“Well, he’s not dead now,” Simon smiled. “I’ve said it before, you can’t keep a tough man down. And that man’s one of toughest alive. Even Septigonee’s Well couldn’t hold him! I bet you Harper met Death on his way down and cuffed him so hard he was sent back for reform.”
Chance kept reading, having a hard time believing the words he read. The captain was alive! They were calling it the second miracle.
Catching even the men who performed the operation by surprise, the mechanism designed by Dr. J. Collins Stoddard proved as miraculous as the first that saved Captain Harper’s life after his valiant service during the Great War. Details remain obscure, but it can only be anticipated that recent events will draw more eyes to Stoddard’s mind-baffling work.
“So… what? They brought him back from the dead?”
Serge rolled his eyes. “They did not.”
“You’ve got the paper. It says it right there,” Simon pointed.
“Meritocracy makes pacts with a devil,” Kwame said.
“That’s to say they aren’t devils themselves,” Ponti added.
“They didn’t goof! The papers just reported it wrong. Here—” Serge pulled the paper over. “It says they ‘were too hasty in announcing the captain’s death, but the prosthetic exceeded all medical expectations.’ It was premature reporting, that’s all.”
“That’s complete poppycock,” Ponti laughed. “It’s a publicity stunt. They’re trying to sell more papers.”
“The Nightingale is a respectable newspaper,” Simon defended.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Ponti said. “I’ve never read any paper out of Hatteras that wasn’t above spinning tales out of its bu—.”
“So, what then? He came to after the fact?” Chance asked.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Poppycock,” Ponti repeated. “You can’t trust the paper. I doubt he’s alive at all.”
Simon groaned.
“Hear me out,” Ponti said, leaning forward. He pointed to the end of the article. “‘Captain Harper was unavailable for comment.’ He’s probably still on some slab somewhere. Nobody ever sees these old veterans anymore, so no one will think the wiser if he doesn’t make an appearance, right? They just need to keep his name alive to take care of some agenda behind the scenes. Tie up some lose ends. Sign over his family fortune and whatnot.”
“You’re just being stupid now,” Serge said.
“You watch!” Ponti said. “In a month, when they’re good and done with him, you’ll be reading about his relapse and some gentleman is gonna walk away fat and easy with his fortune.”
Chance shrugged, only half listening. He was thinking about his conversation with Ashworth, and wondering where exactly his mentor had gone that night.
“Oh gods, what is she doing here?” Ponti’s expression turned to one of absolute disgust. Chance followed his eyes.
Sitting at the bar was a woman in a heavy purple dress with fancy black-lace trimmings. It was exceptionally fine, for the establishment. Her bright blond curls bounced as she laughed, juggling the attention of the men doting on her. It wasn’t difficult to see why she had the attention of so many men; she stood out from the other girls.
Leave it to Margarete to upstage everyone.
“Well, there goes the reputation of this place,” Ponti mourned. He slumped forward dejectedly. “Seriously, why does she always have to ruin the best this miserable city has to offer?”
“She hasn’t done anything yet,” Serge pointed out. “How do you know she’s going to ruin it?”
“Trust me,” Ponti said, pounding his finger on the table. “She—ruins—every—thing—she—touches.” Each word came out forced and dripping with bitterness.
“Do I now?” Margarete asked, walking up behind him.
“Oh, gods above.” Ponti hugged his bottle, as if she might snatch it away from him at any moment.
“Hello boys,” she beamed.
“Hello Margarete,” they all said, with varied levels of enthusiasm.
“What’s gotten you all into such a bunch?” she asked, leaning against Ponti’s chair, which only made him cringe more. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Chance saw a twinkle in her eyes as she did so.
“They’re just sour,” Chance said.
“Oh, poor dears. What’s got you all stressed out, sourpuss?”
“Nothing a moment’s privacy wouldn’t remedy,” Ponti muttered.
“Be courteous,” Serge warned. “There’s a lady present.”
“A lady?” Ponti gave him a look. “Have you met her?”
“It’s alright, darling. I was on my way out anyway. Thought I’d just come and ruffle this one’s feathers a bit.” She stroked Ponti’s cheek with a gloved hand and he recoiled under it. “Perhaps I’ll find the rest of you later in more pleasant company?”
She turned and caught Chance’s eyes. Making a motion ever so slight, she left. Chance wasn’t sure if anyone else had noticed. Despite himself, he couldn’t hold back a smile.
“Did you feel it?” Ponti asked. “That horrid, nasty air that settled while she was here?”
“Her perfume?”
“Nah, something worse. It’s like she walked through a—where are you going?” he asked as Chance stood up from the table.
“Just remembered I have somewhere I’ve got to be.”
“What? Where?”
“When fortune favors you, it’s not polite to question her,” Chance grinned. He took his bottle and slid the newspaper back to Simon. “Thanks for that.”
“You can’t honestly tell me you’re giving up our company for that tart?”
“No,” Chance said. “I’m giving it up for that lady.”
Chapter Twelve
Mundane Dreams
Not everyone can admire what an alchemist attempts with their craft. Not everyone can rub two cents together either.
