“What do you think?” he asked, looking out over the Basin.
“It’s so big,” Emmaline observed. “Much larger than the port in Sorrento.”
“Yes, most things in Hatteras are. A humble city it most certainly isn’t. You’ll know what I mean in time,” he smiled, though Emmaline didn’t sense his natural cheer behind that one. “The Spire is a lofty place full of lofty people. Ever trying to climb higher, as you can see.”
He pointed to one of the unfinished buildings. They had not yet completed its roof and Emmaline could see the wire frame sticking out like bones toward the sky. From the look of things, they intended it to be taller still.
“However, they never stray too far from their roots; everything here revolves around this Basin,” Uncle Lewis explained. “They say its tides control the fortune of the city? From trade to fashion, the Basin has impacted those who’ve lived here since the founders.”
“That can’t be true,” Emmaline said. “It’s just a pool of water. How could the tides affect the fashion of a city?”
Her uncle appeared amused, as if there was an inside joke she’d missed somehow. “Perhaps that’s a question you must ask Septigonee herself,” he winked.
“Who?” Emmaline asked, but her mother’s call interrupted their little conversation.
“Emmaline! For goodness’ sake, the carriage is here. Hurry,” she urged. “We don’t want to keep your father waiting.”
When their parcels were loaded up, the carriage carried the three of them through streets leading away from the cliffs and further inland. The roads wound upward, and Emmaline watched with curiosity out the window at the faces they passed along the way.
Again, the air of grandeur permeated the city. She’d never seen such extravagance on such a large scale. Surely the entire city wasn’t like this, she wondered. Yet, as they turned each new street, she grew more certain they would never exhaust it.
A thought entered her mind then as she watched a small group of ladies cross the road behind their carriage. They were all of them adorned with great, beautiful dresses and armed with delicate lace parasols. Looking down at her own dress Emmaline felt ordinary in comparison. How would she fare in such a place? The deckhands had complimented her on her dresses and manners during their trip, but now she wasn’t sure their opinions were reliable.
There was only one opinion she needed worry about at the moment, however.
As the carriage lurched around a corner and up a small lane Emmaline’s nerves got the better of her. She wrung her hands in her lap and looked to her uncle, hoping to encourage one of his teasing jokes or a comforting smile. But he too looked concerned as he poured over a ledger in his arms.
It seemed she wasn’t the only one nervous about the family reunion.
CHAPTER TWO
The Audition
EMMALINE WAITED IN HER FATHER’S study, her back straight and her chin forward as her mother had instructed many times before. She was on display even though her father had yet to speak to her. Periodically he would glance toward her and her body would stiffen. To be in his presence was uncomfortable to say the least. Nearly five years had passed since she’d last seen the man, and he felt more a stranger than he did her father.
Emmaline visualized her feelings of anxiety as little butterflies in her stomach and pushed them down into the tips of her toes. They fidgeted in her shoes, but, as she’d learned from her governess, it was easier to conceal a toe than an expression. With her feelings suppressed, she distracted herself by focusing on the objects on her father’s desk while she listened to her parents speak.
There was a desk lamp, which Emmaline thought quite smart. They’d had electric lighting installed a year before in their home in Sorrento, but even then they’d only managed a bulb or two for each room. To have a bulb for one’s desk was brilliant.
Her eyes wandered over the other objects. There was a cubbyhole where he kept his letters, a pen and inkwell set high on the desk, and a stack of ledgers arranged between a pair of marble bookends. It was all very businesslike.
But then Emmaline noticed a hairpin resting beside the pen. It was not large, and at the tip she saw it held an ornate pearl butterfly. She smiled when she saw it though it seemed a strange thing to have on one’s desk. She wondered why her father had kept it.
“And how was the trip over?” her father asked, his gruff voice pulling Emmaline out of her thoughts.
“We managed,” her mother said, the tone of her voice suggesting it was quite the ordeal to be born. “Could you not have sent a more accommodating ship? I felt as though they treated us no better than a band of immigrants come from the colonies.”
“Come now, Mary. I’d say we more than managed,” Uncle Lewis said. “We made good time! When I came to fetch you I had to bunk with two crewmen on a tiny cargo ship. You should count yourself blessed to have the luxuries you have. I know I’d take any chance I get to fly in an airship.”
Emmaline smiled inwardly. She didn’t have to look to know the expression which surfaced on her mother’s face.
“But couldn’t you have arranged for something with a little more... prestige?” her mother said. “What does it say when you bring your family over on a barge?”
“My dear,” Worthington said. “It’s no easy task to arrange a ship to bring over an entire household. There’s only so much they can manage if they intend to leave the ground at all. But what it might have lacked in class it made up for in speed. Had you taken one of my own ships it would be another week or two at the least before you’d landed.”
“I suppose,” Mary acquiesced.
“It was a trip you’ll only make once, I promise you,” Worthington said. “And now it’s behind us.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Mary said.
“And what about our accounts?” Worthington asked, turning to Lewis. “Was everything taken care of before you left?”
