Dusk's Revenge

by A. W. Exley

  Beatrice placed a hand on his arm. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  One touch and a few words of thanks and the ache in his limbs moved to his heart where it bloomed into something warm.

  With the loom set up, next Elijah fetched the box containing the spools of silk. Opening the box was like staring into a fire. Colours ranged from a deep red that was nearly black to the palest yellow that bordered on white.

  Beatrice opened the map case and tapped out a rolled-up sheet of paper. When she unfurled it, Rose drew a sharp breath and Elijah stared in surprise. It was the painting she’d dragged him outside to do. Except that now it was finished, and it surpassed anything he could have imagined.

  “It’s beautiful,” Rose said and hovered a hand over the painting.

  Beatrice had painted a bird on a low-hanging bough. Its plumage was flaming colours, from red to orange. A long tail, similar to a peacock’s, draped behind it and flared out as though the feathers dripped sparks. It had a short broad orange beak and black eyes like embers. On its head, short feathers fanned out as though it wore a fancy headpiece.

  “It’s a phoenix, is it not?” Elijah asked. Given she’d painted it, he suspected this might be the actual bird who symbolised the prosperity of the Hamilton family. Odd that she’d chosen to draw it perched in a tree that almost resembled a Ravensblood, with its feather-shaped leaves in similar hot tones to the fiery bird.

  Beatrice glanced up at Elijah, the simmering warmth back in her eyes. “Yes, it’s a phoenix, and Rose is going to bring it to life for me in silk.”

  Rose rubbed her hands in anticipation. “It will take me some weeks, my dear. These eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but my fingers still know what to do.”

  They spent the rest of the afternoon setting up the loom for Rose and organising out the threads she would use. The painting became her template, and it would sit under the warp threads. Afternoon was fading as they said their goodbyes, and Elijah helped Beatrice up into the cart for the return trip.

  The horse plodded along the quiet road while birds rustled in the trees above. They were in no hurry, and Elijah kept the horse at a walk.

  “How did you know I had painted a phoenix?” Beatrice asked. She held out one hand and plucked a leaf from a tree as they passed.

  He glanced at her. “There aren’t too many flaming birds in mythology that I’ve read about.”

  “And what did the books you read say about the phoenix?” The fading light illuminated the amber in her eyes.

  He shrugged while his mind sought a neutral path through the loaded question. “The phoenix is a mythical bird, said to symbolise rebirth or triumph over adversity, as the bird arises from the ashes of past events. Some scholars take it further and say it is life triumphing over death itself and is a symbol of immortality.”

  She cocked her head to one side and studied him. “You seem remarkably well educated for a mill worker.”

  They performed a subtle dance around their true selves. They were both aware of what sparked between them and what it meant, but neither declared outright their Elemental nature. For Elijah, he couldn’t, or he risked his life and that of Hector and Marjory. “It comes from having my grandparents raise me. They were old-fashioned enough to want a proper education for me. That and I spent a large part of my life with my nose stuck in a book. I enjoy reading history and mythology.”

  She spun the leaf in her hand and then let it flutter behind them and out of sight. “Archie doesn’t read much. He says books are boring and people who read are boring. He’d rather be out shooting things, or in London where he can frequent his clubs.”

  The more he heard and saw of Archie, the more Elijah thought he sounded exactly like how he imagined a Soarer—shallow and selfish. What a shame he would drag Beatrice with him into that life. “Given he doesn’t read or want to show you the world, how will you pass the time once married?”

  The colour drained from her face, and her hands clutched at the side of the cart. “I’m sure we will manage the way many other couples do, by ignoring each other as much as possible and concentrating on our own pursuits.”

  “That sounds awfully lonely. I always imagined that being married meant having someone to share adventures with me.” He turned to stare at the horse pulling the cart, his attention on its ears as they pointed one way and then another. There was so much more he wanted to say, like don’t marry him, but he didn’t.