— Alchemical Proverb
B ack in Chance’s workshop, Margarete carefully pulled her dress up over her head and hung it up on a hook on the wall. It billowed out like a bell, taking up a corner of the tiny room. Unlike a true lady’s gown, this one was designed for quick changes. Margarete always said it was worth not needing a lady’s maid.
Standing around in nothing but her undergarments might have been odd when they first began meeting, but she was beyond feeling uncomfortable about things like that. And Chance had grown comfortable with her as well.
Besides, she couldn’t risk ruining her dress.
“How’s it coming along?” she asked, peering over Chance’s shoulder.
“Just a minute or two and it’ll be ready.”
Chance worked steadily, combining a few substances in a wide-brimmed bottle. Margarete took the moment to soak her hair in the basin of water he’d brought in from the kitchen.
“Is it new?” he asked, motioning to the dress. He couldn’t remember if he’d seen her wear it before. For someone from the Basin, Margarete owned a lot of dresses.
“Oh, yes,” she said, combing the water through her curls with her fingers. “It was a gift.”
Chance shook the bottle vigorously for a few seconds before pouring the mixture into a large bowl. Selecting a few components from his shelves, he ground them down to a powder with his mortar and pestle. The mixture smelled faintly of lavender. When it was ground fine enough he added it to the bowl, stirring until it was the consistency of a thin, wet paste.
“It’s ready,” he said, carrying the bowl to where Margarete sat. Leaning to the side, she let her hair drape down where he could reach it and he set about applying the paste with a brush.
“Maybelle had her baby,” Margarete said from under her hair.
“Oh? How’s she doing?”
“She had us worried for a while, but she’s recovering.”
“She going to keep it?” Chance asked.
“That’s up to her.”
“She seems too young to care for a child on her own.”
“She’s not on her own,” Margarete insisted. “And she didn’t have a say in how young she was. If she wants to raise her baby, then she has every right to. She has a place at least. I’ve already seen to that.”
Chance nodded, not pressing the subject. Margarete was awfully protective of her girls, as she thought of them—young women, like her, who were forced too young onto the streets. Margarete knew all too well their future prospects, and so she’d taken to looking after as many as she could. She’d even purchased a brothel and converted it into a home. It didn’t do any favors for her reputation in the city since some of her girls still chose the working lifestyle, but she did what she could for them.
He’d never asked directly, but Chance was certain her money came from the many acquaintances she’d made on the Spire in her younger years—whether they’d been eager to make a contribution or not.
Once the paste was evenly distributed through her hair she held it away from her neck, letting the compounds set in. “Honestly, what would I do without you?” she asked with a smile.
“You’d get by just fine,” Chance assured her. “It’s only a coloring.”
“Yes, but one I can trust. Not everyone is as careful as you are. Some of the other girls have gotten serious burns when they tried to get one.”
“That’s because they’re going to hacks who don’t know their craft. There are safer ways if they’re willing to take the time.”
“That’s why I’m glad I have you.”
“It’s nothing,” Chance shrugged. He leaned back on his stool. “It’s about all I’m good for.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to be a sourpuss tonight too?”
Chance almost protested, but when he looked at her—the way she sat with her hair draped to the side—he didn’t feel much like arguing. “No,” he smiled. “But don’t you think this is all a little... routine?”
“Of course,” she said. “We have a standing appointment.”
“You know what I mean. Sometimes I wish there was something more to do than just… dye hair.”
“Would you like to dye my eyebrows?” she teased. “That would be new.”
“Funny,” Chance chuckled. “I don’t know. Didn’t you ever think to leave Hatteras? Start a new life somewhere?”
“I did start a new life,” she said. “This one.”
“But people here know you from before. Wouldn’t it have been easier to leave that all behind and go somewhere else? Start somewhere with a clean slate?”
Her eyes flashed with mock-offense. “Why Chance, you’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”
“No,” he said. “I just wonder. Sometimes I feel so bottled up here, and you... Liesel... anyone who’s had a chance to leave and hasn’t baffle me. I can’t figure out why you chose to stay.”
“Where would I have gone?” Margarete asked. “I’ve made Hatteras my home. I’ve got my girls here.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
Margarete rolled her eyes. “And where would you go? What would you do if the opportunity came along?”
“I’d take it!” Chance said, snatching at the air as though the opportunity were literally before him.
“You wouldn’t miss your friends? Or your work?”
“If any of my friends took the first ship out of the Basin, I wouldn’t begrudge them a backwards glance. I’d wish them the best of luck and follow just as soon as I could.”
“I think you’d have more difficulty leaving than you admit.”
“Not the way I see it. I’d set out for Port Elliston—maybe further. Work as a shipmate on a dirigible to pay my way. Simon used to do that, before his leg went bad. It wouldn’t take me but a few months and I’d be free to set foot anywhere I wanted.”
“And when you finally reached wherever it is you’re going?” Margarette asked. “What would you do then?”
