CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The principle of a steam engine was simple. A coal-fired boiler heated water till it produced steam that flowed into a cylinder. Cooling the steam created a partial vacuum so that normal air pressure rammed the piston down into the cylinder. A crossbeam translated that movement into power, usually to operate a water pump. David knew the principles inside and out. It was the details that were tricky, especially when a man was trying to build a better engine.

Burning coal had already raised the water in the boiler to the boiling point, so David nervously checked over the other components of his model. The insulated cylinder and pump looked fine, as did the condenser and piping that connected the components.

Nonetheless, David worried. This was a jury-rigged engine, thrown together as quickly as possible to test his theory that a separate condenser would be far more efficient at cooling steam than Newcomen's method of spraying cold water in the cylinder, which wasted huge amounts of heat. Sarah had calculated that only one percent of the energy was used effectively. Surely David could build an engine that did better than that.

"This engine will work a fair treat, sir," Peter Nicholson a.s.sured him.

The youth had proved to be an apt a.s.sistant, willing to labor long hours and having deft hands for mechanical work. He was as excited as David, and he wasn't the only one. A dozen other mechanics, craftsmen, and urchins from the neighborhood were crowded into the workshop to see the test. Their fellowship and support made David feel like part of a community for the first time since his childhood.

"Let 'er rip," Gaffer Lewis said around his pipe. "If 'er don't work, ye'l just have to build another."

There was general laughter. All of these men had experienced failures as well as successes. They would celebrate if David's engine worked, and offer sympathy and practical advice if it didn't.

Sarah should be here, too. Without her calculations and patient explanations, David never would have fully grasped the principles of heat, steam, and evaporation. But he had sent her back to the house earlier, before the boiler was stoked up. Though the chance of an accident was slim, neither of them wanted to risk the health of the precious babe she carried.

"Start the engine, Peter," David ordered.

Peter complied with a dramatic flourish, pulling down the handle that opened the valve and allowed steam to rush into the cylinder. With hisses and clanks, the piston rammed into the cylinder. A cheer broke out from the watchers as the crossbeam began pumping up and down. "She works, sir!" Peter said jubilantly as the pounding piston found a steady, powerful rhythm.

"That she does!" David watched the hammering crossbeam and exulted in the clamor of his engine. Even without measuring, he knew that his engine would be able to pump water from a flooded mine far more efficiently than the Newcomen engine. And how many other uses might clever men find for such a source of power?

He frowned as a high-pitched hiss joined the sounds of bubbling water and clanging metal. Could there be a leak? He moved toward the engine to turn it off.

Kaboom! The cylinder exploded and chunks of bra.s.s flew about the room.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" David dived behind the worktable for protection. Even as metal smashed into walls and furniture and the sharp sound of shattering gla.s.s filled the room, the other men were doing the same. Thank G.o.d Sarah wasn't here!

When the only sound left was the hissing of the boiler as it pumped steam into the room, David cautiously raised himself to a crouch. "Is everyone all right?"

Voices spoke up attesting to their safety. Peter's head appeared above the other table. "We were lucky," he said, his voice unsteady. As the man closest to the engine, he had been at the greatest risk.

"Very lucky." The dry, cultivated voice came from near the doorway. "But your engine does indeed work. Congratulations, Mr. White."

Recognizing the voice with a sinking heart, David scrambled to his feet. "Lord Falconer? I didn't know you were coming today. I'm sorry for . . . for this." He waved a hand to indicate his workshop. As near as he could tell, the window facing the house was broken and tools had been knocked to the floor, but the damage didn't look too bad. The model engine was a disaster of fractured metal and twisted pipes, though.

"You mentioned in your last note that you would be testing today, and I didn't want to miss that." Falconer was dressed plainly, more like an advocate than a lord, but his aristocratic presence was unmistakable. When he crossed the room, the other men withdrew warily. They weren't used to seeing earls in workshops.

Falconer eyed the wreckage critically. "Where did you get the cylinder? It looks like cast metal rather than a machined piece."

"You're right, my lord. I borrowed the cylinder from Jeb Hitchen here." David nodded at a silver-haired man, a metal caster from two streets over. "I'm sorry, Jeb, I'l replace it."

Hitchen shrugged. "There must have been a weakness in the casting or it wouldn't have failed. 'Twas worth it to see your engine working."

"The pressure was too high for that cylinder." David forced himself to meet the earl's gaze. "I was impatient to see if the design worked, so I cobbled this model together. If I'd taken the time to build the lathe and machine a cylinder properly, this wouldn't have happened. At least, I hope it wouldn't," he added punctiliously.

