Chapter 2 #3
“Perhaps you shouldn’t venture to headquarters today.
I’m sure the inspectors have yet to be assigned another case so soon, which means you shouldn’t have new gadget requests awaiting you just yet.
” Leaning across the dining table, Mama secured Margaret’s hand, which had fallen limp beside her abandoned cup.
“Your father and I fear you’re working yourself too hard.
It’s not as though you’re a paid employee, expected to labor for certain number of hours per day, lest you lose your position.
The lady inspectors have always been volunteers of independent means.
Yes, you’ve sworn an oath to the D.O.G.S.
, but you’ve liberty to take extended leave for recuperation.
The Widow, the Professor, your friends .
. . they care for you, dear one. They’ll understand if you need to rest.”
Once again, Margaret found herself grateful for the ability to speak freely with her parents about matters pertaining to the Daughters of Genuis Society.
Before she’d joined the D.O.G.S. five years ago, she’d explained the reality of her condition to Professor Quimby, the society’s acting chief, and made her terms for accepting the invitation to join quite clear.
If she was to swear the lady inspector’s oath, her parents had to know.
It was a matter of principle, not to mention practicality.
Given the nature of her chronic pain, she’d known becoming a lady inspector would affect her parents’ lives as much as her own.
Even with the understanding that she’d never lead cases or participate in fieldwork, the position of resident tinker would take a physical toll.
One she’d not be willing or, indeed, able to hide.
In making her case, Margaret had also presented her parents’ history of sterling moral character and experience in keeping peculiar secrets.
A covert team of lady inspectors, she’d reasoned, was hardly more unusual than Great-Grand’s flying clockwork owl machine.
Professor Quimby had presented Margaret’s terms to the society’s enigmatic founder known only as the Widow, and in an unprecedented ruling, she had conceded, granting Margaret’s parents special permission to take the society’s oath alongside her as lady inspector handlers.
Mama squeezed Margaret’s hand three times, a secret code between mother and daughter, passed down through the generations. Three gentle squeezes, three little words. I love you. “Shall I help you back to bed, dear one?”
Four gentle squeezes, four words of rebuttal. I love you more. “No, I’m sorry for upsetting you, Mama. I’m fine, truly. I . . . I’ll proceed with my schedule.” It was the only thing she could do. Keep to the well-oiled tracks of routine.
Rolling her chair manually to keep her arms warm and limber, Margaret ventured to the parlor.
Body nourished by a morning meal, she retreated to the piano for a minimum of two hours.
She approached the grand piano, gleaming in the sunlight pouring from the large bay windows.
The instrument had long ago been raised to accommodate her chair.
Tracing fingers along the familiar keys, she took a deep breath and released it slowly, willing the residual tension in her muscles to uncoil.
Aside from her work at the Daughters of Genius Society, the time Margaret spent at the piano was the part of her routine she enjoyed most. Though it didn’t provide the same sense of purpose as her tinkering, those hours immersed in melodies were vital.
Nothing else nourished spirit and soul quite like music.
Figaro leapt from Margaret’s lap and onto the piano with a jarring cacophony of notes.
White mittens strolled across the keys, playing a tune as endearing as it was dissonant.
Ah, to be as unbothered as a deaf cat composing a symphony.
Finishing his composition with a flourish and a satisfied meow, Figs climbed atop the piano and nestled among the automaton figurines waiting to provide her accompaniment.
One by one, Margaret wound up her inventions or, as she preferred to think of them, her fellow musicians.
The top-hatted hare on violin. The spatterdashed duck on flute.
The bow-tied turtle on accordion. And, of course, the frock-coated chipmunk on harpsichord.
One by one, the mechanical musicians came to life, commencing a performance of Mama’s favorite hymn, “Abide with Me.” The hare’s ears twitched as his bow flew across strings of silk.
The duck’s tail feathers waggled as the notes of his flute joined with the strings.
The turtle’s head raised and lowered within his shell as the accordion picked up the tune, and the chipmunk’s cheeks expanded and contracted like bellows as the harpsicord set up her cue to join the song.
