Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  Margarete’s gaze wandered to a corner of the wardrobe as an idea surfaced in her mind. Crawling across the floor she threw open the wardrobe’s doors and fought to shove the dresses aside. Reaching inside, her hand fumbled along the back edge until she touched the small depression of a latch. With a tug, she lifted a hidden box from the bottom of the wardrobe and brought it out.

  Racing to her vanity, she rummaged through the back of the drawer until she found a tiny key. Inserting it into a keyhole in the top, Margarete gave it a turn and the side gave way to reveal a small stack of letters tied with a red ribbon.

  She knelt down on the ground again, staring at the letters in her hands and reading the bold, familiar script on the first envelope.

  To my butterfly,

  Pain caught in Margarete’s throat as she read those words. To think something that had once carried such affection could be turned to daggers in a night. As she read the beginnings of the first letter, an idea began to elaborate on itself within her mind. There was one way she might get away. One way she might sever the ties which held her bound to this toxic way of living.

  And the key lay within these letters.

  Even as the thought excited her, Margarete shied away. She wasn’t certain she could do it. Was it right to betray the man who’d lifted her from her lowest state? How could she return such ingratitude to a man who’d seen to her every material need these past few years?

  The man who said he loved her.

  Margarete clutched the letters against her chest, wrestling with her doubts. There were many reasons she could think of not to go through with it. Plenty of reasons it wouldn’t work. But now was not a time for conflicted feelings. She wanted out. She wanted to be free. She wanted to hold her life in her own two hands once again.

  “He doesn’t love you,” she told herself. “He never loved you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Plan

  “SLEEPING BEAUTY FINALLY STIRS,” Faye said as Margarete came down into the kitchen. She was leaning by one of the counters, a small stack of papers in front of her. A young girl sat next to her Margarete didn’t recognize. By the amber tinge of her skin and her overwhelmed expression, Margarete guessed she was a new girl. Perhaps from one of the southernmost colonies?

  Charlotte was there too, rummaging through the cupboards as she pulled down a few pots and dishes to begin cooking lunch.

  “Morning,” Margarete said.

  “Good morning,” all but the young girl responded.

  “Who is this quiet one?” Margarete asked as she fetched herself a peach out of a basket.

  “This is Hetty. She’ll be staying here with us for a while,” Charlotte explained. “Faye is helping her settle in. Hetty, meet Margarete.”

  “She’s one of Charlotte’s elect,” Faye added. “A real lady of the night.”

  Hetty looked up for a second to regard Margarete and their eyes met, but her gaze dropped again quickly. Margarete didn’t over-interpret the girl’s quiet demeanor as she bit into her peach. Most of the girls new to the brothel were like that, and she didn’t blame them. Rarely were they there by choice.

  “I wondered when we might see you this morning,” Charlotte said, swinging a large pot full of water against her hip and onto the counter. She wore a plain linen dress tied up in the front. Surprisingly simple for a woman who’d danced with the electors only the night before, but that was the way things worked in Charlotte’s house. Not everyone received the spotlight and not all days were glamorous.

  “You wouldn’t mind lending a hand peeling those potatoes, would you?” she asked. She reached into her skirt and produced a sturdy knife, handing it to Margarete who barely had time to agree before Charlotte was on to the next task.

  “Sure,” Margarete mumbled. Rolling up her sleeves she fetched the bushel of potatoes that sat beside the door and carried them to the counter where she set about peeling them with the knife.

  “That must have been quite some celebration last night,” Faye said, coming forward and leaning against Margarete’s counter. “I don’t think I can recall a time when I’ve seen you so merry before.”

  She seemed genuinely entertained to have something she could poke at Margarete with, but Margarete still wasn’t much in the mood to entertain games. She could sense Faye watching her, hoping to get some kind of response.

  “It happens to the best of us,” Margarete shrugged.

  “I hope he tipped well,” Faye grinned.