  “Yes. But you grow accustomed to solitude, and not everyone can go off and explore the world.” Her voice was a whisper from beside him. Sadness weighted down each syllable.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat while he argued with himself. The rational part of him told him to shut up and keep quiet. But the other part of him, the bit that clung to what having a mate meant, wanted to push her to examine her choices. “Why did you accept his proposal when you have so little in common?”

  She was silent for a long time, her head turned to stare at birds finding their roosts in the foliage above. They were nearly at the mill when she spoke next. “Because my uncle desired it. There are many business advantages to a union between our two families.”

  His hands tightened on the reins as he steered horse and cart towards the large brick building. A hollow opened up in his chest at the thought of her spending a thousand years alone and unloved. How would he walk away from her once his job was done?

  Elijah kept his promise to Manny and paid for his beer that night. By the time they left the pub and walked to the old barn, his new friend was tilted to the left and singing a rowdy tune.

  Inside, Peggy approached Elijah and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you the last few nights. Where have you been?”

  “Sorry, I was more tired than I thought and there were chores to do at the cottage for my grandparents.” He took her hand off his shoulder and held it between his. There was no spark. No invisible plant squirming to life.

  Her smile was warm and inviting as she pulled him to a shadowy corner and sat down on the soft hay. Peggy patted the spot next to her. “Come on. There’s no harm in spending a little time together, and I promise I won’t bite.”

  Elijah stared at her. She was pretty and willing. He could never have Beatrice Hamilton, so where was the harm in sampling the local delights? To use a phrase Marjory oft repeated, he would simply have to get over it and soldier on.

  He dropped to the hay with a whoosh that sent tiny pieces up into the air.

  Peggy laughed and rolled next to him. With a wink, she threw a leg over his and laced her hands behind his neck.

  He stared up at the attractive woman. It would be ungentlemanly to refuse her companionship, and he planned to make the best of the situation.

  Elijah passed a diverting evening with Peggy and walked back to the cottage somewhat resigned to spending the rest of his life making do. Not that the women would ever be at fault. He would search the world and probably meet many human and Elemental women who would trigger his interest. But no matter how attractive, intelligent, or witty…they would never be Beatrice Hamilton. His mate.

  He stripped off and climbed into bed naked. Pulling the blankets up over his shoulders to insulate against the nighttime chill, he drifted off to sleep. His last waking thought wasn’t about Peggy and her strawberry-scented skin, but about a salamander who’d ignited an ember within him. He kept telling himself that he could never have her, but what if he was wrong?

  The next morning, Elijah climbed from bed and picked up his discarded clothes. He sniffed them, wrinkled his nose, and then tossed the items to a corner. He didn’t want to report for work smelling of hay and another woman. He pulled on a pair of clean trousers and then walked shirtless through the cottage to the washhouse. He filled up the large sink with hot water that was heated by the kitchen range on the other side of the wall, and immersed as much of himself as he could wedge into the deep sink.

  He passed a short-bristled brush through a block of soap and scrubbed his skin and h
air until he smelt of lemon. Satisfied, he dried himself off and returned to his room to find a clean shirt.

  “Good night?” Hector asked with a wink as Elijah soon after took his chair at the table.

  “Yes.” Elijah stared at his tea. He did have a good evening with Peggy. She was pleasant company and a good kisser. So why did his gut have a cold lump in it? The thought of repeating the previous night made the lump rise up and threaten rebellion, and he had to swallow it back down.

  “You don’t look sure about that.” Hector slid the toast rack towards him.

  Elijah grabbed four slices of toast and dropped them to his plate. “I think I made a terrible mistake.”

  Hector cackled. “Lad, when it comes to women, I’ll give you one piece of advice: You’ll always make terrible mistakes. It’s what you do about it that matters.”

  “I’ll think on it. In the meantime, today I want to keep searching for the old basement. I’ve stuck my nose into the boiler rooms, but none look like they are the missing Esmeralda, nor did I see any propeller shafts.” He reached for the marmalade and dug his knife into the spread that balanced its sweetness with the tang of lemon peel.

