The Curious Steambox Affair by Melissa Macgregor Page A

nice orchestra against the shop windowpanes. From where I am sitting, I can see out a window at the bricked street beyond. There are gas lampposts glowing, and they throw terrific shadows against the closely set walls. You would think that the rain and chill would cause a lessening in the traffic outside, but it seems that nothing halts these hardy citizens. Pedestrians crowd the pavement, and the carriage traffic is relentless.
    A perfect evening to be sitting in front of a fire, surrounded by books, while writing the enigmatic Miss Eugenia Campbell.
    I should be more fatigued than I am, due to the immense amount of work I have conducted. But, as I have said, your letter provided me enough fuel to get through the day. It not only strengthened me but gave me a much-needed sense of humor and cheer.
    I scan your letter, assuring myself that I have answered your questions adequately. I must remind myself that you have just received my accounting of the Steambox. Forgive me my assumptions as to your responses. It is difficult, this letter writing, when what I should really like to do is come and sit before your father’s fire, and speak to the two of you about all the wonders I have seen thus far.
    But tonight, I only have the cheerful scratch of the quill against the page. It will have to do, for now.
    Hyde has yet to perform any such extravagance as what I witnessed with the Steambox. In fact, I have yet to glimpse the contraption again. He keeps it locked away in a cupboard in his office, and any time I mention it, he gives me a very blank expression that forbids any further questioning on the subject. The examining table has been returned to his office, but the brass tubes and such have been squirreled away. Save for the fastenings against the side of the table, I should think that I had imagined the entire matter.
    I am of half a mind that he concocted the experiment as some sort of bizarre welcome, but that idea implies an interest in me that Hyde does not currently exhibit. And so the Steambox and the suctioning of soulful power is relegated to yet another mystery I have been subjected to in my time here.
    I have undertaken my scientific duties alongside Hyde, although he is still of the opinion that he has no need for an assistant, particularly a butcher who hails from London. On my own, I hunted down his office, and made a place for myself. I commandeered a worktable, and have set up my medical tomes and instruments.
    I am anticipating the arrival of your father’s gifts, and have already spent an inordinate amount of time arranging them all to my liking on my table, in my mind. You must know that, thanks to his kindness, I will be the best-equipped assistant in residence.
    I have decided to ignore Hyde’s complaints with regard to my lingering presence in his office, and have instead assumed the tasks presented to me. Let me be abundantly clear. Hyde presented no tasks. But after quiet observation, I could deduce what projects he was working on, and I began my normal procedures as if I had been given proper instructions.
    Thus far, my days are forming a pattern of their own.
    I have acquainted myself with his schedule, and have arranged it so that I arrive at the office a half hour before he does. He likes coffee, so I always bring him a cup from my favorite stall. I noticed that he prefers the windows of the office open to the cold air, so I immediately arrange that. I gather the post and set it in the middle of his desk. I jot down reminders of looming calendar appointments. I place my carefully worded suggestions and notes on his current projects beside the mail, and I never mention them, once he arrives.
    I have, however, noticed that he reads them. He never comments, or adjusts his own research with regard to my suggestions. But his lack of response seems a sort of acceptance. He has yet to toss them out the window, which is what he did when I made the mistake of leaving a note from Dr. MacDougal on his