The trolley's brass brakes sighed, and our carriage coasted to a halt before a townhouse that looked less constructed than machined. Cog-studs gleamed along every cornice; balcony railings meshed like clock-gears ready to tick the façade forward on the hour. Over the door an illuminated crest—two crossed slide-rules bestriding a rampant guinea pig—spelled GEARHART in ruby gas-glass.
From the shadow of a steam topiary waddled a pair of foot-bots: knee-high automatons with polished brogues where toes ought to be. Each carried a parchment scroll whose edges rotated in lazy circles, inked gears turning as if to remind the reader that Time—and, by implication, the Duchess—waited for no man.
One bot saluted, heel-plates clacking, and extended its scroll. A silver emboss read FAMILY SUMMONS WRIT—Immediate Compliance Required. The other bot produced a tin whistle and piped God Save the Guilds in precise, slightly judgmental staccato.
My stomach executed a modest loop-the-loop. "Mabel," I murmured, "am I to understand blood outranks brass?"
"Alas, sir," she replied, servo-voice warm as a coal-scuttle, "the consanguinity clause overrides provisional seals unless successfully contested within forty-eight hours."
"In other words," I said, tightening my grip on the wicker lunch hamper, "welcome home."
Gearhart House's vestibule resembled the lobby of a prosperous countinghouse that had married a museum of natural curiosities and produced offspring with a taste for gilt. Pneumatic message tubes laced the walls like gilt ivy; a marble floor inlaid with abacus beads clicked underfoot, tallying unknown sums each time a guest crossed a square.
At the far end of a red-marble runway stood Duchess Euphemia Gearhart, Aunt Effie to relation and revenue alike. She wore a chartreuse gown bristling with brass grommets, as though prepared to fasten herself to a passing locomotive at short notice. A monocle—half lens, half tape-measure—dangled from her collarbone; behind it one eye gleamed with predatory affection.
"My dear Harold! Come let your Auntie take stock—er, look—at you." She swept forward, trailing a scent of peppermint banknotes. Before I could bow (a safe one, I hoped—chapter ten of the booklet described Respective Flourishes Which Do Not Bind in Matrimony), Effie had looped the measuring-monocle about my forehead. Gears whirred; a ribbon unfurled past my nose.
"An inch taller than the census predicted," she chirruped. "Splendid. Height adds ten per cent at auction—hypothetically, of course." She put on a laugh like a theatre curtain—broad, velvety, and liable to crush anyone too near the footlights. "Now spin, dear. Investors adore a three-sixty view."
I performed a hesitant pirouette. Somewhere above, an overhead ticker-tape abacus clattered, its ivory beads scurrying left, right, then left again as if chasing runaway decimals.
Effie clasped her hands. "Mabel, darling mechanism, do park our treasure on that chaise. We've sums to discuss."
The Duchess gestured us to a coffee-table fashioned from a single sheet of smoked glass balanced on six calculating engines. Pistons tapped like impatient fingers. Mabel produced Lady Octavia's embossed Guardian Seal and placed it on a velvet coaster. The phoenix gear glittered.
Effie responded with theatrical grace, producing a parchment scroll so lengthy it required two foot-bots to keep the tail from tangling in the rugs. Crimson script across the top read BLOODLINE GUARDIANSHIP CLAIM—House Gearhart, Sub-Clause 7C, "Orphaned Gentle-Kin."
"Poor child," Effie sighed, patting my arm. "Bereft of proper family oversight, fending off conniving industrialists—why, it breaks the heart."
"Mistress Brasswell is hardly conniving," Mabel said, tone polite but iron-cored.
Effie's smile glinted. "Love, in this town good manners are a form of connivance."
She tapped the genealogy chart printed down the margin of her claim: every Gearhart ancestor embossed in gold leaf, my name newly inked at the terminus like a red-ink dividend. "As great-aunt of the first degree, I outrank provisional tutors. Law is frightfully fond of blood."
