"To the point of nausea"

Her mother instilled in her that dinner was the most important hour of the day. Debatable; she was in disagreement. What of afternoon tea, evensong, compline? Not that she practiced much of prayer presently, but she respected those that stuck to routine and dedicated part of their day to purpose. Dinner, if one ignored the irony of people who thought themselves civilized devouring animals killed for their nourishment, was a social event that was second only to parties in her mind. There was less devotion to the meal and more to idle chatter. Nothing substantial ever came of talk at the dining table, but the art of culinary, the science of cuisine, held her interest. There existed a kind of chemistry in the preparation, a talent blended with the careful arrangement of colors on an artists palette. The irony, truly, was that aristocracy turned its nose up whilst simultaneously being enamored by it.

"No escort?" Robert asked, entirely unserious.

Rosalind gave an amused smile as they navigated the tables. The shuffling of guests reminded her of livestock. "Perhaps our intrigue has waned?"

No sooner had the words left her when she was greeted with 'Good evening Madame Lutece.'

She could sense Robert's own amusement even as he turned his head slightly to utter under his breath, "perhaps not."

"So," she redirected, "Do you think Comstock would keep us close at hand or has the Blessed Lady banished me to the edge of the kingdom?" She meant it in jest, but of course, she did not take much care into whatever issue Lady Comstock had with her. "Bear in mind, we are seated with Fink, so that will play a factor." God knows that man thrived on attention; she searched for his sharp face so that they might find their table already.

"Have you not found your table yet, Mr. Lutece? Why, they're all nearly filled! Perhaps we might be seated together."

Robert looked to have lost his composure for a second when Mrs. Ashton came upside him and all but bellowed into his ear. Rosalind had half a mind to comment, but a phrase her mother would have said came unbidden to the forefront of her mind and she thought better of it.

"Er, Mrs. Ashton," Robert gathered, "Good evening. We're actually on our way at this moment. Perhaps one of the valets could assist you?"

Mrs. Ashton waved her hand. "Oh that's quite alright."

When she had left, quite unceremoniously, Rosalind inclined her head ever so slightly. "Ever the gentleman."

"What appetites are we serving tonight?"

She turned to look at him, thoroughly surprised of his cheek. And amused.

"She is a terrible gossip and utterly saccharine—if you prefer mutton. "

"Hrmm." He was silent for a moment, and she thought he might see her criticism as puerile, but then he so casually leaned the slightest and spoke from the corner of his mouth, "I'd say mutton dressed as lamb."

"You've not even met her until this evening."

"You have."

"Hrmph." Mrs. Ashton's tastes were well known. She'd wear her best dress even if the occasion didn't call for it. The gossip these days was that her behavior came after the death of her younger husband. If she recalled, he was sickly, didn't quite take to the air. Asthma. A pity the woman so desperately sought the protection of a man, that society insisted she needed it for survival. She'd heard she was actually quite musically inclined. What talents and scholars might arise if woman were sought as equals and professionals, independent of male interference?

She glanced sidelong at him for a moment. His attitude towards Mrs. Ashton's was directly influenced by her passing thoughts. Of course, how could she ever have known her mind would force into his? But there was something lost when he was not his usual self, his charming optimism to her pessimism. She'd have to keep an eye on that.

He touched her arm, "Ah, there." Robert gestured to a table five units down where they could see Fink and the other guests they would be dining with.

"At least we are not with Comstock."

"That is always a good thing."

She considered the statement however, as they drew near to their table and she caught sight of Fink, beaming at his fortune. A prince at court. How he must have enjoyed hand picking his table.

By that metaphor then, they were the kings jesters. Or magicians perhaps, since the kingdom felt so inclined to continue to use the term "levitate."

It pained her how exceedingly dull and unimaginative this city's people were. Often enough she thought she might wake Robert one night, power up the Device and leave this universe entirely. But every spell that disabled and every drop that spilled from Robert halts all her thoughts. She could never put him through that again. And certainly Robert would protest to their leaving. He was always so keen to teach, to continue research. Despite his null existence in this universe, he was the reason that kept her here.

