The Reckless Skies (The Society for General Inquiry Book 1)

PART ONE

PART ONE

September, 1879

Jonathan Farrow did not have time to hide. Charlotte Beauchene had spotted him the moment he stepped foot in the Exhibition Room of the London Polytechnic Institution, and she had the eyes of a hawk. Or, more accurately, she had the eyes of a disapproving woman, and Farrow reasoned this made her eyesight a bit keener than a hawk’s.

Too well-bred to actually shout at him from across the room, she nonetheless caught his attention with the thunder of her stare, and he paused in his tracks like a mouse resigned to becoming dinner. She moved towards him with all the speed allowed to her by propriety and by her narrowly cut skirts. She wore a hunter green dress with sharp pleating and black velvet accents. The long, impossibly snug bodice sported a wide collar which fanned out in a style reminiscent of military jackets of the previous century, making her look like a general on the march.

Farrow looked down at his own black frockcoat and green double-breasted waistcoat, and he realized their attire coordinated almost perfectly. He hoped this would help lessen her desire to yell at him. Since she was half-French, he wagered that Charlotte valued style just a little above punctuality.

“Mr. Farrow, I do believe you’re late,” she said once she reached him, reminding him once again that she was also half-English. As he understood it, Charlotte had divided her childhood evenly between France and England, and thus she spoke English with a lovely hint of French and French with an offensive hint of English.

“My apologies, Miss Beauchene,” said Farrow, “but I was unexpectedly delayed.”

Charlotte arched her eyebrows at him. “For a whole hour? He’s been up there all on his own, blathering on about gas pressure and torque and who knows what else. You’d better go and rescue him, or I’m afraid he’ll start expounding on the even finer points of aerodynamics, and then what will become of us?”

Farrow couldn’t resist chuckling at the thought. Charlotte grinned.

After taking his proffered arm, the two of them passed leisurely through the Exhibition Room, neither one exactly eager to reach their destination. The number of onlookers browsing the room’s displays pleased Farrow. One of the chief functions of the London Polytechnic Institution was to bring the latest and greatest in scientific discoveries and technological innovations to the attention of the general public. To this end, the large Exhibition Room housed an impressive display of mechanical devices and inventions under its vaulted ceiling, ranging from the latest in steam-powered motors to a small electric contraption used for toasting bread. Every week, throngs of Londoners and tourists crowded the room, eager to see what fantastical ideas had made the great leap from theory to reality.

“I can’t imagine what could have possibly kept you from such an important event,” Charlotte observed, casting an interested eye on a new kind of typewriter that boasted a slimmer profile.

Farrow cast his eyes up to the long rows of windows near the ceiling. A gray light drifted lazily down, blanketing the room in a somber gloom. “I see you didn’t have a problem missing part of it,” he said, raising a gloved hand to vaguely indicate their destination in the back of the building.

In doing so, Farrow noticed something odd about his smallest finger. The little finger of his right hand was rotating, seemingly of its own accord, in steady clockwise circles. Startled and understandably disturbed, he dropped his hand back to his side and balled it into a fist. Thus occupied, the finger ceased all rotating motions.

Charlotte lifted her chin and gave Farrow a sidelong glance. He couldn’t be sure if she had seen anything had been amiss. “Oh, watching him bumble through that presentation was just too painful. You know how he is. He’s so very…” She trailed off and waved a hand in the air as if swatting away a troublesome fly.