The Transference Engine Read Online Free

first onslaught of sifted flour and sugar. Butter and cream, cheeses and herbs, fruits and glazes, all my ingredients came readily to hand. I fell into a soothing rhythm combining them in proper ratios, losing myself in recipes based upon my mother’s confections that I’d perfected for British tastes. Modern scientists extolled the virtues of coal-fired steam ovens that added moisture and an even baking temperature. While I embraced much of the new technology, properly banked coals from a wood fire still suited my baking best.
    When I looked up from removing a fifth batch from the oven, the clock chimed six.
    â€œSix?” I asked aloud, somewhat alarmed.
    â€œViolet?” I called. My assistant should have returned five hours ago. I would have noticed her return no matter how deeply immersed I was in the rituals of baking. Between batches, I had set the wine to breathing and arranged a nice store of hard liquor safely locked into its cupboard in my parlor.
    â€œViolet?”
    Silence inside, subdued traffic noise outside.

Chapter Two
    â€œV IOLET!” I LET ANGER mask the growing fear in my belly as I ran through the entire building. I started with my assistant’s room and the extra cubicles in the attic, then down to my private suite. No sounds, no out-of-place shadows, nothing. The more public parlor and reading room on the first floor abovestairs was equally empty, as was the café, which occupied the entire ground floor, and the kitchen one level lower. That left the hot, moist cellar with the café boiler and the brick walls between the cellar moisture and part of the bookshelves. Violet hated the cellars and refused to enter even with the drayman from the dairy master, whom she fancied, as escort and a brightly lit oil lamp. I didn’t find her there either.
    So I drew a deep breath for courage and entered the stationers next door from the back courtyard and down to that cellar—I owned it but leased the upper part of the building. The cellar here was filled with boilers, the ones that powered the clockwork book catalog and search engine. The amount of steam they put forth would have ruined my books and periodicals. I had trouble enough keeping the smaller boiler beneath the café from making the entire building too damp for book storage.
    No sign of Violet or the coal drayman here either. I made a note to order more coal, having peeked into the bin and finding it half-empty. By the time I could get another delivery, it would be down to less than a quarter.
    The only other building on my property was the pump shed that doubled as an icehouse, packed tightly with eggs, milk, and cheese. I’d caught the girl there a time or two with the drayman of her choice. But she wasn’t there, nor did it look like she had been.
    As I ran down the formal staircase from parlor to café for the third time, a rapid tap on the back door brought me to an abrupt halt beside the circular desk that guarded the steam-and-clockwork–powered library catalog and the empty coffee bar. I did serve tea, but most of my customers preferred to savor the stimulating dark brew recently made popular in Paris by new explorations in Africa. Tea was for ladies and boringly respectable men. My customers sought something bolder, and I embodied that boldness.
    A repeat of the knock broke the paralysis from my knees. I hastened down to the kitchen where I cranked open the three locks, and dislodged two chains, hoping desperately that Violet had forgotten her key. A modicum of common sense stilled my hand. Cautiously, I peered through the spy hole beside the door, before opening it. A small ragged silhouette cowered against the building, warily searching the alleyway. Two taller, decidedly feminine figures stood before the peephole.
    â€œWho?” I whispered through the tiny hole covered with a magnifying glass lens before I opened the latch.
    The shape against the wall jumped and pressed itself closer to