20
Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870
“It’s getting stuck somewhere around here,” Patrick O’Connell said.
Edward looked up from the main console. “Let me see.” He wiped his hands on the rag he kept nearby, not because he’d soiled his hands, but due to needing to feel like he didn’t have any oily residue on his fingers. Even the smallest amount could interfere with the flow of aether through the various chambers. It was yet one more fascinating thing about the substance, but he felt no closer to figuring out how to turn it to a power source, which had been their original mission.
He walked to where O’Connell stood and mentally mapped out the connections between the central console, which looked like the top part of an organ with its various stops plus levers and dials, and the place where
