The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance

by Wanrow, Laurel

  “Hmm,” he murmured. “Take another day’s consideration. I’ll send my carriage for you tomorrow. Then, we may visit the shop and discuss the matter in private.” His words carried the same tone as his weekly insistences that Mrs. Rennet send Annmar to the factory.

  Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Shearing strode to Polly’s side and asked her an inane question about the color of the machine appealing to the purchasers’ wives.

  Annmar squeezed shut her eyes and drew a long breath. She had mere moments before he’d return—no time to think of how he’d just handled the most private region of her posterior. With the familiar comfort of the pencil in her hand, she bent to align the straight edge.

  Regrets could be sent…oh. He would only suggest another meeting, pressing her—with likely more than words—for answers he wanted to hear. Bile rose in her throat. She couldn’t let this man decide how she was to get her shop, or to live her life. But how was she to persuade him to leave her alone?

  chapter two

  In her rush to descend Shearing Enterprises’ front steps, Annmar nearly dropped the rolled illustration. Her face still burned. Mr. Shearing’s improper suggestion rang in her ears. He’d deny it if asked outright, and of course the canny businessman would never put those words—his sponsorship’s price—to paper for her, a lowly illustrator.

  Mr. Shearing was a powerful talker, one who could sell a reaper right after the harvest ended. Mrs. Rennet grumbled over his deals, but once they were written out and signed, Mr. Shearing never defaulted. Daily, she made some comment about his influence in Derby, recent ones predicting he’d win the Competition. If you worked for him, your business was sure to grow with his. If you didn’t, if you dared to cross him…

  Annmar kept pace with Polly walking up Full Street, but she couldn’t help glancing back at the huge factory and fancy sign. Shearing Enterprises…Backed by the Best Craftsmanship in Derbyshire. Mr. Shearing still stood in the open doorway and, seeing her, smiled. Vines erupted over his shoulders. They spiraled around the man, slithered to the walk and wrapped gears and rods in a flourish of leaves. The metal tendrils spun the tangle of plants onward, closer and reaching for her heels to snare—

  Gasping, Annmar stumbled. No!

  The image snapped away.

  Polly caught her arm and pulled her close. “You told him no, didn’t you?”

  She struggled to steady her voice. “I did. He offered me more time to decide.”

  “Annmar, you can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t want him…it, the shop.” She might be poor, but her choices would be hers. “I just wish…” She wrapped an arm to her middle. “Dash it all. On my own, it’ll take twenty-some years to achieve what Mr. Shearing offers overnight.” She winced. Oh, no, she’d actually said…that.

  Polly snorted, a sound equal parts scandalized and incredulous. “He sponsors four other girls, you know,” she whispered.

  Her friend’s information sources could compete with the penny dreadfuls, the sensational novels Polly loved to read. “I won’t be one of them,” Annmar said. “But you’re right, I’ll never deter a magnate like him. Not without losing my job. Possibly losing any job in Derbyshire.”

  “Even that little curmudgeon on Bold Lane would be a better choice of a sponsor,” Polly said. “Your watercolors grace his windows, and he speaks of the magic of your drawings to any who will listen.”

  Oh, Lord. The magic of her drawings. Mother had always cautioned Annmar about letting whimsy into her work. Annmar thought she’d kept her imaginings reined in after Mother’s death, but if what Polly said was true, she hadn’t. She must double-check each sketch. “But in Derby that’s precious few buyers. Steam-engine drawings garner more money than naturescapes.”

  “I mean, Mr. Bell isn’t asking for…you. I know his sales of your lovely little woodsy drawings are low,” Polly said, “but he’s proof something else will turn up.”

  Annmar nodded, but her hand clenched as they hustled up the street. She took her sketchbook from the satchel and hugged it close, smelling its leather binding. Mr. Shearing’s relentless determination scared her. He treated her like she had no say in the matter. If she agreed in the slightest, she’d become another cog in Mr. Shearing’s plan to further his business. “I will find a way to make my answer clear, but it cannot be at the expense of my position at Rennet’s.” They finally turned onto The Strand and melded into the thoroughfare’s stream of people. “Young women like us, living on the margin of homelessness, cannot take chances—”

  “On the margin? We are not on the margin.” Polly huffed out a breath and motioned to the wide, clean-swept avenue with its well-kept shop fronts, their goods displayed behind sparkling windows. “Fine, respectable jobs, both of us, and all of us able to pay the rent with enough to eat well and dress—”

  “Right. Possible only with four to the boarding house bed. If she sacks me, do you suggest adding another two girls to our room on pallets to resolve my financial problem?”

