I could not sleep.
The Gearhart guest-wing boasted feather mattresses deep enough to drown a medium-sized rhinoceros, yet my mind ricocheted round its velvet walls like a marble in a teapot. Images of padded walkways, doll-sized screwdrivers, and indulgent aunts danced the Charleston behind my eyelids, accompanied by the steady tick-whirr of Mabel recharging in the corner.
At half past midnight the decision made itself. I slipped from bed, fastened my temporary engineer, third-class lanyard about my neck, and tiptoed into the corridor — as stealthy, I flattered myself, as a mouse at a cat convention.
A single night-watch automaton lurked by the stair. It resembled a grandfather clock that had run away to sea: brass breast-plate, pendulum feet, and a lorgnette lens that scanned for malefactors. I offered it my badge; gears clacked, a polite green bulb winked, and the sentry returned to contemplating eternity. Providence clearly approved of insomnia.
The side-lab lay two passages beyond the main foundry, its door secured by a simple rune lock whose sigil matched the stamp on my lanyard. A satisfying snick later, I stood among benches strewn with mechanical detritus: dented travelling kettles, cracked steam whistles, and a jar of burnt coffee grounds whose aroma suggested someone had attempted to brew tar.
I lit a single mantle lamp. In that amber glow the cracked whistle valve I had pocketed earlier gleamed like mischief incarnate. An idea — half lunacy, half inevitability — unfurled. I sketched upon a linen napkin stolen from supper: kettle + whistle + pressurised coffee = portable stimulant.
"A piping-hot beverage and an audible safety signal," I muttered. "Even Aunt Effie can applaud that."
Behind me Mabel stirred from stand-by, optics flickering.
"Sir," she intoned, voice syruped with drowsiness, "Safety Protocol B-twelve explicitly prohibits unsanctioned caffeine experiments after curfew."
"Duly noted," I whispered, already rummaging for flux.
She sighed — a gentle exhaust hiss — and powered down again, clearly concluding that further protest would be wasted on a man in the grip of invention.
I dismantled the travel kettle, filed the broken lip smooth, and soldered the whistle in place of its mundane spout. The burnt coffee — black as midnight sin — I mixed with a spoonful of sugar and enough water to create a viscous slurry. This I poured into the pressure chamber, sealed the hatch, and chalked a modest rune of containment round the base for luck.
Sparks spat, solder smoked, and the workshop smelt suddenly of hazelnuts and adventure. At last I eased the device onto the bench's spirit burner, stepped back, and waited.
For a blissful heartbeat nothing happened. Then the kettle gave a convulsive shudder and screamed an operatic high C powerful enough to rattle spanners in distant drawers. A jet of inky espresso shot from the whistle, arced prettily, and splattered across the flagstones.
Alas, the alarm rune in the ceiling misinterpreted that banshee note as a Category-Seven conflagration. Crimson glyphs ignited along the cornice; klaxons bellowed; the words POTENTIAL MALE IMMOLATION strobed against the far wall.
"Oh, dash it," I said — or words to that effect.
The sentry automaton from the stairs arrived first, legs whirring at an agitated allegro. Three siblings followed, brandishing clipboards and citation quills. Espresso now fountained in rhythmic spurts, coating the marble in a glossy lake. The first guard skidded, windmilled its pendulum arms, and collided with the alarm gong, doubling the volume from deafening to apocalyptic.
I darted between their flailing limbs, seized the kettle's lever, and tried to throttle the whistle. The mechanism obliged by rotating one quarter-turn, after which the whistle popped free and ricocheted about the ceiling like a furious canary.
Somewhere beyond the foundry a bell tolled. Moments later the Central Fire-Brigade for the Protection of Rare Chaps burst through the loading doors. They wore copper helmets shaped like teapots and wielded hose-nozzles the size of organ pipes, from which they discharged a dense white foam renowned for smothering both flames and, regrettably, dignity.
Foam met espresso mid-air and produced an aromatic fog that rolled across the floor in cappuccino waves. Automatons slipped, matrons pirouetted, and — though I shall carry the shame to my grave — I laughed. The scene resembled a meringue factory invaded by caffeinated walruses.
Then someone licked a finger. "Heavens, that's rather good." Within seconds helmeted heroines were sipping the airborne sweetness, eyes widening in wonder at the concentrated jolt.
At three o'clock — or thereabouts; my pocket-watch had drowned — Aunt Effie materialised in a brocade dressing-gown and towering curlers that steamed gently in the coffee-scented air. She surveyed carnage, automatons, and foam with the practised eye of a general appraising loot.
"Harold Algernon Forsythe," she breathed, sampling a trickle that dripped from her sleeve, "what have you brewed?"
"Espresso," I admitted, "with a health-and-safety feature."
She sipped again, pupils dilating into crown-shaped pound signs. "We shall call it the Forsythe Whistle-Brew™. Matrons will queue from here to the Admiralty for a taste."
Mabel, revived by the racket, skated to my side. I slipped a duplicate schematic into her storage drawer while Effie barked orders to the foreman about patent filings, marketing brochures, and — heaven help us — musical advertisements to feature the whistle note.
By dawn the foam had congealed into a crusty crème brûlée across the stone, the automatons were tetchily polishing each other clean, and I was herded towards the guest wing, still fizzing with triumph and the seven espressos I had accidentally inhaled.
"Rest, dear boy," Effie cooed, ushering me through the door that obligingly locked behind us. "The patent office opens at nine and we must look presentable when history is written."
Presentable, perhaps; proprietary, certainly.
I collapsed onto the rhinoceros mattress, ears still ringing, grin impossible to suppress. Somewhere in the corridor Mabel clicked a reassuring lullaby: a neat, quiet ticking — like an ally keeping watch over stolen genius.
Tomorrow would bring paperwork, profit, and the nagging question of who truly owned the whistle-brew. Tonight, however, I allowed the aroma of caramelised coffee to rock me into a brief, bubbling sleep, confident that my first real invention had sounded its note — and half the city had heard the call.