It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young dragon in possession of all her graces must be in want of a hoard.

Which of course is why the human - whose card introduces as Mr Bingley - calls on me and my sisters, this warm summer’s afternoon at our father’s estate. He comes seeking a consort, and if the rumours are true, his fortune is enough to make a dragon blush.

My siblings, perhaps, may be tempted, but I have grander ambitions!

I do not wish to inherit my father’s hoard - though not due to its meagre extent - nor be permitted access to a human’s accounts through marriage.

I have never understood the appeal of numbers on accounting sheets, as if human men are so fragile as to wilt by the mere proximity to the wealth they have accrued. Is not greed defined by gathering more than one will ever use, and if so, does not “filling a mountain with gold to lounge upon” count?

Once Mr Bingley has departed, his eye set upon my eldest sister, I make my excuses and take wing to meet - somewhat salaciously - with a very different specimen of humanity.

Mr Babbage has little fortune to speak of, and while he voices no objection to my presence in his workshop he has made no entreaties towards a more permanent engagement.

He knows I’m just here for his Engine, whose gears spin in elegant clockwork in the dark beyond.

If my heist is to succeed I’ll need probability on my side, which is where Babbage’s Engine comes in.

I’ve spent months painstakingly describing my plans and errant factors, which Mr Babbage has interpreted into inexplicable movements of cogs and gears. But he promises it’ll work, and if it does, I’ll fund his experiments as long as he lives.

With a climactic clunk, the Engine stills. Babbage grins at me.

“Looks like we have a plan,” he says.