“You have offered me one thousand pounds to spend the night with you.”
His head turned slightly, a dismissive glance Annmar had witnessed countless times. But Mr. Shearing’s eyes widened, and he rocked back. After a second’s pause, he rose and donned his coat. He came forward to grasp her hand in a lingering clasp. When she withdrew it, he cleared his throat and waved to a chair. “Take a seat, my dear Miss Masterson.”
It was such a simple request, one she’d demurred from on every other visit because she had been there to work. But this time she smiled and perched on the chair edge, her corset keeping her back straight.
Mr. Shearing propped himself on the desk and smiled down at her—or, more correctly, at her bosom. His small talk flowed, and she found she didn’t really need to answer, just murmur her agreement. Finally, he managed to find her face and invite her to dinner.
“No, thank you, Mr. Shearing. You—”
“Please. Call me George… Ann, isn’t it?”
Her stomach turned yet again. “Yes…George. I cannot join you for dinner. Your letter extended an offer, and as you can see, I took you at your word. I have purchased a new gown and traveled to Derby.” She flicked imaginary dust from the side of her curvy top and another from her narrow waist. When she lifted her gaze, his eyes were riveted to her bodice.
An exact fit to her plan. She heaved out her chest with an exasperated breath. “Which I must say is a fatiguing journey. I’d like to rest before we discuss our business, and I’d do so more comfortably with a thousand gold-backed banknotes to cover my expenses. You may pay me half now and half when you meet me at your suite. What name shall I give?”
“Ah…” He ripped his gaze upward, and this time the ever-proper Mr. Shearing could not force his face to blank. Instead, he went to the wall safe and spun the dial.
“Ms. Peach will be fine,” he said without looking at her. “Room six hundred.”
He extracted a stack of notes. Sitting across from her, he counted out two piles, each containing ten fifty-pound notes. One stack he folded, clipped and slipped into his waistcoat pocket as he rose. He walked around the desk and handed the second to her.
Annmar put the money in her reticule.
“What time will you expect me?” he asked.
Her stomach twisted, but she forced a steady answer. “You may arrive at sunset. I will leave at dawn. This agreement is for a single night in your company.”
He grinned and raked his gaze over her once more. “Excellent. The night gives us plenty of time to discuss how we might combine our talents.”
Annmar smiled back, though she didn’t want to. Before he could say more that might make this an arrangement she couldn’t agree to, she left.
Once more in the rolling carriage, she whispered what happened to Mary Clare. “Your script worked, up to his mention of combining talents. The way he said it teemed with indecency, though it echoed his suggestion at Wellspring that we combine our Knacks. The thought of him doing either makes me faint.” She removed her gloves and wiped her brow.
“You poor dear.” Mary Clare fanned her. “Remember, you’re the only one who has a chance of finding out how he’s swaying people. You have something he wants worse.”
Annmar peered at her with narrowed eyes.
“I mean your Knack, of course. We can’t go back to the Basin without knowing how to protect our farmers and beat the louse at his own game.”
To the determined Mr. Shearing, it might be a game. A twisted game he’d drafted her into. “Well, I’ll turn the tables on him. Only, adjust my neckline, please? Upwards.” Then they laughed about Mr. Shearing’s choice of a name while Annmar fastened the jacket clasps.
“It’s fate,” Mary Clare said. “He wants peaches and peaches he’ll have—with threads on the side.”
At their next stop, Mr. Manning was pleased to have the two Harvesters off his land and earn a fair wage for hauling them to the train station that evening.
“Tonight?” Mary Clare asked while they headed back to town. “Do you think that was wise? My pa has to set up his wool shipments days ahead with the Basin train.”
Annmar frowned at her. “Payment in advance should get a flatbed added. Wellspring can’t wait another day.”
Yet the display of notes at the freight office window didn’t persuade the stationmaster.
“The train is carrying a full load, already booked and paid for, ma’am. We can’t bump our best customer.”
“As much as we’d like to,” muttered a second man at the desk behind him.
