Storm Glass

by Jeff Wheeler

  A pigeon rose from a rooftop and flew past the sky ship in a whir of feathers and cooing. For a moment, Cettie feared it would crash into them.

  The streets below were thronged with people, and the sun shone high overhead. She saw the rubbish carters and could hear the muck scrapers as the zephyr glided over to a large central square where a few other sky ships were moored just above the roofline. There was a huge fountain down below spraying jets of water into the air, and washerwomen were gathered around the rim, tending to their chores. Little children played beside the women. Other children were working, wringing water from the garments.

  Cettie had never been to this part of the Fells before. It looked a little cleaner than the areas she’d occupied, although there were easily a thousand pigeons roaming the cobbled square below, pecking at crumbs and gutter drippings. The air smelled of pungent, damp rags. Some older people were sitting on the steps, selling their handmade wares for a pittance, their faces lined with seams and crags. These were the people who were too old or injured to work in a factory any longer. Cettie’s heart filled with pity as she saw their wrinkled faces.

  “Down we go, sir,” said Lieutenant Staunton. He glanced at Cettie, eyes hardened to the suffering below, the sort of misery he dealt with daily. Fitzroy climbed out first, and as Cettie followed, she witnessed a hive of urchins throng him, begging for coins.

  “Get on, then!” Staunton shouted down at the crowd. “Hurry down, lass. I need to dispel that rabble.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Fitzroy said. “Good day, children. I have a meeting with my advocate at the present, but if you wait for me in the square, you’ll each get a farthing when I come out.” He was instantly surrounded by cheering children. As Cettie reached the cobblestones, someone bumped into her from the throng below.

  “Watch it, boy!” Staunton growled. The rope ladder quivered as the lieutenant hurried down. Cettie felt a hand grip her elbow, and she turned and looked into the eyes of Joses, her companion and friend from Miss Charlotte’s.

  He had a feverish, hungry look in his eyes, the same wasted cheeks and smudges that she’d always tried to clean away. His dark hair was matted with dirt beneath his jaunty cap, but his blue eyes were still keen.

  “Joses!” she gasped, giving in to the urge to hug him despite his filthy clothes.

  He whispered in her ear. “It’s a sham, Cettie. A trick. Don’t fall for it.”

  She looked at him in concern—what was a trick?—but he released his grip and melted into the press of children crowding Fitzroy, though taller than most of them. Fitzroy turned to her as several young girls started tugging at her dress and begging her for a coin.

  “If you please, miss . . .”

  “Can you spare a farthing, miss . . .”

  “You have pretty hair, miss . . .”

  “Go on! Go on!” Staunton railed, and the little girls scattered in fear. His gruff manners and angry tone were enough to warrant obedience, but his uniform made it prompter than usual. “Clear away! Now!”

  As the mob of children began to disperse, Fitzroy joined Cettie’s side. She searched the crowd for Joses and finally caught sight of him turning a corner into an alley. He stopped once, looking back at her and nodding, and then slipped away.

  “I wish I got down faster,” Staunton grumbled. “That lanky one has been eluding us for months.”

  Cettie stared at him. “Joses?”

  “That’s the one,” the officer said angrily. “He ran away from the shelter and has taken up with a street gang. Refuses to work for the deed that was signed. Ungrateful brat. Gave up a chance to learn to live in the streets night and day. Did he steal anything from you?”

  Cettie shook her head. “I don’t have anything to steal,” she answered. Her feeling of disquiet returned. What had Joses meant? Did he know something?

  Staunton pursed his lips and then guided her and Fitzroy to a two-story building wedged between other professional buildings. Sloan and Teitelbaum, the sign said.

  “Go on!” Staunton glowered as the children slunk nearby, always keeping out of reach. Cettie saw the washerwomen at the fountain observing her with disdain. They probably thought she was some rich heiress . . . not one of them. The faces were all unfamiliar, but they had a universal look of hardship and weariness. The sun struggled to get past the haze.

