Chapter 262: Interval of Restoration

“Now that I know we have a sufficient population to sustain growth,” Francisco said, “I can begin to address the problem of steel more seriously.”

The professor gave a light chuckle.

“That alone will not suffice,” he replied. “But with the time you intend to devote to your investigations, it may prove… adequate as a beginning.”

He paused, then added with a knowing look:

“And, if I am not mistaken, you have already sent the designs for some of the more advanced steel mills to New Granada. Have you not?”

Francisco stiffened slightly. A flicker of surprise—and guilt—crossed his face. He had taken considerable care when passing those designs to Krugger, fearing precisely this kind of scrutiny.

Seeing his reaction, the professor allowed himself a faint smile.

“You did not truly believe we would remain unaware, did you?” he said. “We may not rival Britain in intelligence, but Göttingen is no idle institution. If such materials could be removed without notice, we would have little reason to maintain our networks at all.”

He clasped his hands behind his back.

“The director has already given his approval. He sees potential in your work. And besides—you did not copy the designs directly. You recreated them, drawing upon knowledge acquired here. There is nothing unlawful in that.”

He shrugged lightly.

“Of course, had you been from a hostile nation, the matter would be… different. But New Granada lies far beyond the immediate concerns of Europe.”

Francisco nodded, relief settling into his expression.

“Thank you, Professor. I will be sure to express my gratitude to the director when the opportunity arises.”

He hesitated briefly, then added:

“For now, however, I believe I shall spend some time with Catalina. I have neglected that duty long enough.”

The professor sighed, though not without a hint of approval.

“You would do well to,” he said. “Especially considering what I have heard—that she has made progress toward a treatment for smallpox. Something involving… cows, I believe?”

Francisco’s eyes widened.

“They succeeded?” he asked quickly. “I had heard she was investigating a connection between cowpox and smallpox…”

He paused, his tone shifting, more cautious now.

“Do you know the result? Has it proven effective?”

The professor gave him a curious look.

“Is she not your wife?” he asked. “Why do you seek such answers from me? And were you not present during the last experiment?”

Francisco hesitated, then spoke with some embarrassment.

“Well… she did administer an injection. Whatever it was, it left me ill for nearly a week. I could scarcely rise from bed. Once I recovered, I returned immediately to my work—the matter Hannover requested of me left little room for anything else.”

The professor shook his head, faintly amused.

“That was the treatment,” he said. “Or rather, what they are beginning to call inoculation. Your wife’s theory is that the body, once exposed in a controlled manner, can defend itself against the greater illness.”

He studied Francisco briefly.

“She appears to have remained in good health since. I assume she questioned you during the process?”

Francisco scratched his head, somewhat awkwardly.

“I… cannot say. I was rather occupied at the time. There was also the matter of the French telegraph—I had little attention to spare.”

He exhaled, then straightened.

“I should speak with her.”

The professor waved a hand dismissively, though with a faint chuckle.

“Ah… youth.”

Francisco excaped the library, adjusting his coat as he stepped into the cool Göttingen air. He looked at one of his servants, who was waiting by the stone steps of the university.

“Were you able to rent the carriage?” Francisco asked.

The servant bowed slightly and gestured toward a vehicle waiting at the edge of the street. It stood apart from the heavier traveling coaches they were accustomed to.

It was a phaeton.

Elegant, light, and unmistakably fashionable, it was designed less for utility than for display. Its large wheels suggested speed rather than stability, and its open frame—lacking any substantial covering—made it ideal for leisurely drives through promenades, where one might be seen as much as one traveled.

“Indeed, Master Francisco,” the servant replied. “A milo style, with the cream-colored leather interior you requested. It is… somewhat delicate for these streets, but it is considered the finest in the city for a private outing.”

He cast the carriage a doubtful glance.

To him, the design bordered on impractical. In New Granada, such a vehicle would be little more than an invitation to discomfort—or worse. The jungle did not reward elegance. And the price… he still found it difficult to comprehend.

Francisco, however, seemed satisfied.

“Good. Send it to the women’s laboratory,” he said. “I will follow shortly in another carriage.”

He paused briefly, then added:

“And prepare the ingredients. Tonight, I intend to cook.”

