Milloria snorted awake. She sat up, blinking muzzily. Her hair was clumped and tangled on one side, and a sheet of paper stuck to her face. Her glasses were askew, and it took her a moment to remember where she was.

  She looked around and smiled dimly as she batted away the paper and fixed her glasses. Her laboratory. Of course.

  Memory spiraled in through her sleep-addled brain. Suddenly she leapt to her feet and twisted, looking at her latest experiment. She scuttled over to another workbench.

  A complex assembly of glass bulbs and tubing loomed on the bench, held in place with clusters of thin brass rods and dozens of delicate clamps holding everything in place. In front of the array of tubes was a device, dense with wiring, surrounded by thick slabs of brass. It clicked and rattled gently as it worked. In the center of the device was a simple oil lamp, burning steadily. A long wick led from the lamp to a heavy jug of oil on the floor.

  Milloria's eyes lit with glee.

  "You're still burning," she said. "You finally stayed lit overnight. Let's see what we've captured."

  To one side of the flame was a glass cone. The device was drawing something from the flame into the cone. Milloria traced from the cone, along the glass tubes, through various purifiers, condensers, and devices to its termination: a simple glass bulb, teardrop-shaped, filled with a swirling brown mixture. It wasn't clear if the mixture was a liquid or a gas. It shifted and shimmered, throwing out a strange radiance, moving with a sinuous grace.

  Milloria giggled, biting her lip.

  "I've done it," she said quietly to herself. "I've done it!" She reached out and closed the valve on the bulb, then carefully detached it from the nest of glass tubing. She held it up in front of the light, transfixed by the swirling material with in. She shook it gently, watching the dance of light through the coils of rich brown.

  "Compressed phlogiston," she breathed. "Pure, perfect energy. Power without combustion."

  With a cackle, she carefully hurried over to a thick, heavy workbench. A model steam-engine was bolted to it, only a couple of feet long. It was a simple device, with a boiler, piston, and flywheel in a fixed frame. The boiler had a place underneath for a candle or lamp to heat the water into steam and drive the model.

  Milloria set the bulb of phlogiston in a brass stand and began working on the engine. She carefully removed the boiler with a moue of distaste. If this worked, she wouldn't need anything so crude as burning fuel to power her engine. She lifted another of her creations out of a box--a Faraday electromagnetic rotator--and carefully connected it to the engine with a series of wires. As a last step, she affixed the armature of the rotator to the flywheel. She wired in a knife switch, carefully leaving it open.

  With growing glee, she ran a pair of thick, crude wires from the rotator to the phlogiston. She carefully connected them, then stood back, taking in the assembly with shining eyes.

  It looked like a mess on the table, but if it worked...

  Milloria reached out and gingerly closed the knife switch.

  The device shot to life with shocking suddenness. The flywheel instantly spun up to an unmeasurable speed with a loud buzzing hum. The crankshaft clacked as it whirred in an invisible blur. The entire workbench rattled violently and began vibrating across the floor.

  "Oh!" was all Milloria had time to get out.

  With a terrific "bang!" the engine disintegrated explosively. The flywheel shattered, flinging shards of cast iron in every direction. The piston fired itself out of the cylinder. She would later find it embedded two feet into a nearby brick wall. The crankshaft twisted itself into a knot, came free of the mechanism, and pinged off into a dark corner of the lab.

  The heavy workbench stopped bouncing. The brass stand with the bulb of phlogiston, knocked loose by the rattling of the bench, rocked alarmingly. Milloria, eyes wide with terror, dashed over and caught the delicate bulb. She carefully set it back down.

  She stepped back and looked at the ruin of her experiment. The top of the workbench was deeply scarred now, with fresh, raw gouges in the thick wood. The frame of the engine bulged outward, the cast iron cracked and bent. What little remained of the mechanism was unrecognizably demolished.

  Milloria's eyes shone.

  "It's perfect," she said quietly to herself. "It's perfect!" she screeched, hopping around in a small circle. "I made compressed phlogiston!"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She cackled and hopped, burning off her excited energy. She stuck out her tongue and nervously chewed on it. Then she settled and turned her shining gaze to the distance, a far corner of the lab where a collection of dark shadows loomed.

  "Now I can power you," she said.

  Later in the dark evening, Edvar leaned back in his chair in the gambling-den and smiled lazily. Tobacco-smoke swirled in the air, jostling for smelling-space with the odor of cheap ale and indifferently-prepared meat.

  Edvar glanced at his cards and brushed some imaginary dust off his velveteen jacket.

  The three other men at the table, thick and dressed in overalls, sat forward, tense, glaring at their hands.

  Edvar ran a hand through his thick brown locks, then carefully sorted through his cards. He laid out a hand with a flourish and saucy grin.

  "Crowns and anchors," he said airily. "Unless one of you gentlemen can come up with a hand of fours, I believe this is my pot." He reached for the pile of money in the middle of the table. One of the men slammed his hand down on the pot and glared at Edvar.