A respectful hush hovered. The abacus overhead clicked, final bead sliding hard right: decision rendered.
A silver-domed trolley arrived, propelled by a maid in green livery. Under the lid—fluffy scones, pots of clotted cream, and a document stack thicker than a bricklayer's lunch.
Effie sliced a scone, spooned jam with surgical precision, and began the recital.
"Clause One: Ward to reside at Gearhart House for the term of guardianship—presently indefinite. Clause Two: Weekly Rare-Chap Salons—select matrons may bid for dance allotments." She winked. "Harmless fun, poppet, and frightfully lucrative."
I attempted a courteous cough but produced a strangled beep.
"Clause Three: Ten per cent of all future patents filed by the ward to be held in trust—naturally, I shall manage diversification."
Mabel unfolded a slim card and slid it across the glass. Written in machine-perfect copperplate: Objection logged—Article 12, Male Autonomy in Intellectual Property.
Effie waved it off. "Yes, yes, we'll fine-tune percentages. Have a scone, Hal darling; the cream's locally sourced."
I took one out of manners; it tasted like betrayal dusted with icing sugar.
Swallowing treacle resentment, I dabbed crumbs from my collar. "Aunt Effie, I am honoured—truly—but the Male Protection Act grants a ward twenty-four hours' probation to deliberate terms. I would exercise that right."
Her eyes widened in theatrical dismay. "Twenty-four hours? My sweet boy, do you doubt Auntie's love?"
"Not at all. Only my ability to read seven hundred pages of legalese in under a luncheon."
Mabel added, "The ward requests workshop access during probation. Mistress Brasswell would consider such goodwill positively radiant."
Effie's brows arched. "The Gearhart workshops? Dangerous machines, dear."
"I promise not to duel any doors," I said.
She uttered another curtain-laugh. "Very well—tomorrow morning you may tour the light-tool annex. Supervised, naturally." She snapped her fingers; a clerk materialised from behind a potted topiary engine and jotted furious shorthand.
At a nod from Effie, double doors parted and revealed a steam-calculator the size of a baby elephant, brass ticker reels spinning in its glass belly. Two clerks cranked handles; numbers flickered on a projection screen:
Projected Five-Year Dowry Yield—H. Forsythe, Esq.
Base valuation: 14,000 crowns
Salon premiums: +6,500
Licensing forecasts: +12 % annually
Total: 31,780 crowns (≈ one mid-sized railway)
I choked on air. Effie dabbed playful tears with a lace kerchief. "Isn't arithmetic dreamy? We'll make a tidy nest egg for you, my dove."
For a moment the cream-and-scones salon blurred; I saw instead brass bars, each stamped with my name, clicking into a vault whose door slammed shut behind me.
Business concluded, Effie rang a bell. Two foot-bots reappeared, now fitted with cushioned manacles more decorative than restrictive— jewelled safety cuffs, they called them. Mabel's optics flashed a warning sapphire, but Effie tut-tutted.
"Guest-wing protocol, nothing sinister. A gentleman must rest after travel. Tailors arrive at dawn."
She kissed my cheek—fragrant banknotes once more—and swept from the room in a rustle of chartreuse ambition.
The bots ushered us along a gilt corridor to a suite whose comfort would shame a minor palace: four-poster bed, fireplace humming with gas-jet dragons, windows barred with filigreed iron for your security, sir. The lock clicked outside.
Mabel performed a slow perimeter scan. "Observation: bars are adamantine. However, ventilation grate appears negotiable."
"Splendid," I whispered. "Because if tomorrow's workshop tour fails to impress our hostess, I fear the grate may become our only exit."
Mabel's gears purred thoughtfully. "Sub-routine Practical Escapes engaged. Shall I order midnight cocoa while we plot?"
"Make it strong," I said, gazing at the barred moonlight striping the carpet. "We've a railway's worth of expectations to derail."
Outside, somewhere in the marble depths, the abacus ticked on, tallying profits in the dark.