The servant inclined his head, though a faint trace of surprise passed over his expression.

Among the elites of New Granada, such tasks were rarely undertaken personally. Cooking was considered beneath their station—something to be delegated, not practiced. Yet Francisco had been raised among mestizos, where such distinctions held less weight. His father himself had taken pleasure in the kitchen on occasion—though, truth be told, his results were seldom remarkable.

Still, he enjoyed the act. And Francisco, following that example, had learned as well.

It was, perhaps, one of the many reasons they were regarded with suspicion among the more conservative circles.

“The ingredients you requested have been prepared,” the servant continued. “Though I must confess, I was uncertain of the outcome. The ground beef alone was… difficult to obtain.”

He allowed himself a brief, incredulous smile.

“The butchers here treat such meat with great care. When I explained that it was to be ground, they looked upon us with a mixture of pity and offense. One elderly woman spoke at length—rather forcefully—in German. I could not understand her words, but Mariano seemed… deeply unsettled by them, and chose not to repeat them.”

Francisco chuckled softly.

“Customs differ,” he said. “Were you able to obtain the tomatoes?”

“Yes, though not without difficulty,” the servant replied. “Many here believe them to be poisonous. The merchant assumed we wished to purchase the plant for decoration. When we insisted upon the fruit, she attempted to dissuade us, warning of its dangers. We were forced to explain that in New Granada, it is commonly consumed.”

Francisco nodded.

“And the green leaves?”

The servant hesitated.

“That proved more complicated. We could not determine precisely what you required. Several options appeared similar, so we obtained spinach, chard, and radish greens… in the hope that one of them would suffice.”

Francisco inclined his head in understanding.

Truthfully, he was no more certain than they were. The image he had in mind—drawn from fragmented memories of the future—was incomplete. The tomato he recognized easily, having eaten it often. But the green element remained uncertain.

For now, it would be a matter of trial… and error.

Francisco took his carriage toward the laboratory, followed closely by a smaller one behind—carrying the elegant phaeton intended for their outing.

The iron-rimmed wheels rattled steadily over the cobblestones as they passed through Göttingen’s narrow streets, lined with timber-framed houses that leaned inward as though observing the life below.

Francisco gazed out the window, though his thoughts were far from the city around him.

They shifted restlessly—between the census figures he had uncovered in the library and the image that refused to leave his mind: the machine of iron he had seen in his visions of the future. A train. His greatest obsession since the moment he had glimpsed it.

He knew, with a certainty, that such a creation would one day become indispensable—not only to New Granada, but to all of South America.

At last, they crossed the city and arrived at the laboratory.

Francisco stepped down from the carriage and approached the entrance. The structure, with its Greek-style pillars, remained a quiet source of admiration for him. It stood as a statement—of knowledge, of ambition, and perhaps of defiance.

Near the entrance, a small group of women spoke in hushed tones. At the sight of Francisco, their conversation halted abruptly, replaced by visible surprise.

“Young Francisco,” one of them said, offering a slight bow. “Have you come to see Catalina?”

Francisco returned the gesture with a polite inclination of his head.

“Indeed,” he replied. “I intend to take her out for the day. I have settled upon the direction of my next investigation, and before beginning, I would spend some time with her.”

The women exchanged glances, their expressions softening into knowing smiles.

“She is presently occupied,” one of them explained. “Preparing a report for the university. It seems Göttingen intends to secure recognition for the discovery of inoculation.”

There was a note of excitement in her voice.

“In return, the laboratory is to be formally acknowledged as part of the institution—though in truth, it will remain something of a subsidiary. Still… our names will be preserved in the records.”

The others nodded, sharing in the quiet pride of the moment.

In a society that offered little space for women to distinguish themselves, such recognition carried immense weight. Their work was often dismissed—or worse, claimed by others. To have their names attached to a legitimate treatment for smallpox was no small achievement. It would grant them a place, however contested, within the world of learning.

Francisco observed them with a faint, thoughtful smile.

From what he had seen of the future, he knew such progress would come—but slowly. A century, perhaps two, before women would stand on equal footing with men in such fields.

And yet…

Perhaps this was a beginning.

Perhaps, through efforts like this laboratory, that future might arrive sooner than expected.

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