The Difference Engine by William Gibson & Bruce Sterling

Sybil heard Hetty’s footsteps in the hall outside her room, and the rattle of Hetty’s key at the door. She let the serinette die down, with a high-pitched drone. Hetty tugged the snow-flaked woollen bonnet from her head, shrugging free from her Navy cloak. She was another of Mrs. Winterhalter’s girls, a big-boned, raucous brunette from Devon, who drank too much, but was sweet in her way, and always kind to Toby. Sybil folded away the china-handled crank and lowered the cheap instrument’s scratched lid. “I was practicing. Mrs. Winterhalter wants me to sing next Thursday.” “Bother the old drab,” Hetty said. “Thought this was your night out with Mr. C. Or is it Mr. K.?” Hetty stamped warmth into her feet before the narrow little hearth, then noticed, in the lamplight, the scattering of shoes and hat-boxes from Aaron & Son. “My word,” she said, and smiled, her broad mouth pinched a bit with envy. “New beau, is it? You’re so lucky, Sybil Jones!” “Perhaps.” Sybil sipped hot lemon-cordial, tilling her head back to relax her throat. Hetty winked. “Winterhalter doesn’t know about this one, eh?” Sybil shook her head and smiled. Hetty would not tell. “D’ye know anything about Texas, Hetty?” “A country in America,” Hetty said readily. “French own it, don’t they?” “That’s Mexico. Would you like to go to a kinotrope show, Hetty? The former President of Texas is lecturing. I’ve tickets, free for the taking.” “When?” “Saturday.” “I’m dancing then,” Hetty said. “Perhaps Mandy would go.” She blew warmth into her fingers. “Friend of mine comes by late tonight, wouldn’t trouble you, would it?” “No,” Sybil said. Mrs. Winterhalter had a strict rule against any girl keeping company with men in her room. It was a rule Hetty often ignored, as if daring the landlord to peach on her. Since Mrs. Winterhalter chose to pay the rent directly to the landlord, Mr. Cairns, Sybil seldom had call to speak to him, and less with his sullen wife, a thick-ankled woman with a taste for dreadful hats. Cairns and his wife had never informed against Hetty, though Sybil was not sure why, for Hetty’s room was next to theirs, and Hetty made a shameless racket when she brought men home — foreign diplomats, mostly, men with odd accents and, to judge by the noise, beastly habits. “You can carry on singing if you like,” Hetty said, and knelt before the ash-covered fire. “You’ve a fine voice. Mustn’t let your gifts go to waste.” She began to feed individual coals to the hearth, shivering. A dire chill seemed to enter the room then, through the cracked casement of one of the nailed-up windows, and for a strange passing moment Sybil felt a distinct presence in the air. A definite sense of observation, of eyes fixed upon her from another realm. She thought of her dead father. Learn the voice, Sybil. Learn to speak. It’s all we have that can fight them, he had told her. This in the last few days before his arrest, when it was clear that the Rads had won again — clear to everyone, perhaps, save Walter Gerard. She had seen then, with heart-crushing clarity, the utter magnitude of her father’s defeat. His ideals would be lost — not just misplaced but utterly expunged from history, to be crushed again and again and again, like the carcass of a mongrel dog under the racketing wheels of an express train. Learn to speak, Sybil. It’s all we have . . . “Read to me?” Hetty asked. “I’ll make tea.” “Very well.” In her spotty, scattered life with Hetty, reading aloud was one of the little rituals they had that passed for domesticity. Sybil took up the day’s Illustrated London News from the deal table, settled her crinoline about her in the creaking, damp-smelling armchair, and squinted at a front-page article. It concerned itself with dinosaurs. The Rads were mad for these dinosaurs, it seemed. Here was an engraving of a party of seven, led by Lord Darwin, all peering intently at some indeterminate object embedded in a coal-face in Thuringia. Sybil read the caption aloud, showed the picture to Hetty. A bone. The thing in the coal was a monstrous bone, as long as a man was tall. She shuddered. Turning the page, she encountered an artist’s view of the creature as it might have looked in life, a monstrosity with twin rows of angry triangular saw-teeth along its humped spine. It seemed the size of an elephant at least, though its evil little head was scarcely larger than a hound’s. Hetty poured the tea. ” ‘Reptiles held sway across the whole of the earth,’ eh?” she quoted, and threaded her needle. “I don’t believe a bloody word of it.” “Why not?” “They’re the bones of bloody giants, out of Genesis. That’s what the clergy say, ain’t it?” Sybil said nothing. Neither supposition struck her as the more fantastic. She turned to a second article, this one in praise of Her Majesty’s Artillery in the Crimea. She found an engraving of two handsome subalterns admiring the operation of a long-range gun. The gun itself, its barrel stout as a foundry stack, looked fit to make short work of all Lord Darwin’s dinosaurs. Sybil’s attention, however, was held by an inset view of the gunnery Engine. The intricate nest of interlocking gearwork possessed a queer beauty, like some kind of baroquely fabulous wallpaper. “Have you anything that needs darning?” Hetty asked. “No, thank you.” “Read some adverts, then,” Hetty advised. “I do hate that war humbug.” There was HAVILAND CHINA, from Limoges, France; VIN MARIANI, the French tonic, with a testimonial from Alexandre Dumas and Descriptive Book, Portraits, and Autographs of Celebrities, upon application to the premises in Oxford Street; SILVER ELECTRO SILICON POLISH, it never scratches, never wears, it is unlike others; the “NEW DEPARTURE” BICYCLE BELL, it has a tone all its own; DR. BAYLEY’S LITHIA WATER, cures Bright’s disease and the gouty diathesis; GURNEY’S “REGENT” POCKET STEAM-ENGINE, intended for use with domestic sewing machines. This last held Sybil’s attention, but not through its promise to operate a machine at double the old speed at a cost of one halfpenny per hour. Here was an engraving of the tastefully ornamented little boiler, to be heated by gas or paraffin. Charles Egremont had purchased one of these for his wife. It came equipped with a rubber tube intended to vent the waste steam when jammed under a convenient sash-window, but Sybil had been delighted to hear that it had turned Madame’s drawing-room into a Turkish bath. When the paper was finished, Sybil went to bed. She was woken around midnight by the savage rhythmic crouching of Hetty’s bed-springs.

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