  Margarete cut into another potato.

  “You must tell us all about it when you’re freed up,” Faye teased.

  “Yeah,” Margarete said half-heartedly. “Maybe.”

  “Are you feeling any better?” Charlotte asked.

  “A little.”

  There was a knock at the door and Faye hurried to answer it.

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte asked quietly, while Faye was distracted.

  Margarete nodded. “I’ll be all right,” she assured her.

  “Doctor Bertram!” Faye smiled. “We were expecting you.”

  “Good morning, Faye,” the man said as she showed him in. An older gentleman with a collected disposition, Bertram was a frequent visitor to the house, but not for the same reason as other clients.

  Margarete’s attention perked up when she saw him with a sense of foreboding. “It isn’t…” she began, pausing mid peel. “It can’t be time again for that already.”

  “No, no,” Bertram said with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry. I’m here by special request today. Charlotte asked that I come by on account of—” He noted the young girl on the counter. “—the little miss here, I presume. Charlotte said she had another girl she was taking in under her wing and wanted me to give her a proper examination to be sure all was well.”

  Margarete grimaced. No wonder Hetty was in no mood to talk. She knew the examination he meant. While they were lucky to have someone as considerate as Doctor Bertram to perform the unpleasant task it didn’t make the ordeal any less unbearable.

  “That’s Hetty,” Charlotte said, drying her hands on her dress and gesturing to the girl.

  “She looks healthy,” Bertram said giving her an appraising once over. “You must come from good solid stock. Where are you from if I may ask?”

  “Bhaglaphur,” Hetty said.

  “Truly?” Bertram asked. “Never been there myself, but I hear it’s quite a rough continent. From the north, I take it?”

  “The lowlands,” Hetty corrected.

  “Ah,” he nodded. “Then you’ve come quite a way, haven’t you? You’re fortunate to land here in the summer. It will give you time to acclimate to the city.”

  He extended a hand with a look so sincere that Hetty accepted it to the surprise of everyone. He shook her hand gently.

  “I look forward to getting to know you, Hetty from the lowlands,” he smiled.

  Her reserved expression didn’t break, but Margarete could see the wheels turning in the young girl’s eyes as he clasped her hand. It was a testament to the good doctor’s nature—he was as conscious of the hurt concealed underneath as he was the ailments on the surface.

  “Thank you again for coming by on such short notice,” Charlotte said.

  “For you, Lottie, I’d abandon the electors,” Bertram smiled. He took Charlotte’s hand and kissed it. “And, before it slips my mind, I brought the medicines you asked for. It’s a stronger batch, so you should only need a spoonful.”

  From his bag he produced a small parcel wrapped in paper.

  “As always, I appreciate your efforts,” Charlotte said as she took the parcel and hid it away in one of the cupboards.

  “Now, is there a room empty somewhere we can go where we won’t be disturbed?” Bertram asked.

  “Faye can show you,” Charlotte instructed. “She’s helping Hetty get settled in.”

  “Ah,” Bertram said. “Fortunate girl. Fear not, little Hetty. You’re in good hands. Shall we?”

  Faye led Doctor Ber
tram and the reluctant Hetty out of the kitchen and down the long hallway. Margarete watched the blank expression of the girl as they led her away. She had pity for her. That look of detachment spoke volumes of what she’d been through. It reminded Margarete of when she’d first come to the house. Everything in life changed then, and it was a while until she’d gotten her feet underneath her again.

  What a nightmare those first few days were. But then, hadn’t they all been?

  “She looks scared,” Margarete said.

  “Yes,” Charlotte nodded, getting back to her work. “But she’ll be fine in a few days. Faye will see to that.”

  “Will she?” Margarete asked. Her mind was teetering once again over the edge. If she wasn’t careful she knew she might find herself slipping down a never-ending slope into the bleak.

