Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “I noticed you,” Emmaline said.

  “Yes, but can you honestly say that things wouldn’t be different if I was already accepted by the meritocracy? That we wouldn’t be hiding right now behind a hedge?”

  Emmaline was quiet. Their circumstance would be quite different, but she wasn’t altogether sure she would care for it as much. She liked where she was just then, with Stoddard. But she knew he had a point. They could progress no further without something changing. It was as though there were two options and each held only half of a life that appealed to her.

  “Then you’ll just have to prove to them your worth,” she said.

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “Not true,” she said. “I saw what you did when you raced Edmond. My uncle even said that you were a talented mechanist. What about your mechanism you were talking about? The one to help the captain?”

  “It’s just a concept,” Stoddard said. “It would take years to develop something like that.”

  “So?” she said. “You have years. What else do you plan to do with them?”

  Stoddard couldn’t hold back his smile. “You make a difficult point to get around.”

  “That’s because I’m right,” she laughed. And in no time, your name will be shouted from the top of the Spire. Stoddard, the brilliant mechanist!”

  She shouted it loudly, rising from the bench and raising her arms high as though to broadcast it to the world. Stoddard scrambled to take her hand and urge her back down.

  “What?” she smiled. “It’s true! We must share it with the world!”

  “Perhaps,” Stoddard acquiesced. “But maybe not just this moment.”

  “Fine,” Emmaline laughed, reveling in how ruffled she’d gotten him. “But when the time comes, there won’t be a single person in the whole city who doesn’t know your name. Stoddard, the greatest mechanist Hatteras has ever seen!”

  “Jonah,” he said. “Call me Jonah.”

  “What?” Emmaline looked surprised. “Your real name is Jonah? All this time and you didn’t tell me?”

  “There was never the right moment,” Stoddard defended.

  “Why do you go by Stoddard?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I started calling myself that when I took my apprenticeship. I suppose I thought it felt more deserving.”

  “Jonah,” Emmaline said, rolling the name around with her tongue. “I think it sounds plenty deserving. And it suits you.”

  “Thank you,” Stoddard smiled. “But I’m afraid the world knows me already as Stoddard. It’s not so easy to change once the world knows you one way.”

  “Then only I’ll call you that,” Emmaline smiled. She was particularly thrilled by the prospect that she was the only one who’d know his true name. It was a confidence they shared.

  “I suppose it would be difficult to persuade you otherwise,” Stoddard smiled.

  “Yep!” Emmaline beamed, quite proud of herself. “I’m afraid you’ll have to—” Emmaline leapt up from the bench, her expression turning to alarm. “Someone’s coming!” she cried. She clenched her dress and looked like she might leap out of her shoes.

  Stoddard ducked behind the tree even more. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Anne,” Emmaline said, peeking around the edge. “She can’t find you here, or she’ll never leave me alone again!”

  “I should go then,” Stoddard said.

  Emmaline’s heart sank as she felt herself torn. She was enjoying their visit. She didn’t want it to end. They both were tempting fate, however, and she knew it. It would be the end for both of them if he were caught.

  “Okay,” she said. “There’s a gap in the hedge there. You should be able to fit through it.”

  Stoddard tried the branches and sure enough, with a little wriggling, he was able to push his way through. As he vanished through the hedge, Emmaline sighed inwardly.

  “Emmaline!” she heard him whisper from the other side. “When might I see you again?”

  “I’m…” Emmaline bit her lip. “I’m not sure. My parents keep me busy almost every day with something or another. But when I find another free moment, I can come visit again.”

  “Very well,” he said. “But you mustn’t take too long. I’m not sure I can endure it.”

  “Within the week,” was all she could tell him. “I’ll come to your shop again the first chance I get.”

  “Then I’ll look for you every day.”

  Emmaline smiled, and with another rustle of the hedge she could tell Stoddard had gone.

  “Miss!” Anne said, finally catching sight of her from a little way off. “Goodness, there you are! I’ve been turning the house out trying to find you. Your uncle said you were out here. Come quickly! Your mother has been asking for you all afternoon.”

  Emmaline didn’t protest and she let herself be led across the lawn back to the estate, her thoughts still back under the tree.

  I know you’re already near capacity, but there is a young girl recently come from Bhaglaphur who has been employed at Maythorn’s Mill. I don’t think I have to tell you how dire her situation is. If at all possible, please consider her. I can’t bear to think what will become of her otherwise. Her name is Hetty.

  —Excerpt from a Letter to Charlotte

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Gardening

  MARGARETE DROVE HER SPADE INTO the soil, turning over another pile of loose dirt. At Charlotte’s request it had been decided best to keep a low profile so long as Dempwolf had his sights set on her. Though she tried to keep a brave face, the thought that someone was actively seeking after her was a surreal feeling. Within the walls of the house she felt safe, but she knew that was only an illusion now. Dempwolf had penetrated her sanctuary, and no one put it past the man that he would try again.

  And, of course, there was always the question of what he would do next if he did manage to get to her.