  Fitzroy took her elbow and guided her up the tall steps. Her heart churned with emotion—worry for her friend, concern about what she was facing, and curiosity about meeting the advocate who had been working on her adoption. The front entry was dark, and she felt something press against her mind, an awareness of sorts that felt stern and brooding. After she crossed the threshold, the strange feeling left. The inner corridor was cramped, and they had to walk single file, but it opened to an office with several wooden desks and walls that were crowded with shelves and cupboard doors. There were several young men there scratching with pencils. Most of them had their heads down at their work. One of them, a very young man probably her own age, had stopped writing when he saw her. A little flush came to his cheeks, and a timid smile surfaced on his mouth before he looked away.

  There were filthy windows high up on the wall, letting in a slanting shaft of light. Motes of dust hung in the shaft like a flurry of tiny snow. She’d forgotten the way soot marred everything in the Fells. Cettie’s shoes thumped noisily on the floor planks, and she gazed around at all the small brass knobs on the cupboard doors. She glanced back at the young man who had smiled at her and found him still staring at her. When she noticed him, another little flush came to his cheeks, and he hurriedly looked away and went back to his work.

  They encountered two old men inside the inner sanctum. One was sitting in a stuffed chair and holding a silver cane. He had a warm smile, feathery white hair around the sides of his head, and just a little hair on top that was combed down the back of his head. He had spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Within the chamber, Cettie felt as if dozens of eyes were watching her. She sensed the presence of power. It seemed to thrum from the wooden panels on the walls. Throb from the floor. Vibrate in the ceiling. It felt as if the room were a living being that held deep secrets. And perhaps it did . . . the Mysteries of Law were at work here.

  The other old man sat at the edge of his chair, arms folded and one hand tapping his lip with a sturdy finger. He had gray hair, not white, and it was thick and groomed and very full. He was short in stature, but had a powerful gaze and intense eyes. He did not look unkind, just more serious than the one sitting in the stuffed chair.

  Fitzroy cleared his throat. “Mr. Sloan, Mr. Teitelbaum. Thank you for the summons.”

  “Thank you for coming so promptly, Lord Fitzroy,” said the white-haired man. He lifted his spectacles higher so he could get a better look at Cettie. “This is the young woman at long last?”

  Fitzroy bowed his head and introduced her. “This is Cettie. I’d like you to meet Mr. Sloan”—he gestured to the white-haired man who was smiling—“and Mr. Teitelbaum.” The gray-haired man nodded solemnly.

  “I asked Mr. Teitelbaum here to go over the facts with me,” Mr. Sloan said. “We were discussing them before you arrived. This young lady is rather famous in this office,” he said with a chuckle, taking off his spectacles and turning them over in his hands. “Many of our advocates have been working on her case for months. I’m glad you brought her, Fitzroy. She should be one of the first to hear the news.”

  “So you’ve found them? Found her parents?”

  Mr. Sloan inclined his head. “One of them. Let me say what we have come to learn and how we learned it. I will be brief because the couple we interviewed is waiting in Mr. Teitelbaum’s chambers.”

  Cettie felt a throb in her heart and started trembling.

  “Indeed,” Fitzroy said, clearing his throat. “I should like to meet them.”

  “Of course. Now to the facts. We have been unable to find the original deed to this young woman, but we did discover what we believe to be
a copy of it. Her name, as we have come to learn, is Celestina Pratt. Cettie is a derivative. The father, Mr. George Pratt, was discharged from the Ministry of War for excessive gambling debts. He was a sharpshooter for the admiralty—a dragoon. He has had an ill turn of luck in parting ways from the ministry and continues to accumulate excessive debt. He’s strong, soft hearted, and embarrassed by this whole affair. He trains young officers who cannot afford to attend regular school. His wife, whom he calls Lady Admiral, is clearly too young to be the mother of the child. The mother, as we understand it, is still unknown. Apparently, the child was conceived in a sort of dalliance and deposited, as a babe, on Mr. Pratt’s property in the Fells. He cared for the babe the best he could, but his lifestyle made the situation life-threatening for the child, and he’d already fallen on hard times. So he signed her away in a deed to raise money to settle some of his debts. He’d intended to come for her after meeting his obligations, which, unfortunately, he has proven incapable of doing.”

  Cettie felt as if the world were spinning around. So they still had not found her mother . . . and from what they’d said, they likely wouldn’t. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “What kind of debts, Mr. Sloan?” Fitzroy asked hoarsely.