Falconer gave a surprising grin. "If I'd spent as long developing this engine as you, I'd be impatient, too. But now that you know the principle is sound, perhaps you should spend more time on the next model. And add a pressure relief valve."

"Yes, sir!" David said fervently. He touched the chain that connected the crossbeam to the piston. "But ' twas a pretty sight while it worked, wasn't it?"

"That it was."

"David, what happened?" Sarah had arrived, drawn by the noise. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening as she looked at the ruined engine. "Oh, dear!"

"No harm was done," Lord Falconer said. "And your husband has proved that he can take the steam engine to a whole new level of efficiency." He glanced at David. "Though you might want to experiment using lower pressures at first."

"Aye." Now that alarm over the explosion had died down, David realized that his design had succeeded. It had worked! Today, in a small way, the world had changed, and he was a step closer to dressing Sarah in silk and lace.

Falconer was studying the engine with interest. "Mind if I take a closer look? It looks as if you've made some refinements on your original plans."

"I did, sir. See how cold water circulates in the jacket of the condenser?" As David explained, Falconer and the other men gathered around, asking questions and tossing out opinions. In no time at all, the neighborhood craftsmen had forgotten they had an earl among them. What mattered was that Falconer had the makings of a fair to middling engineer.

When the library door opened, Meg didn't bother looking up from her book. "You can set the tea tray on the table, Hardwick."

"Yes, ma'am," a deep voice said.

Startled, Meg glanced up to see Simon placing the tray on the table. "I saw Hardwick coming this way with the tea, so I had him double everything." Simon poured two cups of China tea and handed one to Meg. "Having spent a vigorous afternoon discussing David White's steam engine, I felt in need of sustenance."

Meg laughed as she stirred sugar into the delicate porcelain cup. "I take it you decided to watch the test. Did it go well?"

"Well enough, except that it exploded after two or three minutes."

Meg halted, the teacup halfway to her mouth. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No, but there would have been a few injuries if I hadn't been there." Simon sat in the chair opposite. "Now I know why intuition was urging me to go see the test. I arrived just as the engine was started. When it exploded, I was able to shield everyone from injury. There's quite a community of engineers and inventors nearby, so he had a good audience."

"Is Mr. White's design flawed?"

"No, he just built this model in haste to see how it would work. I suggested that he build his next model to higher standards of quality. He agreed rather fervently."

"I wonder if today's explosion was the possible death I saw for Mr. White?" Meg said thoughtfully. "I'd like to think the danger is past now."

Simon hesitated. "Perhaps. But my feeling is that there might be other threats in the future."

Before Meg could ask Simon to elaborate, his secretary, Jack Landon, opened the library door. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have visitors you'l want to see as soon as possible."

Landon stepped aside to allow a couple to enter the library. Simon rose and went to meet his guests with a broad grin. "Duncan, you're in London ahead of schedule!"

The other man laughed as they shook hands. "You're losing your touch, Simon. You should have known when I would arrive before I left Scotland!"

Meg studied Macrae with interest. He bore little resemblance to his pet.i.te, redheaded sister. Tall and dark and broad, he radiated force. It was easy to imagine him calling a lightning strike if he was displeased. Simon looked lean and elegant by comparison, but there was an interesting sense of balance between the two men.

"Where is my G.o.dson, Gwynne?" Simon asked as he kissed the cheek of the woman obscured behind Macrae's large frame.

"With Jean and Lady Bethany, being spoiled abominably," she said with a laugh.

Simon turned to Meg. "Here are Duncan Macrae and Gwynne Owens, of whom you've heard so much. They are more formally known as Lord and Lady Ballister, though it pains Duncan to admit to an English t.i.tle."

Gwynne Owens moved around her husband to approach Meg with a smile. "I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Falconer."

Meg's jaw dropped when she had a clear view of the other woman. "I . . . I'm sorry to stare," she stammered. "I had heard that you are an enchantress, but I didn't truly understand what that meant."

Though Meg had known an enchantress could steal male wits, no one had mentioned that Gwynne Owens could rivet the attention of females as well. Meg managed enough objectivity to realize that despite shimmering red-gold hair and a splendidly female figure, the other woman wasn't truly beautiful. But she had a magnetism that drew the eye, and her strong, less than perfect features were memorable in a way that mere beauty was not.

Gwynne made a face at Meg's expression. "I think I had better reduce my allure. This is an interesting power to have, Lady Falconer, but often a nuisance."

Meg sensed the other woman make a subtle magical shift. While there was no visible change in Gwynne' s appearance, she was no longer as compelling. Attractive and interesting, but it was possible to look away from her. "How . . . interesting." Meg tried to sound matter-of-fact. "I would ask how that is done, but I'l never need to know."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Lady Falconer." Duncan bowed with a grace surprising in a man so broadly built. "You also have a touch of the enchantress in you."

