Chapter Three
Silas had a lot on his mind as he bade farewell to Hiram and made his way from the C he admitted to himself. And it had just about broken his heart to see it wheeze out its last gasp just before Christmas last year. If he’d had time, he’d have tinkered with it, because it was too good a machine to just throw into the furnace.
That belief had led him to remove it quietly from the cart heading for the fire, and stow it away in a stockroom near his office at the Forge. Perhaps he should take a serious look at it...if he had time. And that, unfortunately, was the hitch in his plan.
The entire factory was going flat out, and he knew it would be damned hard to find any able tinkerer with the time to delve into the Mistletoe machine, let alone the skill to repair whatever had brought it to a grinding and fatal halt.
He sighed, and turned down the lane that led past the sixth-level Trammelbuggy Depot, toward home.
The rattle of the rails was comfortingly familiar, letting everyone know that another transport had unloaded its cargo and was now setting off on the upward journey.
Not much of a crowd tonight, observed Silas, just a few people scurrying off on their way home, and one or two strangers, looking around them, curious as always.
Why people came to the Undercroft for a visit, he had no idea.
Why didn’t they go up? Up to where the sun shone, the winds blew clean and fresh.
..where all the things that weren’t part of life down here could be enjoyed?
Silas sighed. People overall were a mystery to him. Always had been.
“Excuse me.” A voice from behind him made him stop and turn around. And raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Yes?”
“Could you tell me where I can find the local Central Cog Exchange? Is there one nearby?”
She was tall, quietly dressed, well-spoken, and—to his tired eyes—a breath of long-forgotten sunshine.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” he said, noticing her little entourage, which consisted of one small girl and one tickerkin. “There is a Central Cog Exchange one level up. I’m afraid we don’t have a public one down here.”
Her face fell, and she glanced at her companions, a worried frown creasing her brows. “Drat.”
What could he do? There was no other option at that moment, and he knew it was inevitable.
“If I might suggest a solution? It so happens that I have a small PCE in my home, if you would care to make use of it? I live nearby...”
The little girl and the tickerkin huddled closer to the woman, who glanced down at them, and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Gen. Thim and I will get you home, never fear.
” She turned back to Silas. “You are most kind, sir, and yes, we’ll accept your offer.
This young lady here has misplaced her mother, who is doubtless beside herself with worry.
If we could take advantage of your kindness, it would be extremely helpful. ”
“Of course,” he bowed slightly. “If you’d follow me...”
The little party set off, away from the Depot and along the cobblestone lane that had been hollowed from solid rock generations before.
There were lights in little alcoves, beautiful wrought-iron railings inset beneath them, and Silas always enjoyed his walk home, surrounded by the exquisite workmanship that defined so much of the sixth level.
“May I enquire as to what brought you here, Ma’am?” He shot a quick glance at the woman beside him, who seemed to be fascinated with everything she saw.
“The Trammelbuggy,” she answered absently. Then, her eyes opened wide. “Isn’t that a scrollbird?”
He suppressed his chuckle and glanced at the ornately decorated clockwork pigeon sitting on one of the railings.
“Yes, it is. There are a few down here. Mostly for the factory managers. Much easier to get messages to other factories, other warehouses, and so on, than sending runners all over the place.”
“Do you see it, Gen?” She leaned down to the little girl, who nodded, equally fascinated. “Do you know they can distinguish between a dinner invitation and a shipping manifest simply by the weight of the scroll they carry?”
Little Gen giggled. “You’re teasing me,” she replied, as the tickerkin’s eyes whirled from man to woman to the girl.
“She is quite correct,” said Silas, shooting a sideways glance at her. “And I find myself surprised at her impressive knowledge. Perhaps she might tell me her name?”
Their footsteps sounded loud in the quiet lane, and it was a few moments before she nodded. “Very well. I am...Thea. Um...Miss Thea Smith. This is Gen, and my tickerkin is called Thim.”
“Because he looks like her thimble,” added Gen, holding his claw in her hand.
“That’s an excellent name,” smiled Silas. “I’m Silas, Silas Gray. You’re very lucky to have a tickerkin, you know. They are getting quite scarce these days.”
