Weather Witch

by Shannon Delany

“It is,” Jordan agreed. “Quite truly.”

  “Well then. But perhaps…”

  “Perhaps what?” Jordan asked, a hesitant finger tracing the thick flounce of lace trimming each of the sleeves’ wrists. “Do you now think me not deserving of this dress and all the attentions it might bring me?” Jordan stood and Catrina laid the new dress across the bench and set about undoing the back of the dress Jordan already wore. Each hook was separated from each matching eye as her corset was revealed to the warm evening air inch after inch. When it was opened to her hips Jordan tugged on the shoulders and sleeves, loosening the dress’s bodice so she could peel free of it.

  The gown puddled at her feet, gossamer and silk taffeta, ruffles and ribbons, and Jordan carefully stepped out of it to stand before Catrina in only her petticoats, stays, stockings, shoes, and chemise.

  The dress at her feet was wonderful, but it was most definitely last year’s style, whereas Catrina’s gift was as fresh as fashion got in the New World.

  The bell in the main square’s bell tower sounded, echoing out one deep and penetrating peal, and Catrina rested a steadying hand on the dressing table, confessing, “I lost track of time.”

  “It seems a bit inconsistent recently,” Jordan agreed, nodding.

  The lanterns in Jordan’s bedchamber dimmed, fading to pinpricks of white, and the girls closed their eyes against the Pulse’s coming flare. The sky stretching beyond Jordan’s balcony window splintered as a hundred fingers of lightning stabbed along the Spokes from the central Hub, screeching across the lower atmosphere to find reaching metal rods that topped each ranking family’s slate roof.

  Houses hummed, power drumming through narrow wires and refreshing the crystals in lanterns, wall sconces, and chandeliers until there sounded an audible sizzle and Jordan’s room blossomed stark white as the Pulse recharged all the lights in the connected city.

  The Pulse retreated, the glare ebbing back to its normal cheerful warmth, recharged for another few hours.

  “Why do you think that is?” Jordan asked, her voice soft.

  “What? The Pulse?”

  “No … the inconsistency. If the Pulse is powered by the Weather Witch at the Hub, why…?”

  “Perhaps that Witch is dying,” Catrina said, picking up the new dress.

  Jordan blinked. “Perhaps…”

  Matter-of-factly, Catrina said, “They do that, you know. Die.”

  Jordan blanched. “You say it so coolly. As if their lives mean little.”

  Catrina pulled back, examining her friend’s face carefully. “You’re Fifth of the Nine. Witches are unranked.”

  “Yes, but they…”

  “… are Weather Witches. They provide a service. They make sure goods are delivered. My shoes? Brought on an airship Conducted by a Weather Witch. Your perfume? The same. They are trained up Made, and taken care of. They live their lives so we may live ours the way we deserve. Because, you know, Jordan, we always get what it is that we deserve.”

  “Like this gown?”

  “Yes, like a gown, a handsome beau for a beautiful belle…”

  “You deserve all that,” Jordan agreed. “Where is your handsome beau?”

  Catrina moved aside, her lips puckered. “I have my eye on someone. And yes. We do get what we deserve if we take the steps needed to obtain it. Such things require work, Jordan. Thought and planning. Careful consideration.”

  Jordan slipped into the gown—all satin, silk, and splendor. She swayed, helping settle the fabric over her petticoats. “And you believe I deserve every attention this amazing dress will fetch me?”

  “Most certainly so.”

  Jordan did a little spin before her mirrors, admiring the way the sleeves fluttered and the golden fabric lay against her skin in a neckline cut to dazzle Rowen.

  Her hand flew to her chest. Dazzling Rowen was not necessarily the best strategy.

  “What are you doing, you silly goose?” Catrina asked, pulling Jordan’s hand away.

  “I—Rowen…”

  “What about you and Rowen?” Catrina’s tone sharpened, her eyes narrowing the faintest bit. “You two aren’t having trouble again, are you?”

  “No, I mean … I don’t know. I think he’s going to … He said he has a special surprise for me tonight.”

  Her eyes still thin, Catrina whispered, “Surprises can be good.”

  “I think he’s going to ask for my promise.”