  His lack of progress bothered him and failure gnawed at him. He thought he had dug his nose into every room in the mill, with the exception of the offices, and he doubted a boiler and ship parts were tucked under Francis Hamilton’s desk. Despite his explorations, he still hadn’t found the way to the old basement. He might resort to tackling it from the outside, if he could get the sliders open without any tell-tale squeaks.

  As he headed towards the door after breakfast, Marjory pressed a paper bag containing lunch into his hands. “Have a good day, love.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured and kissed her cheek.

  Outside, the raven called to him and he raised his hand to the bird. The poor creature now had a sorry existence, hiding in the trees and out of sight of those who would collect the bounty for a raven’s feathers. He spent a few moments with the bird, told it a scant update to pass to his uncle, and reminded it to stay hidden above treetops on its trip to Alysblud and back.

  It was a leisurely walk to the mill in the quiet of the early morning, which left Elijah plenty of time to mull over what to do. He would renew his efforts to search the sprawling mill buildings. If he found nothing during the week, he resolved to return on Sunday and try to gain admittance to the basement from the outside.

  “Eli!” a voice called as he walked through the mill gates.

  He stopped and allowed Manny to catch up. “Morning,” Elijah said.

  Manny elbowed him. “Saw you and Peggy last night. Looked like the two of you were getting on right fine.”

  Elijah stared at the ground and kicked a stone out of his path. “I had a good time, but I’d like to keep my options open.”

  Manny hooted in laughter. “Still pining for a certain somebody?”

  “Stop it, will you?” Elijah muttered. Someone was going to overhear, and that was all he needed. Mills could explode literally and figuratively—gossip was incendiary stuff and every employee would know he fancied Beatrice if Manny didn’t shut up.

  Manny was still chuckling to himself as they parted ways, his friend heading to the warehouse and Elijah walking to the other end of the mill and the weaving room.

  In the quiet room, everything was ready to begin. He had tested the looms, and a single man would have had no problem monitoring three as they clattered the shuttles back and forth, weaving the silk. All he had to do was flick the switch to start the machinery, but he didn’t want to do that without Beatrice being present. It was her project, and he wanted her to have the privilege of starting the looms.

  He busied himself by ordering the spools of silk by colour and by type. Some were single strands and others double twisted, which would produce the unique slub of dupioni.

  Beatrice appeared at nine, wearing a deep red skirt with a high waist and a short tight jacket that made him raise his eyebrows. The outfit seemed more appropriate for a stroll through a garden with a beau than dirty mill work.

  “Good morning. Everything is ready to go. You only need to turn the looms on,” he said and gestured to the brass button on the metal shafts to distract himself from how the jacket hugged her form.

  “Good morning, Eli. That is excellent. How exciting to finally begin.” She beamed, a wide-open smile that he couldn’t help but mirror. “Before we start here, I’d like to go to one of the cotton weaving rooms and talk to the supervisors about how long it takes to weave a bolt, thread usage and anything else that we need to know to compare silk to cotton. That way we can compare our progress with each bolt.”

  “Very well.” He held the door open for her and they walked down the corridor. The other weaving rooms were not far away, as all the looms were driven by the same horizontal shafts that ran through the building.

  The noise was loud in the corridor, but it became a physical presence in the weaving room. The clatter seemed to drive an invisible shuttle through his body, and he accompanied Beatrice to find the supervisor. The man paced back and forth with a board, scribbling notations.

  He looked up in surprise as she appeared next to him and mouthed, “Miss Hamilton.”

  Beatrice leaned in close and shouted next to his ear. “Mr Logan, I require your help. I wish to study what goes into each bolt of fabric and how long it takes to weave. Do we have such records?”

  “Of course, miss. It will be easier to speak in my office,” the supervisor said, pointing to the side.

