“Do you remember when you first gave me this?” he asked, but when he looked up Margarete had already gone.
“No,” he whispered into the emptiness of the room. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Apologies
EMMALINE LAID IN THE GRASS, her eyes open wide as she watched the heavy clouds passing overhead. They billowed in great towering tufts, casting shadows that chased each other across the lawn. Her dress was a bit damp from the morning dew that had lingered stubbornly into the morning, but she hardly cared.
She’d been unable to return to her room after such a night. Everything felt cramped and cluttered inside the house, and she feared having to face anyone else at the moment. Everyone in the estate seemed to be aware that something was wrong, but Emmaline wasn’t ready to talk about it.
She’d hardly worked it out herself.
It was odd that the more stones she’d managed to overturn the more difficult it had become to find any single person to blame for her family’s misfortune. Her father was the one who’d begun all of this, yes. However, as convenient as it would be to believe otherwise, he hadn’t meant to hurt them with what he did. She’d felt the conflict in his diary as he’d wrestled with his own feelings toward the mistress. She’d surprised him as much as anyone, and he’d succumbed to his loneliness in his moment of weakness.
Though she’d wanted to, Emmaline couldn’t villainize him for it.
That didn’t mean nothing had changed. She may have been able to forgive him in part but she felt no attachment to her father anymore—and little desire to reestablish it. He’d neglected his family, sending them each adrift to face the consequences of his choices on their own.
And if Margarete’s accusations held any truth, then she wasn’t sure where that left them.
Yet strangely, despite everything, Emmaline was alright. Somehow she’d managed to emerge on the other side still intact, though she’d been shaken through to the core. She felt changed. No longer was she the innocent child left in the dark. Her eyes were both open, and she was free to choose what she would do next.
She watched another cloud pass overhead as she recalled a conversation with her uncle. Was this the moment he’d spoken of? When young girls become women?
Psst.
Emmaline’s eyes snapped open at the sound, unaware that she’d dozed off. She looked upward toward the hedge where she thought it came from. At first she saw nothing, but then through the sparse portion of the hedge she could make out someone standing on the other side.
“Emmaline?” she heard him call, still trying to keep his voice at a whisper.
“Stoddard?”
Emmaline sat up on her palms as Stoddard pushed his way through the hedge, having only a little trouble with one of the branches. She was surprised to see him, but even more surprised by how dull she felt. It was as if she were beyond feeling after all that had happened.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I needed to see you,” Stoddard said as he brushed his clothes of the green needles.
He hesitated for a moment, but Emmaline gave no response. She gave no indication of anything, in fact. She just sat there, waiting. Stoddard’s hand went to his head as he gripped his hair nervously.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”
Was she? Emmaline wasn’t sure. She looked at him with her new eyes, sorting through the feelings he brought to her. They were buried deep, but as she trudged through the murk that permeated her mind they began to surface. She was relieved to see him. Happy, even. Somewhere deep down she’d hoped he might come. Yet, despite her joy, there was a part of her that held back. She knew the tragedy of her father wasn’t his fault, but it still bothered her to have received the news from him.
“A little,” she admitted.
“I’m sorry,” Stoddard said, stepping forward tentatively. He looked as tired as Emmaline felt. “I was wrong to have repeated what I did about your family. It wasn’t my place. I should have known better than to put so much stock in hearsay. Just because something was said doesn’t make it true.”
“It’s alright,” Emmaline said.
“No,” Stoddard insisted. “It isn’t.” He looked like he was struggling with something difficult to say. But he looked her in the eyes and breathed a deep breath. “I wasn’t just repeating what I heard to you that day in my shop. I was trying to win you over. And I think I knew deep down that as long as your father disapproved of me then there wouldn’t be a prayer that we could ever be together. I’ve been thinking about it a lot these past few days and I think that’s why I was so eager to tell you about your father. I loved what we had, and I didn’t want him coming between you and me.
“But the truth is there are bound to be plenty of good men among the meritocracy. Not everyone is so bad. Your uncle is proof they do exist. So it was wrong of me to assume that your father…”
He hesitated to repeat the accusation.
“I was wrong to upset you.”
Emmaline watched him speak, the motion of his lips mesmerizing. There was something admirable in the way that he rambled on, stumbling over his apology and confessing his feelings for her. He wanted to fix his mistake. He wanted things to work out. And he was willing to face her scorn to try to correct it. She could sense that in his voice and it resonated with a feeling deep inside her.
Her father had no such strength.
She rose from the ground, aware the back of her dress was still damp from the dew. Wiping at the dry tears that lingered on her cheeks, she smiled a little. She realized she probably looked haggard from the restless night—her hair loose and neglected.
She didn’t care.
Stoddard had never shown an ounce of concern for whatever state he’d found her in before. In fact, as she thought about it, he’d almost always managed to find her in her lowest moments. Yet despite that, he’d never criticized her. Never made her feel silly or unreasonable. He’d always listened and made her feel like there was more to her than her embarrassments—that she would be alright despite any of her momentary setbacks.
