As public opinion simmered, time slowly moved into the year 1871.
January 5th, Argyle Estate, Long Island.
The winter this year was exceptionally cold.
Large chunks of ice floated on the waters of the Long Island Sound, and the estate's lawn was covered in two feet of snow, looking like a giant white velvet cake.
However, the interior of the estate's main building was as warm as spring.
Ever since electricity had been installed, Heinrich White had conveniently designed an electrically assisted warm air circulation system for his Boss.
Although the power consumption was staggering, for Felix Argyle, who owned an independent power plant, this bit of coal consumption was not even a drop in the bucket.
The master bedroom on the second floor.
This place had been converted into a top-tier delivery room.
Heavy windproof tapestries hung on the walls, and expensive Persian rugs covered the floor.
Catherine OBrien lay on a large four-poster bed.
Fine beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her long blonde hair was scattered across the pillow.
Unlike the thrilling and bloody birth of Anna's child, this delivery was full of composure.
After all, this was Catherine's second time giving birth.
Moreover, four of the most senior obstetricians from Umbrella Hospital were waiting nearby.
Six professionally trained nurses were methodically delivering hot water and sterilized towels.
Even the air was permeated with a faint scent of lavender rather than a nauseating smell of blood.
Felix sat in an armchair by the bed, holding Catherine's hand with just the right amount of pressure.
"Are you alright?" Felix asked softly.
Catherine opened her eyes; though the pain had made her face somewhat pale, her gaze remained steady.
"It's much better... than when I gave birth to Finn."
Catherine took a deep breath, adjusting her breathing.
"That boy was thrashing around like a little calf. This one... is very quiet. I think it might be a lady."
"A lady is good." Felix used a handkerchief to help wipe away her sweat.
"The Argyle Family needs a princess. It's too dull with boys always fighting and killing."
The door was gently pushed open a crack.
A small head peeked in.
It was their son, Finn Argyle.
He was now over four years old, wearing a miniature version of a black tuxedo, looking like a little adult.
"Daddy," Finn called out softly, "how is Mommy?"
Felix beckoned to him.
"Come in, Finn. Come see your mother."
Finn walked in quietly and leaned against the bedside, looking at Catherine's bulging belly.
"Mama, when is little sister coming out?"
"Soon."
Catherine reached out and stroked her son's face.
"You're going to be an older brother, so you must protect her."
"Of course, I will." Finn puffed out his chest.
"I'll do as Uncle Rambo taught me; whoever bullies my sister, I'll punch them."
Felix laughed.
"Very good, but that's not enough. You have to learn to use your brain to protect her, not just your fists."
Just then, a wave of intense contractions hit.
Catherine gripped the bedsheets and let out a suppressed groan.
The female doctors immediately surrounded her.
"Mr. Argyle, please take Young Master Finn out first," the attending physician, Maria, said respectfully but firmly.
"The final moment has arrived."
Felix nodded, picked up Finn, and walked out of the room.
In the hallway, the butler was waiting anxiously.
"Boss, the kitchen has prepared ginseng soup. Also, a telegram just arrived from Washington..."
"I won't look at it yet." Felix waved him off, interrupting.
"I won't look at it even if the sky falls. Even if President Grant burns down the White House, don't bother me."
He sat on a bench in the hallway, holding his son.
Outside the window, heavy snow was falling.
Felix's mood was peculiar.
In Washington, when facing Caesar, his godson, what he felt was the continuation of political ambition, the excitement of a sharp sword being unsheathed.
But here, now, what he felt was a sense of peace.
This was his legitimate bloodline; this was his home.
This was the softest core within the fortress he had built with iron and blood.
Half an hour later.
A clear cry pierced through the heavy oak door.
That sound wasn't overbearing like Caesar's; instead, it was as pleasant as a silver bell, tinged with a hint of daintiness.
The door opened.
The head nurse walked out with a face full of joy, carrying a pink swaddle in her arms.
"Sir, it's a little princess!"
Felix stood up abruptly.
He took the child.
She was very small, and her skin wasn't wrinkled like a typical newborn's, but instead had a pink, tender glow.
Her eyes were closed, and teardrops still hung from her long eyelashes.
"So pretty." Finn stood on his tiptoes.
"She's like a doll."
Felix looked at the daughter in his arms.
At that moment, the gaze of this tyrant who controlled the economic lifeblood of America completely melted.
"Finn, she's not like a doll," Felix said softly.