  “Oh.” Something in Catrina’s features tightened. “Well, isn’t it about time?”

  Jordan’s nose crinkled. “I’m not certain…”

  “You’re not certain about what?”

  “What if he’s not the right one for me? I mean, should I not know if Rowen Burchette is meant to be mine and I his? Should it not be as Shakespeare wrote—with ‘sweet pangs—Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature, That is belov’d’?”

  “You feel no pangs?”

  “No. Not a pang nor a twinge.”

  “And no skittishness … no sensation of being off balance?”

  “No.”

  One of Catrina’s slender eyebrows arched. “You are full of doubt, poor little dear.” Her lips twisted but her eyes sparked. “Are you afraid he might ask for your promise in an effort to climb rank?” Catrina’s eyes popped wide open. “Not that Rowen would ever do something so callous—using you merely to raise his status.”

  “No,” Jordan whispered, though the thought had occurred to her shortly after they’d first met. Rowen was a beautiful boy and rank could never be far from mind when someone like him came into the life of someone like her. His family was a class below her own—still perfectly acceptable as marriage material, but not the step up the social ladder her parents wanted her to take.

  Promising herself to Rowen was only a gain to him. And a misstep could be disastrous to rank—a badly planned marriage, a social faux pas, magick discovered in one’s heritage … Many things could send a family hurtling toward ruin. But magick—it was the worst—it was a nearly inescapable taint and the only thing that did more than ruin a family’s reputation. Magick was even worse than being a Catholic in Philadelphia.

  Magick ruined everything.

  “Then you must tell him no should he ask,” Catrina said to their reflections. “And perhaps it is best if you do not draw undue attention to yourself. Step out of the dress.”

  “What? No. I am in the dress and wish to remain so.” Jordan set her hands on her hips.

  “It is so … showy…”

  “It took so long for you to convince me to wear it and now you change your mind? I think not. Perhaps you are jealous?”

  Catrina’s eyes grew small again.

  “I jest!” Jordan grinned. “This dress feels delightful,” she whispered. “It feels like destiny.”

  Catrina peered at her from beneath long eyelashes. “You are right,” she said, turning Jordan around so she could better pull taut the lacings that ran up her corset. “This dress is destined for you. Now suck in your breath,” she urged.

  Jordan obeyed, holding her breath so long as Catrina fumbled her fingers around the lacings that the room swam in her sight and her knees went soft. Catrina tugged the dress closed and smacked Jordan on the back, so she hauled in a fresh breath. Cinched so tight her stomach felt tucked in with her lungs and her décolletage defied more than gravity—it defied reason, she realized, glimpsing herself in the mirror—Jordan stumbled forward.

  “Fantastic!” Catrina said with a little clap. “Now a final spin…”

  Jordan obliged, stopping so fast her layered skirts swayed out like they’d continue without her. She laughed. “The skirts are so thick I don’t imagine I’ll fit through a single doorway.”

  “But it shapes you marvelously. You are a bell-shaped belle. You’ve always had nice breasts, but now it looks like you have hips, too, and a waist so distinguished a wasp would be envious.” Catrina stepped around her, touching her hair to gather up lit
tle strands and let loose others. “Your necklace?”

  Jordan handed her the black velvet band with its butterfly wing pendant glinting under glass.

  “Perfection,” Catrina announced. “Just…” She reached out, pinching Jordan’s cheeks so fast Jordan had no chance to block her.

  “Ouch! What—”

  “A real blush is far better than any rouge the Old World might manufacture.”

  “Then get me to blush, not bruise,” Jordan suggested, pulling on her gloves and sliding on a few bracelets.

  Frowning, Catrina yanked two bracelets off. “You mustn’t look garish.”

  “Why must you change me,” Jordan snapped before slapping a hand across her own mouth. “I apologize. That did not come out as I intended.” She lowered her eyes. “It is merely … I am happy the way things are. I am content as one might be being imperfect and understanding I may never love Rowen—well—not in the way most want. I don’t want anything to change. I am comfortable.”