  Polly leaned her frowning face close to Annmar’s. “You don’t have a monetary problem. Really. It’s your dreams you have to get a hold of, this saving for a shop. With your mother passed, you must adopt a new plan. Tell him no, and if he persuades Mrs. Rennet to fire her best machinery illustrator, then so be it. We’ll tell the rest of the girls and devise something until a new position turns up. One with no extra requirements.”

  Annmar swallowed. The consequence of unemployment looked the better option. “I’ll put an end to Mr. Shearing’s attention,” she told Polly, but she would not let go of Mother’s dream. Her dream, too, she reminded herself.

  They said good-bye, and Annmar scurried the half block to Rennet’s Renditions, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat. Perhaps she’d have been happier if this opportunity had never surfaced. Though the late September morning promised to be warm, she felt chilled as she approached the shop door.

  A hand encased in a worsted glove beat hers to the handle. Instead of pulling it open, a gray-haired man dressed neatly in a country-style tweed suit and top hat blocked the door. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but may I have a word?” He rushed on without waiting for her answer. “You are Anna Mary Masterson?”

  Ann Marie Masterson didn’t bother correcting him. She hadn’t set anyone right since Mother’s business matters had fallen to her, a task made easier if Annmar pretended to be her young mother. The pretense was no longer needed, but…

  “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” In the confines of Rennet’s windowed entrance alcove, she eyed the unfamiliar man.

  He extended his hand and grasped hers firmly while he searched her face with narrowed gray eyes. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Fetcher of Gapton.”

  Gapton. The village where Mother was born up in the Peak District, a place she would have been able to have a conversation about, but Annmar could not. Still, Annmar smiled and nodded for him to continue.

  “I represent Wellspring Collective, a growing agrarian business near Gapton. The owner, Constance Gere, is quite anxious to hire local talent to create a special look to advertise her line of vegetable and fruit products. I see you have continued your craft, and I’m fortunate to have tracked you through your work. The illustrations displayed in the New Works Competition emphasized your technical skills, and the owner of Bell’s Gallery graciously reviewed your watercolors while speaking highly of you.” Mr. Fetcher inclined his head to the shop windows. “I have not announced myself to your employer.”

  Annmar followed his gaze. Beyond the rows of drafting tables, Mrs. Rennet sat at her high desk, illustrators lined before her awaiting approval for various projects. Mr. Fetcher might be disappointed if he did approach Mrs. Rennet. She wouldn’t be very welcoming of the prospective client once she heard the business’ location. The soils in that White Peak area were notoriously poor due to the underlying limestone. Yet, in a paradox that kept the agricultural community mystified, and talking, Gapton farmers c
onsistently shipped quality produce. Mother wouldn’t speak of her home, but had always bought its vegetables.

  Another look at this representative’s out-of-date clothing said Wellspring Collective probably couldn’t afford Derby’s rates. Too bad, though if Mr. Fetcher hadn’t entered Rennet’s Renditions already, perhaps he didn’t intend to. Annmar couldn’t assume he wanted to hire just her…or, rather, Mother. “Mr. Bell is generous with his compliments. I’m happy he directed you to us. Shall we go inside?”

  Mr. Fetcher shook his head and gestured to the sketchbook she held. “May I see a sample of your work?”

  She’d guessed correctly. Her personal sketchbook wasn’t something Annmar usually shared. However, Mother would have liked working with this farm, and Mr. Fetcher said he was seeking talent from the Peaks itself. That description fit only Mother, but perhaps if he liked her daughter’s drawings, Annmar would have a client if Mr. Shearing forced her to leave Rennet’s.

  She offered the leather-bound book.