"She is a gem, the brightest one on the crown."
He carried the child into the bedroom.
Catherine had already been cleaned up and was leaning against the pillow drinking water. Seeing the father and daughter enter, she showed a weak but happy smile.
"Have you thought of a name?" Catherine asked.
"You said if it was a girl, I could choose the name. But my mind is a complete blank right now."
Felix sat by the bed, letting Catherine see their daughter's face clearly.
"There's no need to choose."
Felix looked at the wind and snow outside the window, then back at this room that was as warm as spring.
"Elizabeth." Felix uttered the name.
"Elizabeth?" Catherine was stunned for a moment. "Like the Queen of England?"
"Yes." Felix nodded.
"Not just a queen; Elizabeth I inaugurated England's Golden Age. And our daughter will witness America's Golden Age."
"Elizabeth will enjoy glory here."
"Elizabeth Argyle."
Catherine repeated the name, tenderness flashing in her eyes.
Just then, the snow outside stopped.
A ray of golden sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone through the French window onto the cradle.
Felix looked at that beam of light and suddenly remembered something.
"Frost!" he shouted toward the door.
The secretary immediately pushed the door and entered.
"Boss."
"Take this down."
Felix's voice regained that commanding majesty, though he still kept his volume low.
"To celebrate Elizabeth's birth, I want to establish an 'Elizabeth Education Fund'."
"Initial investment... one million dollars."
Frost's hand trembled. A million dollars. In this era, that was an astronomical sum, enough to buy a small country.
"What will this money be used for, Boss?"
"To build girls' schools."
Felix looked at the daughter in his arms.
"Not just to teach them sewing and painting. We must teach them science, law, and how to manage finances."
"My daughter cannot be the kind of decorative vase who can only depend on men, and her companions cannot be fools."
"Also," Felix added.
"Notify Tiffany & Co. I want to order a solid gold cradle. It should be inlaid with twelve of the largest sapphires. It must be delivered before her one-month celebration."
"Yes." Frost noted it down.
Felix looked back at Catherine.
"You get some good rest."
"I'm not tired yet." Catherine held his hand.
"I thought I heard you say you wouldn't look at the telegram from Washington? You can look at it now."
Felix smiled and pulled the crumpled telegram from his pocket.
It was from Anna.
The content was simple: "Congratulations on your daughter. Washington's gift is ready."
Felix folded the telegram.
"It's nothing." He told Catherine a white lie.
"Just business matters."
He looked at Elizabeth in the cradle.
January 15, 1879. Washington, D.C.
The U.S. Patent Office Building.
This Greek Revival masterpiece housed one of the busiest departments of the federal government. Every day, countless inventors emerged with dreams in their eyes, clutching strange blueprints and wooden models. They queued in the lobby, praying for the piece of paper that would lead them to fortune.
But today, the Director's office was tightly shut.
Director Fisher sat behind his desk, his forehead slick with sweat. Two men sat opposite him: Felix's chief legal counsel and Edward Frost. A heavy wooden box sat on the table between them. Though it remained closed, the dull thud of its weight and the unmistakable clink of metal told everyone in the room exactly what was inside.
"Director Fisher," Frost said, holding a patent application three hundred pages thick. "Regarding this 'Lighting System' approval—we hope to speed the process up a bit."
"This..." Fisher wiped his brow. "Mr. Frost, this is against the rules. This system involves more than sixty individual patents. From the generator rotor structure to the processing of carbon fibers and the sealing technology for vacuum glass bulbs... we need time to conduct a search. We must ensure it doesn't conflict with existing patents."
He paused, leaning in. "For example, a Briton named Swan applied for something similar a few years ago..."
"But that British bulb burns out in less than five minutes," Frost interrupted coldly. "Our lamp has been lit at the Astor House for three consecutive weeks, as stable as a star."
Frost leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial skin. "Director, Mr. Argyle isn't asking you. He is giving you an opportunity."
"What opportunity?"
"The opportunity to become a part of history." Frost patted the box. "Inside is $20,000 in gold. Consider it a donation from Mr. Argyle to the Patent Office Library 'Repair Fund.' Furthermore, if you can produce the stamp within the month, the soon-to-be-established electric company will hire you as an honorary advisor. The salary is $5,000 a year—until the day you retire."
Fisher swallowed hard. Five thousand dollars was ten years' worth of his current salary.
"But... what if someone else applies for something similar?"