"I noticed that rather quickly myself," Simon agreed. "Though Meg is fortunate enough not to have so much allure that it causes trouble." He smiled at Gwynne, and Meg realized that he was more than fond of his friend's wife. Not in an improper way, but he was not immune to her magnetism.

Simon continued, "Meg, Duncan and I have matters to discuss. Will you mind if he and I withdraw to my study while you and Gwynne become better acquainted?"

"I would like that," she said sincerely.

"As would I." Gwynne made a shooing motion with her hand. "You gentlemen can take yourselves off now. Lady Falconer and I have much to learn about each other."

As the men left, Gwynne turned to Meg. "Jean told me of your experiences. Though our situations were different, there are similarities. I came into my power late and in a great rush, while you were denied real access to your power until you were a grown woman. Jean thought I might have some useful insights on adjusting to power as an adult." She smiled. "Though she also says that you are mastering your powers with amazing dexterity, so perhaps my thoughts aren't needed."

"I'm interested in anything you have to say that might be useful, but please, call me Meg. I am not yet accustomed to being a countess."

"It's healthier not to become attached to t.i.tles, I think." Gwynne subsided gracefully onto the sofa. "In Scotland, everything is more informal, so call me Gwynne. No one calls me Lady Ballister except when we visit London."

Meg's attention was caught by the way the other woman's skirts fell into flawless folds. "Is it part of enchantress magic that even your gown behaves perfectly?"

Gwynne eyed her elegant gown with surprise. "Perhaps. To be honest, I never noticed that before. Magic is so full of quirks and corners. It's been three years since I came into my power, and I still feel like a novice sometimes. Is it that way for you?"

"I . . . I don't know if that is how I would describe it." Meg searched for the right words. "My magic doesn't seem new or strange, though using it is a constant surprise. I have more trouble with the idea of being a Guardian. Everyone has been so kind, and yet I feel as if I'm an outsider. Not one of you. I . . . I 'm sorry if that sounds rude."

"No need to apologize." Gwynne tilted her head consideringly. "I think one's sense of self depends on how one is raised. I had no power to speak of, but I grew up in the heart of the Guardian establishment. Though my mother was a mundane, I always felt like a member of the Families, albeit an untalented member. You're the opposite. Magic has pulsed through your veins since you reached womanhood, yet the society of Guardians is new to you. It will become more comfortable with time."

"What if I am not a real Guardian?" Meg asked softly. "Simon and Lady Bethany seem to think I am, but what if I find my family and I'm not of Guardian blood?"

"To be a Guardian is to have power and swear to use it on behalf of others. You are already a Guardian, even if you are not of the Lineage. Isabel de Cortes, an ancestor of Duncan's, was one of the greatest mages of her time and she came from a family of Spanish mundanes." Gwynne paused. "Now that I think of it, have you taken the oath yet, or has that been forgotten amidst all the turmoil?"

Meg blinked, startled. "I have sworn no oath. No one has asked me to."

"That will have to be taken care of, after you've studied the oath and have time to think about the implications," Gwynne said seriously. "The vows are a magical binding and should not be made casually. Not that the oath itself compels obedience-there have always been rogues like Drayton who have forsworn themselves and committed crimes. You should . . ." She stopped with a wry smile. "As a scholar, I'm quite prepared to give you a boringly long lecture on the subject, so don't encourage me!"

"I would like to hear your lecture, but first I have a favor to ask." Meg moved forward to the edge of the chair. "Jean says you're one of the finest scryers in Britain. Would you be willing to see if you can discover something about my family?"

"Of course." Gwynne reached into a pocket hidden in a seam of her overskirt and pulled out a velvet drawstring pouch. Inside was a smoky, translucent disk set in a silver frame. "This was Isabel de Cortes' s own scrying gla.s.s," she explained. "It's made of obsidian and I can feel her energy in it still."

Meg admired but didn't touch. Her tutors had taught that scrying gla.s.ses were very personal. "Jean says that one day you will sit on the council."

"Perhaps. Scrying is a particular gift of mine," Gwynne admitted. "But Simon is also extremely good. If he has been unable to learn anything about your family, I don't know if I can do better."

"Please try." Thinking it might help to know more, Meg added, "I'm reasonably sure that I come from the borderland between England and Wales. I . . . I can almost remember my mother. She thought I was a proper hoyden. But I can recall no more."