  “Of course she will,” Charlotte insisted. “It’s a blessing we found her when we did. She was only a few days into service at the mills, living in the communal housing of all places. I don’t think they got to her too harshly before we found her but…” She sighed as she considered it. “They would have broken her before she’d ever reached womanhood.”

  “Are any of us unbroken?” Margarete mumbled, slicing into another potato.

  Charlotte looked at Margarete with curious eyes. Setting her things down she came over and leaned against Margarete’s counter. “What do you keep going on about?”

  “Nothing,” Margarete said. “I’m just…”

  How could she say it so that Charlotte would understand? She wasn’t sure. How could she explain to someone how in a few short hours her world had been torn open in all its glory, and that she’d found it repulsive?

  “Come out with it, child,” Charlotte said. “It’s me. What’s gotten into you?”

  Margarete shook her head. She’d only just formed the first inklings of her plan in her mind that morning. She wasn’t sure she could bear to have others chase it away with their skepticisms.

  “I’ve known you for years now,” Charlotte said, putting an arm on her shoulder. “I know when something isn’t right. You came home last night in a fit, spouting off gibberish about Septigonee knows what, and now you’re all of a sudden so very pale. What happened last night? What’s gotten you wound up so tight?”

  Margarete laid the knife down on the counter. She was shaking with the effort to contain herself.

  “Perhaps Doctor Bertram should have a look at you,” Charlotte recommended.

  “No!” Margarete snapped. “I don’t need a doctor. I need…”

  Dare she say it?

  “What do you need?” Charlotte asked.

  “I need out!” Margarete shouted. The words burst forth on their own volition, but as she voiced them the tension that had built up inside her release. She breathed a deep breath, and her shaking subsided. “I’m done,” she said. “I’m done with this life and these silly games. I won’t live another day in it. I can’t.”

  “Child,” Charlotte said, drawing her close and holding her against her chest. Her voice took on a soft, understanding tone as she rubbed Margarete’s back. “I understand what it is you’re going through. We’re all bound to feel this way at times. I’ve never tried to say it’s any easier than it is. I know it’s difficult, but there’s little to be done but to hike up our skirts and carry on.”

  “That’s what you’ve told me,” Margarete said, standing up straight again. “All the years I’ve been here you’ve told me there were no other options, but I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”

  Charlotte looked hurt, and she withdrew her hand. “We’re fallen women, Margarete,” she said, her voice defensive. “I wish it were different, but it’s the truth. Nobody will look past that no matter our merit. Not unless a gentleman takes you to his side.”

  “I won’t,” Margarete insisted. “Never again. I won’t allow myself to become another man’s ornament to be worn like some trinket of fashion. And I won’t go on another day trying.”

  The conversation was growing heated. Both Charlotte’s and Margarete’s voices were rising steadily, and their bodies growing rigid.

  “Then what is it you will do?” Charlotte asked. “What great opportunity do you see that I have overlooked in all these years I’ve tried to help you? Because poverty is not an easy thing to be born. I do the best for you and all the girls who come under this roof, but there are limits to what I’m able to do. I can see to your needs—make sure you have a home to go to, food in your stomachs, and generous contacts among the meritocracy. What else can I do for you?

  “I see only one way to improve our situation and that is through the meritocracy. But if you would rather take your chances on the streets, you’re welcome to do so. Neither I nor anyone else has ever forced a girl under my roof against their will. You can come and go as you please.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Margarete said, realizing how Charlotte had taken her comments.

  This time it was Margarete’s turn to place a comforting hand on Charlotte’s back as she leaned heavily against the counter. She hadn’t meant to hurt her. Charlotte had sacrificed more for them than any other person ever had. She was more dear to them than their own mothers. How could she explain it in a way that Charlotte would understand?

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Margarete said. “Who knows where I would be today without you, Charlotte.”

  “But you still want to leave,” Charlotte sighed. “I’m not sure you realize just how important you are to me, Margarete. To everyone in this house. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep this up without you.”