“Why?”
“Good question,” replied Silas, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think the main reason is that tickerkins are very clever. And everybody wants one in their homes for all kinds of things. Sometimes there just aren’t enough of them to go around.”
“They are trustworthy and make good friends as well,” added the unlikely-named ‘Miss Smith.’
“Very true. I have a tickerkin myself, and we’ve known each other since...well, since I was not much older than you.”
“Does yours have a name?” Gen peeped up at Silas, her little face curious.
“Of course. All friends have to have names, don’t they? Otherwise, how would they know when they’re needed?” He smiled. “Mine came to me from my father, who named him Nelson. Apparently, there was a brave admiral with the same name, and my father loved the sea.”
“How charming,” said Dorothea quietly, her eyes on his face. “And do you still have him? Your tickerkin, not your father...”
“Yes, to both, as a matter of fact.” He slowed his steps and turned to his right, opening a wrought-iron gate and beckoning to them both to follow. “This is my home, so you will meet Nelson, Miss Gen. I hope your Thim will not mind being a guest, rather than a manager.”
“Tickerkins are adaptable, sir. As I’m sure you must know.”
The gentle rebuke amused him. “Indeed, Miss Smith. You’ve the right of it.
” He stopped on his front doorstep, standing on a soft mat and reaching upwards with his right hand.
He tapped in his private code onto the gear panel just below the portico, and with a faint hiss the door swung open onto darkness.
“Nelson,” he said quietly. “We have guests.”
A rumbling sound emerged from within, and suddenly brilliant light shone out, silhouetting a figure which resembled a large cat.
“Good evening, Mr Silas and guests. Please enter.”
“Your tickerkin’s a talking cat?” Gen gasped.
“Why not?” grinned Silas. “They come in all shapes and sizes, you know.” He watched Nelson as Thim rumbled over the doorstep and into the house with its humans.
To his relief, Nelson completely ignored it.
“Well, here we are. Please be comfortable for a few moments, and then I’ll show you to the PCE.”
“Thank you,” answered Miss Smith quietly. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”
He nodded, then took himself off to hang up his leather apron and quickly change his shirt. While he did so, his mind turned over his conversation with this odd little group.
If that young woman’s name was “Smith”, he’d eat his antique gear collection. Hmmm...it might be interesting to find out who she really was. The fact that he’d always had a “thing” for blue eyes had nothing to do with it, of course...
*~~*~~*
He was devastatingly handsome, thought Dorothea, trying not to let her awe show.
He had none of the superficial airs and graces so loved by the upper levels, but his natural charm and politeness were evident.
He was intelligent, his speech betraying none of the Undercroft accent or expressions she might have expected.
Tall, with long dark hair tousled from a day’s work, a muscular body typical of someone with a very physical job, and brown eyes that glinted gold in lamplight.
Those eyes twinkled at her as he returned with a little plate of sweet treats. “I’ve turned on the steamer, so a cup of tea will be forthcoming.” He looked at Gen. “Do you like tea, Miss Gen?”
She shook her head as her eyes drifted to his tray. “No, but I like biscuits.”
“Perhaps a small mug of milk if you have any,” said Dorothea. “Pairs well with biscuits.”
His laugh was warm and genuine, and although she didn’t want to admit it, quite charming.
“Coming right up.”
A little hand tapped Dorothea’s arm, and she looked down. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”
“Very kind. A true gentleman. We were lucky to meet him, Gen. Let’s hope we have the same luck getting a message to your Mama.”
The child nodded, her mouth full of biscuit.
Unable to resist, Dorothea took one too.
And her first bite told her they were homemade, fresh, and mouthwateringly delicious.
Another check mark in the approval column.
She had to make that connection through his Personal Cog Exchange unit very soon, and then whistle the two of them out of there before he intrigued her any further.
“Tea,” Silas announced, walking in with a tray. “And milk for Milady.” He offered a mug to Gen with a bow, making her giggle.
“We do not want to inconvenience you, Mr Gray.”
“You aren’t, not at all. It has been quite some time since I’ve had the pleasure of company for my tea, so this is most delightful.”