  “Fine, fine. It is your party. If you want to be comfortable and wear too many bracelets to be seemly, be my guest. If you want to blush, perhaps Rowen will recite a limerick…”

  Jordan clicked her tongue at her friend as they squeezed out the door together, skirts shifting awkwardly in too narrow a space. “Rowen would do no such thing—”

  “Ha! You’re blushing even now, you little liar. Here. Take your shawl.”

  Jordan settled the sheer shawl around her shoulders. It did nothing to hide her bosom.

  “Stop frowning,” Catrina demanded.

  Down the hall they went, pausing at the top of the stairs to observe the crowd milling about in the hall and foyer below.

  The walls were painted the rich sunset hue of Spanish Red and trimmed with bone-colored chair rails. Wainscoting lined the lower third of the foyer, so bright against the deep red it nearly glowed, and hiding every seam between ceiling and wall hung meticulously carved wooden molding the creamy color of whalebone ivory so perfect no scrimshander had dared yet carve his art into it.

  It made for a powerful scene, filled with powerful people.

  Jordan sighed. “You’re right, of course. Rowen is always good for at least one questionable joke or song.”

  Catrina adjusted her skirts, and, scanning the crowd, announced to Jordan, “And there he is now. Speak of the devil.”

  Rowen stood spotlighted by the wall sconces just inside the foyer, the glow of their renewed stormcells stroking the angles of his jaw and turning his normally golden hair into something otherworldly.

  Jordan’s breath caught and silently she cursed her too-tight stays for the lack of air.

  “Come now. We must make a grand entrance,” Catrina urged. She took Jordan’s hand and led her a few feet farther down the hall, to the item that first set the Astraea estate apart from all others on the Hill: the elevator.

  When Jordan’s grandfather’s occasional limp had become pronounced one especially cold spring, he had hired a displaced craftsman with ties to Russian Empress Catherine and her remarkable shop of royal wonders. The eldest Astraea had the inventor re-create the lift originally designed for St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace. That lift carried him to his chambers on the house’s upper floor when his knees no longer managed the stunning marble stairs. That lift was the same glass and crystal-lined elevator, now refitted with brass and bronze and powered either by the ingenious screw mechanism invented for the frigid palace or by stormpower, that hung suspended like a giant diamond and carried his granddaughter and her closest friend to the guests gathered below.

  The lift’s door slid open and the crowd clapped as Jordan and Catrina stepped out.

  Rowen bowed with a dramatic sweep of his arm and crossed the broad hall, his hand raised, awaiting hers.

  But her father was the first to greet her, slipping between Rowen and herself and grasping her waist to swing her out of the young man’s path. Lord Morgan Astraea pulled her near, setting his large, warm hands on either side of her face and saying, “Do nothing rash, daughter. Make no irreversible decisions on this eve.” He looked long and hard at Rowen before returning his gaze to his daughter. “Your rank is all you have.” He paused then, eyes scouring her face. “Your rank and your beauty.”

  She glanced down, gaze pinned to the careful stitching of his close-fitted frock coat. He was the picture of perfection with his broad shoulders, manicured mustache, and bold eyebrows. His jaw had the same strength as that more commonly found in Rowen’s lower rank, but she thought him even more striking because of it. Here was the man who had dandled her on his knee when she was but a babe, the man who wanted nothing but the best for her.

  The man warning her away from what Rowen might offer.

  Jordan sighed. “I will make the appropriate choice if and when it is offered.”

  “That’s my girl,” Lord Astraea proclaimed, dropping his hands to her arms. “You will make a fine match. To a fine fellow.” He leaned in and kissed her, his whiskers tickling her cheek so she smiled. “Now go, have a wondrous time!”

  Rowen stood statue still, hand yet extended waiting for her.

  With a swallow, she got her racing heart under control.

  “My lady,” Rowen whispered, his eyes snaring hers as he caught and raised her hand, his lips skimming the top of her knuckles. A tremble ran the length of her arm.

  Her dress was too tight—it was obviously cutting off circulation to her arm and causing it to shake.

  “Don’t you look dashing,” Catrina said, raising her hand for Rowen.

