Chapter 5- De minimus-

"Of the little things."

For a surprisingly neat man, Robert took horrible notes. Or rather, he organized them terribly in their journals. It was not really all that surprising they had developed the same personal shorthand, only a few abbreviations lost in translation between them, but his manner of organization left her frustrated. Time that could be spent working was wasted trying to decipher whether 'see chart manifold' meant the manifold of December's weather on page twenty, the power graph on thirty-five, or one he hadn't created yet and left a blank page following the phrase.

Rosalind sighed irritably.

This was precisely the reason they worked together, so there was no more inconsistency. She would have to input the numbers from both and hope—scientists did not hope—that the results were what he was expecting. Either way, they'd discuss it when he returned.

Journal in hand, she walked to the gramophone and started the needle; Mozart, Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K. 299; something light and uninvesting. Although, if this session was going to be maddening, she might put on a stronger melody.

She flipped to the first chart and began inputting the variables on the chalkboard.

If x is the tangent vector of p, with p being the change in temperature then—no, that would negate the equilibrium state she was trying to achieve. She swiped the board clean. Take the differential of f at p… and yes, that was it. The numbers solved themselves out. Until they didn't. Quickly, the last line of equations was swept away, and she redid them. She used a knuckle to wipe away the four and substitute a twenty-two point seven eight, adjusted the curve…

Squinting at the transitory solution, she stepped back a bit to assess her work. Everything looked good, but any problems would soon make themselves apparent when she started the next set of formulas. She dragged another chalkboard from the main room, wincing at the pain that suddenly lanced up her arm; her hands still hurt when she gripped things too tightly. But she could finally grip them, after five days of essentially being an invalid; five days which had been frustrating for both her and Robert. She could tell, though he'd not conveyed it verbally. Today, though it was only noon, was surely to increase his tension. The expression on his face when she'd handed him the telegrams earlier was the worst she'd seen it the whole week. She'd make it up to him. The chalk hovered over the blackboard.

Yes, she would make it up—but she'd dwell on the thought more later—for now, the manifold equation.

With fervor, she resumed her work. After finding the derivative, she plotted out the differential and came up with a percentage of thirty three point three.

Rosalind stepped back from her work again. Excellent. The answer fell within the parameters Robert noted. In the main room, she adjusted the dials on the miniature reactor model, inputting the new figures. As a placeholder for a house, they had used a glass of water on it to quickly demonstrate any balance issues. When the machine reacted to its new functions, bucking and listing, the glass nearly fell to the floor. She checked and rechecked her work, from the dials to the board, and finally back to the notebook. She flipped through the pages hastily to see where she went wrong, pausing suddenly, as she noticed work in the margins that she hadn't before. Artistic work.

With both hands, she lifted the journal closer to examine it. Between the formulas and data, there were sketches; sketches of buildings, of elaborate sconces, of hummingbirds, of her. Her pouting over an alembic, fixing her hair, writing on the—

"You'll wear out our needles again."

She started at the sudden presence, closing the book shut with a snap.

Robert was at the gramophone, lifting the stylus off the record that was playing static; she wasn't sure exactly when it had stopped playing music.

"Oh good, you're back." Rosalind gave him a small smile.

"Have been for several minutes," he said slowly. "Is that it, then?" He sounded exhausted, the usual inflection in his voice gone, and replaced with a low directness. The change in him altered her mood, whatever good there was left of it, and she looked to the chalkboard instead of at his weary face.

"It is for now," she hoped, calling him to the equation. "Tell me, does this looked balanced to you?" She needed another pair of eyes—or the same ones.

"It looks balanced. And this is for increasing the energy output compensation, right?"

She hummed an affirmative.

"I assume you've run it already. What was the result?"

"A wet carpet." He must be really tired if he didn't want to run it himself. Or he was simply being logical and saving time.

He frowned, scanned the chalkboard again, and looked at the reactor. "Well, something is off." His lips pursed. "The ratio perhaps?"

"Ten per square pound?"

"Hrmm," he said, and fell silent for a long while.

Having already done the work, she observed him then, as she was prone to doing whenever a significant length of separation occurred between them, Five hours was pushing the limits of the greatest time they'd ever spent apart, but she was beginning to discover that she never wished to be separated from him for any length of time. Even on still nights, she had to quell the urge to cross the hallway and watch him sleep, have him always within a head's turn from her, as if a divergence between them would develop in the short division. The habit was irrational, she knew, but, it was also indescribable and intrinsic; she could not nor wished to explain it.

Robert shifted his weight to one leg and rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble that usually was not there. The friction of his fingers over the hair snapped through the air. He glanced between the two chalkboards, following her work, and she was pleased to see his bemused expression; his tongue pressed to his teeth when he was completely absorbed in the mathematics. She did the same thing; had done it, until Mother had chided her with the reasoning that it made her look buffoonish. Perhaps she and Mother agreed on something, though, because Robert still retained the quirk, and she thought he looked rather adorable when he did so, like a precocious school-boy.

