Sophronia stepped into the room alone. Lady Linette closed the door behind her.
Sophronia’s attention was entirely taken by the huge mechanical thingamabob in front of her. It looked very like the difference engine she had seen last summer when her family visited the Crystal Palace. This one, however, was not being used for sums. It was rigged and draped with objects—fabric hung at the back, paintings dangled, and a few pots and pans drooped uncertainly to one side.
Sophronia frowned. Didn’t Vieve once describe something like this to me? What did she call it? Oh, yes, an oddgob machine.
Next to the oddgob, positioned to operate a crank, was a mechanical designed to accompany the apparatus.
Sophronia faced both, hands crossed lightly at her waist, a position that Lady Linette encouraged her girls to assume whenever at a loss for action. “The crossed hands denote modesty and religious devotion. The placement draws attention to the narrowness of one’s waist. Bow your head slightly and you can still observe through the lashes, which is becoming. This exposes the back of the neck, an indication of vulnerability.” Sophronia’s shoulders tended to hunch, a habit Mademoiselle Geraldine was trying desperately to break. “We can’t have you tensing up like an orangutan!” she chided. “Do orangutans tense?” Dimity had whispered. Dimity, of course, crossed her hands divinely.
Sophronia worked to relax her shoulders.
Neither the machine nor the mechanical seemed to care, for nothing happened even when her posture was perfect.
Sophronia said, “Good afternoon. I believe you are waiting for me?”
With a puff of steam, the mechanical whirled to life. “Six-month. Review. Debut upmark,” it said, clicking as a metal tape fed through its voice box.
Not knowing what else to do, Sophronia said, “Yes?”
“Begin,” ordered the mechanical, and with that, it reached out one clawlike appendage and began to crank the oddgob.
An oil painting flipped over from the top of the engine and dropped down, dangling from conveyer chains. It depicted a girl in a blue dinner dress, decades out of style, that embarrassing nightgown look. The subject was pretty, with cornflowers in her hair, enjoying an evening gathering.
The mechanical continued cranking, and the painting was jerked away. A hatch opened, and a full tea service on a silver tray rolled forth.
“Serve,” ordered the mechanical.
Sophronia stepped forward, feeling silly. The service was for four. The tea in the pot was cold. She hesitated. Ordinarily, she would have dumped the contents into the receptacle and sent it back with sharp words to the cook. Do I act as I would in real life? Or am I to pretend to serve the tea regardless?