“I transferred all of your contracts to Hatteras,” Uncle Lewis said, “and I’ve closed accounts with most of your clients save the ones in Selaria. I did however procure a few of the…”
Emmaline listened as their voices droned on around her. It was as though they’d forgotten she were there, which she resented. It was because of her, after all, that her father had finally been persuaded to send for them after all this time. With the approach of her fourteenth birthday it was customary for daughters of the meritocracy to be introduced into society, and yet her father appeared to have no interest in her.
The butterflies in her shoes fluttered with indignation. She’d prepared for this day for an entire year!
Rather than dwelling on it, however, Emmaline’s gaze continued to wander about the study. It was significantly more elegant than her father’s vacant library in Sorrento. The rooms of the estate, in general, were larger and the furniture more detailed with their rich patterned upholstery. Her father’s desk was a dark wood polished until she could see her own distorted reflection in its carved edges. The bookshelves stood tall and deep, filled with beautiful volumes with golden lettering on their spines.
In every detail it was extravagant.
This is my home now, Emmaline reminded herself. She wrestled with the simultaneous feelings of excitement and anxiety. Excitement for the opportunities a new place held, but anxious as she felt herself surrounded by so many unfamiliar things. Her mother had assured her it wasn’t so different from Sorrento, but Emmaline knew for herself that wasn’t true.
Even if it was, she was turning fourteen and that meant change. She’d be formally introduced into society and her childhood would end.
Was she ready for that? Was she ready to be a woman?
Her gaze wandered beyond her father’s desk to the large windows that peered out into the small plot leading to the road. Its tall hedges blocked out much of the view beyond, but there was a small garden with a bench and a stone bath for birds.
She watched as a few flitted about in the garden playfully.
One flew toward her, alighting on the edge of the windowsill. Dancing back and forth, it tested the pane with its beak. The light taps sounded inviting as though the little creature were trying to lure her to throw open the window and join it outside in the fresh air.
Emmaline sighed inaudibly as her parents’ voices droned on over her. How she longed to join the little bird. It didn’t have to endure things as uncomfortable as a viewing. Her parents may not have been speaking to her, but she suspected they were watching. Perhaps this was a test, she thought. Experience had taught her that anything could be part of her preparations.
Her mother had nit-picked her bare of bad habits, even employing her childhood governess to join the hunt. There was no flaw she possessed nor mistake she’d made in the last twelve months which they’d overlooked. She was a young woman now, groomed for high society. And, as her governess had explained to her, she needed to get used to people watching her.
The bird flitted from the sill and landed at the edge of the nearby bath. Wading into the pool it ruffled its feathers and flapped its wings, flicking drops of water onto its back as it chirped a merry song.
Even from inside the estate, Emmaline could hear its pleasant call.
The bird flailed suddenly, launching itself into the sky and sending a spray of droplets in all directions. Emmaline started as a cat leaped at the bath, its claws swiping at the bird’s feathered tail. But the little bird had sensed the danger just in time. It rose high in the air and soared over the hedge, leaving the cat to lick its empty paws by the pool.
Emmaline smiled, happy to see the little bird escape.
“And what about you, Emmaline?” her father asked.
His voice snapped Emmaline’s attention back into the moment. She hadn’t heard her father’s question. She glanced at her mother and uncle, hoping for some clue as to what she’d missed. Her mother, however, gave no such help.
Her uncle, on the other hand, pointed discretely toward the ceiling.
“It’s remarkable, father,” Emmaline ventured. “Much different than Sorrento.”
Her father nodded, apparently satisfied with her reply. “You’ll have time enough to take it in over the next few days. At the moment, however, we have your introduction to consider. I trust your governess has spared no efforts to prepare you?”
“I believe so, father,” Emmaline said.
“Here,” Worthington instructed, directing her with his hand. “Come forward and let me see you better.”
Emmaline stepped forward and stood just in front of her father’s desk. He gave her an appraising look, his critical eyes roaming over her. Would he spot something out of place? Would he be happy with the young woman she’d become? The butterflies in her shoes were fluttering about, and she pressed her heels together to keep them from escaping.
“We took great pains in her preparations all year,” her mother said. “She has lived under every one of your prescriptions.”
“Then I’m sure she’ll do just fine,” Worthington said. He leaned back, evidently satisfied with his appraisal, and Emmaline breathed again. “The meritocracy is a tricky thing, and the Spire a challenging place to live. Only the worthiest rise to such distinction, and only the vigilant can maintain their position here. So we must take care always to show our best selves to the public. Remember that, Emmaline.”
“I will, father,” she said.
“She’ll need to be coached in the fashions of the Spire,” Worthington concluded. “Her dress is far too plain as it stands.”
“I think it’s a lovely dress,” Uncle Lewis said. Emmaline nearly smiled at his efforts to make her feel more comfortable, but she caught herself when her father’s expression remained severe.
“The ideal she’ll be held to is no longer a colony standard,” he explained. “She’ll adopt the fashion of the Spire.”
