CHAPTER 4: IN WHICH WE MEET THE SCION OF THE DAFFODIL LEGACY, LEARN THE TRUTH CONCERNING NEGATONS, AND DISCOVER JUST WHO IT IS WHO ENSURES THE TRAINS RUN ON TIME

~*~

William Daffodil resembled what you would get if you dressed up a scarecrow and taught it to act polite; he wore his clothes as if they were an ill-fitting burden. Though he was very quick on his toes, the young mathematician had the sneaking suspicion that one day he'd visit Napsbury Asylum only to discover that they weren't going to let him leave.

The institution remained one of the few mental health facilities that actually had a success record. This was credited in large part to the ground-breaking theories of its founder, Louis Napsbury. One of these theories centered around the existence of invisible, soundless, and scentless clouds of evil impulses known as 'Negatons'. Having studied the Negaton menace for quite some time, Napsbury perfected his three step program to their complete annihilation. This program included:

1) A healthy diet of fruits, vegetables, and meats. There was very little a Negaton disliked more than a well-fed victim.

2) Regular exercise. Negatons, Napsbury explained, absolutely hated exercise. It was like nails on chalkboard to them.

3) Most important of all, routine salt baths. Negatons loathed salt baths with every last unseeable molecule in their being, and would run screaming (silently) into the night at the first whiff of salt in water.

As none of these steps were any more invasive than a hot meal followed by a dip into a sodium enriched tub, the asylum had a certain appeal for William. He had much preferred their crazy-talk to the crazy-talk of the places that wanted to drill holes in his grandmother's skull and see what would happen.

William arrived in the lobby of the criminally insane wing; here, male and female patients were occasionally allowed to mingle under the watchful eye of several thick-shouldered orderlies. The room had the look of a sterilized prison; furniture had been stripped of everything that could feasibly be used as a weapon or fashioned into some manner of doomsday machine, leaving everything with a look of sparse functionality.

Sitting in one of the chairs was one of his grandmother's fellow patients, Mr. Brown. His obscenely thick spectacles and long flaring eyebrows gave him the appearance of a very confused owl. When William saw him, he immediately stepped back in expectation of the worst.

"I seem to have invented something by accident again," Mr. Brown said, looking rather dejected. He glanced down at the large and innocuous brass box that sat on the table in front of him. On top of it was a bright cherry-red button with a note scrawled in grease-pen above it: PUSH ME. "I'm not quite sure what it does."

"I understand, sir," William said, although the young mathematician certainly did not. He looked about for one of the asylum's orderlies, but could find none in sight. "Have you considered trying to disassemble it?"

"Oh, yes, I could do that," Mr. Brown agreed. "That's a very good idea."

"Definitely."

"...unless I thought of that while I was building it, and equipped it with some manner of trap."

William gave Mr. Brown a blank look. It was quite a bit of time before he could properly enunciate his reaction: "What?"

"I've been fairly depressed lately," Mr. Brown reasoned in a surprisingly affable tone. "I think that my subconscious might be trying to kill me."

William blinked. He had not come prepared for this level of madness. "I—I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Well, you see, it's all quite simple. My therapist explained it to me in detail," Mr. Brown said. "Apparently, I have a deep and desperate need to do unspeakable things to my mother, while simultaneously hating my father. And thusly, I subconsciously hate myself." He sighed, shaking his head. "What a ghastly affair."

"Oh, Mr. Brown, do stop trying to scare the poor boy,"

Gertrude Daffodil said, rolling in behind William on her wheelchair. William's grandmother had a short curly mop of iron-gray hair and a quilt that seemed to miraculously manifest in her lap regardless of where she was or what she was doing. She glared at Mr. Brown as she took her place besides William.

"I'll probably just put it with the others," Mr. Brown said.

"Come on, William. Take me for a walk, would you?"

William was happy to do just that; he pushed his grandmother out of the lobby and into the hallway. As they walked, he began telling her all about what was happening at the Steamwork and the big important project he was now working on.

"That's all very nice William," Mrs. Daffodil agreed. "I've been working on sewing myself, you know. I even stitched you a little something in my last class." She reached beneath her quilt, withdrawing a lump of misshapen twine. William took it, trying to reason out what it was for. It had three sleeves and two necks.

"It's, erm, very lovely," William said, placing it across the back of her chair. "I'll try it on when I get home, most certainly."

"Wouldn't you wear it next time you come? I'd love to see how it looks on you."

"I, uh, of course," William said. He quickly aimed to change the subject. "I'm glad to see you're trying to distract yourself from your, uh, condition."

"I wish you wouldn't call it a 'condition'," she replied, crinkling her eyebrows together in consternation. "What I have is a gift, William. Your grandfather had it, along with your father. You have it, too."

William sighed. He had been through this before, and wasn't interested in renewing the argument. "I'd rather just stick to maths, you know. Much safer."

"But much less interesting!"

"Well, it depends on your perspective. Mathematics can get quite dangerous, you know. Why, just the other day, while calculating a polynomial, I almost stabbed myself with a pencil!"