  Margarete looked down at the ground, her heart tight in her chest. “Worthington told me he loves me,” she said.

  Charlotte looked up, her expression softening almost immediately. “He did? Oh goodness, child,” she said, putting a hand on her chest. “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “What could I say? He told me that he refuses to see me now that his family has arrived in the city. Do you see my predicament now? My opportunity is gone. I’ve been discarded as easily as… as a peach pit.”

  She let out a sob and Charlotte clutched Margarete to her.

  “There there, child,” she said. “All may not be lost with Worthington. And if so, this is not the end. There are many men who’d be so fortunate to have you at their side.”

  “I don’t want it,” Margarete sobbed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I don’t want to replace Worthington with another man who might just as easily find reason to dismiss me. I want to be my own person. Free to do as I please. I want to get away from this cursed city… and I think I know how.”

  Margarete pulled the stack of letters from her pocket and handed them to Charlotte, who turned them over a few times. “What are these?” she asked.

  Margarete wiped her eyes on the edge of her sleeve. “Blackmail.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Mechanical Man

  EMMALINE STEADIED HERSELF WITH A hand on the bedpost while Anne pulled on the cords to tighten the back of her dress. With each tug she felt her posture straightening and the pressure on each of her ribs climb her chest. It was a routine she was getting used to though she didn’t like that someone other than her governess was now helping her. She’d grown familiar with the way she’d worked, each familiar movement anticipated so they moved through it like a dance.

  The slow constriction had been made less painful in it.

  Emmaline watched Anne through the mirror, studying the young handmaid as she worked. The girl couldn’t have been a few years older than Emmaline. She was a simple creature, Emmaline determined, not blessed with the beauty young women her age desired. She wasn’t unattractive, per se, except perhaps that her ears were a smidge too small for her head. As a whole, she appeared very plain and Emmaline decided she must be very boring. Apart from showing her through the home and helping her unpack her things they’d exchanged only a few words of friendly conversation.

  From what
Emmaline had learned after their brief introduction that afternoon, she was one of a batch of hired servants her father had hired when he’d first come over to set up their family estate. Apart from that, she knew little. It dawned on her how peculiar it was to have a complete stranger helping her dress. That, she decided, would need to be remedied.

  “So your name is Anne?” Emmaline asked. It had been so silent in the room that the girl jumped a little when Emmaline spoke, but she smiled pleasantly and recovered herself.

  “Annabelle is my birth name,” she said. “But you’re welcome to call me Anne if you’d like.”

  “That’s what my father called you,” Emmaline recalled.

  “Most people do,” Anne said. “Flows quicker off the tongue, I suppose.”

  A perfectly plain name, Emmaline thought. “And you’ll be my handmaid from now on?”

  Anne nodded. “I should think so. As long as you’ll have me, miss. Is there a nickname that you go by? Emma, perhaps? Or Emmy?”

  “Not Emmy,” Emmaline said quite forcefully, and Anne paused on her laces. “No one calls me Emmy except my governess. I won’t allow anyone else to call me that for as long as I live.”

  “Of course, miss,” Anne said. “I didn’t mean disrespect by it. I promise.” She took up the laces again and continued on with her work. “She must have been quite the lady,” she added.

  Emmaline nodded.

  “What was her name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Miss Alice,” Emmaline said.

  Anne smiled. “That is a lovely name.”

  Once all Anne had tightened all the laces, Emmaline turned in the mirror to admire her dress as Anne fetched appropriate jewelry to match. Her father had purchased for her, with simple trimmings over the shoulders and a sleek drop in the skirt. She especially liked how the deep purple made her look older. It was a womanly dress, and Emmaline saw herself taller in it.

  If this was the style of the city, then she couldn’t wait to see the new ones her father was going to purchase for the ball.

  “Here we are,” Anne said, returning from the vanity with a pearl necklace to match Emmaline’s dress. She held it out to her, but Emmaline shook her head.