A/N: This is my story for Kahlan Aisling's "Steampunk" challenge. Am I right that there really isn't any definitive time period for steampunk? I wasn't sure whether to put this in the Victorian age or the 1920s, so I made it kind of vague—sorry about that. Whenever it is, Mr. Benedict's house is fairly new and they have telegraphs. My scene is the talk between Reynie & Mr. B that begins on page 86 of the first book. I always call him 'Reynard' in this because it just seems more…steampunk-y—same reason I gave Mr. Benedict a monocle instead of a pair of spectacles. Since this is a oneshot, it's not much of a story. Just a scene. Oh, and I didn't know of any canon surname for Pencilla, so I made it "Ticonderoga."
Disclaimer: Technically, I do own the Mysterious Benedict Society - it's right there on my bookshelf.
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Reynard crept silently down the dark hallway. With the absence of people and sound, everything seemed to be thrown into greater focus: He could see the shininess of the walls and the well-polished floor. He walked down the stairs and into a second hallway, this one with a little more light leaking into it. He finally reached the door to Mr. Benedict's study and stood outside for a moment, listening to the odd mechanical click…click-click…click…click-click…click…click… before knocking.
"Please come in, Reynard."
Reynard gave a start. How had he known?
He turned the ornate doorknob and walked into the room. With a sound like a giant bumblebee, Reynard saw a chain spinning around two wheels swiftly with the movement of the door. The chain was connected all across the wall and around to Mr. Benedict's chair, which seemed to turn to face him of its own accord.
"Have a seat, will you, while I clear some of this away?" Mr. Benedict's voice echoed strangely in the small study. He was sitting in the chair, looking as odd as ever in his green jacket, green trousers, and monocle—an appearance which was strengthened by the brass helmet he wore attached to the chair. He began to arrange the various papers and inkwells on his round cherry wood desk into stacks and pulled a strange device from below the desk. He swept something in a circular motion and placed one stack of papers into it, before sweeping it into the desk. Reynard looked at this device in puzzlement until he realized that it was a chest of drawers—a circular chest of drawers that all met in the center. There were two layers of these drawers.
For the first time, Reynard noticed Mr. Benedict's feet. They were moving side-by-side in a perpetual winding motion, as if he were pedaling an invisible bicycle below the desk; this was the source of the clicking sound. The movement suddenly changed direction so that they were going counterclockwise, and something moved out of the shadows behind the door.
It was another chair, this one attached by a metal bar to the floor and sliding through a groove over to face Mr. Benedict, presumably controlled by the mechanism he was pedaling. He looked at it expectantly. Reynard sat in it with some hesitation, glancing around the room as he did so. Who was this eccentric man with all these strange contraptions?
"It is a rather awkward business," said Mr. Benedict, "Constantly pedaling as I work at my desk. But that is my compromise with Miss Kazembe and Miss Ticonderoga. They've grown overprotective, I'm afraid, and can hardly stand to leave me alone for a minute. Thus, I promise to remain in my machine whenever possible during my work in exchange for privacy. It keeps me from falling asleep, you see."
"What happens if you stop pedaling?" said Reynie.
"I'll show you," Mr. Benedict replied. His feet stopped moving.
The oil lamp snuffed itself out.
Mr. Benedict began to pedal again, but the light did not return. "Would you please relight my lamp, Reynard?"
"Of course, sir." Reynard walked over to the lantern mounted on the wall and removed the chimney. He picked up one of the matches from the tray next to the door and struck it, lighting the wick. He quickly replaced the chimney. "Would you like me to adjust it?" he said, looking at the pitiful little flame.
"That will not be necessary." Reynard heard the sound of Mr. Benedict's feet picking up speed, and to his astonishment the light became brighter.
"Sir…" Reynard returned to his chair. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, where did you go to school?" He wondered where anyone could learn to make devices like these.
Mr. Benedict removed his monocle. "I do mind your asking that particular question, Reynard, as a matter of fact."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Reynard hastily.
"That's quite alright. Let's just say I had a rather extraordinary education."
"Yes, sir." But he couldn't help asking one more question. "How did you know it was me when I knocked, sir?"
Mr. Benedict gestured at an elaborate contraption behind his desk; it appeared to be a series of glass tubes and small metal mirrors. After a moment, Reynie realized what it was—it was a method of looking through the tiny looking glass in the door without turning away from Mr. Benedict's work. Ingenious!
"But I've been expecting you, as well," Mr. Benedict went on. "I imagine you wish to contact Miss Perumal and apprise her of your situation."
"Yes, sir."
"You're very good to think of it. Miss Ticonderoga told me how you resisted her attempts to befuddle you on the same matter earlier. I assume you realize her deceptions were another aspect of the testing?"
"Yes, sir."
"You behaved admirably—polite but steadfast, and with appropriate consideration. Now, I'm afraid you can't compose your telegram this time, either, but it has nothing to do with being tested. As it happens, Miss Perumal telegrammed while you were being shown to your room—this house has its own telegraph, you see. Her mother, it seems, has had an unfortunate reaction to her new medicine, and Miss Perumal found it necessary to take her to the hospital. She begs you not to worry, it's only a mild reaction and the physician assures her that her mother will be spry as a robin come morning. But she wanted you to know how proud she is of you—proud but not surprised, she said—and sends you her best regards.