Margaret’s fingers alighted on the keys at the beginning of the second verse, and as the song progressed, she could almost see the notes taking form in the air.
Like fragrant incense wafting heavenward, her praise was born of fire.
It burned, acknowledging the difficulties of life to the One who stood beside her in the flames instead of delivering her from them.
It ached, this daily choice to cling to God through music rather than push Him away.
Some days, clinging looked like pounding on His chest and on the keys in anger.
Some days, it took the form of drenching the hem of His garment and the ivories in tears.
But always, it concluded with thankfulness.
Because though the flames remained, so did He.
No matter how much she railed or doubted, He was steadfast. Sustaining her amid the trials of life.
Helping her to see the glimmers of beauty amid the ash and smoke.
As the hymn concluded and the mechanical musicians stilled, Margaret carried on playing through her repertoire of beloved hymns. She was transitioning to a classical piece by Haydn when the doorbell shushed the illustrious composition with a plebeian priiiiiiing.
Her fingers stumbled. Whoever could that be?
The Kingsleys rarely, if ever, received company.
Primarily because Margaret refused to invite her D.O.G.S.
sisters to the house, lest they discover the true extent of her condition.
Indeed, she much preferred for them to see her at headquarters, industrious in her workshop.
Where she felt the most useful . . . the most whole.
Not at home, where she exposed every weakness and fissure for tending, so that she might return to headquarters the next day appearing normal—just like the others—if only for a few hours.
Who, then, could be at the door so unexpectedly?
Curiosity thus piqued by this abnormality, Margaret rolled away from the piano and rotated toward the foyer.
“I’ve got it.” No point in their butler disturbing his gout when she was nearer the entry.
Positioning her chair along the wall to the left of the doorway, she pressed a particular section of white wainscoting, which gave beneath her finger with a click.
The door unlocked and swung open. A canine duo sat upon the stoop, most respectably, in matching red collars and capes.
Why, it was Professor Quimby’s dogs! Ignacios Quimby, the gold-and-white beagle, and Penelope Quimby, the chocolate-brown toy poodle—better known as the Daughters of Genius Society’s unofficial mascots, I.Q. and Penny.
Margaret shook her head, mind utterly boggled. “Whatever are you two doing here?”
I.Q. barked in a way that seemed to assure her all would be explained in due course and raised onto his haunches, revealing an envelope tucked inside the pocket of his tiny plaid cape.
Without hesitation, Penny removed the envelope with her teeth and trotted forward to place it in Margaret’s lap.
The canine duo stared at her expectantly, and Margaret lowered her gaze to the envelope.
The cream paper bore a cobalt-blue wax seal, featuring the D.O.G.S.
crest—the silhouettes of their very own I.Q. and Penny.
The very same crest featured on the cameo pinned to her bodice.
But that could only mean this was . . . but it couldn’t be a . . .
Penny yipped impatiently.
“All right, all right. I’ll open it, Penny.” Margaret broke the seal with a shaky finger and removed a very fine but completely blank piece of parchment.
Too stunned to believe her eyes, Margaret fumbled to remove the brooch from her blouse.
Once she’d succeeded, she grasped the pin and twisted it to the right, causing a monocle to emerge from its hiding place within the cameo.
Hand aquiver, she held the monocle over the blank page and words appeared, written in a special botanical ink only visible beneath the cobalt-blue lens.
The covert communication method had been a joint effort between her and Helena.
She blinked at the first three words, inked upon the paper.
You’ve been summoned . . .
This must be a mistake . . . or puckish Helena had grossly misjudged her annual April Fool’s prank. Margaret moved the monocle’s blue lens over the message.
You’ve been summoned to headquarters, by order of the Widow herself, to discuss a case requiring your expertise. Today, at a quarter past two. No, Inspector Kingsley, this is not one of Inspector Belgrave’s renowned April Fool’s pranks. Don’t be late.
Quite seriously,
Professor Quimby
The monocle slipped from Margaret’s grasp, and her jaw fell agape.
For her routine, on this most ordinary of Mondays, had just sprung a gasket.