort. Breathing steadily, she positioned her shoes on the parasol’s unoccupied steel ribs and wrapped her arms around Helena’s waist.
The canopy held fast, and Margaret grinned. She’d wager Lady Bricabrack didn’t know her silken threads possessed twice the tensile strength as high-grade steel—despite her being oh-so-properly trained.
Within a matter of seconds, the parasol descended at a controlled velocity, returning them to the floor quite safely. Helena cheered, hazel eyes agleam. “Hurrah! Well done, Maggie! This invention is a lark. And wonderfully versatile. Just imagine how handy it would’ve been last winter when I investigated that quack of a baron who fancied himself a physician, selling castor oil as a botanical curative for all ailments. Lord Yakov’s Elixir, indeed! Why, I could’ve accessed the upper windows venting his warehouse instead of standing in the snow to pick the lock.”
Margaret stepped out of the parasol before retorting, “From what I recall of Jane’s written report, my Needle-Case Lockpicker Automatic served you quite well, dispatching said lock in under two minutes and thereby giving you plenty of time to acquire sufficient evidence to secure Baron Yakov’s arrest.”
“True, but using this to scale the building would’ve been more fun by far. Almost as exhilarating as climbing a tree.” Helena gracefully disembarked the canopy, and with the press of Button E, released the grappler from the iron railing. Automatically, the three claws reassembled into a singular wooden handle as the cord retracted into the pole, rewinding the spring mechanism in the process, leaving her friend holding what appeared to be nothing more than a rather elegant, but quite ordinary, parasol. “I do wish you’d join us in the field, Maggie. Just once. On a case requiring less exertion and fewer hazards. I’d love for you to see your inventions in action. Won’t you reconsider?”
Margaret angled away from Helena, suppressing a sigh as she glanced at the wheelchair required to convey her home. She couldn’t blame her friend for posing the question. After all, it was due to Margaret’s own reticence that Helena failed to comprehend the ramifications of her request. One couldn’t blame someone for not knowing what they’d never been told.
But neither could Margaret—knowing the extent of her physical condition—reconsider what had already been quite thoroughly considered and deemed ill-advised. Here, strategically placed in the workshop like an unseen cog among the shadowed windings of a larger machine, Margaret could help without risk of becoming a hinderance, or worse—a hazard.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Helena, truly.” Beckoning her worktable with the remote controller, Margaret lowered into the attached chair. “But this is where I belong.”
Chapter
2
April1, 1895
The routine Margaret had engineered for herself was by no means an infallible preventive against physical collapse, but after years of trial and error, it had proven to be the most effective system for ensuring she burdened as few people as possible.
On this most ordinary of Mondays, said routine ticked along like clockwork. Wake at a quarter to seven. Bemoan the earliness of the hour and procrastinate leaving the relative comfort of her bed for approximately fifteen minutes, knowing full well that the moment she moved, pain would strike. Gather her resolve to rise as the clock struck the hour. With gritted teeth and a sense of dread, slowly sit up, triggering pain that wedged between her ribs like a crowbar, prying a gasp from her lips.
Margaret clutched the edge of her bed as her muscles tightened, bracing against the spasm. Pain, sharp and merciless, rent her breath into splintered fragments. She fought forevery intake of oxygen. Fought against the automatic surge of panic.It’ll pass. Just hold on. God ... help me hold on.
Something soft brushed against her trembling arm. Margaret glanced down into the amber eyes of Figaro, the tuxedo cat with a distinctive and rather distinguished white mustache, who’d been curled at the foot of the bed the whole night through. Rubbing his head against her arm, the cat slipped beneath it, climbed into her lap, and proceeded to purr. Dearest Figs, best of feline companions, never failed to sense her distress.
Next, regulate breathing to match the cadence of Figaro’s heartbeat and wait for the pain to subside for ... as long as it takes. Margaret’s routine allotted an hour, just in case, but thankfully, it only took about twenty minutes this time. Able to stitch together a full breath at last, she uncurled her taut fingers from the mattress and stroked Figaro’s soft fur, shifting her focus to the brass figure of a sleeping kitten upon her nightstand.
Then, wrestle with guilt for a minimum of five minutes before finally pressing the kitten’s button nose, triggering chimes in another room of the house, to request assistance. Margaret heaved a ragged sigh. Though it required little in the way of physical exertion, pressing that button was still the most difficult part of her routine. If she hadn’t been so curious, so foolish, the accident never would’ve occurred, and she wouldn’t now be a deadweight on the backs of those she loved most.
Margaret closed her eyes, quickly redirecting her thoughts to the next step in her routine. Evaluate her body as though it were one of her devices. She’d learned long ago to perform this assessment honestly and without fail. While the condition and functionality of her body varied from day to day, based on a variety of factors—some quantifiable, others vexingly mercurial—pain remained a constant. An intrinsicpart of her mechanics. If she were a machine, pain was the fractured axis around which her entire life revolved. A harsh reality much easier to accept than the fact that others must alter the rotation of their lives to accommodate her brokenness.
The delicate click of a turning knob announced help’s arrival.
Dressed in a woolen wrapper with her favorite gold chatelaine pinned to her hip, Mama padded across the bedchamber’s wooden floor. Her black hair was pulled back in a chignon, and the items hanging from the delicate chains of her chatelaine swayed, tinkling as she moved. A smile set her silvery eyes to twinkling. “Morning, dear one.”
