Excerpt

Ali bin-Massoud made his way down Dorset Street at a brisk pace, hunching his shoulders against the damp chill that clung thick upon his person. Though he was but eighteen years of age, on days like this his bones ached as if he carried three times the number of years. His woolen white thobe and the darker besht robe he wore over it protected him from the worst of the weather, as did the chafiye wrapped about his head, but they also marked him as an outsider. Many days, his choice to wear traditional garb made things more difficult for him than the weather itself. In the three years since he had come to England, Ali could have chosen to adopt this foreign land's manner of dress but he was not willing to forgo any remaining shred of the culture he still cleaved to in this wet and foggy place. His body longed for the dry heat of the desert. His soul ached for home and his family…especially his father.

Ali missed his wisdom and patience. And on days like today, even a small word or look of encouragement would have lifted his spirits as a ray of sunshine cutting through the unfriendly English skies.

Ali shivered as the late-spring drizzle pelted his skin. He held the package of instruments he had fetched from the blacksmith for his teacher tight against his chest. Around him loomed the buildings that edged the street their brick facades staring at him. Ali felt crowded and smothered. It was so different from the open desert that surrounded his home in Wadi Al-Nejd. Lengthening his stride and keeping his head down, he hurried toward his temporary home, eager for the shelter it offered. His professor would no doubt have a warm fire and hot tea waiting.

Ali tensed as the swift two-step clop of hard-soled shoes approached behind him.

"My word! Two in one day. It is a veritable infestation," the stranger muttered. "Out of my way, golliwog."

The man shoved past him. Ali's feet slipped off the edge of the wooden walk. He fell toward the cobbles and into the street. Pain shot up his leg as his knee struck the hard stone. Angry yells and the clamor of hooves and wheels shattered the quiet calm of Dorset Street. Mud splattered his besht and covered his one hand where he had tried to catch himself. With his free hand, Ali clutched his package more tightly and whispered a prayer to the Almighty. He scrambled to the safety of the walkway, his body trembling as the carriage raced by without even slowing, the driver yelling maledictions as he passed. Ali's cheeks burned at the stares of those few people on the street.

With quiet dignity he shoved down his anger and continued on his way. Pride forced him to take slow, normal steps, though bolts of pain from his knee coursed through him with each stride. Ali could do nothing else; any response or complaint would be twisted and misconstrued. He had seen this too often. He had even experienced it once or twice, especially when he had first arrived. Throwing angry words and even fists accomplished nothing. Three years had passed and now Ali refused to let his honor, nor that of his teacher and his family be sullied, though the injustice burned him like the noonday sands.

He understood that his father had sent him to this cold place out of a desire for a better life for his second son than he would find in his brother Kassim's shadow. But the well-meaning exile…apprenticeship, Ali corrected himself, weighed heavily on his soul.

His feet longed for the shift of desert sands beneath them. His skin ached for the hot rays of a brilliant sun. His heart cried out for people who would accept him as he was and not give him baleful looks for skin that was more brown than pale. But more than anything else, he longed for his family. Neither he nor his father had realized how ill-received he would be by the English artificers and engineers, unable even to enroll at University despite a sharp mind, innate talent with mechanical things, and his father's deep pockets. If not for the famed artificer Charles Babbage accepting him personally as an apprentice—an offer made out of gratitude for a past kindness…and perhaps a more recent exchange of coin—Ali would have found his time in England unbearable. The Almighty be praised, his situation was not so. Ali murmured the quick benediction. A gratitude to protect against evil.

The hours spent studying with Babbage filled Ali's mind with wonder and his heart with joy. Like all artificer's, the man's mind was a puzzle of machines and engineering and designs that, when they were safely ensconced in the workshop, made Ali desire only to sit at his teacher's workbench and create with him. Such knowledge more than made his venture to this land of the English worthwhile.

Today they were to experiment with a new variation on a "difference engine." Ali's heartbeat sped up and a faint smile appeared at his lips. The machine was complex, its problems daunting and Ali loved every minute. His steps sped up at the thought.

Finally, he reached the wrought-iron fence surrounding One Dorset Street. As Ali passed through the gate, his shoulders relaxed. His head rose, and his chest loosened enough for him to draw a more comfortable breath. Before he could knock, Babbage himself opened the door, his forehead creased and his brow heavy as he scowled. His gaze took in the limp and the torn and dirtied state of Ali's clothing.

Babbage's lips pressed tight. "Again?" He glared down the street; first one way, and then the other.

"I am fine, Ustad."—Honored teacher. "The Almighty's blessing upon your household," Ali said in English. His words were clear and unaccented. He and his brother Kassim had learned the language, as well as many others, at a young age, through their merchant father's tutoring. Ali handed his teacher the package he carried, along with a letter he'd collected from the postmaster. Babbage's scowl deepened as he read the sender's name: The Honorable Lady Chadsworth. He humphed as he slipped the envelope into his coat, then turned to stride down the hall.

"Well, come on in then," Babbage said over his shoulder.

Ali followed, slowly, careful of his aching leg. No doubt he would awaken with significant bruises in the morning. Despite this, his fingers clenched as if already a spanner weighed upon his palm, all memories of his encounter temporarily forgotten.