Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “Next, please,” the teller called as the couple cleared in front of her. Margarete stepped forward, collecting herself and trying to appear as natural a visitor as anyone else.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted her. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m here to make a withdrawal,” Margarete said. She laid the documents she’d been given down and slid them through the bars to him.

  “Certainly,” the teller said, holding them up to inspect the names on each one.

  Margarete watched closely, reading his expression as he studied the documents. His brow raised when saw the amount to be withdrawn, and he double checked the names on the accounts the money was to be drawn from.

  “These are sizable sums,” he observed. “May I ask what reason this request is being issued?”

  “Services rendered,” Margarete said. “Of a personal nature.”

  The teller gave her a thorough once-over.

  Yep, she thought. Should have worn the gaudy dress.

  “If you’ll just wait here a moment while I process these,” he said. “I’ll need a manager’s approval before I can fulfill this note.”

  “Certainly,” Margarete said, and he stepped away from the booth with the documents. Margarete tapped her toes in her shoes, pretending to look for something in her purse. In a moment the teller returned accompanied by another gentleman.

  “Is this the young woman?” the second man asked the teller who nodded in the affirmative. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am, but there are a few formalities we must go through when handling such a large transaction. We’ll need to confirm with Lord Worthington that he did indeed issue this withdraw. If everything is in order, you’ll be able to complete your withdrawal tomorrow.”

  “But the note is signed by Worthington himself,” Margarete said. “That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

  “Is there a reason you don’t want us to contact Lord Worthington?” the manager asked, his brow raising.

  Margarete checked herself. Even if she were right, it was best not to push it.

  “No,” she said. “But this seems like a rather unnecessary inconvenience. You’re delaying me a full day!”

  “Under normal circumstances we would gladly assist you,” the manager said. “But I’m afraid I cannot release these funds to you at this time.”

  Margarete sighed. “Fine. I’ll just take this up with Worthington myself,” she said. She reached for her documents but the manager pulled them away before she could retrieve them.

  “I’m afraid we will have to retain possession of these until we confirm their validity,” he said.

  “But those are mine!” Margarete protested.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s policy.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  A third man had stepped forward from behind Margarete. She jumped when he spoke and shrunk back as he approached the counter. He was dressed in the outfit of a soldier after the fashion of the Great War. Margarete knew the type. Hopefuls who were milking every drop of distinction from their service overseas.

  But this one didn’t have the usual banners and medallions weighing down his breastplates. A rookie, she concluded. Not likely he’d be much help.

  “The bank is refusing to honor its notes, and refusing to return them to me,” Margarete explained.

  “Please, ma’am,” the manager urged. “There’s no need to be upset. We’re perfectly willing to honor this once we’ve contacted the issuer. You can come back tomorrow and—”

  “I don’t have time!” Margarete insisted, making no effort to be accommodating. She wasn’t about to let them sweep her under the rug.

  “Dear me,” the soldier said. “That won’t do at all. Perhaps there is something we could do to resolve this issue sooner? If time is an issue, could you not send a messenger now to verify her request?”

  “I suppose we could send someone now,” the manager said, though he looked reluctant. “If the lady will wait while we send someone to verify these notes—”

  “You’ll honor them today,” the soldier concluded. “Excellent. Will that be sufficient?” he asked, turning to Margarete.

  Margarete felt uncomfortable in his presence. She didn’t much care for this good Samaritan, and she doubted his intentions. Chivalry was a cheap mask to wear, and she suspected it was more likely he was hoping to win over an escort of his own with his good deed.

  “I have somewhere I need to be,” she said. “If you won’t return them now then when should I return to collect them?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t take them long at all to send someone,” the soldier urged. “Perhaps I could wait with you while they do?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Margarete insisted. “Besides, I don’t know you.”

  “How rude of me,” the soldier said. He bowed slightly. “My name is Vanzeal. And you are?”

  “Not interested,” she said, turning back to the manager.

  “But I insist,” Vanzeal said. His hand gripped her arm, and she gave him a severe look.

  “Let go of my arm,” she ordered.

  “Come, we can wait in one of the offices. Is that alright?” he asked the manager. The manager looked suddenly unnerved, but he nodded. Vanzeal’s hand remained tight on Margarete’s arm as he tried to lead her away.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, pulling away. His grip was fixed, however, and he forced her forward away from the counter and around the booths.

  “Let go of me!” she shouted. “Help! Help me!”

  “There is no need to cause a scene,” Vanzeal said. “We knew who you were the moment you came through the door.”

  Margarete felt the realization strike her like a blow to the gut. She’d been sent up. Worthington had never intended to pay her. He intended to silence her! She wasn’t sure what they had planned for her in the back room, but she was certain if they succeeded she’d be lost forever. She knew others who’d met such a fate, but she wasn’t about to be one of them.

  “Let go!” she cried, pulling hard against Vanzeal’s grip and digging in her heels, but he wouldn’t relent. “I said let go!”

  She lashed out at him, striking his shoulder and kicking at his leg. Vanzeal turned to avoid the worst of her onslaught, snagging her other hand with his free hand.