"Ah! Let's try this," he said, wiggling a finger across the surface of the board to erase and replace a number.

Rosalind handed him the stick of chalk.

"Your hands doing better this morning?" he spoke as he furiously scribbled new equations.

"Much better, yes. Fingers at least."

"Well, that is good news for today, if I ever heard it. Mine are. About ready. To…" He finished out the string of variables before his sentence. "Fall off," he said finally, stepping back a bit from the board.

"There. How's that?"

"It certainly looks balanced," she echoed, garnering a small grin from him. Again, the numbers fit within the parameters, and again, they were set into the reactor. Luckily, she was prepared to catch the glass when it fell, because he certainly wasn't. Much of the water was already gone at this point from her first run.

Robert sighed. "Well that's disappointing," he said lamely.

"Cheer up," she told him, opening the journal once more. "You'll be glad to know I suspect what the problem is now."

"Oh?" he asked, moving to stand next to her and peer over her shoulder.

She flipped again to his notes from yesterday and pointed to his instruction to the chart manifold. "This."

The corners of his mouth fell. "I don't see it."

"Because it's not there?" she asked, flipping to the next page that was blank.

He took the book from her to see for himself. "Well it should be."

She arched an eyebrow. "Why isn't it?"

"I must have forgotten it between diagnosing the Lansdowne residence and consoling the widowed Mrs. Lansdowne, as her son was attending to his wife and young children. She seemed absolutely stricken with the opinion that I resembled her late Thomas."

If she remembered correctly, the Lansdownes accumulated their wealth from business in real estate. The young Mr. Lansdowne couldn't stress it enough that his father's money was well spent buying a piece of Heaven. A hackneyed statement, but at the very least, mildly flattering. She was more interested in the elderly woman than her sentimental heir, anyway. How was the senior woman handling the altitude?

"Did she help you with repairs?" she said in jest.

At this, Robert grimaced and glanced sidelong at her.

"She helped me to tea and Turkish delight, which was a favorite snack of his. I know I've a bit of a sweet tooth, but not quite for that." He furrowed his brows, his expression growing longer, when he saw her amusement. "And you were being facetious," he realized, "Though I don't see what you find particularly humorous about that. If you recall, I spent nearly six hours there. It could have been three at the most, if there were two of me," he said dryly.

Rosalind took his hand suddenly without knowing what to do with it, perhaps only that she could feel them now in the absence of bandages and pain. Robert's features softened at her abruptness as he looked at their hands. She examined them as well, the warmth of his palm and still slightly chilled fingers. The bitter mood she'd had earlier returned, and for a moment, she observed him again, observed how her foolishness affected him so fully now. Her lips twisted into a frown. He would not suffer the cold alone again. If he wanted to, she would write and he would dictate. Or he could simply sit fireside and watch her work, like father had done when she was a girl.

"Come," she said, leading him to the sofa. He followed, shoes shuffling across the carpet as a testament to his weary schedule; he all but collapsed onto the boxed velvet. Wordlessly, she switched the chalk in his hand for the notebook in hers. "I'll make the chart."

His amicable smile was the last thing she saw before turning to the blackboards, and it left one on her face..

"We'll begin the table," he said.

Rolling the chalkstick between her fingers, she anticipated the flood of data she would receive. Like a single unit, their work flow became so fluid, it was nigh impossible to determine whether she started, or Robert finished. Or when he added computations in the middle and she substituted a variable here, for another there. In secret, she loved that moment when they were in perfect synchronization; that point when she was writing before he spoke, when he was speaking before she wrote.

"December 9, a decrease of twenty-three joules at negative seven degrees Celsius, fifteen at negative four. December 11, twenty joules at negative three…"

Rosalind attacked the board with a speed that threatened to snap the chalk in half. Line after line, her flurry of numbers and variables grew, and page after page, the tempo of his speech accelerated until he sprang from the couch, and he was at her side, filling in the rest of the equation she could not get to fast enough.

"The constant here is-"

"-Seven, which makes the rate decrease at-"

"Twice, no-"

"Three times-"

"Four."

"So increasing the output to compensate for the mass suspension-" She ducked under his arm to write it in; he slid over just enough to give her room to do so. Very often and very quickly they became a tangle of limbs in their race to reach the solution. Mother would contemptuously say it was very improper to be on her knees, very unbecoming of a gentleman to lean and have his hand on the small of her back. Rosalind dismissed the thought, using Robert's leg as purchase to get back on her feet. The muscles of his thigh tensed beneath her fingers and his writing paused. He was disoriented for a moment, then extended his hand to help her up.