"And now," he continued, replacing his monocle on his left eye, "I will anticipate your other questions. First, I've made all the necessary arrangements with Mr. Rutger at the orphanage: We have considerable skills and resources here and can do many things you might not expect. And second, on a more solemn note: No, you won't be able to contact Miss Perumal again. I'm afraid the urgency of our mission, and its necessary secrecy, forbids it. It is for Miss Perumal's protection as well as your own. But if all goes well—which is, of course, our most desperate hope—you will see her again. Indeed, if our mission is to succeed, it must do so very quickly, and so with luck your reunion will be sooner rather than later."
"Yes, sir," Reynard said again, though not quite as bravely this time. He had suspected this might be the case, but it still saddened him to think that he might not ever share a cup of tea with his tutor again, or even attempt to tell her (in his rather limited French, a language which she had been teaching him)* about his adventures. He was sad, and more than a little afraid.
"I am sorry, Reynard," said Mr. Benedict kindly.
"Yes, sir." Reynard didn't look at him just yet, and instead became extraordinarily interested in the old inventor's ever-pedaling feet.
"Now, I have a question for you."
Reynard looked up at Mr. Benedict again and waited for his question. The man gazed into his eyes appraisingly for several seconds, and then he said, "Reynard, please turn the lever behind the door."
Reynard stood and walked over to the door, and only then did he notice what was behind it. There was a copper lever that stuck out of a slot in the floor, and beyond that was total darkness. The oil lamp illuminated this small area of space, but there was something much vaster drowned in darkness behind the lever. He slid it over to one side, and immediately the clicking and cranking of Mr. Benedict's pedals was multiplied a hundredfold, emanating from inside the ceiling, walls and floor. Mr. Benedict's pedaling slowed momentarily, and Reynard saw a look of effort pass over his face, but then something drew his attention back to the darkness.
All around, for several yards ahead, more and more oil lamps were lighting up, and something was moving along the ceiling—which Reynard now realized was much, much higher than he had previously thought. Within seconds the boy was staring in awe at a momentous library; a huge, airy room with a two-person desk in the middle of it and walls lined with impossibly high shelves, on which were stacked rows and rows of books.
Mr. Benedict chuckled at the Reynard's open-mouthed gape. "So... What do you think?"
"It's incredible!" he exclaimed. "Did you collect all of these books yourself?"
"Impressed, are you? Well, thank you, my boy. It did take awhile to install. I call it my Hall of Dwarrowdelf."**
Reynard was baffled by this nonsensical name, but he didn't mention it.
"Look on the desk," said Mr. Benedict. "Tell me the first thing you think of."
Reynard let his eyes drop to the plain desk and chairs in the middle of the room, and for the first time he noticed what was on it: a chessboard, made of marble, with ivory pieces. One of the black pawns had been moved forward two squares. "The test," he said at once. "The question from the first test."
"Correct," said Mr. Benedict with a smile. "Regarding that particular question—you, Reynard, happen to be the only child ever to answer that question correctly, and I should like to hear your explanation for it. The board clearly shows that only one black pawn is out of its starting position, while all of the other pieces and pawns rest on their original squares. Yet according to the rules of chess, the white player always moves first. Why, then, did you say the position was possible?"
"Because the white knight may have changed its mind."
Mr. Benedict raised his eyebrows. "The white knight?"
"Yes, sir. The pawns can only move forward, never backward, so none of the white pawns could have moved yet. And most of the pieces are trapped behind the pawns because only knights can jump over things, so they couldn't have moved yet either. But a white knight might have opened the game by jumping out in front. Then, after the black pawn was moved, the knight returned to its original square—so it looks like the white player never moved at all."
"Bravo, Reynard! You're quite correct. Now tell me,"—he removed his monocle again to look directly at Reynard—"would you consider this a good move?"
"I'm not a very good chess player, but I would say not. By starting over, white loses the advantage of going first."
"Why, then, do you think the white player might have done it?"
Reynard considered, standing in the flickering light cast by the many oil lamps. He imagined himself moving out his knight only to bring it right back to where it had started. Why would he ever do such a thing? At last he said, "Perhaps because he doubted himself."
"Indeed," said Mr. Benedict, scrutinizing him a moment longer before fitting his monocle back into place. "Perhaps he did. Thank you, Reynard, you've been very kind and very patient, and I'm sure you're ready for a night's sleep. If you'll just flip that lever back into place—I'll see you at breakfast, bright and early."
As Reynard watched the light dim and go out, he said, "Mr. Benedict? One more question."
"Yes, Reynard?"
"Sir, have you read all the books in this library?"
Mr. Benedict smiled, glancing fondly about at the darkness in which the many leather-bound tomes were lying in wait before looking at Reynard again. "My dear boy," he said, "what do you think?"
Reynie pondered his answer, and the affair with the white knight, as he left the study. Perhaps he doubted himself... He thought of his own misgivings and fears, and of his new friends. He thought of the chessboard, the way the white player had moved his knight back into place and hidden his first move—had made the board appear as if he had not done anything at all.
Mr. Benedict watched him go, and looked at the closed door for a moment longer, and then went back to his pedaling.
*In whatever time this is supposed to take place, I didn't think that he would know anyone who spoke Tamil. So I made it French. By the way, how do you pronounce Perumal, anyway? Is it "PAIR-uh-mall," or "Purr-OO-mul?"
**A hundred thousand million bonus points to anyone who know what the heck Mr. B is talking about!
***Why does this website force us to use such a dull font? I wish we could change it for character handwriting, etc. Who agrees?