Emmaline took a step toward him. Her heart skipped a bit as she did, and she felt a new warmth swell within her. She felt strong. Unstoppable. Like a great momentum had been building inside her and was only now coming in to shore. She was moving again, and for once she was the one to decide her destination.
She took another step toward him.
Stoddard paused in the midst of his apology. He seemed confused by the look that she was giving him. He leaned backwards a little as she approached, uncertain what was coming—though his feet remained planted where they were. Clearly he wanted to find out.
Rising up on her tiptoes, Emmaline leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
Stoddard looked like he might topple from it as he looked at her with pleasant surprise. “What was that for?” he asked.
“For everything,” Emmaline said. “It’s been a long couple of days as I’ve been trying to figure things out with my family—some of the worst in my life. Things weren’t quite what I thought they were. But I’m glad to be through them now, and I’m glad you’re still here despite my outburst earlier. I am glad you told me. I may never have known about my father until it was too late.”
“Well,” Stoddard smiled, “I’m glad something good came of it.”
He drew Emmaline close to him, embracing her with a warmth that sent tingles down her back and into her toes. She held onto him, her hand resting on his chest beside her head. The ice had thawed, and it was good to be back in one another’s confidence.
“Oh!” he said. “I almost forgot! I have something for you.”
Fishing into his pocket he brought forth his hand and held it open before Emmaline. In it lay a small mechanical flower no bigger than his palm—a daisy, like those that grew nearby in the gardens. Emmaline’s eyes lit up. It looked so delicate, she could hardly believe it was made of metal.
“It�
�s a flower,” Stoddard explained. “I didn’t have time to pick some on my way here, so I thought I’d make you one. Watch.”
He took a tiny key from his pocket and inserted it into the back of the stem. With a few turns he pulled it out and the flower’s wire-frame petals began to turned slowly. Emmaline watched with a smile, mesmerized by the motion.
“You made this for me?” she asked.
Stoddard nodded. “I was actually working on it when you came by the shop the last time. You almost ruined the surprise when you sneaked up on me. But then after our argument I didn’t know if you’d want it anymore. I couldn’t just leave it sitting, so I went ahead and finished it. I can’t say that beauty has ever really been my forte, but since I’ve met you I can’t keep from trying to capture it.”
Emmaline took the flower and held it up in her hand. The bright brass caught the glimpses of sun that fell through the clouds and flickered as the tiny mechanism spun. She could hear the faint ticking of the mechanism that brought it to life inside.
“You like it?” Stoddard asked.
Emmaline smiled as she turned the petals. “It’s beautiful,” she said. She leaned forward and gave him another kiss on the cheek.
“So… what happens now?” Stoddard asked.
“I don’t know,” Emmaline admitted. “I suppose things will go back to normal. I’ll try to fix things between my family and—”
“I’ll go back to Rigimor’s shop,” Stoddard said heavily.
The two of them stood in a sudden atmosphere of disappointment. It was as though one of the clouds had moved to block out the sun again.
Was that really it? After this whole ordeal things would just go on as they always had? What was the point? Her father’s secret had come to light, but he was an influential member of the meritocracy. Just like any other scandal it would be forgotten in time, and once they’d ridden it out, nothing would have really changed. And for Emmaline that ultimately meant marriage.
Emmaline couldn’t do it. The thought encroached on her sense of newfound freedom. She couldn’t face the future knowing what was planned for her.
“What if we changed it?” Emmaline asked aloud as much to herself as to Stoddard.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You don’t want to go back to Rigimor’s, do you?” she asked. “Not if he’s only ever going to keep you as an apprentice.”
“I’d hope for something more than Rigimor’s,” Stoddard admitted.
“And I don’t want my parents deciding my future for me,” Emmaline said. “You see? Neither of us want normal!” She was getting excited, bouncing on the tips of her toes as she spoke. “What if we said no? What if we did something no one would ever expect us to do?”
“And what’s that?” Stoddard asked, his curiosity piqued.
Emmaline smiled, the first inklings of her wildest idea forming in her mind.
And to Margarete I leave the house and all that comes with it, if she’s willing. There’s no one else I trust more to continue what has become my life’s work.
—Excerpt from Charlotte’s Last Will and Testament
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Handoff
MARGARETE CLASPED HER SKIRT IN her hands as she hurried up the stairs to the brothel. Things were happening fast, and she intended to keep it that way come hell or high water. She moved with purpose, doing everything in her power to keep her focus on the present task at hand.
She wasn’t sure she’d have the resolve to do what needed to be done otherwise.
“Margarete!”
“It’s Margarete!”
“Margarete is here!”
“What happened?”
“We were so worried about you.”
The girls came flocking the moment she entered the house, accosting her as they fought for information. Word of Charlotte’s death had spread and all of them were visibly shaken by it. Though she knew she should do something to calm them, Margarete deflected their questions. Pushing her way through the group she climbed the stairs and, fiddling a moment with her key, she slipped into her room. Closing the door behind her she took a second to breathe before she went to the bed.