Perhaps his impossibility is what drew her to him, some silken strand of the universe that bound them together. Every person who encountered him could sense deep in their unconscious that he was infinitely unique.

And as she entertained this conjecture, Fink turned in their direction as if sensing their exceptional existence, drawn to the parallel covalence.

"There you are!"

Fink stood from his chair to greet them. "Robert, you're there by Albert and Lannon." "Madame, you're seated here by me,"

She shared with him a glance. Of course she was seated next to him. Robert was mildly annoyed with the arrangement, the same expression about his face as earlier when Fink had cut in to dance. He had tried to hide it, but she knew his subtleties. She smiled at him, placating and polite as she let him escort her to her chair before sitting at his.

"It's quite the pleasure to have you two this evening," Fink said, seating himself again, adjusting his chair as it was before.

"Quite." Rosalind answered, aware of the attention.

"And of course, all of you," he added with a genial smile to the other guests.

At his side, she surveyed her dining fellows, who, for the most part, were an eclectic bunch, joined by the interesting vector of Jeremiah Fink. She quickly set ant deducing each. There was Albert of course, leaner and softer in expression than his brother, and his wife Ruth, who was to her right. Beyond their encounters at their music shop, she did not have much else in common with her, although, she suspected the Lady Fink knew much more than she would have people believe. Perhaps she was one of a handful of women she tolerated in the city. They could hold a conversation, if only about music. Beyond her was James Marlowe, son of Charles Marlowe, who sat just next to him. James was quite dull, educated, yes, but not exceptional. A son who would inherit his father's businesses and flounder perhaps. Or a figurehead. She could foresee and suspected from Gwendolyn's comments, that her Uncle worked to prevent that, sensing his niece was more clever than her cousin. Was that a deciding factor in his acceptance of her position at their laboratory?

She considered further why James and Gwendolyn were seated with them. Fink obviously thought they were valuable. Enamor the father, enamor the son? Columbia's most prominent tobacco distributor was of course, in his interest. All the more to continue that with James. And Gwendolyn? Was it her connection to the laboratories that earned her a seat? Or again, was Fink fully invested in the Marlowe name? Perhaps both.

Charles himself was a man more traditional than progressive, acknowledging when change was necessary, though in reaction rather than foresight. He was known well on the Mainland before he was sought by the Planning Committee, his tobacco production rivaling many.

Across from him, on Fink's left, was Agnes Vanderwall, matriarch of the Vanderwall Clan. She looked hardly like the mother of five and grandmother of eight and more like the shrewd businesswoman she was. Columbia Freight was hers, run with a tight fist. She had no rivals but Fink. Fitting he would have her at an arms length.

What did that say of her own position at his right? Or Robert's between Albert and Lannon? Did he view them as maintaining some sort of competition with him? Or perhaps he fancied them friends? She doubted the man carried much sentiment, if any. Charming as he was, she was well aware of his elements, that he was sharp as a knife.

He was brilliant and disgusting. If she had met him first instead of Comstock or Arthurton, might he have weaseled his way into her graces? Might she have been his mistress to get his coin? There was no doubt of his brilliance. He took ideas, yes, but for every one he claimed, he had five more that were equal to it, and sevenfold for how he might improve and bastardize it into a marvel. His craft was in machines, and numbers, and science. She witnessed him work, the gears in his mind moving. He could keep up with her work—not all of it in its entirety, but most of it, and he never forgot the foundations she explained for him. If he had the time, the interest, and the access, she feared, truly, what kind of Contraption he might make.

At the very least, for a night, she could tolerate him, and she could tolerate them. Most of them.

Lannon laughed too loudly at a joke Albert made, and she looked up from her napkin she had placed on her lap. Rosalind folded her hands, making eye contact with Robert, telegraphing the barest of grimaces. From across the table she saw his jaw set.

Glass chimed, voices died down, and the head butler stood at the foot of the head table, announcing the selection.

"Tonight's selection: Consomme, bread sticks, salted pecans, roast goose, potato stuffing, apple sauce, duchess potatoes, chicken croquettes with green peas, English plum pudding and brandy sauce."

