Chapter 238: A Visit Around The Women Laboratory

The threshold of the women’s building did not lead into a domestic space, but into a secular temple of discipline.

Crossing the heavy oak doors, the air itself seemed to change. The sulfur and coal smoke of Francisco’s forge vanished, replaced by the scent of old parchment, distilled spirits, and the cold mineral breath of Roman cement.

At the entrance stood a massive mahogany desk, a dark sentinel against the pale gray walls. Here, the rules of the Göttingen Library were enforced with almost military precision.

A large ledger lay open upon the desk, its pages carefully divided into columns: Name, Hour of Entry, and Hour of Departure.

Every woman who worked in the building—whether the wife of a professor or the daughter of a guild master—was required to dip her quill and sign her name.

Christian nodded approvingly when he saw this arrangement. He was pleased that Francisco had insisted on following the university’s regulations so strictly. In truth, several administrators had suggested removing such procedures, so seeing francisco follow the instruction he was happy

“Gentlemen,” Francisco said calmly, “my apologies, but I must insist that everyone follow the rules.”

He gestured toward the open ledger.

“This building houses some of the most capable women in Göttingen. We cannot allow anyone to enter or leave without a record. It protects not only their reputation, but also the research conducted here every day.”

August frowned.

“But we are the administrators of the university,” he protested. “This place belongs to Göttingen. Surely we should not be required to sign a visitor’s ledger.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Or do you believe we intend to steal your discoveries?”

Francisco shook his head calmly.

“Herr August, I must remind you of something important.”

His voice remained polite, but firm.

“While Göttingen may hold an interest in this institution, everything you see here was financed by me. The building you are standing in, the desks, the instruments, the salaries of the scholars—even the discoveries themselves—belong to my household.”

He tapped the edge of the ledger gently.

“Until the university formally accepts this laboratory as part of its structure, you are guests here, just like everyone else.”

August stiffened.

He had not known that the laboratory was Francisco’s private property.

His eyes moved quickly toward Christian and the other administrators. Seeing them awkwardly avoiding his gaze, he realized with irritation that the boy was telling the truth.

A quiet curse formed in his mind.

From what he understood now, Göttingen possessed little more than the prestige of association with the project. If the rumored cure for smallpox truly existed, the university’s credit would be minimal.

How could these men be so blind?

Even if the researchers were women, the presence of Francisco alone guaranteed profit and influence. Anyone with common sense could see the potential of such an institution.

Their failure to recognize it gave him a growing headache.

Christian cleared his throat softly.

He understood the expression on August’s face. Yet for Göttingen the situation was complicated. Publicly embracing a women’s laboratory could damage the university’s reputation. Even if the professors were willing, the citizens of the town—or the students themselves—might not accept such a radical change.

For now, the plan had been simple: allow Francisco to experiment quietly. If he succeeded in producing something valuable, the university could then use that success to persuade society to accept the change.

“Let us simply sign the document,” Christian said calmly.

“In truth, it benefits us as well. By doing so, we demonstrate to the citizens of Göttingen that we respect the work taking place here and that we are willing to personally observe these discoveries.”

Reluctantly, the administrators followed the rules. One by one they signed the ledger, dipping their quills in ink before adding their names to the record.

Only then did Francisco lead them toward the spiral staircase.

They ascended slowly to the second floor, their boots echoing against the stone steps in a rhythmic intrusion upon the building’s disciplined silence.

The gallery above opened into a long corridor lined with identical wooden doors.

“These are the sleeping quarters for the women,” Francisco explained calmly. “Some of them remain here through the night—tracking the stars and looking for new discoverings in the sky or waiting for the precise moment when a chemical reaction reaches its peak it depends entirely on their speciality.”

He pushed open one of the doors.

The room inside was a masterpiece of practical simplicity—almost shocking in its austerity compared to the silk and lace normally associated with noblewomen in 1794.

At its center stood a simple iron bed frame, painted black and chosen for its resistance to both fire and pests. It was covered only with clean bleached linen and a single wool blanket.