  In an effort to keep calm despite the threat, Margarete kept herself occupied with the many chores that demanded attention around the house. But even the house was beginning to feel cramped. It was strange, she mused, how quickly a place could become a prison.

  Seeking some fresh air, she decided to help Hetty with her chores in the garden. It was located in the courtyard out back, created by the many skiwampus buildings clustered together. It had been something of a communal dump until Charlotte had the ingenious idea of planting a garden. With little other use for it, the neighbors had allowed it and in a season the courtyard had become a rich oasis of fresh foods. It helped offset some of the cost to feed the girls, and what they didn’t eat themselves was sold in the neighborhood.

  Margarete breathed in the earthy smell, uncharacteristic so deep in the city. She was glad to have the work today. It helped take her mind off of the shadow that had descended over the house. Everyone was on edge. No one would talk about it outright, not in front of Margarete at least. However, whenever she entered the room, she sensed conversations dropped and eyes dodged her.

  It was as though she were a bad omen.

  What else had she expected would happen? It was clear her exit wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought, and the toll it was taking on the house evident. Charlotte worked hard to conceal it but Margarete could tell that Margarete’s actions had added stress on her as well. So far it seemed news of her little coup hadn’t yet become public knowledge. Whether that was because Worthington didn’t want to broadcast his vulnerability or something else she wasn’t sure. But gossip was beginning to circulate of a girl giving the meritocracy trouble, and everyone sensed the impending danger. The longer she stayed the more risk she brought upon herself and the house.

  She kicked the spade into the ground and heaved another shovel full of dirt. She couldn’t endure her thoughts in silence anymore.

  “So, you grew up in Bhaglaphur?” she asked Hetty.

  Hetty nodded as she picked a tomato from the vine.

  “What’s it like?”
<
br />   “Flat.”

  Margarete frowned. Talking to Hetty had proved to be a challenge before. She preferred to keep to herself, and when she was forced to be around the other girls, she was always quiet and sullen. But Margarete was intent on breaking through her shell.

  A girl could drown if left to her own thoughts.

  “I meant what was it like to live there,” she clarified. “Like, what’s it like in the summer? What are the people like?”

  “It’s just a place,” Hetty said. “Just a lot of grass and a few mountains.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sheep,” Hetty shrugged.

  Margarete set her spade down. She joined Hetty with the tomatoes, ripping up the tiny weeds that hugged their stems. “You don’t want to talk about it?” she pried.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Hetty said. “I didn’t like it there.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  Hetty shrugged again.

  “What’s so bad about Bhaglaphur?” Margarete asked. “Just in case I ever find my way there.”

  “Nothing,” Hetty frowned. “It’s just not a place I want to think about.”

  “Why?”

  “Bad memories.” Hetty hesitated when she said it, but recovered quickly.

  They worked in silence for a moment, picking at the weeds and tomatoes. Margarete glanced occasionally at the girl, trying to read her. She was trying to hide it, but Margarete could sense that she’d been ruffled by the conversation. Had she really had it so bad?

  Charlotte had always said it was better to let troubles out than to bottle them in. Margarete remembered how long it had taken her to open up when she’d first come to the house. She didn’t know Hetty’s full story, but she knew that without Charlotte she would have never made it through those first few months.

  “You know, not all bad memories stay that way,” Margarete said as she topped off her bucket with another bundle of weeds. “I know they may be painful, but I’ve heard Doctor Bertram say a few times that pain isn’t so terrible a thing as people think. That without it we’d never know when something was wrong or how to fix it. He says it’s suffering that turns the world and moves us to do something about it.”

  “Then Doctor Bertram has never really been hurt,” Hetty said.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No one in their right mind would ever choose pain if they had the choice,” Hetty explained.

  “I don’t know,” Margarete said. “I’ve had my share of painful experiences, and, while I can’t always say I enjoyed them in the moment, I always came out on the other side stronger. Whenever I try to ignore it, I always just end up feeling numb. It’s just a matter of perspective.”

  “I’d rather be numb.” Hetty’s picking had slowed. Her hands trembled as she worked and Margarete realized she was getting through the layers. She felt for her, and though she knew how unpleasant it was she kept going. She needed to help Hetty understand.

  “But if you let yourself go numb, then you miss out on everything that’s good,” she explained. “Not everything is wrong in the world. Just look at what Charlotte has managed with the house. She’s given us a roof over our heads and life of our own.”

  “It’s a lie,” Hetty said. She’d mumbled it under her breath, but Margarete heard her.

  “Why do you think that?” she asked.

  “She’s a tyrant.”

  Margarete was taken aback. “No she isn’t,” she said, coming to Charlotte’s defense.

  “Yes, she is,” Hetty insisted. “She’s just like everyone else, using each other for their own gain.”

  “How could you say something like that when Charlotte has done everything in her power to help you settle in here?” Margarete asked.

  “Why?” Hetty asked, her voice shaking. She turned on Margarete as she pressed the question. “Why would she care about a runaway like me? Because she can profit from me. That’s why. She’s using all of us.”