  “It’s a considerable sum, Fitzroy.”

  “And I would like to know it.”

  Mr. Sloan looked to Mr. Teitelbaum and then back again. “By our best reckoning, Mr. Pratt is in debt to the order of forty thousand.”

  It was such an astonishing number that Cettie gasped aloud.

  “Good heavens,” Fitzroy blurted.

  Mr. Sloan nodded. “As you can see, he is in no position to take back his daughter. I have interviewed Mr. Pratt several times. He had no knowledge of my intention or on whose behalf I was working. I found him, not the other way around. There is no intent to blackmail or wrong you. But he, of his own volition, offered up sufficient detail that corroborated what was written in the deed.”

  Cettie felt like an egg, so fragile she could crack if squeezed too hard. She hungered to meet the man. Mr. George Pratt.

  “And there is no record of the mother, then?” Fitzroy asked. “She would have rights over the child as well if she is still living.”

  “That is true,” Mr. Teitelbaum said, “but we have no way of locating her. Mr. Pratt’s interests are substantial in this case. You clearly hold the deed and control the child’s fate until she is of age. Most children in the Fells never come of age.” He said the words so bluntly he made Cettie flinch. “You cannot proceed with an adoption without getting Mr. Pratt’s consent. And should he learn who you are, he may very well seek substantial remuneration for that permission.”

  “In other words,” Mr. Sloan said. “He could ruin you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

  TRUTH WILL OUT

  When Mr. Teitelbaum left to fetch the guests, Cettie felt a mounting sense of pressure. The man George Pratt had to duck to enter the door. He looked uncomfortable in his formal, soot-spotted coat. His boots were so thick and laden with buckles that they jangled as he walked. He had a bluff face, brass-colored hair, and a mustache that came down to the edges of his chin. His hair was slicked back, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with a soiled handkerchief clutched in his gloved hand. She felt a flicker of recognition, but her childhood memories were so distant and vague she couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Halfway through the door, he paused, then turned awkwardly sideways and tried to let Lady Admiral enter, only he blocked the way.

  “Go on in, George,” she said with a hint of annoyance. “You’re already halfway through. Go on, you big brute.”

  He shuffled in sideways, exposing a small woman who was closer to Cettie’s age than to his. Lady Admiral was no more than twenty, if that, and Mr. Pratt was easily in his thirties.

  She had light brown hair and a trim waist and a perpetual look of annoyance. Even though she was young, she had a keen eye and quickly sized up the visitors in the room.

  “Who is it?” she demanded quickly. Then her eyes found Cettie’s and skewered her with mistrust. “Ah, is this the chit?” She folded her arms and arched an eyebrow.

  Cettie’s heart quickened, but the big man, Mr. Pratt, still didn’t look at her. In fact, he seemed determined not to.

  “If you please, Mrs. Pratt,” Mr. Sloan said, gesturing for her to be patient.

  “I’ve been waitin’ long enough,” said Lady Admiral. “Is this the girl? Is this the one you are trying to wheedle on Mr. Pratt and I?”

  “Please, Mrs. Pratt,” Mr. Sloan said. “Be silent.”

  Cettie felt something stir in the room, something that streaked past her mind, and suddenly Lady Admiral was gaping like a fish, shocked into silence. Mr. Sloan gave Fitzroy an apologetic look and then shrugged slightly.

  “Sometimes we must do what we must do to further the conversation along,” Mr. Sloan said. “Mr. George Pratt. Surely you are wondering why we have called you into this meeting with Vice Admiral Brant Fitzroy?”

  Mr. Pratt, upon hearing the title, snapped to attention, his huge right arm coming into a salute.

  “Be at ease, Mr. Pratt,” Fitzroy said apologetically. “I’m no longer with the Ministry of War.”

  “Pardon my attire, milord,” said Mr. Pratt with a husky, weary voice. “I should have worn my regimentals. My apologies!”

  Fitzroy waved his hand. The matter was of no consequence. “Mr. Sloan tells me that you’ve fallen under difficult circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir. That would be the case, sir.” He stood erect still, gazing at the ceiling beams and not down at them.

