awkward seconds of staring at it, Nicholas stepped forward and shook.
“It’s been too long, my friend,” Isambard said, his cold, bony fingers entwining with Nicholas’ own. “Please, sit with me.”
Isambard pulled a stool in front of the furnace, and Nicholas sat on it gingerly, still nervous in the presence of his old friend. Isambard sank into a wing-backed chair opposite him. Once opulent, its fabric was now blackened with soot and the stitching was unravelling around the arms. Aaron sat on the floor behind Brunel, his thin legs stretching across the floor.
“I’m sorry, I do not have any tea to offer—”
“You did not answer my letters,” Nicholas blurted out.
“No, I did not.” Isambard stared at his hands. “I treasure them, every one, but I could not bring myself to read them, let alone reply. You have to understand … I felt like a failure. You and James went off on your adventure, but I was trapped in Engine Ward. You would both return as gentlemen, your Stoker heritage forgotten, and our friendship could not continue, for gentlemen do not associate with Dirty Folk. I knew your letters would be filled with new sights, strange smells, great adventures … but I had no stories to tell in return. I woke up, I shoveled coal into the furnaces ’till my fingers bled, I fell asleep, and I did it all again the next day. I wanted to wait ’till I had this ,” he gestured around the room, “to show you, but by then you had stopped writing. But you’re here now, and can see it with your own eyes.”
“And it is truly amazing, but Isambard, you should have known James and I would not judge you. We knew against what you’ve fought. You must be the bravest man I know to have built this church right under the nose of Stephenson and the Royal Society.”
Isambard’s face brightened. “Wait ’till you see my locomotives. But please … I want to hear about your adventures. Aaron tells me you came to England from France. A border crossing is no easy feat—”
“No, it is not. And you must appreciate that I can’t discuss it,” Nicholas said, his voice sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to offend Isambard, but he had to keep the details of his flight as secret as possible. His survival depended on his presence in London remaining undetected.
“But you have been studying at one of the French schools?” Isambard pressed him.
“I have not sat for a degree,” Nicholas answered, not willing to explain any further. “But I have studied under many of the great European architects. My knowledge of architectural principles is sound. Aaron tells me you have a job for me?”
Isambard led him to a table, covered in a grimy cloth. He whipped away the cloth, and Nicholas leaned over to get a better look at the intricate model that spread out across the bench. The model of London city sprang to life, clockwork gears crunching under the table as the figures crossed the narrow streets. Around the perimeter of the city, bisecting many of London’s richer suburbs, was a high wall. Atop this structure, a locomotive and two carriages made a lazy circumnavigation of the city.
“This is my design for the engineering competition,” said Brunel. “But I am a man of machines, Nicholas. I know how to make something work, but I don’t know how to make it appealing to the discerning eye. The poets and artists of the Isis and Morphean sects are going to have something visually stunning, and for my Wall to impress the King, it needs the touch of an architect.”
“You want me to—”
“Make my Wall beautiful.” He handed Nicholas a sheet of paper. “The fee is modest, I’m afraid, but there will be a permanent job for you with me when we win.”
“ If we win,” Aaron corrected.
Isambard laughed. “Mr. Williams doesn’t share my optimism.” He circled the table, pointing out details of the design. “Each gate operates with steam-powered doors. These pistons drive the locks. If the French ever
“It’s been too long, my friend,” Isambard said, his cold, bony fingers entwining with Nicholas’ own. “Please, sit with me.”
Isambard pulled a stool in front of the furnace, and Nicholas sat on it gingerly, still nervous in the presence of his old friend. Isambard sank into a wing-backed chair opposite him. Once opulent, its fabric was now blackened with soot and the stitching was unravelling around the arms. Aaron sat on the floor behind Brunel, his thin legs stretching across the floor.
“I’m sorry, I do not have any tea to offer—”
“You did not answer my letters,” Nicholas blurted out.
“No, I did not.” Isambard stared at his hands. “I treasure them, every one, but I could not bring myself to read them, let alone reply. You have to understand … I felt like a failure. You and James went off on your adventure, but I was trapped in Engine Ward. You would both return as gentlemen, your Stoker heritage forgotten, and our friendship could not continue, for gentlemen do not associate with Dirty Folk. I knew your letters would be filled with new sights, strange smells, great adventures … but I had no stories to tell in return. I woke up, I shoveled coal into the furnaces ’till my fingers bled, I fell asleep, and I did it all again the next day. I wanted to wait ’till I had this ,” he gestured around the room, “to show you, but by then you had stopped writing. But you’re here now, and can see it with your own eyes.”
“And it is truly amazing, but Isambard, you should have known James and I would not judge you. We knew against what you’ve fought. You must be the bravest man I know to have built this church right under the nose of Stephenson and the Royal Society.”
Isambard’s face brightened. “Wait ’till you see my locomotives. But please … I want to hear about your adventures. Aaron tells me you came to England from France. A border crossing is no easy feat—”
“No, it is not. And you must appreciate that I can’t discuss it,” Nicholas said, his voice sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to offend Isambard, but he had to keep the details of his flight as secret as possible. His survival depended on his presence in London remaining undetected.
“But you have been studying at one of the French schools?” Isambard pressed him.
“I have not sat for a degree,” Nicholas answered, not willing to explain any further. “But I have studied under many of the great European architects. My knowledge of architectural principles is sound. Aaron tells me you have a job for me?”
Isambard led him to a table, covered in a grimy cloth. He whipped away the cloth, and Nicholas leaned over to get a better look at the intricate model that spread out across the bench. The model of London city sprang to life, clockwork gears crunching under the table as the figures crossed the narrow streets. Around the perimeter of the city, bisecting many of London’s richer suburbs, was a high wall. Atop this structure, a locomotive and two carriages made a lazy circumnavigation of the city.
“This is my design for the engineering competition,” said Brunel. “But I am a man of machines, Nicholas. I know how to make something work, but I don’t know how to make it appealing to the discerning eye. The poets and artists of the Isis and Morphean sects are going to have something visually stunning, and for my Wall to impress the King, it needs the touch of an architect.”
“You want me to—”
“Make my Wall beautiful.” He handed Nicholas a sheet of paper. “The fee is modest, I’m afraid, but there will be a permanent job for you with me when we win.”
“ If we win,” Aaron corrected.
Isambard laughed. “Mr. Williams doesn’t share my optimism.” He circled the table, pointing out details of the design. “Each gate operates with steam-powered doors. These pistons drive the locks. If the French ever
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