  “That’s not true,” Margarete said. “She’s doing her best given the circumstance.”

  “My father said the same thing,” Hetty said. “But that was a lie too.”

  She looked away, the pain surfacing in her face as she thought of the memory. The layers had come off.

  “My father had three daughters and no sons,” Hetty explained. “He would beat me and my sisters to get us to stay with the sheep in the plains, leaving us there through the night. There were wolves in the plains and we’d have to chase them off, but we were too small. Whenever my father discovered a sheep missing he’d beat us again. We could count on it every day. At least one of us was getting fresh lashings. We’d take turns speaking out when he came to check on us so that the other two had time to heal before he opened them up again.”

  She stared intensely at the ground, her voice breaking as she finished.

  Margarete touched her mouth with her hand. She’d not realized things had been so bad for the girl. No wonder she was so guarded.

  “I’m sorry,” Margarete said.

  “Don’t be,” Hetty said, stripping another vine of tomatoes. “I’ve stopped crying about it. It’s the way the world works. There are two types of people: those who use people and those who are used. My father taught me that.”

  “Where are your sisters now?” Margarete asked.

  Hetty paused only a fraction of a second before answering, but Margarete sensed the answer before she said it. “I don’t have any sisters,” she said.

  Grabbing her basket, she marched inside leaving Margarete alone in the courtyard.

  Margarete knelt in silence as she considered Hetty’s story. If Hetty was telling the truth, then Margarete felt selfish to want more than Charlotte could provide. Was she wrong to want to leave Hatteras? The thought that her actions could add more trouble to Hetty made her question herself.

  For a moment, Margarete wished she’d kept quiet about the letters.

  “Margarete!” Faye called from the house. She came running, waving something in her hands. Margarete rose from the ground, wiping her brow with her sleeve and collecting herself so that Faye wouldn’t see her distress.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s a letter for you!” Faye said, handing it to her.

  Margarete turned it over in her hands. Sure enough, her name was scrawled across the front. She recognized the penmanship immediately as Worthington’s. He’d finally responded.

  “How did it come?”

  “I don’t know,” Faye said. “I found it on the front steps just now.”

  Breaking the seal she tore it open and fished out the contents—a letter and a single banknote. As she looked at the sum written across the front Faye’s eyes bugged in her head.

  “Septigonee’s fortunes!” she said. “Is that real?”

  Margarete examined the note closely. It wasn’t a standard note like they exchanged for their daily transactions, but by all appearances it looked official. She read the sum again and couldn’t help gawk at it as well. She’d never held so much money in her life.

  “I’ll have to get my suitors to start writing me some letters of my own,” Faye said, equally stunned.

  Margarete’s hands were shaking as she consulted the letter. Her eyes scanned it quickly, taking in each line with both dread and excitement.

  “Well?” Faye urged, still focused on the sum on the banknote. “What does it say?”

  “Worthington has agreed to see me off,” Margarete said. “And he’s arranged for passage out of Hatteras on the next available ship.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Faye said, embracing her in a tight hug. “You did it!”

  But Margarete wasn’t so sure. What had for days seemed nothing more than a dream was suddenly real. She held the evidence in her hands. Within the week she’d be on a ship and sailing for whatever destination she chose. It was everything she’d asked for.

  So why then was she feeling so torn?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


  A Near Arrest

  “WELCOME TO THE JOINT STOCK trust,” a young man said as he opened the door for her.

  Margarete thanked him and hurried past. Inside the large hall she scanned the room and the people in it. She’d not had many reasons to visit banks before, but the trust was familiar in its iconic style and layout. It had a high, pillared ceiling with great iron supports which held up the upper latices. They were bent in a high arch that spanned the entire ceiling. To the side were a series of offices for the managers, and along the far wall a long row of wire cages. Each held a teller to receive the bank’s patrons.

  The trust was owned by the Western Provincial Trading Company and handled most of the larger accounts across the seas, and thus it was Worthington’s bank of choice.

  Margarete opened her purse and fetched the documents she’d been sent that morning. As she held them in her hand, she paused again over Worthington’s name. She’d expected more in the note he’d sent, perhaps his final thoughts about her departure or the reason for his sudden compliance. He’d included no extra details, however, except when and how to exchange her banknote for their agreed sum.

  She didn’t understand why that disappointed her, but it did.

  Crossing the hall she kept her head down and avoided making eye contact with the other patrons. She thought it best to stay out of the limelight considering her strained relationship with the meritocracy. She’d chosen to wear the simplest dress she owned that could still pass for a member of the meritocracy. It was less enticing without being plain. With any luck she would slip through with as little fanfare as possible.

  She joined the back of one of the lines, watching the other men and women go about their business while she waited. Most of the women there were accompanied by their husbands and in their company Margarete realized how unusual a sight it would be to see a woman in the bank alone. And on top of that was the size of her withdrawal.

  Margarete shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps she should have worn the gaudier dress. She would need every ounce of charm to get through this.