Or what about suicide, falling on their swords like heroes of old? That might thwart the Emperor and ‘save’ them. Death ruled a country they could not be fetched back from. Or leastways it did till Julius’ great uncle spoilt things…
Julius held all such drastic options in reserve but for the moment settled for Rome.
He returned from reverie and thoughts of a lone English leg touring Venice’s canals. What more could their enemies do to them, that limb’s former owner had enquired? With the implied answer, ‘not much.’
Such naivety! Julius knew better; as must Foxglove. The man had experienced torture in Versailles: he of all people should realise that experts could string out subtle suffering for years.
Such thoughts can travel through time to poison the future, and so shouldn’t be fed or stared at. Doing either only makes them stronger, more virulent. Instead, Julius tried to count their blessings. They had life (except Ada), a full complement of limbs (except Foxglove…) and they were at liberty—albeit in hiding. There was a roof over their heads, a fire in their room and some money left in their wallets to buy basics like food…
‘Food!’ demanded the baby, presumably as mere coincidence. And it must be coincidence, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Speech alone was bizarre enough in an infant barely old enough for solids. If telepathic powers were added as well…
The child stood up in its cot and repeated the imperious command.
‘Cattle: bring me food!’
It was a child’s voice, minus innocence or appeal. Instead it appalled.
Since Frankenstein was the nearest the infant plucked at his sleeve with unnerving strength—though any of the ‘cattle’ present would do. It called them all that without distinction.
Julius shied away, a natural reaction even in a hardened Revivalist. When Ada stole the child it had been normal enough, if paper white and spindly and not properly alive. Back then it cried when hungry and behaved much as other babies do. Now though, just a few weeks later, it spoke loud and clear of its needs. And its vocabulary expanded by the day even though none of them, neglectful foster-parents that they were, primed it with conversation. Now it daily sought to command them and called them ‘cattle.’ The rest of the time its eyes followed their every move in unearthly scrutiny.
‘Have you fed it?’ he asked Ada. ‘And dammit, woman; I detest calling a child ‘it.’ How many more times must I ask you to give… it a name?’
Again, Lady Lovelace didn’t even look up.
‘How many times?’ she echoed. ‘Possibly an infinite number of times. Which incidentally is an interesting concept to a mathematician such as myself. If only we could truly understand infinity then I believe the science of calculation would soar to wonderful new heights…’
‘Really.’ Julius used the ‘couldn’t care less’ variant.
‘Really.’ Ada volleyed back the ‘that’s right’ option. She was soaring, in full flight extra-merciless mode. ‘And if you’re so keen on christening the child why not do so yourself? I wager you’ve never baptised royalty before. Eh? Eh? You’d like that anecdote added to your life-tale, wouldn’t you? Admit it. Why not go the whole hog and name him after yourself!’
‘Julius Frankenstein-Bonaparte?’ mused Julius. It didn’t require much evaluation.
‘No, thank you.’
That was an insensitive thing to say in earshot of a child who, Julius suspected, could understand every word. On the other hand, its feelings were unlikely to be hurt. The ‘Book’ said they had none.
‘Well then,’ Ada pressed on, ‘if you’re stumped for something suitable, may I suggest ‘Insurance’? I told you that’s why it’s here, and I stand by it. ‘Prince Insurance Bonaparte’? How’s that? It’s got a ring to it: it does the job. What do you think, monster-child? Do you like it?’
She finally looked up at the cot-confined infant. It looked back at her and straightaway Lady Lovelace started to lose.
‘Food!’ it instructed. ‘Now!’
Ada gladly returned to her table full of papers, pretending her defeat was voluntary.
‘You’ve been fed,’ she replied, looking down. ‘Exactly as your precious book prescribes. More than, in fact. You dine on the same stuff as me but you don’t hear me whinging…’
All true enough, regarding her rations at least, if not about the moaning. Frankenstein had analysed the serum in the baby’s bandoleer and found it to be ‘just’ the enhanced formula he had brewed and earned his keep with at Versailles. Which proved something. There was no super-secret serum Napoleon used to vivify his seed. Given access to a supply of meat and standard serum Julius had found it relatively simple (if time consuming and thankless) to keep both Ada and baby fed. But not necessarily satisfied…
‘Food!’ said the child, with extra venom. ‘Immediately!’
That was a development: a new and grander word in its vocabulary, got from Heaven knew where. Up till then all demands for urgency were covered by ‘now!’
Inwardly, all the adults present shivered. Extrapolate that process but a little way and soon the child would be conducting conversations—and dominating them.
Mercifully, at present its ‘anger repertoire’ was limited to a glare that should have scorched Ada.
It was silly and superstitious but Julius didn’t care to cross the trajectory of that look. Instead, he went to Lady Lovelace a round-about way.
‘What exactly are you doing?’ he asked her. The constant moving across the table of scraps of paper with scrawls upon them had finally got the better of his curiosity. She often occupied herself with mathematical scribbling but this was more like a complex variant of chess of her own devising. Off would go one bit of paper to join another, only for Ada to reject that pattern and try again. However, most of the montage she’d made was now fairly stable and only one section was still giving her trouble. She ummed and ahhed and muttered to herself over it.
No answer came to Julius’ question. Lady Lovelace was engrossed again, maybe as a refuge from the terrifying child.
‘Milady’s been doing that since returning from the Sistine Chapel,’ said Foxglove, to fill the embarrassing gap: ever the justifier of Ada’s action or inaction. ‘She said it’s important…’
‘Not to me she didn’t,’ replied Julius, and prompted her Ladyship to get his own, personalised, response.
‘Madam…?’
Then he saw that one of the pieces of paper had his name on it. It was placed some way down the table and wasn’t one of the still mobile slips. Above it was another labelled ‘Foxglove,’ and slightly above that was another christened ‘the gondolier who hid us.’ Julius felt even more slighted.
‘Lady Lovelace!’
At last she admitted they shared the same Universe. That concession comprised holding up one hand to hush him.
With the other she slid a paper from middle ranking, slowly at first and hesitantly, but then with ever growing confidence. It was exalted to the top and overlaid on another.
It was held there a second or two, still tentative. Then Lady Lovelace squealed with joy. She pinned the twinned slips hard to the table with a jabbed finger.
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Julius was a gentleman and Ada was a Lazaran but inappropriate images still occurred to him. He sternly banished them to his subconscious and deliberate death by neglect. The alternative and decent thing to do was identify her words as Lady Lovelace having a Eureka! moment.