Not entirely accurate; Brendan had helped, but Brendan was twenty chairs away and couldn't hear, and Jess didn't feel the need to defend him.
"You were prisoners of the Burners?" Patel asked, very politely indeed. Jess fervently wished he'd abandon the topic. They all did. But Khalila nodded, equally polite.
"For a time," she said. "And while we don't like what they stand for, the destruction was-" Khalila, of all people, was suddenly at a loss for words. She glanced at Jess, but he had nothing to say. Even Dario stayed silent.
It was Morgan who said, very quietly, "It was inhuman. And none of us wish to remember it. I'm sorry. We're lucky to be alive, and we know that."
Patel said, "Of course. I'm sorry." When Argent began to ask something else, Patel shook his head so sharply that the old man, too, fell silent, and the next comment was some grumble about the cold northern weather, which they could all agree to.
After dinner, it was time for the show.
They, of course, were the show.
Argent was right about the weather; even swathed in coats at the door, crossing the open space to the carriage house workshop was a reminder of just how unfriendly England could be; tonight, it was icy rain and fog, and they moved quickly into the warmth of the workshop. Thomas had tidied it up a bit, but even so, there was just barely enough space for everyone to crowd in out of the cold . . . but unlike Philadelphia, there was no expectation of destruction to come.
///
Thomas mounted the small, improvised steps and stood there uncomfortably next to his machine. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and then closed it again without speaking. He gestured to Jess, who sighed and came up to join him.
"You talk!" Thomas whispered fiercely.
"No," Jess whispered back, and took the spot at the controls of the machine. Not a simple lever anymore. This was a small stand of levers and switches, and Thomas threw him a look of hurt betrayal . . . and then, with a deep breath, the German started speaking. He started out a little uncertainly, but before long, just as Jess had thought, he was well into the details and comfortable with them. Talk of ink density and valve pressure and tensile strength. The audience looked intrigued but still not impressed, and when Thomas's explanation came to a halt, Jess flicked the first switch.
The only thing that happened was that the large copper boiler in the corner began to hiss as it built up pressure. It was decidedly not impressive.
"Is this all?" Old Man Argent asked, and ostentatiously checked his pocket watch. "I didn't come to the hinterlands for an oversized kettle and vague promises-"
The hiss in the boiler reached a high-pitched whine; Jess flicked another switch. The machine lurched into motion. A roller spread ink over letters set in a metal plate. The watching crowd fell silent and craned forward to watch.
"Step one," said Thomas. "The master plate is inked." He nodded, and Jess turned the next lever, which pulled a thick roll of paper into place and stretched it over the plate-not close enough to touch. "Now, the paper. You notice that it is in rolls, not in sheets, for speed." Thomas looked at Jess, who nodded. "And now, the printing."
Jess flipped the final two switches together, and the paper was pressed down, lifted up, measured out, and cut with a sharp blade. It settled in the tray, and already, the next page was in place, the ink ready, the process repeating.
"We can print copies of the page at the rate of almost a hundred per minute, when we turn the speed higher," Thomas said over the steady thrumming of the machine. "And as you will see, we print two pages at once-the first and the last of the folio."
Thomas plucked the first sheet from the drying pile, and in the bright lights of the workshop, Jess felt a strange, exhilarating chill run through him. There, in block letters on the paper, were two full pages of text in Greek that had never been seen before by anyone but them. There was so much wrong with what would happen tonight.
But this . . . this was right. And important.
Thomas held the page up for all to see. "The first and last pages of Hermocrates, by Plato," he said. "Suppressed by the Great Library since Scholar Plato's death. Careful. The ink needs time to dry. This is one of the books we rescued from the Black Archives." The murmurs started then, and built. Thomas raised his voice again to be heard. "These are words that few living people have read. This is what the Library has kept from us. This, and so much more. But with this machine, they no longer have that power."