The article went on about damages, costs, delayed showings, but she was no First Quarter girl. She was far more interested in the little ad wedged next to this article, almost lost in the patchwork format: Sinclair Sweepers, hiring all positions. Following that was a list of benefits. Tax free. Free transport. An astoundingly high wage. She’d thought it was a joke at first, flipped through the entirety of the paper and found no proof of deceit before daring to consider it. Recompense to family after death made her stomach twist, but this could be her coveted windfall. Finally, a chance to grab that world she’d glimpsed in the old Coronae picture book. Morgan had scoffed at it before, but now she had leverage: the family had fallen on hard times, after all. Morgan’s catering job had hit an all-time low and Cheryl had racked up an ugly doctor’s bill. What else were they supposed to do, eat their savings? If Laura could snag this job and its great pay, they could get back on their feet. Morgan could look into her coin purse without wincing while paying for groceries. They needed the money, and they needed it fast. Morgan couldn’t complain about the occupation, and if she did Laura could counter easily: factory jobs didn’t pay near as much, and if she was about to risk life and limb, she might as well do it for the best deal. The old book and even the vague job description of the ad had her imagining something big, but the shabby shop opposite her almost looked abandoned. It made her hesitate, second-guess. Was this some police outpost for surveillance of lower Quarters? It couldn’t possibly be a hub of activity for the MARU. If it was, and if they couldn’t pay to keep up their building, how could they possibly pay that sum to any employees? Could the backbone of our great city be reduced to this state?
No matter.
Laura gathered up her skirt, unfurled the umbrella above her head, and marched for the door. The shop was warm, of course. In the future she found uncomfortably hot a fixed detail, but on that day she stood dripping on the threshold, feeling rather sullen about it. And of course, Clae was there. He didn’t make a wonderful first impression, being half wrapped in bandages and probably in a lot of pain judging by said bandages and the bottle of painkillers in one splinted hand. He paused in the process of shaking out a pill and glared at her.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
She took it as a challenge. She squared her shoulders and drew up to full height, ignoring the fact that she looked half drowned. She’d decided on this the moment she committed to tracking the shop down—cast aside that good-girl persona Morgan had loved so much in her school days. If she was going to be the bravest in all the city, she’d do it without hiding.
“I’m looking for the head Sweeper. Is he in?”
He simply stared at her. Another one of those idiots who thought all women belonged at home with a baby on their knee, she decided. Should’ve known she’d run into another Charlie. Her nose wrinkled and she brought her umbrella down like a cane against the floor.
“I’ve got things to do today. If Mr. Sinclair is having interviews, let’s get on with it.”
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. He finally succeeded in rattling two pills into his hand and swallowed them dry. That done, he stumped around the counter. She thought at first that he had a peg leg, but it was really a crutch tucked under one arm; the leg on that side was done up in a splint to match his arm. He hobbled closer and paused a few feet away, something like a sneer on his face. Laura felt on edge, but it wasn’t the type of look she’d had from other almost-employers and it definitely wasn’t what she expected from a Sweeper. His eyes were dull, tired, like he hadn’t slept in a month. They did little to liven the halfhearted look, the flat tone.
“You’re in the wrong place. Go back to the union, or wherever they sent you from.”
“I came here on my own,” she retorted, scanning for any sign of another person.
Clae raised one eyebrow. “Did you now.”
“You’re hiring, aren’t you?” She fixed her gaze on him again, but that look in his eyes made her uneasy; it was like whatever light was in him seemed about to snuff out. She averted her gaze again. “Look, just point me at Mr. Sinclair and we can leave this all behind us.”
“You’re looking at him.” He sat heavily on a stool, placed his hands atop the crutch and eyed her as if gauging a reaction. Sure, she was a little embarrassed to mistake who the man was, but she couldn’t afford to let that stop her.
“I’m Laura Kramer.” She stuck out her hand. Clae huffed again and raised his splinted hand; she switched hands without a word, and he rolled his eyes. “According to the paper, you’re hiring for all positions. I’d like to interview for—”
“I suppose you read the bullshit next to the opera piece.”
The paper still crinkled under her arm. She frowned. “You’re the one who put it there, aren’t you?”
“No. Some idiots did. Idiots who don’t know how the job works. All that’s in there is garbage.”
“So there’s no compensation for Sweeper families.”
“There’s that.”
“So it’s not all garbage.”
“Enough of it is. You don’t know what you’re trying to get into. Leave.”
“Not a chance.”
She cast around, grabbed another stool, and set it in front of him. He watched this with narrowed eyes, but didn’t protest as she sat right there and rattled off her résumé. He seemed the type to wear down easily at this point. Maybe his head hurt so bad from a concussion he’d hire her just to shut her up, and wearing him down was exactly what she intended to do. If her classmates could talk someone into submission, so could she. Originally she’d come to apply for some kind of desk job—“inventory,” the ad had said, oh so helpful—but as much as she went into detail on previous writing experience, volunteering at the school library, he seemed dreadfully unimpressed. Eventually he leaned back, shaking his head.
“Paperwork is covered,” he said. “I don’t need any help with that.”