  He released Jordan’s hand long enough to pick up Catrina’s, give it a cursory kiss, and drop it again to retrieve Jordan’s. “Come, my lady,” he said, guiding her past his parents, her parents, and many of the gathering guests.

  Catrina trailed behind them.

  Everyone had arrived as expected. Although the Astraeas were Fifth of the Nine, their parties were touted in the papers as events to be seen at. The entertainment was always first-rate as no expense was spared.

  If you weren’t known for your rank, you had to be known for something. The Astraeas chose to be known for their hospitality.

  Jordan, knowing her limitations, chose to be known for her beauty.

  Such as it was.

  Both seemed to work in the family’s favor, lower-ranked guests curtseying to Jordan and Rowen as they passed by and offering hearty compliments on her hair, her visage, her grace … as higher-ranked guests inclined their heads ever so slightly and murmured quiet words of praise for what promised once again to be a memorable event.

  “So how long have you been here?” Jordan asked, adjusting her arm to drape more comfortably across Rowen’s. It was not hard to be comfortable with Rowen. He was well-shaped enough by the muscles he’d developed fencing, hunting, and horse riding but still a little soft from imbibing on his evenings spent socializing with his fellow gentlemen. Potentially tending toward a slight jowliness like his father, Rowen was still quite pleasant to look upon now.

  Jordan tipped up her chin. Considering her well-proportioned features and appropriate bone structure, and respectable rank, she could choose nearly any man of like rank she wanted.

  Still, here was Rowen. Already attained. Safe, bright enough for pleasant conversation, and good enough looking to provide her with a suitable escort to events. And—she looked him up and down from beneath her eyelashes—the man knew how to dress. If nothing else could be said of Rowen, he at least cut a sharp figure in trousers, vest, and coat.

  Catrina cleared her throat.

  “Oh. Yes, Catrina made a gift of this dress for me.”

  Rowen raised his eyes to Catrina for a moment. “It’s lovely. French lace and metallic thread from the Orient, yes?”

  “You’re so perceptive, Rowen.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Catrina.”

  A seventeenth birthday celebration was one of the sweetest events of a young person’s life, so sweets were showcased in quiet recognition of a person’
s escape from a most ominous possibility—that of being a Witch. And their caterer, an ex-slave named Thomas Dorsey, had proven to the Philadelphia elite that events he catered were quite sweet!

  A fountain burbling with wine stood in the center of the main hall so guests coming in could quickly imbibe the intoxicant of choice. On a central table jumbles smelling of lemon were stacked beside a jiggling velvet cream molded in the shape of the old Independence Bell. Small chocolate custards topped with Caledonian cream peeked out of porcelain dishes, ladyfingers lined a silver tray, and dainty French cakes sporting tiny spots of champagne jelly vied for guests’ attention among German puffs and gold and silver puddings aplenty.

  Not far beyond the buffet of delicacies stood several young gentlemen (some Rowen’s friends) who called on Jordan occasionally. Rowen guided her away from them, smirking. Also nearby were cages filled with all manner of exotic bird and beast, making for a colorful menagerie.

  Closer, though, someone glimmered in the light beneath the main chandelier, and Jordan could not help but stare.

  Catrina leaned in, whispering, “Well that is a bold fashion statement! Who does he think he is—a cast-off of some distant maharajah?” Tiny cut crystals wound round the young man’s throat and wrists, creating twisting streams of softly glowing purple light, the shimmering ensemble finished off with a subtle (if one might call such a thing subtle) circlet of gold holding one last, larger crystal between his dramatic brows and raven-dark hair.

  Jordan glanced from her best friend to the boy she had always adored—the boy everyone adored. The black sheep of his conservative family, Micah Vanmoer dressed in the clothes of a mourner and had poetic and musical leanings of a nearly riotous sort, and that was precisely what Jordan adored most about him. Micah was a younger (sober) Edgar Allan Poe.

  While she was often mute, young Micah was an orator of the most expressive sort. If his new choice in adornment was yet another reflection of his personal taste, then more power to him.

  Rowen watched her reaction before clearing his throat and patting the hand she rested on his arm. “Let us go greet our friend, Micah.” He led her so it appeared it was not she who made the choice to support the boy, but Rowen.