  “That would be marvellous, thank you.” Beatrice smiled at the man and followed him to the glass-fronted office at the side of the room.

  Elijah stayed in his spot and watched the women and children at work. Young ones darted under the working machine to gather up ends of cotton that dropped, or to retie threads that broke.

  Over the clank of the looms and the thrum of the engines turning the mechanisms, a child’s scream cut through all other noise. Women turned their heads in the cry’s direction, but no one dared abandon their position to help.

  The scream continued to wail like an erratic alarm. Elijah surveyed the room to locate the source, and then ran towards the sound. A small girl, barely eight years old, was under a loom. Her hair had become caught in the threads, and as the cloth was wound at the end of the loom, it pulled harder on her scalp.

  It wasn’t uncommon for children to be scalped by the machines in mills. Managers were loath to lose the production time involved in turning them off. The scavengers were expected to conduct a sweep under the machines between passes quickly enough to get out of the way of moving parts.

  “Turn it off!” Elijah yelled as he grabbed hold of the wheel that wound the cloth.

  Women regarded him with terrified eyes, frozen in place despite the damp heat in the room. The girl was dragged closer to the end by her long locks, still entwined with the cotton.

  Would no one help them? He glanced around and then made a decision. Machinery be damned, he wasn’t going to watch the girl’s hair get ripped from her head. He shifted form under his shirt and hoped no one noticed the change in his arms. With gargoyle strength, he wrenched the wheel and disrupted the cogs. It skipped, and with a scream like the child’s, metal bit against metal and the machine ground to a halt.

  “It’s all right, but I shall have to cut your hair.” There was no time to try to untangle her. Elijah grabbed his pocket knife, flicked it open, and hacked at the girl’s dirty blonde hair. In a few passes, he had cut her free.

  Bending down, he lifted her out from under the loom. Her dirty face was streaked with tears, and she sobbed hysterically as she tried to burrow into his chest. He whispered soft reassurances to her, like he would for a frightened horse, as he carried her to the side of the room.

  Beatrice Hamilton ran towards them. Her skirts were in her hands, revealing boot-clad ankles as she dashed between machines.

  “Is she all right? What happened?” She reached out, strok
ed the girl’s face, and murmured soothing words. The girl’s hair stuck out at all angles and had a jagged edge.

  Elijah still held the girl close, as though he could protect her from the harsh life in the mill. “Her hair became entangled in the threads while she was retrieving fluff. She was going to be scalped and no one would turn the machine off.”

  Beatrice glanced backwards at the silent loom. Golden strands were now twisted among the plain cotton ones. “How did you get her out?”

  He shrugged as he set the girl down on a bench. “I managed to bump the wheel off its roller and it jammed. Then I cut her free.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said, meeting his gaze. “Let’s get the poor mite some water. Everything will be all right now.”

  “Why isn’t that loom running?” the floor supervisor yelled as he hurried over. He glared at the machine and swore under his breath.

  No one said a word, not that they could over the continuous clatter. Some women looked in their direction, then quickly returned to watching their looms, lest they, too, have an accident.

  The supervisor pointed a finger at Elijah’s head. “You’ll pay for damaging the machine. Your wages will be docked.”

  Beatrice stood and faced the angry man. “I will pay for the machine to be repaired. I’m sure it is nothing significant compared to the life of the child.”

  The man’s mouth opened and shut, but no words formed. Eventually, he scowled and said, “As you wish, Miss Hamilton.”

  Beatrice rounded on the man with hands on her hips. “We are fortunate Eli managed to save the girl. We wouldn’t like to be known as the sort of mill that lets children get scalped by our machinery.”

  “No, Miss Hamilton, of course not,” he spluttered. “But what do I tell your uncle?”

  Beatrice glared at the man, and he visibly shrank before her. “I will deal with my uncle after I have made sure the child is unaffected by her fright.”

  Eli stroked the frightened girl’s hair. “There. Miss Hamilton will make sure you are all right.”