Alexandre Marcon stood in front the impressive oak doors of the Bristol offices of Inverness, Lloyd & McDowell Company, holding up a large wooden box with both hands. The polished brass door knob was tantalizingly close but just out of reach. With a sigh, Alexandre set the box down on the granite step, freeing one hand to open the heavy door. He had to keep it pushed open with his back as he awkwardly picked up the box again and backed through the doorway. At least it was dry this morning, though the low clouds coming in from the sea held a promise of afternoon rain.

Beyond the door was a well-lit reception area, the light from the two large windows flanking the door augmented by lit gaslights. The flames burned steady in polished brass chandeliers though he could detect a faint trace of soot on the ceiling above them. The gas itself would generally be clean enough to burn without a trace but the cotton wads used for lighting them up would leave some residue.

A receptionist sitting behind a solid desk made no move to help him as he looked around the room for a place to put down the box. Alexandre finally placed it on top of the receptionist’s desk which finally elicited a “Can I help you?”.

“Yes. My name is Alexandre Marcon, I have a 10 o’clock appointment with mister Spencer.”

“A, yes,” – the receptionist said, checking his ledger. He stood up and walked out to one of the rooms that opened into the wide hallway beyond and peeked inside:

“Mr. Macrone is here to see you, sir ... Yes sir ... I will get Mr. Idel and send him in right away.”

The receptionist returned to his desk and gave Alexandre’s box a dirty look.

“Mister Spencer will see you in a couple of minutes. You may wait down here.” – he pointed at a small row of elegant chairs set against the wall in the hallway beyond the desk. His gaze followed the box disapprovingly as he brushed off invisible flecks of dust from his desktop, before disappearing down the corridor that led into the bowels of the building.

A couple of minutes later the receptionist returned trailed by another man, dressed in a slightly worn suit. He walked straight up to Alexandre and introduced himself:

“Hello,” – he said with a distinct Welsh accent, grabbing Alexandre’s hand and shaking it - “my name is Gethin Idel, I am a staff engineer at IML & Company. I have read your letter and I think this can be most interesting...”

“I am glad you say that.”

Alexander sat on the sidewalk, his back against the heavy, granite-faced wall of the IML office. His box rested on the pavement beside him, almost carelessly tossed aside. This was the end of the road. He had about twenty shillings left to his name, barely enough to cover rent and board for two weeks, and nobody that would be willing to lend him a penny. He closed his eyes, letting the wind wash over his face. If the sun were to come out it might almost be enough to make him feel fine.

Someone sat down on the pavement next to him, and Alexandre opened his eyes. It was that Welshman engineer from IML.

“Spenser is an idiot, all right,” – the man said by way of a greeting, - “But he did spot the problem right on. You just can’t expect someone to keep turning the crank. Anyone who’d be rich enough to afford a contraption like that will have enough money to pay a mage apprentice to charge mage-light crystals. And anyone willing to turn the crank for that long would have no money for the thing. The gear box alone would have to cost at least three shillings by my reconning.”

“The rotor has to be spinning fast enough to get enough power to the crystal. You cannot spin it like that without a gear box. If it is too slow, the crystal starts flickering. I tried several ways...”

“And that makes the whole thing too heavy to carry and, overall, too bulky.”

“I was hoping IML could help me finish the work on reducing the weight. I have several ideas...”

“Pardon me for asking but what education did you receive, Mr. Marcon?”

“Université de Paris, Ecole des Arts Magiques. Maîtrise ès arts. The crystal in here is the outgrowth of my Master Thesis.”

The engineer sat in silence for a long moment then said something that Alexandre least expected:

“Tell you what, Mr. Marcon, why don’t I invite you to meet a buddy of mine by the name Lecapitaine. He runs a machine shop by the dockside. Speaking strictly privately here and without any relationship to IML, I think you have something in this box that neither you nor Mr. Spenser can see. And since he refused so flatly pointedly and elaborately, I feel I violate no further obligation here. At six, Mason Arms on Thomas Street? Just ask for Gethin.”

With these words the Welshman stood up and went back into the IML office leaving Alexandre to ponder the invitation alone. His thoughts went over the details of his invention, trying to understand what was the missing part. The magic crystal that emitted the light was based on an ancient design: a simple illumination spell paired with a power crystal. A mage would charge the crystal and then the crystal would shine once activated until the power ran out. Modern versions could be turned on and off multiple times between charging, but that made the lights more expensive. Most people preferred gas lights, despite all the dangers and expenses of running coal gas line through their house. IML company was big in the gas light business, he should have thought of that. But then again, he had reached the end of his road.

The second part was his invention, the perpetual magic machine, his Master thesis on transference of power between multiple crystals. His original thoughts were on the subject of creating a magic rechanging system that would allow to recharge a magic device remotely rather than by direct manipulation by a mage. The problem had seemed intractable at first, but he had eventually devised a method to measure the exact parameters of magical transference. The professors at the Université de Paris had been helpful but none of them considered the mechanistic approach something that had future in Magic theory. Not one of them offered him to continue his studies at a doctorate level.

Alexandre’s thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of cold raindrops landing on his face. The rain had finally arrived. He picked up his box and hurried down the street, ducking into the first welcoming door to take shelter. The shelter turned out to be one of the old-style coffee houses, where a patron could buy a cup of coffee for a penny and linger as long as they liked. Alexandre ordered a slice of roast on a loaf of bread for a few more pennies. The old woman that was manning the till led him to a small comfortable table by the back wall, and left him in peace. He noticed the unlit gas horn on the wall – the establishment was saving on the bills while there was light coming from the outside. While cheaper than magic, gas light still was quite expensive. A minute later the woman delivered his food and drink and Alexandre sank his teeth into the still warm bread savoring the simple comfort it brought.

At quarter to six that evening, Alexandre walked down High Street, crossed the Bristol Bridge, turned the corner by the old Church of St. Thomas and walked down the wet cobble stones of a narrow lane and found himself standing in front of a massive door under an equally massive sign that said “Mason’s Arms Pub”. The eponymic arms were displayed prominently above the entrance. The box with his Perpetual Magic Light machine felt twice as heavy in his arms as it had in the morning. The Welsh engineer had been right about that – it was too heavy to carry around as a portable light. Alexandre squared his shoulders and pushed the door. Inside, the pub was clean, well-lit, and unmistakably upscale. He was quickly led to a small back room, its walls draped with rich red silks and adorned with gilded ornaments. There two men awaited him. The Welsh engineer, Mr. Idel, looked the same he did in the office, except that the top button of his jacket was undone. His companion was a heavy-set man, that looked about fifty. He was dressed in an expensive suit with a golden watch chain hanging prominently from his pocket. The man pulled out the watch, popped the lid and said in a lightly accented French: