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knives," Snips said.
    Orwick ignored the thief's speculations. "But before I could schedule a meeting, he met with his untimely demise."
    "Oh, that's a shame. Let me guess—died in a horrible automated cutlery accident."
    "He was killed in an explosion," Orwick explained. "His burning corpse was propelled out of his workshop and into the ocean."
    Snips grimaced. "Ouch."
    "And you will be aiding in the investigation of his death."
    "Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the investigator type."
    "You do not need to be. The Steamwork has hired a detective agency to look into the matter. You will be accompanying them as a government consultant. It will be their task to provide the cover of an investigation into Basil Copper's demise, allowing you an opportunity to—"
    "—be a sneaky little fink and find out what he wanted to tell you and why someone decided to put a stop to it?"
    "Exactly."
    "I don't understand. I'm no government agent," Snips said.
    "I'm not even government material. I'm a con artist. Why me?"
    "Precisely because you are a con artist, Miss Snips, and precisely because you are not a government agent. As I have stated: your methods are unconventional. They may work where other methods have failed."
    Snips snorted. "You're a nut. A salty, roasted nut."
    "All I ask is that you take your position seriously. Through hook or crook, Miss Snips, get to the heart of the matter. In exchange for your services, I will see to the disposal of this—"
    Orwick gestured to the pardon notice, as if its mere presence offended him. "—odious document."
    Snips' eyebrow twitched. "And what happens if I don't?"
    "Then, Miss Snips, I think it would be wise for you to consider another profession. Before your colleagues decide to consult with you."
    ~*~
    Shortly after Snips left, Mr. Peabody entered with a bundle of paperwork.
    "If I may, sir," Mr. Peabody began, setting the pile down on top of Orwick's desk. "I would like to inquire as to what you are hoping to accomplish by assigning Miss Snips to this affair."
    Count Orwick looked amused. "Are you questioning my judgment, Peabody?"
    The assistant immediately grew pale, stepping back. "Ah, not at all, sir."
    "Calm yourself." Orwick turned to stare through the window, watching the railway. "I assigned Miss Snips to this matter for two reasons."
    "The first, sir?"
    "An adequate solution that fails to accommodate for the unknown is neither adequate nor a solution. Miss Snips may solve the matter; she may not. She may serve to do nothing more than provide a useful clue—a clue without which those better trained than herself could never succeed. But any solution that constrains itself to the boundaries of merely that which we predict will happen is a solution doomed to stagnation and failure."
    "She's a mongrel, sir, and self-destructive," Mr. Peabody noted. "It is likely that she'll die."
    "Yes," Orwick said. "In which case, we come to my second reason. Should she die in her service as a government agent, I will have every right to investigate the Steamwork at my leisure—for suspicion in the murder of an official operative."
    Mr. Peabody smiled. "She succeeds, you win. She fails, you win. Very good, sir."
    "The only way I can lose is if she manages to do nothing.

    And considering Miss Snips' history, I find that possibility to be the least likely of them all."
    ~*~

CHAPTER 5: IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE PAST IN ORDER TO INVESTIGATE GOINGS-ON CONCERNING RAINSTORMS, SECRET SOCIETIES, AND BUTTERFLY WINGS
    ~*~
    An engine growled beneath Aberwick's streets.
    The machine occupied a hundred feet of space; it was a geometric puzzle of precisely arranged gears and cogs, gnawing at mathematical enigmas presented to it by means of a series of levers. It was powered by a crank, which Jeremiah now turned; each revolution brought it one step closer to a problem's inevitable solution.
    "Incredible," Abigail said.
    "Jeremiah called the original design a 'calculation