Comstock stood, clasping his hands, looking like Father Christmas. "Dear friends, Columbians. Thank you all very much for coming. Annabelle and I both are delighted to open our home and our hearts to each and everyone of you this blessed occasion. Let us thank the Good Lord for the wonderful food we are about to enjoy: Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bountiful meal, all the friends that are gathered here, and the wondrous year you've given us in this earthly Heaven…"

Fink did not bow his head, whilst Robert did out of his old-world habits.

"We look forward to the next year and all the blessings you bring. Amen."

There was a chorus of 'Amen', setting the valets, maids, and help into motion.

"How grateful we are for a short prayer." Marlowe praised.

Albert grinned. "Short prayers reach Heaven."

"Then it's a good thing we are much closer now,"Agnes added and Fink turned to her, amused.

"Which makes the Fall that much greater."

From across the table, Robert made eye contact with her, knowing full well, her annoyance with biblical metaphors about the city. The fifth so far this evening. He quirked the corner of his mouth and she raised an eyebrow.

"And good deal we've got that sorted, eh Lutece?" Lannon added, rounding off the run with a pat on Robert's shoulder, breaking their eye contact. "Well done on the Sinclair boy," he said to her. She made a bit of an effort to keep from raising her brow further. Lannon had never offered praise of any amount in her direction, not without, at least, some form of criticism or remark. Surely this was would be followed by a thinly veiled comment on her finally recognizing Leander's talents, or that she did not solve the deicing problem herself?

"Mr. Sinclair has proven to be exceptionally clever. We shall certainly keep our eyes on him." Though her attention was on Lannon, she saw Gwendolyn's interest on the subject matter from the corner of her eye.

"An investment, if I ever saw one," Fink said lightheartedly, as the consommé was served and there were small laughs of agreement all around.

Rosalind started her soup, observing, as she swirled the broth in her porcelain bowl, that all parties at this table were in one form or another, involved with a business.

"And how are your children doing, Agnes?" Marlowe asked, keeping up the conversation.

"I assume they're doing fine, Charles. They've hardly been children for decades." She paused to let the waitstaff take her finished plate. "I could do without them for the evening."

"My apologies."

Agnes waived her hand like some aged and veteran queen. "Tell me, James, has your Father let you have your run of the business yet?" She added aside to Marlowe, "You must instruct them young if they're to succeed— "

"—Ma'am, your potatoes," a maid said at Rosalind's elbow, so that she did not hear either Marlowe's answer. Rosalind nodded as the maid put the plate down and stepped back to the dish carts and other waitstaff. She thought the interaction rather odd, but then again, Comstock would have needed to hire new staff to cover such extensive operations.

"No, no," an older woman hissed. "It ain't your business to be talking serving meals, Daisy."

She inclined her head to the conversation behind her, curious, more interested than the current table talk.

"William," the harsh whispering continued, "Why is the Scullery Maid serving the guests?"

"We're short staffed this season. That damned influenza—"

She had not meant to listen that closely, but as she returned her attention to the table once more, she noticed Fink had his head inclined as well to the conversation, and they both made unintentional eye contact. The simplicity of the connection struck her. His was a face that was handsome, but could have become cruel in an instant. Beneath the bored expression, a curiosity burned; how might he use this information to his advantage?

Rosalind returned to her meal. Unbidden, the thought of the Contraption, always, came to mind; the abuse, the bastardization. Mounts of dodos, dinosaurs, extinct exhibits.

There was another round of laughter, returning her back to the conversation. She had missed the joke but she looked across at Robert and he seemed to find it particularly amusing.

"But I digress," Charles sobered. "I don't need to explain business to anyone here, certainly not after your performance, Albert. Absolutely splendid! Astounding how you compose."

Albert was well adept to take praise, his practiced smile and grace groomed from the same source as his brother. "I discover."

Rosalind fought to keep from rolling her eyes. She thought Albert to be the more tolerable of the Finks, but there were times they were more similar than different.

"What is your method?" Gwendolyn asked, interested.

"Method?" Albert repeated, as if he had not heard her clearly.