“A dress can be changed easily enough,” her uncle said, half under his breath.
Worthington paused, stroking his chin as though something else had occurred to him.
“If I’m to introduce you into society,” he said, “I’d like to see for myself how we can expect you to fare under pressure. Tonight I have invited a guest to dine with us—a figure of great significance to the city. The Good Captain, Willard Harper.”
“You don’t say?” Uncle Lewis said, perking up.
“Captain Willard Harper has served Hatteras dutifully for years and is honored as a war hero,” her father explained. “Are you familiar with the name?”
“I’m afraid not, father,” Emmaline said.
Only a few years had passed since the Great War but she’d been too young to take much notice. And though she’d been a gifted student in etiquette, conversation, and the arts, her mind wandered when wars or politics were involved.
“Then this evening we’ll kill two birds with one stone,” Worthington declared. “Be down at six o’clock and I will introduce you. Anne!” he called.
The door opened to the study and a young servant girl appeared. “You called for me, sir?”
“Emmaline, this is Anne. She will be your personal handmaid. If there is anything you require she should accommodate you. Otherwise, you may seek Geoffrey, our butler, if you need anything else,” Worthington explained. “Anne, see that Emmaline is presentable for dinner tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Anne said. “Come along, miss.”
Emmaline turned to go, glad to be leaving that stuffy room. She let out a breath she’d not realized she’d been holding.
“And Emmaline,” her father called after her. Emmaline stopped at the door, her breath catching in her throat again. “Do not embarrass me tonight,” he warned.
Emmaline nodded before letting Anne lead her away. Her first audition. She was determined to make it a good one.
She’s been here three months already and I can’t make a dent in the girl! I can’t handle another mouth to feed if they aren’t gonna carry their own weight, and I’m not about to waste more time worrying over her than I already have. Please, Charlotte. Will you take her?
—Excerpt from Letter to Charlotte
CHAPTER THREE
Wound Tight
MARGARETE AWOKE WITH A START, crying out as she sat up in her bed. She was shaking, her brow in a sweat as her neck craned from the right to the left, looking about the room frantically for…
What was she looking for?
The room was just her room, vacant and ordinary with its pink wallpaper. The same few pieces of furniture lined the walls and she could hear the familiar noises of the house as the girls went about their day.
Swallowing hard, she laid back down in her bed and breathed deep breaths of relief.
She’d been dreaming, though try as she might she couldn’t remember what had startled her awake. Something unpleasant. She felt it tucked deep inside her gut, somewhere just out of sight. Some shadow of a feeling? A fragment of a memory?
Her blanket had wrapped itself tight around her and she fought for a minute to untangle herself, flinging it onto the floor when she’d freed herself. She was still shaking, and she clutched her legs in an effort to calm herself. Through the window she saw the sun was already up, the sound of business on the street coming in from below.
Charlotte must have let her sleep in.
A pang of guilt rose in her chest. She was usually the one who helped Charlotte in the morning. It was quite the task to run such a house as Charlotte managed. It wasn’t a typical brothel by any stretch of the imagination. The innate misfortunes of their circumstance aside, girls were lucky to come under Charlotte’s care and not some other drunken fools who’d sell their girls off with little regard for their wellbeing. Certainly there were better paths to take in life to those who had the choice, but for those girls who’d been dealt a poor hand in life there was little chance of recovering.
Charlotte made every attempt to see they made it through each day.
Rising from her bed, Margarete stretched herself out and wandered to the wardrob
e where she selected one of her daily dresses. If Charlotte had already taken care of everything herself, then Margarete intended to make it up to her.
She was slipping it on when she realized her dress from the night before was still draped over her chair. Fetching it from the chair, she went to put it away in her wardrobe. But then she saw the torn hem and the blood on the edge of the sleeves. She saw the mirror cracked in its frame, and in a rush her recollection caught up with her.
She hadn’t been dreaming after all, Margarete realized. She was still in the nightmare.
Margarete dropped the dress, stepping away as if it were some vulgar thing. Again she felt enclosed upon as if a hundred tiny cords were tightening around her again. They pulled against her, drawing her back into the direness of her situation. Worthington. His family. His brutal dismissal and his profession of love. All of it weighed on her so heavily she felt she might break.
She let herself sink to the floor.
She felt no clarity, no certainty in her future. Sure she was taken care of now, but what would happen tomorrow? Or a year from now? What would happen when she grew older and her beauty faded? If Worthington could discard her so easily then what was to keep future suitors from doing the same? More than likely she would she be left alone to fend for herself once more.
Alone.
The word summoned all manner of unpleasantness as it rang in her head. She was alone. Even though she had people like Charlotte trying to help her, she was still forced to brave the brutal truth of her reality in the bare nakedness of her circumstance. The consequences were hers to bear. No one could shield her from that no matter how kind or well intentioned.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Margarete admitted out loud to herself.
But they’d trapped her. She felt their tiny threads that held her in place. There were no options given her apart from what they prescribed. Like a puppet, they dictated all of her movements.
But then, perhaps not all.
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