Annmar glanced at the clock. The hands were moving toward five o’clock and quitting time on The Strand. She wanted to see Polly before…sunset. “May I ask, what if your best customer’s shipment doesn’t arrive?”
“The morning shift will be singing at the tops of their lungs,” said the other man.
The stationmaster cleared his throat and spoke louder. “If it doesn’t, though it’s never even late, then the next paying customer gets his freight loaded.”
Annmar slapped her notes on the counter. “Here’s full payment to haul my machines to Gapton.”
* * *
Gapton
Tree shadows crossed the tracks by the time Daeryn and Rivley climbed onto the platform at Breakthrough Gap. The walls of the gorge rose on either side of the shabby blue station, as narrow and dark as Terrent had described.
An older man emerged from a nearby cottage, spotted them and came forward, tipping back his railroad cap. “Missed the train, boys.”
The confirmation sent a wash of weariness over Daeryn. “And the next?”
“Isn’t until morning. Trip is downhill to Rowsley. Easy stroll for two strong youths to catch a connection. Show me your Proofs, and you can move through.” His intense stare equaled any raptor’s.
They looked at each other, and Daeryn said, “We don’t have Proofs.”
“Didn’t think so.” The stationmaster turned and walked toward the station. The gorge seemed to darken around him, and a wind swept from it. Rivley shifted, and his scalp feathers rose.
Daeryn didn’t dare delay this. “Sir?” He trotted forward, scaring up an orange cat that leaped nimbly and sniffed his leg. “Did two girls catch the train?”
The man turned. He stared at the cat a moment before picking it up. “Seeing as I’m the stationmaster and sell the tickets, I could give the right people information. If I thought it warranted.”
Daeryn put out his hand. He introduced himself and Rivley, and the older man did the same. The cat leaned toward him, still sniffing, so Daeryn gave it a scratch behind the ears. The cat began to purr.
Mr. Yates looked from the cat to Daeryn. “Are these girls in some kind of trouble?”
“Er, yes,” Daeryn said. “Headed into trouble. Not running from it.” That wasn’t a lie. Outside meant trouble. It would sound daft to admit they didn’t know why the girls had left.
Rivley took a few steps away, ironically toward the rock walls that seemed to narrow around a piece of equipment on the rails.
Mr. Yates let the cat down, watching it rub Daeryn’s leg before shooing it off. “I got the feeling the artist girl weren’t too keen on going, but maybe just as determined as you two. If’n I can help her in any way, I will.”
“We could really use your help, sir.”
Rivley walked back. “Would we be able to borrow your steam loader?”
Mr. Yates dismissed the request with a jerk of his head. “Too slow. Them’s built for hauling weight.”
“A handcar, then?” asked Rivley. “I know most stations keep them around for repairs.”
The stationmaster gave a snort. “Too old-fashioned.” He eyed them up and down again and then gestured for them to follow him.
Yes. Rivley’s knowledge of the machinery had caught the old man’s interest—and it took Riv’s mind off his fears. Daeryn knocked him on the shoulder as they walked toward the equipment sheds. Mr. Yates threw open a door. The low rays of sun glin
ted off the engine of a spindly cart made of metal rods mounted on three flanged wheels.
The man scraped at his white whiskers. “Might make the trip quicker on our speeder.”
Rivley walked into the dim space and crouched next to the self-propelled railway vehicle. “It’s beautiful.”
The lines were spare, hardly like Master Brightwell’s work, but Rivley was nodding.
“Yes, sir,” Daeryn said. “I’d appreciate it more than I can say if you’d lend it to us.”
“Can’t promise much,” Mr. Yates said. “The engine isn’t running the best these days. Need to have that Basin fellow who built her out for a look.”
Rivley straightened. “I can take a look at it, sir. I have mechanical experience.”
“I thought you might.” Mr. Yates lifted a hand and rubbed a thumb across fingernails edged with black, duplicates of Rivley’s oil-stained hands. They laughed.
They rolled the three-wheeled cart onto the tracks and lit coal in the small firebox. By the arrangement of it and the engine, Daeryn realized the machine was one of Master Brightwell’s inventions. However, unlike his spiders, when the gears slowly turned, they ground. Rivley shut it off, poked around the gears a bit and made a few adjustments with Mr. Yates’ tools. He started it again.