Mrs. Daffodil looked back up at William.

William smiled sheepishly: "Uh, you know. Lead poisoning."

"Right," she said. "But come now. When was the last time someone was horribly maimed by Pi?"

"You might be surprised." William's voice dropped off.

"Grandmother, what is this?"

"Eh? Oh," she said, following William's eyes down to the base of her seat. A crude battery produced from inserting two metal strips into a potato was stashed away under her chair. It even had a small gauge jammed into the side of it, apparently to measure power output. "That's just, you know. Something to keep me busy."

"I thought we talked about this," William said, trying to sound as stern as he could manage. "None of this nonsense. It's why they won't let me take you home."

"It's just a potato," Mrs. Daffodil said with a disdainful sniff.

"Oh, yes, just a potato," William agreed, frowning. "It always starts small, doesn't it? Today, just a potato, tomorrow, a lemon. And then before you know it you're riding an armored dirigible and threatening to disintegrate half the city with your death-ray— again. "

"Well, I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, and you said you wished that awful boarding school you attended would burn down," Mrs. Daffodil responded huffily. "Don’t blame me for wanting to spoil my only grandchild."

"I was fourteen years old! Grandmother, please. This is the sort of thing that's made it so hard for me to get an ordinary job.

Everyone hears my last name and they instantly think, 'oh no, we can't hire him, he'll likely wall himself up in his office and emerge a week later in a steam-powered suit made from spare paperclips'."

"Well, it would be nice if you showed some interest in the family tradition, you know," Mrs. Daffodil said. "Just a little bit. I mean, after all, you owe your life to it!" She reached up, tapping right above his heart with meaningful ire.

William gently pushed her hand aside. "I'm a mathematician, grandmother, not a mad scientist. Why can't you just accept that?"

Mrs. Daffodil sighed. "I can, I can. It's just that I sometimes get the feeling that you're fighting who you really are, William."

William shook his head. "I have to go. There's a lot of work to do at the Steamwork; Mr. Eddington wants me to finish inputting the new figures into the engine later this evening. I need to get a head start on the final touches."

"All right, dear. Will you come and see me in a few days? It will be Mr. Wanewright's birthday soon, and he so wants to meet you again."

"Is he the one with—" William twitched. "—the cats?"

"Yes, he quite fancies cats," Mrs. Daffodil agreed.

"That man is terrifying."

"Please, William? I promise not to bring up the subject of science at all," Mrs. Daffodil said.

"Of course. But I'm keeping the potato."

~*~

"You are quite lucky to be alive," Count Orwick said from across his desk. "How fortunate that Mr. Cheek broke your fall."

"He could have been softer," Snips replied. She was seated in an obscenely comfortable chair in the middle of Orwick's rather expensive office, trying to wriggle her way out of a pair of manacles. They consisted of no more than two solid chunks of iron fused together at the wrists; she wasn't sure how they came off.

She wasn't sure they were supposed to. "Why am I here?"

Count Orwick smiled. "I have pulled several considerable favors. You have been placed in my custody."

"Wonderful. But just so you know, I don't do windows. It's a phobia I've had since childhood. A wild pack of 'em killed my mother." Snips narrowed her eyes, glaring at the window behind Orwick. "Horrible things, windows."

Orwick's fingers steepled together. "Do you know who I am, Miss Snips?"

"Hm. Are you Susan? You look kind of like a Susan. Do you mind if I call you Susan, Susan?"

"I am the man responsible for making the trains run on time."

"Fascinating," Snips said. "Hey. Listen, Susan. This is fun and all, but why don't you take these cuffs off me and send me back to Morgrim? Better yet, just cut me loose. I'm sure I can find my way back."

"In addition to the trains, some problem of general governance that has defied conventional solutions will occasionally find its way to my desk. I solve these problems."

"See, they've got these rocks there, and if I want to be reformed, they tell me that it's critical that I move these rocks from one side of the prison yard to the other." Snips switched from trying to wriggle out of the manacles to gnawing on them.

"In my search for 'unconventional' solutions, I sometimes employ men and women of 'unconventional' qualities. You are such a woman, Miss Snips. In exchange for your services, I offer reasonable pay. Quite likely the easiest money you'll ever earn."

Snips paused in mid-chomp. "This is cutting into my rock-moving time. I could have moved a rock in all the time it took for you to tell me this. That'd bring me one rock closer to legitimacy."

"It will also be the perfect opportunity for you to lay low until this other matter comes to a close."

Snips paused, lifting her head. "What 'other' matter?"

"Oh, you know," Orwick said, as if distracted. "The pardon."

"Pardon?"

"Oh, you mean you haven't heard? You're scheduled to receive a full pardon for your various excesses. Signed by Her Majesty herself."

Snips sprang to her feet. "What?"

"Why yes." He slid the notice across the desk for Snips to inspect. "See for yourself."