Gwynne smiled at the description before she relaxed, her gaze resting lightly on the obsidian disk. Then she swore under her breath. "The path is blocked. I can feel Drayton's energy. He's a nasty piece of work."

Meg exhaled, disappointed but not surprised. "He has separated me from my past in all ways. Have you ever met him?"

"Once or twice at social affairs. He seemed . . . neutral. A certain superficial charm, but not particularly interesting or powerful. However, that was before I came into my own power, so it's not surprising that I had no sense of his darker side."

"Most of the council members don't consider him a threat, so you were not alone," Meg said bitterly. "He claims that I was an injured, addled girl whom he rescued and sheltered from the goodness of his heart. The idea makes me want to spit."

"It's insult to injury," Gwynne agreed. She contemplated the scrying gla.s.s again. "I can't see your past directly, but perhaps I can find out something by looking more broadly." Her gaze slipped out of focus. "There are no details, but I do feel that you have strong family connections. You're no orphan. When and if you find your way home, you will be welcomed." She glanced up from the gla.s.s. "I hope that helps."

Meg closed her eyes, blinking against the sting of tears. You will be welcomed. "That does help. Thank you."

Tactfully ignoring the tears, Gwynne said, "According to Jean, you have the ability to move physical objects?"

"Yes, but it's a small talent of little practical value." Though Meg still couldn't raise much weight, it took much less effort to do it. Only a moment's concentration was needed to lift her quill pen from the table. She swooped it over to Lucky, who was snoozing in an upholstered chair. Sleeping was his favorite activity.

Carefully Meg used the feather end of the quill to tickle his nose. The small cat woke with a start, then leaped on the quill, tail lashing, and wrestled it to the chair seat.

Gwynne laughed. "How marvelous! Duncan can move clouds and shape winds, but I don't know if he could lift a solid object like that." She leaned forward to scratch Lucky's head. "I have a cat, too, but he' s half Scottish wildcat and quite fearsome."

"Lucky is a lover, not a fighter," Meg said as the cat rolled onto his back, purring and paws waving under Gwynne's expert ministrations. "I'm told I have great power, but I don't seem to have any distinctive talents, like you and Duncan and Simon."

"Not everyone does, but you do have a vast amount of sheer, raw magic. When you can fully command it, you will be formidable."

"Which is why I was so important to Lord Drayton," Meg said glumly. "He used me as his reservoir."

"He doesn't have you now, and he will live to regret what he has done. I guarantee it." Gwynne smiled, her tone lighter. "Are you ready for that lecture on the Guardian oath now?"

"Yes, although what I need most is dancing lessons," Meg said ruefully. "Lady Bethany's ball is almost here, and I've been worried into knots about it. What to wear. How to face so many curious Guardians who will know more about me than I know about them. Worst of all, worry about seeing Lord Drayton again."

"How dreadful to face your first ball with so much on your mind!" Gwynne exclaimed. "May I help in some way?"

Impressed by the other woman's generosity, Meg said, "Despite my complaints, the gown is no longer a problem, since Lady Bethany made sure that I now have one that is quite lovely. I met Drayton at the council hearing and survived, and plenty of Guardians looked me over there, so that's not so bad. But now my mind has enough s.p.a.ce to worry about the fact that I can't dance! My first grand ball, I'm a guest of honor, and I can't even manage a simple country dance." She had seen Drayton's tenants dancing at harvest festivals, but no one had included Mad Meggie in the festivities. "Since it takes months to learn proper dancing, I shall restrict myself to conversation."

"That won't do! This is your ball, and you should enjoy it," Gwynne said firmly. "With magic, I should be able to teach you the basics of dancing. There is a specific kind of mind-touch that allows one person to send memories or knowledge to another. Simon could do this for you, but better you receive the lesson from a woman since that's the part you'l be dancing." She lifted her hand. "With your permission?"

"Please."

Gwynne placed her palm on Meg's forehead and closed her eyes. A rush of energy poured through Meg, sparkling with brightness like golden fish leaping through a rippling stream, except that the flashing glints were images and words instead of fish. Left hand turn . . . back to back . . . grand chain . . . down the middle and back . . . "Oh, my," she breathed, enjoying the vibrant cascade.

Gwynne maintained contact for what seemed like a long time, with interesting, subtle shifts in the energy she was sending. When she took her hand away, she said, "That seemed to work rather well. Do you feel that you've learned anything?"

"Did you send four different dances?" Meg asked. "I feel as if my mind is full of shadow dances, but they aren't quite real."

"That's because dancing is so physical. I gave you only a few of the most common dances, though from knowing those, you will be able to pick up others easily." Gwynne looked thoughtful. "You need a session of real dancing so that what is in your head can become fixed in your body as well."