  Mr. Fetcher extracted a pair of half-moon magnifying lenses from his breast pocket, shook them open and put them on. His nose dipped to the book as he flipped through the pages. He nodded, saying, “Yes,” a few times. But he didn’t spend any longer than seconds peering at any individual pencil sketch or watercolor of her favorite river scenes.

  Disappointment washed through her. Though she was glad he hadn’t stopped to question some of her more fanciful drawings, she’d also worked with enough clients to know when one wasn’t interested. Perhaps he’d like one of the other illustrators’ styles better and become a client for Mrs. Rennet, earning Annmar a finder’s bonus.

  Mr. Fetcher handed back her sketchbook and put away his spectacles. “Your talent is exactly what I was shown in paintings back home. Surprisingly just as strong after years away. Mistress Gere authorized me to engage your services.”

  Annmar’s heart leaped. He was interested. Someone still had Mother’s early paintings? They must be two decades old. She would love to see the work Mother left behind, pieces the young Anna Mary had created when she wasn’t burdened with producing what a client wanted. That discovery aside, this offer was an opportunity for new work, without, as Polly had said, extra requirements. Mr. Fetcher had barely looked at her.

  Could Annmar pose as her mother?

  This older gentleman had already overlooked that she wasn’t the right age. Annmar and her mother shared a nearly duplicate artistic style of loose strokes that somehow knitted together to form vibrant images. Plus, Annmar had a year’s experience producing advertisement illustrations.

  So she might…no, she would do this. Repeating that phrase had gotten her through mourning and into proper work after Mother died.

  A glance at the window showed Mrs. Rennet still busy at the back of the shop. Annmar hated to lose her job, but she’d survived Mrs. Rennet’s temper only because Mr. Shearing favored her work. Securing this Mistress Gere’s position would mean Annmar needn’t worry if Mr. Shearing lodged a complaint with her employer because she refused him.

  Mr. Fetcher was loosening the drawstrings of a linen bag. He sidled closer and poured the contents into one large palm.

  Annmar sucked in her breath. Gold. Gold half sovereigns, eight of them. She forced her gaze from the sizable earnest money hidden between them up to Mr. Fetcher’s face.

  He dropped the half sovereigns back into the bag, pulled the strings and offered the pouch to Annmar. “Travel expenses. Double of two weeks’ pay. Mistress Gere requests a two-week trial and, if the arrangement works, will retain you through the winter. The trial payment will be given to you upon your arrival.”

  She stared at the pouch in his proffered hand. Her head swirled. A month’s pay for travel? Twenty shillings a week? All she could say was, “Arrival?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t make myself clear. My client would like for you to do the work on site, at Wellspring, where you can see the produce growing and sample the recipes to more accurately depict the products in your illustrations. The farm cooks concoct hundreds of different canned goods, each requiring individual labels to be designed.”

  Annmar nodded slowly while considering living there. Mother’s few tales of her home had left Annmar sure it was unlike the rest of Derbyshire. The stories of remote Gapton weren’t comforting, but far more appealing than being alone in Mr. Shearing’s office. “A reasonable request. I—”

  Brrring! The bell on the shop door sounded. Annmar caught her breath, but it was only the girl who did the inking, impatient for the illustration Annmar still held. She winked as Annmar handed it over, and Annmar furtively searched the shop behind her. Mrs. Rennet wasn’t in sight. “Thank you,” she said as the door closed.

  Annmar returned her attention to Mr. Fetcher, who wore a patient smile. His hands passed the coin bag back and forth, making a pleasant tinkle. Imagine, that much money. But the work must be done there.

  The Peak District wasn’t far, some thirty miles north, and accessible by the rail system that brought in their goods. But once there, travel to this farm could be difficult. Mother had said the mountain folk were rough, the hillsides impassable in the winter months, and the wild animals—

  “With the new train, Wellspring Collective is within easy reach of Gapton.” Mr. Fetcher eyed her. “The town still isn’t much compared to the bustle of a Midlands borough”—he swept his free hand toward the flush of morning business along The Strand—“but it’s grown into a significant trade center. No longer the backwoods.”

