Chapter Four

“I’m an inventor, too,” Gustafson muttered once he was alone—well, not entirely alone.

From the worktable, Don Juan watched the young man with a sudden interest. “Clearly not a good one,” he muttered. “Stinky? Yes. Good? No.” He cackled sadly. “A million of me?”

“‘Calibrate the gyroscopic stabilization system,’” Gustafson babbled, removing the smock and climbing onto the sunken mattress of his loft bed. “‘Realign the gimbals.’ It’s all he has to say to me!” He set down his fractured Twirling Whirly, lay back, and gazed up at the ceiling. He always helped with Jeronicus’s inventions whenever he had the chance, but felt Jeronicus never really helped with his.

At least, not as soon and as easily as Gustafson craved. “I know stuff.” He stared long and hard at his prototype. Why had it malfunctioned? What in the world was the matter with him?!

“Who could conceive of such a thing? This is absurd!” Don Juan leaped off his little pedestal and loped across the surface with smoking flasks, steaming beakers, and lustrous cogs and coils. “I am singular! I am spectacular! To pull off such a feat, you’d need—” He froze when he saw a particular page in Jeronicus’s book of inventions, of a toy sketched with fine precision.

The matador quaked. “‘Plans for Don Juan Doll.’ ¡No puedo!” He couldn’t bear the thought of being mass-produced. If only he could figure out a way to remain one of a kind. Suddenly, Don Juan had an idea. A smug smile twisted his handsome features as he glanced at Gustafson. Unaware of being observed, Gustafson continued to trifle with his prototype until the wrench he’d been using to tighten a screw jammed against his fingers. Recoiling in sharp pain, Gustafson dropped back on his bed and shook out his hand. Nothing ever seemed to go his way.

Unless, of course, Don Juan could offer up a new possibility for the young inventor. He seized the opportunity. “It must feel good to be such an integral part of bringing something so amazing to life.” Don Juan nonchalantly gazed down his nose at his pristine plastic fingernails.

Gustafson was startled, having forgotten he wasn’t alone. “It was, uh, it was the professor’s work, really.” He resumed fiddling with his prototype. “I’m just his apprentice,” he added sadly.

Don Juan coyly swept his spotless black shoe back and forth across the tabletop. “Sí, pero I am sure you’ve created something of your own, almost as amazing as me. After all, you’re an inventor, too.” He was playing right into Gustafson’s glaring insecurity. He waited for a reply.

Gustafson stopped tinkering and looked up. Could it be? Someone else who recognized his budding brilliance and maturing magnificence? He regarded his Twirling Whirly, grimacing, and set it back down before springing from his bed and taking up a broom to sweep. “I’m telling everyone just a few tweaks are all it needs. But the professor always promises to look at it tomorrow.”

“The bull waits for tomorrow! But by then he is dead!” Don Juan’s subdued tone was gone, replaced by a voice full of intensity. “We wait for no tomorrows!”

Gustafson stopped sweeping. What was the toy matador talking about?

Don Juan gestured to the book of inventions. “That can belong to us,” he tempted.

“Those are the professor’s inventions,” Gustafson retorted with a finger wag.

“Those are your inventions!” Don Juan declared. “Those pages bear the sweat of your fingers. They’re as much yours as they are his.”

“But that would be stealing.”

“Borrowing. Indefinitely,” Don Juan corrected. It was an odd turn of phrase, but still . . .

“Together, we can build an empire,” Don Juan continued with vigor. “The name Gustafson will shine brighter than a thousand Spanish skies. And I, Don Juan Diego, will remain one, and only one, of a kind. It’s easy . . . It’s not stealing . . . when you borrow indefinitely . . .”

Gustafson’s eyes flitted back to the massive book, which beckoned to him with its hundreds of pages of designs. As he thought about ditching his days of incessant tinkering and tidying for the life of fame and fortune promised in every page, the corner of his mouth crept upward. It would be so easy. An entire, brilliant future was just within his grasp . . .