  “How have you accumulated such an impressive load of debt?” Fitzroy asked.

  “Mainly from borrowing it, milord. I have schemes, you see. But no head for numbers. I go to bed one night and the amount I owe is one number. And I wake up the next, having done nothing but sleep you see, and it’s grown like a monster. I don’t understand it, sir. The only thing I can do is borrow more to get out from under it. But I’m a hard worker. I’ll work until my bones are gray. Ask Lady Admiral. She can tell you as much.”

  Cettie did look at Lady Admiral, who was straining against some invisible power that prevented her from speaking. Her complexion was turning a shade of purple. She stamped her foot, but still no words would exit her mouth.

  Fitzroy frowned. “Mr. Sloan tells me you are aware that you fathered a child approximately twelve years ago.”

  “I did, sir,” he huffed. “It was a mistake, surely, wild oats and all. I’m ashamed to admit it in the present company of my wife.” She swatted him with the back of her hand. He cleared his throat. “I knew it was wrong at the time.” He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “I’ve always been brash, milord. Haven’t always thought to the end of the row, if you catch my meaning. She was lonely and unloved, poor thing.”

  Cettie felt more and more awkward for the man. He wiped another layer of sweat from his brow. Even though he was so large and powerful, his mind seemed almost childlike.

  “And you have no idea of the lady’s identity,” Fitzroy pressed. “She was a stranger to you?”

  “Indeed, sir,” he said with a huff. “I never knew her name. I’m ashamed to admit it, even now. It was wrong of me, sir.”

  “And so the child was brought to you as a baby,” Mr. Sloan said. “And you found yourself unfit to parent this child, so you signed a deed.”

  “Indeed, sir!” Mr. Pratt said hoarsely. “If you pardon the play on words.”

  Mr. Sloan rolled his eyes. He looked to Fitzroy for approval. Fitzroy’s mouth was a firm, thin line. He nodded curtly.

  “Mr. Pratt, it is our belief that the child we are speaking of is the young woman standing by Lord Fitzroy. Your wife’s inelegant comments earlier may have given you that information too soon. I think she is shrewd enough to realize what this is about.”

  Mr. Pratt wiped his mustache with the sodden linen and then coughed into his fist. “If I am understan
ding you properly, Mr. Sloan, you are telling me—as Lady Admiral told me before we came—that the young woman standing by his lordship is, in fact, the child from the deed I signed. That is my understanding.”

  He still wouldn’t look at her. Cettie’s heart yearned for him to look upon her with some kindness, but he seemed so awkward, so uncomfortably embarrassed, and he would do nothing but fidget and stare blankly over their heads. Despite everything, she wanted him to hold her, to show any spark of emotion or tenderness.

  “Why do you think you are here, Mr. Pratt?” Fitzroy asked calmly.

  “Lady Admiral believes, ahem, that you are returning the . . . the child to us to care for and pay for. I’m in reduced circumstances, milord. It pains me, but it’s true. If I hadn’t married my landlord’s daughter, I would have gone to debtors’ prison already.”

  Fitzroy gave a sharp look to Mr. Sloan, who nodded to affirm the statement.

  Mrs. Pratt stamped her foot and pointed to her mouth, giving Mr. Sloan an angry glare.

  Fitzroy sighed. “And you have no further knowledge of the child’s mother? Her approximate age? Her physical description? Some clue that would help us locate her?”

  “She wore a veil, so I could not see her face,” said Mr. Pratt. “She never spoke to me, so I do not know her voice, nor would I know it if I heard it now. The assignation was arranged by servants. I was blindfolded, if you please, and went by zephyr.”

  “Was it in the City?” Fitzroy asked.

  “It may have been Lockhaven, but I don’t think we flew that long. We went up. That’s all I remember. I’ve already told you, milord, that Lady Admiral and I cannot afford to keep a child. I’ve already spent the deed money I got for her. I’m buried under a mountain of debt that, frankly, blots out the sun. I’m married to my landlord’s daughter”—she hit him again—“and have only three young officers at my shooting school. In a word, I’m sinking, milord. I can’t take the girl on. But if you make it an order, I will square my shoulders and do my duty. I owe the empire my allegiance after all.”