It sounded just as bad.
“Sir?” Rivley asked. “By chance did you use Outside oil?”
“I did.” Mr. Yates pulled his wispy beard. “Last time I changed it, we were short, so I had ’em send up a can from Rowsley.”
A smile spread over Rivley’s face. “This machine is Basin-built. It’ll operate best on Basin-made oil. Do you have any?”
While Mr. Yates pulled cans from his shed, Rivley detached the oil case and emptied it into a bucket. The doodem plunked to the bottom, and he fished out a brownish figurine.
“It’s not white like the Harvester’s, so maybe it’s still alive,” he whispered to Daeryn. “I wish I could see that blue light Annmar talks about.”
Mr. Yates returned with a can of Basin oil.
Rivley swished the doodem in a pan of yellow Basin oil, then replaced the now purplish figure and refilled the oil case. Again, the gears started slow, worked up speed and, after a minute, meshed together with a mechanical purr.
“You did it!” Daeryn pounded Rivley’s back.
A beaming Mr. Yates instructed them in the controls for speed and braking. “Can’t go Outside bareheaded.” He strode to the shed and returned with two brown tweed caps. “Keep a few handy.”
Daeryn and Rivley donned them and settled one behind the other, with Rivley driving, on the narrow seat over a box containing a supply of Basin coal. The stationmaster started the engine again, smiling when it hummed to life, the valves clicking regular beats.
“Here.” Mr. Yates handed each of them a blue-waxed Proof. “Grasp it tight and give this speeder a test drive through the Gateway. Meet you on the other side.” He walked off and disappeared into the dark rock corridor beyond the station.
Rivley stared after Mr. Yates, continuing to pinch the medallion at the edges. Daeryn palmed his Proof. The Gateway was tighter than he’d imagined. I can’t force him. I have to just wait this out.
It took only a few moments before Rivley closed his hand and released the brake. The vehicle eased forward. Rivley pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the tracks. He opened the throttle.
“That’s it,” Daeryn said. “Take it at a run.” Ahead of them, the shadows had lifted, but the rock walls still loomed high and close. Cool evening wind whipped his hair across his brow, then the speeder roared forward, and the rock rushed by with a roar in his ears. Seconds later, the cliffs opened to the pale sky, and Rivley braked to a stop next to Mr. Yates.
Rivley had made it through the Gateway. Daeryn thumped his shoulders.
After a moment, Rivley threw back a grin.
The stationmaster tapped him on the shoulder. “Could use a fellow like you working part time. Would you make a point to see me on your return?”
Rivley rose, glancing back at Daeryn as he stood astride the machine and offered a hand to the stationmaster. “Be happy to, sir,” he said. “I have a commitment at the moment, but work slows after the harvest. Until then, I could always pop over if you’re in a bind. After, we can talk.”
Mr. Yates dipped his head. “Good plan. You sound quick-witted. Are you?”
Rivley blinked. “I think so.”
“Well, on top of honest, that will do.” He dug in his breast pocket and extracted several small cards. “These passes will get the speeder and yourselves on the Derwent Valley railway. You’re both working for me until you return this vehicle. Need those Proofs, though.”
They handed them over, and he paused, peering at each of them in turn. “Either of you been Outside before?” They shook their heads, causing him to frown. “’Cambires, too. Since your Elder didn’t run you through an interview I better do the honors. No changing Outside. None, you hear? Keep yourselves from undue notice, with remarks and such about Basin doings. Best for you”—he pointed to Rivley—“to avoid looking anyone in the face.”
Rivley tugged his cap brim lower, placing his amber eyes in shadow.
“Good.” He turned to Daeryn. “Your brown eyes blend, but it won’t hurt to keep yourself to the background. Some of those Outsiders don’t take to anyone with skin a shade darker than their own, though I don’t think any have owned slaves for three decades.”