Bless the girl for making interesting small talk. Rosalind rather liked that she put Albert on the spot, because she was immensely curious of his sudden prowess and expanse of repertoire. There was always, always, something unseen with a Fink.

He flashed his practiced smile again as he sought the right words to answer. "My dear Ruth has always been my muse," he said, acknowledging her. "But, I find music to be like…a science; a record of time passing a certain way."

Finding his stride, he continued. "Yes, of course there is inspiration, but then there is also calculation; determining the structure of a piece, and examination; looking at it as a whole and wondering, really, if I haven't come up with utter garbage," he admitted, eliciting laughter.

"Modest as always, my brother is." Fink chimed in.

"Lord knows, it's not you, Jeremiah," Agnes cackled, and Fink joined in the laughter.

"Unabashedly," he announced.

"On that topic, however," Agnes sobered. "I've heard there's quite a bit of science in music. Mind you this is only what my dear Clara has brought up at Thanksgiving. I haven't the time for the newspaper or journals."

They all looked to Rosalind as if she was the Authority on all sciences—and to a point, she was. But it was not some separate discipline that was bunched with mathematics, chemistry, or biology. Rather, it was an art that incorporated the principles of science, particularly mathematics. She explained all this, and more or less they gave her appropriate attention and interest.

"Well there you have it," Fink smiled. "Our Great Madame has enlightened us. Who better than one who also appreciates music? Albert's told me you and Robert are in his studio often enough."

"Often enough," Rosalind said, thinking perhaps she last set foot in Magical Melodies in August.

"Just the other day, I believe," he added, tapping at his mustache in thought.

She glanced at Robert across the table, a look of alarm flashing across his face for an instant before feigning a cough and taking a sip of his drink. "I do enjoy the holidays," he said. "I simply must find this evening's selection for our personal collection."

"Will we be seeing more things from you anytime soon, Lutece?" Marlowe asked, casually drinking from his mead as well. "I know Jeremiah's working wonders with his vigors. What do Columbia's Greatest Minds have in store?"

"Honestly, Charles, is it your intent to start a bitter feud between them?" Agnes laughed. "You do them an injustice. Take my word for it, a feud exists only to describe how a person cannot admit they are intimidated. To this day, Margaret insists that her husband's death was caused by my business proposition."

Rosalind smiled. She liked this woman, but she had heard a great deal more about that proposition. Margaret Tellock-Baker had full reason to be terrified of her. She was ruthless.

"What's a little sport between peers, eh?" Fink deftly maneuvered the discussion.

Rosalind's smiled faltered; was she the same as Fink? Or worse, a ruthless woman to add to his arsenal?

"But I know I've always held my work to the utmost of secrecy until I was ready to unveil them," he continued. "I should like to extend that to our dear physicists. I've no doubt they are working on the next marvel."

She smiled cryptically. They had already unveiled the next marvel. She doubted even if Comstock hadn't needed the secrecy, Columbia, wouldn't understand the brevity of just what she and Robert had done. Perhaps it was only those at this table who proved the most threat.

Of Fink, she was already sure of what he might do, perhaps pull Albert and Ruth into it, introducing music from other universes. Lannon, of course, was always inclined to mettle in matters he didn't fully understand. He would aim to please his master in every universe. The man was bright, she would give him that, but not exceptionally clever. The kind of person who had to work for their knowledge.

Agnes would gain the most, secured in the fact that she could strengthen business transporting inanimate objects, alternate or otherwise, because there was no consequence in trans-dimensional shifting like there was in humans, or so they believed.

The Marlowes wouldn't care to derive business if they weren't losing any profit from what they were currently doing. Gwendolyn was the exception. Oh yes. Rosalind studied her as she listened to the continued conversation. She would not be so concerned with business as much as studying tears. In her weeks she'd been with them, she was learning, improving, predicting. Identifying patterns and pausing for logic. The potential for her to understand truly what the Contraption did was not dependent on if, but when. Perhaps she might ask her what her thoughts were on the machine.