  "You got uncommon good luck, dandy," he growled.

  Edvar's smile widened, and grew razor-sharp.

  "Oh, sir, surely you're not suggesting something? They're your cards, after all. You can't cheat with another man's deck."

  "You aristocrats," the man continued. "It's not enough you drain us dry with taxes and work us to bones, now you come and cheat us at cards."

  Edvar threw his head back and laughed.

  "You were happy enough to play hi-low when you thought I was an ignorant fop. I didn't force you to gamble. Just because I can play cards, you suddenly come over all sour. Well fie to you." Edvar moved the man's hand aside and began to collect his winnings. "Besides, like I said, you can't cheat with another man's deck."

  "Maybe you used some of that aristocratic sorcery."

  Edvar froze. His smile turned brittle, but his eyes grew cold.

  "What did you say to me?"

  The man gave a nasty grin.

  "I said what I said."

  Edvar's good humor vanished. He stood stiffly. The thick man stood as well, a crooked smile on his face. He flexed his burly hands.

  "I'd planned to save this for later in the evening," Edvar said, "but since you've decided to start handing around dangerous insults..."

  Without warning, Edvar's fist shot out as he rabbit-punched the man right in the eye. The man howled and launched himself at Edvar, his big hands open to grapple the young aristocrat.

  Edvar stepped aside and fired another blow at the side of the man's head. The man smashed into the wall behind Edvar. He stood back up slowly, shaking his head, and turned back to face his opponent.

  "One of the things I have always appreciated about the peasantry," Edvar said coolly, looking at his nails, "is your durability." He took a boxing stance. "I hate it when the fun ends too early."

  Chairs scraped across the battered wooden floor as the other two men stood.

  "Ah, more playmates," Edvar said, his grin widening.

  The thick man grabbed for Edvar again, but he danced away, out of reach. One of the others swung for him with a blow, as ponderous and powerful as a steam-locomotive. Edvar slapped the punch away with his left and jabbed the man with a quick strike to his short ribs. The man cried out and dropped to one knee.

  With his focus divided, Edvar didn't see the third man descending on him with a chair. The solid furniture smashed across his back, knocking him to the floor.

  "Ah!" Edvar cried, half in pain and half in glee. "Now we're getting into it!" From the floor, he kicked the chair-wielder in the shin, forcing a howl out of him, and crawled away.

  The thick man, recovered now, finally managed to get his hands on Edvar. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and yanked the young aristocrat to his feet.

  "Got you," he growled directly into Edvar's face.

  "Oh, did you fancy a kiss?" Edvar asked. "You're not really my type, but if you ask nicely--"

  With a roar, the man smashed Edvar into the wall, rattling every bone in his body. The second man swung again, connecting now with a stunning blow to the side of Edvar's head.

  Edvar crumpled to the floor, laughing, the side of his face already swelling.

  "Come now, gentlemen," he said, "I expected a bit more 'oomph' from the peasantry. Is this really the best you can manage?"

  The three closed in on him and began pummeling him mercilessly.

  Much later, Edvar scrabbled to climb the wall of the Polytechnic, his once-shiny shoes finding uncertain grip on the uneven brickwork. He managed to get just enough purchase to push his body over the top of the wall. He rolled over and dropped into one of the spiny gorse bushes on the inside.

  "Ow," he said.

  He lay in the bush for a minute, recovering. He looked at the full moon overhead. It was fuzzy in the murky sky.

  Slowly, he extracted himself and stood. He weaved for a moment. His face was bruised and swollen, and a line of caked blood traced from his nose. His jacket was ruined: shredded and torn.

  He dusted the shreds of his jacket and ambled toward the dormitory, aiming for the window he'd left open for himself earlier. With poor grace, he clambered in, tumbling onto the carpeting of the hallway. Bracing himself on the windowsill, he forced himself to his feet.

  "Ah, Mr. Pembroke. I suspected as much."

  Edvar froze. A smile grew on his face, straining his bruises. He straightened and whirled to see a stern, middle-aged man standing in the hallway, his arms crossed and a look of terminal disapproval on his face.

  "Housemaster Hensley!" Edvar said brightly. "Fancy meeting you here."

  "Indeed." Hensley's eyes narrowed, peering at the young man. "You come in past curfew, reeking of drink and looking as disreputable as an alley-dropping."

  "It's just my little hobby," Edvar said.

  "Your behavior reflects on our fine school," Housemaster Hensley said with no trace of humor. "Perhaps if your own good name and the image of the school are of no concern to you, your own flesh will be. Ten strikes with a cane. Report to the Dean's office tomorrow morning."

  Still weaving slightly, Edvar gave a sloppy salute. "I would be honored," he said.

  Housemaster Hensley turned and walked away in the middle of Edvar's performance, leaving him to make his way to his room alone.