"Thank-you. The suspension increases at point oh eight," she told him.

"Yes, the output should balance out," he added, resuming his stride. "Leaving only the differential-"

"-and the limit to solve," she finished, already craning her neck to work it out. Stooping under her arm now, he scribbled the formulas in the bottom corner of the board, and she used his shoulder to stabilize herself as she stood her toes to reach the top.

"The highest degree is what?" she panted.

"Cubed. It—"

There was a knock on the door, and they both stared at the rather uncertain girl standing in the doorway.

Rosalind sighed rather harshly, dropping back onto her heels, but Robert answered politely enough.

"Yes?"

Miss Marlowe chewed her bottom lip. "I hope I haven't interrupted you. It's 2:30 and I was unsure if you'd eaten. The both of you," she added, meeting her eyes.

She finally noticed the tray she was holding, and the contents of it; croissants, cheese, and some tea, all from their kitchen. Rosalind stiffened slightly at the fact that she had been roaming around their house unattended. The knowledge made her stomach tighten even as it grumbled at the sight of food.

"No, we have not." He relieved her of the tray. "Thank-you so very much." His back to Miss Marlowe, he raised his eyebrows at Rosalind.

"Er, yes," she said, trying with much effort to sound as polite as he. "How very thoughtful. You needn't have worried about us, though. Have you eaten yourself?"

She nodded. "I have, thank-you." There was a pregnant pause and she excused herself. "I should leave you to your work."

Robert bowed slightly. "We appreciate the gesture, Gwendolyn."

Rosalind arched an eyebrow when she had gone back into the foyer.

He simply scowled at her expression. "Oh, it is not so concerning," he said, beginning to divide the food evenly. "She's asked to be called by her first name, if we could help it."

She joined him, setting the tea. "She just made this request spontaneously?"

"Not entirely. The idea I got was that she was bothered by the immediate association to her uncle that preceded her."

"Hmm." The association of a name preceding her was something she knew and despised greatly. She could relate to the woman in that respect, but not to why she chose to open up to Robert solely. Or maybe she did?

"She fancies you."

He gave an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, Rosalind, you've thought every front girl we've hired fancies me."

"I do not!" she huffed. "What about that Williams girl? Barely even two days at the front desk and she was planning all sorts of picnics and outings for you."

Setting down the knife, he eyed her skeptically. "And if they do, why does it bother you so much?"

"B-Bother? Bother me?" She felt flustered suddenly, heat in her cheeks and ears. "Because it's distracting," she exclaimed. She folded her arms across her chest. "I thought we were discussing Gwendolyn."

"We were. Now," he said, picking up the utensil once more, "Please be kind to her. She is a nice young lady who does her duties very well and puts in extra. For the niece of a Founder, or any sort of person who thinks themselves proper, that is quite a feat," he murmured.

Again, she agreed. A sour note that was falling between them and the assistants they hired was the notion of doing menial work. What did they think working for them entailed? Prestige? A good reference? They would get neither if that was the mindset they chose to disillusion themselves with.

"On that note, you may believe that two people can run a business, a laboratory, and a household, but at least I'm the more realistic of the both of us. And realistically, it's getting rather difficult and frustrating having to find a new receptionist every week simply because of your mood."

The teaspoon she was stirring with stopped. "My mood?"

"I shall not bring up your issue with the dismissal of your maids."

She scoffed. She hardly needed them to begin with. And after Robert came through, she did not need them wondering how a man had suddenly entered a locked house in the middle of the night.

"And back to Gwendolyn, I am bringing to your attention how very capable and invaluable she has been to us in the last week. If that doesn't change your tolerance of her, I'm not sure what will."

"And what of this?" she gestured to the tray. Would he so easily dismiss this blatant disregard for their privacy? Not that they hadn't allowed her into the main part of the house, but she was always in the corner of her eye when she was.

Robert glared at her. "She's trying to be helpful. Perhaps not always in the best way, but that's what we hired her for, yes?" He sighed again, offering her a plate of two croissants with cheese spread on the inside. "Can this matter with assistants be done with? I hate to bicker with you. I'd much rather we focused our energy on something we'd enjoy." This time the corners of his mouth tugged up slowly. "Like the infusions. We can't let Fink get the better of us simply because some bad weather settled in."

Blast him. There was something simply charming about his smile that always seemed to placate her mood. This cannot become a habit, especially if he figured out he has that kind of effect on her.

She nodded, but before she could answer him properly, there was yet another knock on the door. Despite it being open, Gwendolyn stood in the doorway, unwilling to cross it. "Madame Lutece, Mr. Cunningham is here for portraits?"

Portraits! She'd completely forgotten they were today, and judging by the baffled expression on Robert's face, she'd forgotten to tell him as well.

A/n:

-Portraits? Whatever could they be for? Can this day get any busier?

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