Fink laughed at some joke, reminding her of her thoughts earlier. Perhaps she might increase Gwendolyn's wages for that purpose. There were too many interested parties at this table with an interest in their work.

"...But bless her heart," Charles, bull necked and red in the face from brandy said, finishing his story. His own laughter died and he sobered "A pity She remained an old maid." He drank heartily from his drink. "To have caused a ruckus over a fine gentleman. Isn't that what all young woman hope for?"

"No," Gwendolyn muttered, perhaps louder than she thought.

Rosalind raised an eyebrow, as did everyone else at the table.

"I'm sorry, what was that my dear." Marlowe asked, perhaps having missed her forthright answer beneath his heavy drinking.

Gwendolyn looked anxious but prepared to answer her uncle.

Agnes put her own drink down, giving him a withering glance. "No, it's not."

In the mounting silence when no one dared to move, when Robert, Fink, Lannon, and the other men glanced uncertainly at the shipping magnate, Rosalind lifted her mead and sipped, her lip curling derisively. Dinner had become much more interesting.

Gwendolyn glanced fleetingly at her. She looked at her approvingly over the rim of her drink.

Marlowe wiped at his chin, realizing he had offended half the table in an unorthodox conundrum. He glanced at Fink for discernment , but Fink merely looked to Agnes again as if to say 'Solve this yourself.'

"Ah forgive me, ladies. I assumed, incorrectly about your own aspirations."

There was effort, Rosalind thought, but he was still grossly incorrect in his assumption. That women's were separate from men's or that they were fragile. The slight was not only that all woman wanted a man, but that all woman wanted the same thing of lesser value to anything a man could want.

"The slight is forgiven, Charles. It's not simply that all young women aspire to be married, it is that we are shaped to, from birth, out of necessity. To focus on security and not legacy."

Agnes too, stopped for pause to drink, and continued. She addressed Gwendolyn. "Find a husband, or don't. It is your choice. For a woman, there is benefit in a husband. Children, however strict or soft you raise them, will always be unpredictable. The best that Francis could ever leave me was his business, and that will always be my legacy."

"Agnes will outlive us all, gentleman," Fink finally intervened, to diffuse the situation. He signaled at the valet to fill everyone's glass. "And truly, she understands exactly what we all strive for everyday. May I propose a toast?"

Rosalind raised her glass, intrigued.

"It is a testament of our ingenuity and prowess that we dine tonight in the clouds, here and together-"

Casually she glanced around the table. Theirs was a collection of potential, proven and capable of the infinite. Lannon, she observed, was very careful to keep his sleeve covering the skin of his raised arm.

"-We founded this city. We make the rules-"

Robert caught her eye at Fink's boldness.

"To us, and to Columbia in this year and the next!"

After they had drunk from their glasses, Agnes said, "That is a toast if I ever heard one. Take notes, gentlemen. Jeremiah will outlive us all."

The laughter from Lannon, Marlowe, James, and Albert was louder this time, perhaps to prove they had moved past the tension. To Rosalind it sounded false, patronizing, the irony of it a nauseating commentary of the evening despite the plate of roast goose and apple sauce placed in front of her.

With the new course capturing their attention, the conversation lulled, no real statements beyond the culinary opinion, until Lannon started, "I know you are a man of science, Robert. Do you also appreciate the Sweet Science?"

Rosalind paused her meal. Robert glanced at her before answering, "I do."

She was very glad he did not mention that his participation in Gentlemen's Fight clubs was to garner extra funds for his arrears and research, and not simply observation. Even still he had not spoken about his skill to her in any form and she was curious for it.

Lannon seemed pleased. "Excellent! I had thought you not the kind of man who stomachs blood."

At this she waited for Robert's reply. He smirked, looking unusually competitive. "Blood does not upset me."

"We are in good company," Albert chimed.

The men laughed, either because they held fast to their beastly sport or because they ought, lest they appear soft and fragile. In their midst, Robert was the exception, for none had shed as much blood as he did. It was trivial to her how men thought themselves the most independent, the most outstanding and yet they chose to dress the same.

Robert sensed that she was observing him. He turned and smiled warmly at her.

He was the most different of them all.