  He punctuated this with a toss of the cloth bag. Of course, that’s why the pay was so high. They had to make the rural location appealing to attract someone. Though Mother had left before Annmar was born, surely she would have said yes for this well-paying work.

  Eight gold half sovereigns would cover her train ticket north and living expenses, as well as a return ticket if this weren’t proper employment. The distance resolved her immediate problem of Mr. Shearing’s unwanted demands. However, Mrs. Rennet wouldn’t take her back if she knew Annmar had been doing other illustration work. Maybe she could ask for a break in service for family reasons?

  “When would Mistress Gere like me to begin? I would need to find lodging in the area.”

  “Room and board are included in your employment,” Mr. Fetcher said. “Wellspring’s employees all live on site. Mistress Gere hopes you can begin immediately.”

  Room and board. Twenty shillings a week. It should be enough so that she could avoid Mr. Shearing’s offer in case she didn’t pass the trial and had to return to Derby with no position. But if she did pass it, the months of work that followed would give Annmar the money she needed to lease a shop herself, free and clear of Mr. Shearing and his…conditions.

  Mr. Fetcher gestured with the pouch. “Will you accept?”

  She stared at the bag, both giddy at the prospect of freedom and queasy at the deception she would attempt. But facing Mr. Shearing loomed with worse distaste.

  “Yes,” she whispered, stepped closer and grasped the linen-covered coins. Mr. Fetcher released the bag, and Annmar sighed as the unexpected weight sank her hand. For a few seconds, the hidden half sovereigns slipped over each other between her fingers, clinking faintly like the call of carefree sparrows. Then she wedged the bag between her sketchbook and her bodice.

  With her arms wrapped tight, Annmar smiled, the first heartfelt smile to grace her face in over a year.

  Mr. Fetcher returned it and handed her a folded paper packet. “Your letter of directions.”

  She broke the blue wax seal and scanned the contents. The instructions were clear, but one item puzzled her. Annmar lifted a double-sided medallion of blue wax pressed over a cord and attached within the folded letter. “Why the second seal?”

  “Your Gateway Proof,” Mr. Fetcher said simply. “Keep it with you.” And with a tip of his top hat, he turned and left.

  chapter three

  Wellspring Collective, Blighted Basin

  Daeryn Darkcoat�
��s paws carried his polecat form in a weasel’s rolling leaps along a dirt road. The moon, just past waxing, lit Wellspring Collective’s rows of plants in the sharp grays and blacks of his nocturnal vision. Butternut squash on the right and a late planting of beans to the left. Nothing amiss.

  And yet squeaks, pitched higher than the thrum of crickets, carried across his assigned patrol section. Perking his ears, Daeryn caught the stray sound again. There. Homing in, he slunk his long, brown body down the hill to the open front of an equipment shed.

  Scritch…scritch, scritch.

  Not calls, but scratching. Claws on metal. Deep shadows hid one of the pests they’d been hunting for days, but it was there. Somewhere. Daeryn padded closer to the row of tillers and raised his snout.

  No scent but engine oil. He hesitated. This animal’s actions were different. What farm pest entered a rain shelter full of equipment when hundreds of acres of vegetables lay available for the taking?

  Scritch…

  Daeryn charged through the tillers.

  A shadow shifted at the back wall. The forest of metal legs stuck out everywhere, the low water tanks blocked his leaps. He twisted and—

  —slammed into an inches-wide crack, nose tickled by disappearing fur.

  Damn. He scuttled back, skirted machines and tore out of the shed. Behind it, he jumped on a crate and paused on his toes, ready to spring. Broad squash leaves covered the still field.

  Nothing. Nothing.

  At least his teammates’ fleeting glimpses had gained them clues: The pest ran versus hopped, had black fur, no tail on a low body—shorter even than his polecat height of eleven inches on the paw, Jac had taunted.

  He couldn’t justify more time here. Bunching his hindquarters, Daeryn sprang. He hit the dirt road with a bound and raced it to a crossroad on a hummock. Along the farm boundary, up and down the tree line beyond the fields, only the autumn leaves stirred.

  Maraquin should have been visible. Where was that wolf?