  “Do not make a scene,” he hissed. “You’re only going to make things worse for yourself acting out like this.”

  “I’m. Not. Coming. With. You!” she shouted.

  Margarete threw her weight against Vanzeal and his grip faltered. She seized her opportunity, twisting about so that Vanzeal’s hands had a hard time regaining their hold. It worked, and Margarete managed to pull away for a moment.

  Vanzeal didn’t waste any time, but as he lunged at her again Margarete’s hand flashed across his face and he stumbled backwards, wincing. He touched his cheek gingerly and felt thin beads of blood forming in the five red channels she’d opened up across his cheek.

  Cursing loudly, he shouted after Margarete, but she was already dashing through the doors. Without a backwards glance she fled down the stairs, hiking up her skirt to keep from tripping herself. She thanked her good fortunes she’d worn the simpler dress.

  At the bottom she sped toward the most congested area of the plaza, glancing back over her shoulder once to see Vanzeal come through the doors. He spotted her just as she slipped into the crowd.

  Margarete’s heart beat fast as she darted between the people. Many gave her looks of alarm or confusion, but the better part of them stepped out of her way. She needed to disappear, but that was easier said than done. Looking back again she could see Vanzeal entering the crowd. The people had left a lane open behind her and she cursed loudly.

  Vanzeal called after at her to stop, but she turned and hurried between two carts through the congested market. The shops and vendors gave her some cover, and she ducked and darted between them trying to bre
ak Vanzeal’s line of sight. In another moment she glanced back and couldn’t see him. The crowd was busier here, and her flight hadn’t disturbed them so much. It was her best chance at hiding.

  Ripping her hat from her head and tossing it under a cart she set about removed the pins quickly and shook out her hair. Stepping up between two other women examining a stall of trinkets, she gave herself a moment to catch her breath. She tried to look calm as she lifted a necklace from its display and examined it in the light. All the while, she watched through her peripherals for signs of Vanzeal.

  Sure enough, he appeared behind her, his head craning as he sought her out in the crowd. In that quick glance she could see the fury that burned in his eyes and the frenzy with which he swept the crowd.

  Margarete kept her head down and stepped slowly around the stall, moving from object to object as naturally as she could. As he advanced she moved counter his movements, shuffling through the stalls to keep patrons between them. She knew if he got a clear look at her then he would not be fooled, but if she kept obscured by other patrons in the plaza, then there was a chance he’d overlook her.

  Soon, with evident frustration, Vanzeal passed on by and Margarete breathed in relief. As he moved beyond her sight, she began moving toward the edge of the plaza. Her luck had held out.

  “Ah, Margarete!” a vendor said suddenly. “Haven’t seen you in a while—”

  Margarete silenced him with a gesture, looking back over her shoulder to where Vanzeal had been. Her heart caught in her throat as Vanzeal’s head surfaced, his eyes fixed on her. With another curse she grasped her skirt and dashed toward the plaza’s edge.

  “What is it?” the vendor asked, bewildered. “What’s the matter?”

  There was no time to explain. There was no time at all! Margarete’s feet beat against the cobblestone street. She could hear Vanzeal’s pursuit, and her eyes went wide as thoughts of life in the steep flashed before her if she was caught.

  Into a side street she cut through the first alley she came to, then another off of that. She didn’t know this part of the city as well as others, but she could run only so long. Sooner or later she’d have to stop, and then he’d have her.

  She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t fade away now. Not here. Not like this. She prayed for deliverance in the same breath she cursed her fortunes, but as she ran, she could feel her stamina failing. The sound of Vanzeal’s footfalls was nearing, reverberating off the tight alley walls. It surrounded her, closing in on her from all directions and making her even more desperate.

  Then she saw it, an open gate at the center of an alley. It was a long shot, but she could see it had a locking mechanism. If only she could close it behind her, there was a chance she could lose him.

  She raced toward it, shouting in desperation as she closed the distance.

  “Stop!” Vanzeal called after her, realizing her intent. But Margarete reached it before he could catch up. Grasping the gate she pulled herself through and swung it closed with all the force she could muster. The gate crashed loudly as it shut and the sound of the latch clicking rang throughout the alley.

  “No!” Vanzeal shouted, throwing his weight against the bars so hard that Margarete fell backwards flinching. But the gate held true, and Vanzeal staggered backwards clutching his shoulder and cursing her name.

  Margarete lifted herself from the ground, breathing deep. Vanzeal glared at her as she met his eyes for a moment. Margarete realized this was the first time she’d gotten a good look at him. Gone were the characteristics of a good Samaritan. They were replaced by a haunting figure, handsome and cruel in every feature. As they stared each other down his cheek twitched where she’d cut him.

  Finally, Margarete turned and hustled to get away, glancing behind her occasionally. Vanzeal watched her go, his eyes viperous.

  “You’ll pay for this!” he shouted as she ducked out of sight again. “You hear me, wench? Blood for blood!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Time Together

  EMMALINE WALKED WITH STODDARD ALONG the cliffside, her arms outstretched as she balanced on the raised curb. A fresh breeze blew in from the bay, as it often did, their lively winds gusting around her. The street had taken them on a meandering descent through the city as it traced the jagged edge over the Basin. The birds sang brightly as they soared out over the Basin and back to their nests nestled among the rocks.