Daeryn glanced to his hands. He understood the caution to keep his ’cambire form hidden, but this judgment of human skin made no sense. Another complication, dammit. “Never knew that. Thanks.”
chapter THIRTY-TWO
Derby
After sending Mary Clare to her sister’s in the carriage, Annmar waited for Polly at the sweet shop where her friend worked. When Polly came out the door, she didn’t recognize Annmar, making Annmar feel like a different person. After greetings and hugs, they walked along The Strand arm in arm, talking and looking into their favorites of the fanciest shop windows.
“You must love it,” Polly said, “making so much money to dress like this. Is she a better employer?”
“The best. She takes good care of her people, though the harvest doesn’t look certain for this year. Pest problems.”
Polly wrinkled her nose. “Every farm has pest problems. One of the reasons I left.” She smiled. “I met a fellow last week. I’m seeing him again tomorrow.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a footman.”
Mary Clare’s Leander sprang to mind, and Annmar laughed.
Polly swatted her. “It’s honest work. And he’s the nicest.” Her eyes went all dreamy. “When you find a nice young man, you’ll feel the same way.”
Thoughts of Daeryn’s gentle touch and woodsy scent gave Annmar’s stomach a flutter. “I already did. And do.”
“Eek,” Polly squealed. “Come back to the room and we’ll trade stories.” At the corner she steered Annmar to turn toward the boarding house.
Annmar stopped. “I can’t. I have to meet someone.”
Polly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s why you’re dressed up. Who is it?”
Oh, dear, she hadn’t thought of a story for this. Polly wouldn’t like hearing it was Mr. Shearing. “A…business associate of Mistress Gere’s.” True, even if unscrupulous. “I’m to talk to him about my drawings.”
Polly squeezed her hand. “See, you are good enough to get more work. Come back to the boarding house after. The other girls will make space for you.”
Oh, dear. Skirting the truth wasn’t at all easy. “I can’t. I have a room for the night, courtesy of this business.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I have to take the first train out in the morning to get back.”
Polly’s face scrunched into a familiar look of disbelief.
Annmar took both her hands in hers. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come at all if it weren’t for the Collective. I might
be able to save it. Maybe. Things are shaky with the harvest, and I have to try.”
“You really love the place then, and your new fellow?”
“I do,” she said without thinking, then stopped. She did. Talking with Polly about their beaus—real beaus, this time—cleared her mind. Dealing with Mr. Shearing would be hard, but she had to do it. “In fact, if things work out, I don’t think I’ll come back. My home is there now.”
Polly’s eyes widened. “But your shop, your dream—”
“Mother’s dream. Exactly what you told me, Polly. Mother wanted us to stay here, but I’ve met the people there and am learning about the land. I love it. I belong there, Polly.”
“And your fellow?”
“He’ll never leave. His life is there.”
A frown crossed Polly’s face, but she nodded. “Yours now, too. I understand. You’ll come visit?”
“I’ll try.” They hugged and said a teary good-bye. As soon as they parted, the jitters returned to Annmar’s stomach. A piece of Mrs. Betsy’s bread might calm it, but she needed that food to ply Mr. Shearing with blue fibers. Annmar walked past The Strand storefronts where she’d grown up, playing out how she’d offer Mr. Shearing a snack and, while he ate, how to distract him until she knew his secrets. Then he’d have threads, and she’d have her Knack ready.
It would work. Mary Clare said she had to believe it would.
She was broke, with just enough money for passage back. They could return with the information to stop Mr. Shearing from taking control of every bit of land in the Farmlands shire, but to help Wellspring, to do right by Henry, she needed those fifty-pound notes in Mr. Shearing’s pocket. Her hands were clammy with the fear of facing such a shrewd magnate, so she fisted them like Jac had taught her. She caught her reflection in a shop window and stopped under the pretext of looking at the wares to imagine where she’d land a punch. Or a kick.
She tucked a few loose strands of hair back under the hat and sighed. Her dress wasn’t as fresh after traveling and running errands, but she didn’t care. She’d made her impression on Mr. Shearing already. Once they were alone together in the room, she doubted he’d be looking at the dress—but that might keep his tongue loose.
The Twisting Page 27