“But the ad said—”
“I know what it said, and it’s wildly inaccurate. You probably even think we’re part of the damn MARU.”
“I’m willing to learn. Please, I’ll do anything!” She leaned forward, pleading. Oh, she hadn’t sunk this low before, but the damnable man with the sun in his hand blinked in the back of her mind. It didn’t matter how little she could get so long as she could be on board. “I really need the money. If I don’t get a job soon, I don’t know if my family will even be able to eat!”
“Find a job elsewhere.” He heaved himself back up, shaky but determined. “Trust me, you don’t want to end up like the last apprentice.”
“There’s an opening in apprenticeship, isn’t there?” She jumped after him, yanking the paper into view and showing off the runny ink of the article. “One just—look, I don’t know how many people you’ve got working here, but surely I could help!”
Clae sped up, but he wasn’t as coordinated as he thought. The crutch bashed into the cupboard’s side in his rush, hard enough to rattle the equipment atop it. One of the Kin flasks had been perched close to the edge and tipped completely. Without thinking, Laura leapt to catch it. The flask slipped perfectly into her hand, even if she almost ran into the cabinet to get it. The brew inside popped and fizzled brighter gold, which she hoped wasn’t a bad sign. She pulled herself up and set it on the table again, grumbling, “Watch where you’re going, or you really will break something.”
She looked up, expecting the pinched expression again, but his face was completely and utterly blank. It was almost as bad as the eyes before, though they seemed sharper somehow.
“Nice reflexes,” he noted, sounding indifferent. “Were you in a sport?”
“Racing,” she admitted quietly. Usually employers liked to steer well clear of athletics when it came to proper young ladies. “Why?”
“I have no need for inventory.” He limped behind the counter, peered at her through the Kin’s tubing, and reached out to tap a finger on a small stone circle she later learned was a
Gin amulet. “I take care of all that. What I need assistance in is the practical solutions. The real Sweeping. You said you’d do anything, didn’t you?”
Her heart leapt into her throat. Was this real? “Yes?”
“Then would you consider being an apprentice?”
“Of course!” That came out embarrassingly loud.
Clae’s eyes narrowed. “Even though you know nothing about it.”
“I’ve read a book or two,” she replied, trying to fight down her smile. “Besides, I told you I could learn.”
“Then let us hope, for both our sakes, that you are a fast learner.”
He held out his uninjured hand, and Laura grasped it. The contract came later, but this was the moment things switched for Laura. In the next few weeks she thought she might have sold her soul to the devil, he pushed so hard, but then amulet training began and she got her hands on that little stone circle. She’d never felt so light before that moment, and when she turned back to Clae to see his reaction, well, she’d never forget that expression.
You’re a natural.
No one had ever looked at her that way before; as if she’d done something amazing. She’d never been a natural either. The idea was thrilling.
Now, on a day much like that one, Laura looked out at the rain and wondered what her old self would say to this situation.
On September 2, 1233, Laura had taken the trolley to work; thus she was mostly dry, with the exception of her boots, which sat by the door to dry. She perched on a stool by the counter, socked feet resting on one of the rungs, while Clae talked angrily into the telephone. Up until two minutes ago he’d been on the stool next to hers, reading a book while waiting for the tea to cool.
Laura wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but the rain brought cold air, and as much as she complained about the heat, the sudden change made her welcome the warm drink. Her own cup sat by the kettle, untouched. Now that she thought about it, she reached back and held a hand over it. Still too hot, she decided, and let it alone again.
Meanwhile Clae looked tempted to pull out his hair.
“No, I do not—Yes, I get it, you want a bigger ‘boom,’ but this is completely—No, you—Thing is—This—I—God damn it, stop interrupting me!”
The shout inspired movement on the left as Okane jumped. He was hiding again, having found a spot behind the Kin where he could go unseen by anyone not directly looking for him. Despite improving over the last two weeks, he was still standoffish. Laura frowned at him and he just stared back.
“Call the bastard in, I’ll tell him face-to-face.”
Clae tried to hang up angrily, but the mouthpiece fell off its hook and dangled by its cord. He had to try twice more to make it stay, and by then he was fuming.
“What’s going on?” asked Laura.
“Some idiot,” Clae seethed, “decided it would be a good idea to use amulets as bullets for the army. And this idiot’s higher-ups seem to agree!”
“But then they’d have to pick up all those bullets, wouldn’t they? Or infestations would start out where we can’t get them.”
“Hasn’t occurred to them,” Clae hissed. “I’m going down to the police station to set this straight. Watch for any clients.”
Laura perked up. It wasn’t the first time he’d left her in charge while he ran errands, but it was the first where he had to make a choice about it. She felt herself puff up with pride and glanced to the side to see how Okane took it. He could stand to look a little more disappointed.
Clae didn’t look at either of them as he pulled on his coat, and did up all the buttons. He popped up the collar, drew the fabric closer to his neck, picked up his umbrella and walked out into the rain. The door closed behind him, and his ghostly form flitted by the windows and out of sight.
Neither of the two left spoke, so the pattering of rain overcame the room.