“I’d visit every pub I could, build up my contacts in the city and redefine myself. It wouldn’t matter one iota if I were an alchemist or from the Basin. There, I’d be a new me—a me I had a say in becoming.”
“So, what’s keeping you? It sounds like you’ve got a plan.”
“No,” Chance frowned. “Just a dream.”
He poured a pitcher of water through Margarete’s hair to rinse out the paste. There in her white petticoat, her hair draped to the side, she looked serene. It was a privileged view few got to see of her.
When her hair was rinsed, she stood and patted it dry with a towel while Chance set the dishes aside.
“Don’t you ever tidy up?” she asked, looking at the messes piled up on nearly every surface. It wasn’t just dishes, there were books and instruments everywhere.
“I’m an alchemist,” Chance said. “It’s our nature to work with messes.”
“But do you have to live in one? I’m amazed you get anything done at all.” She picked up a bottle which held a clumpy mixture. “What is this for?”
“A pox treatment.”
“It looks like moldy cheese in water.”
“Smells like it too,” Chance grinned.
She crinkled her nose, set it down, and picked up another. This one was mostly transparent, like dirty water with a thick film on the bottom. “And this?”
“That’s a catalyst.”
“A catalyst for what?”
“For a specific reaction.”
“What reaction?”
“A reaction.”
“Like turning lead to gold?” she pried.
Chance grinned. “Something like that. Look,” he said, taking the vial. He shook it furiously for a few seconds and held it up in the light. They both watched as the mixture nearly solidified into a marbled green.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. I thought it would be more... impressive.”
“Just because it doesn’t glow or explode doesn’t mean it isn’t impressive. As it is, I wouldn’t trade this vial for a hundred banknotes if I was offered it.”
“A thousand?” she toyed.
Chance shook his head.
“Is this part of your secret project then?”
“Yes.” He gripped the vial in his hands. It gave off heat from the reaction. “It’s the furthest I’ve been able to get so far.”
“I’ll never understand your work,” she said.
He placed the vial on the shelf again. “Then why do you keep asking me about it?”
Margarete laughed, and took a seat on the only empty portion of the couch. Chance watched her stretch herself out slowly. “I like to hear you talk about your dreams—to see you excited.”
“They’re only dreams,” Chance dismissed. “Dozens before me have wasted their lives away chasing after lost secrets of alchemy. I’ll more than likely do the same.”
“So why do you keep trying?”
“Because...”
Chance struggled to find the words to explain how he felt. There was a part of him that truly believed it was hopeless, just as another believed he could defy the odds. He couldn’t count the nights he’d found rest only after hours of troubled thoughts of the future. It’s uncertainty loomed more menacingly every day, wrapping itself around him like an unwanted blanket.
And yet something compelled him on. To try, again and again. All the while, the conflict raged on inside—sometimes dangerously close to the surface.
“...I believe it’s possible,” he finally said. “And it’s not like anyone gave me a worthwhile alternative. I figure if I’m destined to waste away my life, at least I’ll waste away pursuing something I chose.”
“What a truly doleful dreamer you are,” Margarete teased.
“Only on my good days.”
He joined her on the couch, clearing it of his papers and books and positioning himself against the armrest. Margarete crawled over and leaned herself against him.
“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” she said.
They laid like that fo
r a while as her hair dried, Margarete drifting off to sleep and Chance lost in his thoughts. He found he thought best when she was there, and so his mind wandered through passages he’d read earlier that week, trying to bridge connections between them. It was like trying to pull threads across miles, often they’d break or become so tangled he’d have to start over from the beginning.
Yet, with each success, he became more hopeful he’d work out the next.
Tonight, however, no new or profound thoughts formed. The alchemist he’d been reading was a shoddy one and had taken to peddling false concoctions later in life. Chance had hoped some of his earlier work might have held more integrity, but it was apparent he’d been a charlatan from the beginning.
Chance ran his fingers through Margarete’s hair, combing it out and enjoying the faint scent of perfume. There were few women with locks like Margarete’s. The dye lightened her hair, but it didn’t strip it completely of her natural color. It would have been a sin, he thought, to tamper too much with something already so near perfection.
Perhaps an hour passed before she stirred again, looking up with sleepy eyes.
“You’re beautiful when you’re sleeping,” Chance said.
Margarete rolled over so she faced him and smiled her rare smile—one without fanfare or tease—before she buried herself against him again. Some of the curl was already coming back into her hair.
“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“You’re the only one I’ve heard say that who I believed. You almost make me believe it too.” Her expression became sad, and she rolled onto her back again. Chance felt her sigh. “Where were you ten years ago?”
Chance remembered exactly where he was. “Wasting time in a school somewhere,” he shrugged.
“I bet you looked handsome in your uniform.”
“It never suited me.”
“I never got to go to school.”
“It wasn’t anything special,” Chance explained. “Just a lot of cogs telling you where to go and what to think.”
The topic was disrupting Chance’s dream. He stood up carefully, leaving Margarete on the couch, and went to his cupboards. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but he rummaged through some of the mess to busy himself.
Aether Spark Page 12