Snips' eyes scurried down the document. Her? Pardoned? It was too good to be true; in an instant, all of her indiscretions were forgiven and forgotten. It meant a perfectly clean slate—it meant she was out of prison. It meant she could tell the Count to build a set of rails straight up to his posterior and send the trains down the line at full steam. It was a public notice; everyone could see—

Near the end was the list of crimes Snips was being pardoned of.

Snips stammered. "You—y-you—"

"You'll be free as a bird, Miss Snips."

"You p-published—"

"You've made it crystal clear that our prison system isn't for you. And we've heard you, Miss Snips. We wouldn't dream of putting you back behind bars. Even if you begged."

"You put down their names!" Snips' voice rose to quivering yelp. "The people I've been stealing from! Do you have any idea what they'll do to me?!"

Orwick's expression resembled a smile in the same way that the light of an oncoming locomotive resembled a tunnel's exit.

" Especially if you begged."

Snips slumped back to her seat, head spinning. The Count could have held anything over her head—execution, jail-time, the wanton slaughter of puppies—and Snips would have wriggled free.

Escaping was her specialty. But with a stroke of the pen, Orwick could turn Aberwick itself into her prison. Except this one had no locks to foil and no doors to open. And it would be filled to the brim with all the two-bit murderers, thieves, and ne'er-do-wells, who—until now—had been unaware that Arcadia Snips had been cheerfully robbing them blind.

Morgrim was suddenly looking extraordinarily comfortable.

"At least you don't know about the duck," Snips said.

"Check the back side."

Snips flipped the document over. "Oh."

"I hear Jake ‘The Beak’ Montgomery still shrieks like a little girl when he hears a quack."

Snips relented. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to solve a murder."

For a while, Snips let silence speak for her.

"I'm sorry. Come again?"

"Are you familiar with the Steamwork?"

"Big, noisy place. They build things there," Snips said.

"Like, uh, I don't know. Steam-powered butter knives or some such nonsense."

"I have reason to believe that their level of technological sophistication is far greater than what they have been reporting on their tax forms," Orwick said, leaning forward. "A gentleman under their employment sent word recently that he wished to speak to me about a very important matter."

"Breakthrough in steam-powered butter? To go with the knives," Snips said.

Orwick ignored the thief's speculations. "But before I could schedule a meeting, he met with his untimely demise."

"Oh, that's a shame. Let me guess—died in a horrible automated cutlery accident."

"He was killed in an explosion," Orwick explained. "His burning corpse was propelled out of his workshop and into the ocean."

Snips grimaced. "Ouch."

"And you will be aiding in the investigation of his death."

"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the investigator type."

"You do not need to be. The Steamwork has hired a detective agency to look into the matter. You will be accompanying them as a government consultant. It will be their task to provide the cover of an investigation into Basil Copper's demise, allowing you an opportunity to—"

"—be a sneaky little fink and find out what he wanted to tell you and why someone decided to put a stop to it?"

"Exactly."

"I don't understand. I'm no government agent," Snips said.

"I'm not even government material. I'm a con artist. Why me?"

"Precisely because you are a con artist, Miss Snips, and precisely because you are not a government agent. As I have stated: your methods are unconventional. They may work where other methods have failed."

Snips snorted. "You're a nut. A salty, roasted nut."

"All I ask is that you take your position seriously. Through hook or crook, Miss Snips, get to the heart of the matter. In exchange for your services, I will see to the disposal of this—"

Orwick gestured to the pardon notice, as if its mere presence offended him. "—odious document."

Snips' eyebrow twitched. "And what happens if I don't?"

"Then, Miss Snips, I think it would be wise for you to consider another profession. Before your colleagues decide to consult with you."

~*~

Shortly after Snips left, Mr. Peabody entered with a bundle of paperwork.

"If I may, sir," Mr. Peabody began, setting the pile down on top of Orwick's desk. "I would like to inquire as to what you are hoping to accomplish by assigning Miss Snips to this affair."

Count Orwick looked amused. "Are you questioning my judgment, Peabody?"

The assistant immediately grew pale, stepping back. "Ah, not at all, sir."

"Calm yourself." Orwick turned to stare through the window, watching the railway. "I assigned Miss Snips to this matter for two reasons."

"The first, sir?"

"An adequate solution that fails to accommodate for the unknown is neither adequate nor a solution. Miss Snips may solve the matter; she may not. She may serve to do nothing more than provide a useful clue—a clue without which those better trained than herself could never succeed. But any solution that constrains itself to the boundaries of merely that which we predict will happen is a solution doomed to stagnation and failure."

"She's a mongrel, sir, and self-destructive," Mr. Peabody noted. "It is likely that she'll die."

"Yes," Orwick said. "In which case, we come to my second reason. Should she die in her service as a government agent, I will have every right to investigate the Steamwork at my leisure—for suspicion in the murder of an official operative."

Mr. Peabody smiled. "She succeeds, you win. She fails, you win. Very good, sir."

"The only way I can lose is if she manages to do nothing.

And considering Miss Snips' history, I find that possibility to be the least likely of them all."

~*~