With effort, she pulled it away from the wall, scratching the floor with the legs in her haste. She didn’t care. After today there would be no more need for secrecy.
Kneeling at the side of the room, she pried up the loose board she and Charlotte had created after the ransacking and fetched the stack of letters out of the floor. As she held them in her hands she was struck with how ridiculous it all seemed. The letters seemed so small and insignificant, yet they were the most dangerous of all her possessions. What she’d intended as an avenue of escape from her circumstances had become a curse to all who shared them.
We were never meant to do this on our own.
Charlotte’s words came to Margarete’s mind. They carried a bitterness as she pictured Charlotte lying there in the theater, trying desperately to put on a brave face for Margarete’s sake. She’d always been the one to step forward and be strong in the midst of their most challenging moments, and true to form she’d gone out the same way as well.
But now it was Margarete’s turn to do the hard thing. Wiping her eyes, she tucked the letters safely into a fold of her dress—nestled beside Charlotte’s knife.
She paused when she saw it, drawing it out as she stared with surreal interest. It was simple. Unadorned. Insignificant. Kept for its utility and nothing more. Yet, as she stared at the steel edge, she sensed in it a sinister property. It had taken a life, becoming forever tainted by the cruelty of the act.
She’d taken it from Charlotte that morning, just before Bertram had come to take away her body. She’d not known why she’d kept it then, but as the day progressed she’d become acutely aware of its presence as she sensed the coming conflict.
What she would do when it finally arrived, she hadn’t decided yet.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?”
Margarete jumped and turned to find Faye standing in the door. Margarete hadn’t heard her come in. She looked weary, her eyes strained and bloodshot. Her expression, however, was serious as she stared at the knife in Margarete’s hand.
“Nothing,” Margarete insisted, replacing the knife and adjusting her dress to conceal both it and the letters. But it was clear by the look on Faye’s face that she wasn’t buying it.
“You’re going after them, aren’t you?” she asked.
Margarete hesitated, unable to look Faye in the eyes. Yes, she was going after them. She knew it despite her efforts not to acknowledge it. She had one thing to do. After that, the consequences could fall where they would. She didn’t care.
Rising from the floor, she made to leave but Faye held her ground in front of the door, barring her way.
“Let me through, Faye,” Margarete warned.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I told you it’s nothing,” Margarete insisted, trying to push past.
Faye pushed back, clutching her shoulders as she pleaded with her. “Margarete, stop! Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not worth it.”
“They killed her,” Margarete said. Her voice was breaking and her body hummed with frustration at Faye’s efforts to hold her back. “They don’t deserve to live!”
“Margarete, you can’t,” Faye pleaded. “Nothing good can come from going after those men. We’ve lost Charlotte already. We can’t bear losing you, too. Just let it go.”
“I can’t,” Margarete said, fresh tears rising in her eyes. “I’m the reason Charlotte was killed. I’m the reason for this whole tragedy. I can’t let it go. Not until it’s been made right.”
“Will this really make it right?” Faye asked. “Maybe you’re okay with the consequences, but what about us? What about the girls? We need you, Margarete. As much as we needed Charlotte. You can’t just abandon us now. It’s not what Charlotte would have wanted.”
Margarete clenched
her teeth. She knew Faye was right, but Faye didn’t understand how deep the pain went. How could she? The world could never right itself while the men responsible were left to roam free. Someone had to see to it that they paid for what they’d done.
“Please,” Faye urged, relaxing her grip as she watched the conflict raging inside Margarete. “Let it go.”
“I can’t,” Margarete said, managing to push Faye out of the way.
“Margarete! Wait!”
Margarete ignored her cries. On the stairs she pushed through the clamoring voices as she dashed for the door. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t slow down. If she did, she wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to get herself to move again. Her pain, which she fought desperately to contain, was beginning to tear her heart at the seams as the hidden pressure built within. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go before it gave way completely.
She prayed at least this one final moment.
Arriving at the theater, Margarete entered with some trepidation. The place held a haunting feeling now, its decrepit appearance telling her to turn away.
She’d arrived a bit early for their meeting, hoping that would give her time to prepare herself for Dempwolf’s arrival. However, as she slipped through the front door and made her way down the rows her heart sank in her chest when Dempwolf’s voice carried through the theater.
“One way or another I always knew our paths would cross again,” it said.
He stepped forward out from one of the stage wings, smug in his gentleman’s suit. In his hand Margarete could see that he carried a case at his side, which he swung forward and clasped with two hands in a show of extreme pleasure. Margarete’s heart beat in her chest as she drew closer. Dempwolf waited patiently, a smile plastered across his face. He looked down on her from his vantage point, his posture communicating his superior position.
He’d won, it said.
Margarete clenched her fists. She wanted nothing more than to lash out and wipe that smug expression from his face. If he knew what had happened in this very theater not more than a few hours before she was certain he’d reconsider his boasting.
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