The door opened five minutes later. For a moment Laura wondered if Clae got halfway to the cable cars and noticed he’d forgotten something, but the visitor was a girl a few years younger than Laura. She looked like a half-drowned rat, her hair hanging tangled and stringy in a big wet mass.
“I’m sorry,” she panted, as if she’d been running, “but I’m a little lost. Do you know where the Keedler Bakery is?”
“Just down the street. Go that way”—Laura gestured to her left—“and look for the big white building. Someone broke their sign, but the name should be on the windows.”
“All right, thank you.” The girl ducked out again.
Laura turned her attention back to the newspaper. She was halfway through an article on a visiting opera company (she considered stealing away the featured picture of the star singer, but it overlapped with an article on new candidates for the Council which had been circled, its headline underlined in pen; probably not a good idea to take) when the door opened again. She glanced up, but this time, while it wasn’t Clae, it wasn’t someone lost in the rain. A man entered, shaking his umbrella on the doorstep before closing out the sound of the storm.
“Hello,” Laura greeted, folding up the paper and setting it on the counter. “This is the Sweeper shop. Did you need something?”
“Yes,” the man replied, “I’m looking for the head Sweeper. Is he in today?”
“He stepped out for a while, but he should be back soon. You can wait in here if you’d like.”
“Is that all right?”
“Sure. Coatrack is by the door and you can sit on any stool.”
“I appreciate it.”
He hung his long, dark coat and his hat on the coatrack, and leaned his umbrella against the wall by Laura’s shoes. He then took Clae’s earlier seat. Had it been Clae, Laura would’ve been fine with this, but the man was a stranger and the stool was positioned just a little too close for comfort. She shifted slightly in unease as the man settled himself. He was around Morgan’s age, with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard and mustache, eyes a murky brown behind his glasses.
“What’s your problem, sir?” Laura asked politely. With those clothes he seemed to be from at least the Second Quarter, so manners were a must. “I may not be Mr. Sinclair, but I might be able to help.”
“It’s not much. Nothing a young lady like yourself should be worrying about,” he responded, in a deep and cheerful voice.
Why was she always “young lady”?
“Are you sure? I’ve worked here awhile.”
“Just a small problem, but I’ve been told to go straight to the top,” the man assured her. “Private business.”
Whether “private business” meant secret workplace or family issues, Laura wasn’t about to guess. She shrugged, unsure what else to do. They sat there for a while. Laura wanted to go back to reading the paper, but she didn’t want to be rude and ignore him. She stared off at one of the big windows. She didn’t pay much more attention to the man before he spoke again, and when he did, she jumped.
“Are you the only employee he has?”
“No, there’s one more,” Laura muttered ruefully, glancing over at Okane.
Okane ducked still further, vanishing almost entirely behind the Kin as the man followed her gaze.
“Oh?”
“He’s sort of new to the job.”
The man looked around a bit more, completely missing Okane. His hair camouflaged well with the woodwork, apparently. After a while the man straightened himself again.
“So you’re the only woman here?” He sounded sympathetic. “Why did you take this job, of all things? If I hear right, it’s very dangerous.”
“My own reasons. Besides, this pays well.” Laura shrugged.
“The MARU hardly seems like the kind of job befitting a young lady like yourself. If you want—” He rested a hand on her leg. Laura froze. The man kept looking at her face with a plastic, concerned expression, but his thumb rubbed at her inner thigh. She was almost too shocked to hear the rest of his sentence. “—I could look into finding you a different job. I have friends I could contact, they
own businesses. Maybe you could work as a seamstress instead? It would be much safer and easier.”
He was still rubbing. Rage and mortification rose in Laura’s chest. Her eyes caught movement—Okane had straightened up to get a better look, probably to see why she looked so scandalized, and realization dawned on his face. He strode toward them, but Laura’s mind balked. She was not the damsel in distress. Her earlier conviction steadied, and she smoothed her face into pleasant neutrality. The man took that as a good sign and smiled. In response, Laura reached back, picked up her teacup, and upended it over his hand.
While it had left the state of magma heat, it was still really hot. Laura gritted her teeth and held that neutral expression, even as her leg felt like it was burning. The man pulled his hand back with a sharp yelp and cradled it close.
“Why, you little—”
“If that type of service is what you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place,” Laura said, sweetly as she could manage.
Enraged, the man stood and raised his uninjured hand, but a scraping sound grabbed both their attention. Okane held another stool above his head, loathing written all over his features.
“Touch her again and I’ll break this over ---r head,” he hissed.
The man stepped back, eyes flickering from one to the other, and Laura had half a mind to grab the rest of the teapot and chuck it at him. He ended up walking back to the door and grabbing his possessions from the coatrack.
“Heathens!” he barked. “You little swine! I’ll make sure your employer hears about this! You’ll be fired, and then we’ll see who else takes pity on you!”
He crammed his hat back on his head and left, slamming the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Laura lost her attempted serenity and swore, patting uselessly at her leg as if that would help the burn. Something white was shoved into her vision. It was a moment before she realized it was a handkerchief.
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking it and dabbing at her pants.
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