  Emmaline soaked in the afternoon, convinced nothing could improve it.

  Uncle Lewis continued his constant vigil as per his agreement whenever Emmaline stole away to spend time with Stoddard. Only a little more than a week had passed since she’d first gone to see him, but she’d managed a few times to slip away and return to Rigimor’s shop.

  Each visit had only grown better and Emmaline found it easier and easier to enjoy herself as she’d done when she was home in Sorrento.

  “You sure your uncle doesn’t mind following after you like this?” Stoddard asked, glancing over his shoulder at the tailing carriage.

  “I don’t think so,” Emmaline said, turning delicately on the curb in a sort of pirouette.

  “We have borrowed quite a bit of his time this week.”

  “He’s fine,” Emmaline assured him. “Trust me. He likes having the time to think. It’s how he would spend his afternoons anyway.”

  “He’s quite the character,” Stoddard observed. “I always thought him a bit of a…” He trailed off, second guessing his words.

  “Go ahead,” Emmaline encouraged. “What did you think of him?”

  “I thought he was a bit of a saphead, honestly.”

  “Not at all!” Emmaline said, looking suddenly very serious.

  “That’s not what I think now,” Stoddard assured her. “It’s just that he has a way of appearing more harmless than he is. He’s actually rather sharp, now that I’ve talked to him. I can’t help but respect him.”

  “Me too,” Emmaline smiled. “I don’t know how I would have survived this move without him. I feel a little bad for him though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, you and I know he’s a good man, but I don’t think anyone else gives him the credit he deserves. They entertain him when he’s around, but they don’t take him seriously. He told me once about how my father helped him get back on his feet after he’d lost everything, but I don’t think he’s ever quite recovered. Why else would he still be living in my father’s estate?”

  “Maybe he’s trying to make good on his debt?” Stoddard suggested.

  “Maybe,” Emmaline said. “It’s just hard to see him taking a backseat when I know he could do anything he wants.”

  “I’m sure he’ll find his feet again,” Stoddard said. “Like I said, he’s a sharp man.”

  “I hope so,” Emmaline said, skipping forward as they came upon an open view of the Basin. “And who knows, if things go well then maybe you’ll be able to help him figure out his submersible idea.”

  “If things go well,” Stoddard agreed, leaning up on the wall beside her to look out over the bay.

  Emmaline’s cheeks grew warm suddenly as she realized what she’d just said. If things go well? What had possessed her to say something like that? Her governess had instructed her to maintain a reservation whenever a boy was involved, particularly before her parents had weighed in on the decision. Yet, here she was implying things could go well.

  It was a little forward so early in their relationship. She’d known him only a few short weeks, after all. But then, she did think of what they had as a relationship. At least the start of one. And why shouldn’t she? Things were going well. She spent her entire week looking forward to the moments she got to spend with him, and he’d proven himself a true gentleman—even if few others had noticed.

  She glanced at Stoddard to see his reaction, but he was already looking at her with a smile in his eyes. Clearly he didn’t find the idea too strange either.

  They stayed there by the wall, watching the bir
ds as they rose on the warm air currents. Stoddard’s hand touched hers, at first only brushing her palm. But when she didn’t withdraw, he took her hand in his.

  Her heart fluttered as she felt the gentle strength of his hand clasp around hers.

  “I…” Emmaline started.

  She felt like she should say something. Like she was meant to. But her words didn’t come and instead the two stood side-by-side in silence, letting the moment linger over them. Emmaline tried to think of a moment like this in Sorrento, but she couldn’t think of any. Nothing compared.

  “I don’t suppose your father’s mood has improved at all,” Stoddard said finally.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “In fact, he seems to be in a worse mood every day.”

  “Why is that?” Stoddard asked.

  “Who knows,” Emmaline lamented. “He’s not easy to get along with. Even my mother has been acting strange around him. I wish I knew what was going on, but they don’t share a lot with me. Just when and where I need to be.”

  “I’ll keep an ear to the ground,” Stoddard suggested. “Just in case I hear of anything that might explain why they’re acting odd. Not that I will, but sometimes word gets around. Maybe we’ll catch a hint.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Emmaline said. “For what it’s worth, it was unlike my father to encourage you like he did at the festival race. I think he honestly wanted you to win.”

  Stoddard smiled. “You think so?”

  Emmaline nodded.

  “Well, perhaps he’ll give me another opportunity to prove myself to him one day,” Stoddard said. “And maybe the next time I’ll keep my feet on the ground.”

  “You really weren’t that bad,” Emmaline insisted. “I saw how he watched you fly. I don’t think he was as disappointed as you think.”

  “Still,” Stoddard shrugged, “if I’m ever going to make a name for myself it’s going to be in clockwork mechanisms. I’ve been thinking lately about my apprenticeship, and I’ve decided to leave Rigimor’s. I’ve learned almost everything he’s able to teach me and if I’m going to be known then it’s time I set about my own work.”