Beside it stood a wooden desk positioned beneath a large window.

Francisco had noticed that many depictions of laboratories in the future—those strange glimpses he occasionally imagined—were filled with windows. He did not fully understand why such light seemed important to scholars of the future, but so far following those instincts had rarely been a mistake.

The desk itself was covered with notebooks filled with delicate mathematical formulas. The professors could easily recognize that the elegant handwriting belonged to a woman; the thin curves and precise strokes revealed the care of a practiced hand.

Bolted into the gray Roman cement wall stood another unusual object.

A small rectangular mirror.

Its surface was made using a tin–mercury amalgam, giving it a faint bluish reflection that shimmered coldly in the light.

Christian stepped closer and examined it carefully.

Seeing such a luxury item inside the otherwise austere room made him curl his lips slightly.

“You are treating these women with remarkable care,” he remarked. “If every room has mirrors like this, I would not be surprised if the rumors outside turned out to be true.”

Francisco sighed helplessly.

“Honestly, I thought they were unnecessary as well,” he admitted. “But you know my wife. She is the real master of the house.”

He chuckled softly.

“At first she only asked for one mirror in her own room. But then the other women began gathering there every morning to use it. Catalina became so irritated that I had no choice but to purchase one for every room.”

Several of the professors nodded in quiet understanding.

Although society often claimed women were subordinate to men, many married scholars knew the reality of domestic life. Maintaining peace in one’s household often meant keeping one’s wife satisfied.

Those who failed at that task frequently spent far more time at the university than necessary—simply to avoid arguments waiting at home.

After allowing them to observe the rooms for a moment, Francisco led the group further along the corridor.

On the opposite side of the floor, a larger chamber awaited them.

“Here,” he explained, “the women can spend their free hours reading in the library… and they also have access to bathing facilities.”

August immediately frowned.

“Excuse me, young Francisco,” he interrupted. “What exactly do you mean by bathing facilities? Have you discovered thermal springs beneath the building? If that were the case, they should logically be located on the first floor.”

Francisco chuckled and shook his head.

“No, nothing like that.”

He stepped toward a heavy reinforced door set into the Roman cement wall and pushed it open.

The professors froze in astonishment.

Instead of the dark and damp cellar they had expected, they found themselves staring into a bright sanctuary of steam and warm light.

The room was a masterpiece of hydrostatic engineering. The floor was tiled with smooth, dark slate that felt warm to the touch, and at the center a series of sunken tubs had been carved directly into the monolithic gray stone.

“Not thermals, August,” Francisco said, his voice echoing with a faint metallic ring against the vaulted ceiling. “This is a hypocaust—refined by the chemistry of Göttingen.”

He pointed to the walls, where thick copper pipes— forged in his own Tabularium—ran like veins through the concrete.

“We do not carry buckets here. The excess heat from the spirit stills on the first floor is captured and funneled upward. It travels through these copper conduits, heating the water in the cisterns above before it reaches the basins. Gravity is our servant, and thermodynamics is our fire.”

August von Grote stepped forward, his fingers trembling as he touched the copper. It was hot—alive with a pulse of energy that seemed impossible for 1794.

“The Romans knew that a clean body housed a focused mind,” Francisco continued, walking toward a brass lever shaped like a laurel branch. He pulled it, and a steady stream of steaming water cascaded into the tub, the sound filling the chamber with the roar of a controlled waterfall.

“By placing the baths on the second floor, we utilize the rising heat of the distillery. It is a closed circuit—a perpetual motion of comfort. While the men of the University hide in their libraries from the cold of their homes, the women of this laboratory work in a climate of eternal spring.”

Christian raised his hand.

“Wait a moment… Do you even have enough stills in this laboratory—and enough grain—to generate that much heat?”

Francisco shrugged again.

“Believe me, I would not want it as much as you think. But my wife’s experiments require a great deal of pure alcohol. She insisted on building a small factory here to distill it.”

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