"Then it is infringement," Frost said firmly. "The moment you stamp that paper, anyone who makes a glowing glass bubble on American soil is stealing Mr. Argyle' property. We will use this patent to sue them into bankruptcy."
Fisher looked at the document, then back at the box. He knew this wasn't a choice. If he refused, he would be dismissed tomorrow over some fabricated scandal. Argyle had the power to topple the Pinkertons; a minor bureau chief was nothing to him.
"Very well." Fisher picked up the stamp with trembling hands. "For the technological leadership of the United States."
Snap.
The bright red seal hit the paper. With that crisp sound, Felix officially—and legally—monopolized the light.
Pittsburgh.
The sky was a bruised gray. Snow fell to the ground, instantly dissolving into black slush. Inside a temporary prefabricated shack at the Braddock construction site, Andrew Carnegie sat at a worn table, clutching yesterday's newspaper.
The front page featured photos of the grand ball at the Astor House and the news of the birth of Elizabeth Argyle—the "Precious Daughter."
"A cradle of pure gold..." Carnegie read the words aloud, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Sapphires..."
He looked around his drafty, spartan office. The coal in the stove was nearly spent, but he couldn't bring himself to add more. His brother, Tom, pushed the door open, bringing a gust of chill air with him.
"Andrew, there's news from the B&O Railroad."
"And?" Carnegie asked eagerly. "Has Garrett agreed to transport the coal?"
Tom shook his head, his face pale. "Not yet. Garrett refused to even meet our representative. I heard Standard Oil offered him a massive contract. Now, every B&O railcar is being used to move oil. He claims there are simply no wagons to spare for us, though he insists he isn't 'severing' our cooperation—just 'delaying' it."
Carnegie crumpled the newspaper into a ball. "Excuses! They're all excuses!" He stood abruptly and hurled the paper into the dying fire. The flames licked at the name Felix Allen Alastor Argyle and the description of the golden cradle until they turned to ash.
"He's driving us to ruin," Tom said despairingly. "Even Mr. Drexel is beginning to hesitate. The bankers are all talking about Argyle' ventures. They think steel is outdated."
"Steel will never be outdated!" Carnegie roared like a wounded lion. He marched to the window, pointing at the unfinished blast furnace outside. "What do you see out there, Tom?"
"The... the blast furnace."
"No. Those are bones. That is the backbone of this country!" Carnegie's eyes grew frantic. "Light is bright, yes. It is beautiful. But can an electric light be laid on the ground for a train to run on? Can an electric light span a river to let a cannon cross? Can electric lights support a hundred-story building?"
"No! Only steel can! Argyle is obsessed with his lights, his New York parties, and his golden cradles. That is our opening."
"What do you mean?"
"He is arrogant," Carnegie said, turning back. "He thinks he has already won. He thinks that by cutting off my path, I must die. But he forgot one thing: what if I possessed that light, too?"
Tom was stunned. "You mean... we should manufacture bulbs?"
"Of course not. I mean that since the days aren't long enough, we shall turn night into day." Carnegie pulled a schematic from a drawer. "I have already written to Mr. Morgan to purchase a generator. I've heard of experiments in Europe regarding industrial electricity. I want these lights in the factory. We will run three shifts—twenty-four-hour, non-stop operation! Before, we couldn't see at night. Now, we will refine steel while the world sleeps."
"If we double our production, we can slash our costs by half! Even with high shipping rates, I can still undersell everyone. I will use his light to smelt my steel—and then I will smash his monopoly."
Carnegie grabbed his coat. "Come. To Philadelphia. I need to see Drexel again. Tell him if he withdraws now, he misses the only chance he'll ever have to dethrone Argyle."
The door slammed shut. In the swirling snow, Carnegie's short stature looked incredibly stubborn.
The British Embassy, Washington, D.C.
A secret meeting was underway. The Ambassador was receiving a special guest from London: William Siemens, one of the founders of Siemens.
"Mr. Ambassador," Siemens said, staring gloomily at a patent report. "Argyle has preemptively registered the vacuum carbon-filament bulb. He has effectively blocked our path."
"The British Empire does not tolerate technological blackmail," the Ambassador replied coldly. "Our fleet needs these lights. Our factories need them."
He looked out the window at the gray sky. "If we cannot circumvent him legally... then we must resolve this politically. Perhaps it is time we reached out to that Scotsman struggling in Pittsburgh. The enemy of my enemy is my ally."