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

by Wanrow, Laurel

  He nodded again. “That would be good. Thought maybe you could sit on that bench, have one of the wife’s muffins and look like you was drawing the scenery. She’d think nothing of what the expected artist does while she waits. But if you could draw Mr. O—we call him that, short for Mr. Orange—I could surprise her with the picture. Her birthday is next week.”

  “I can do that. But should I buy my ticket first?”

  “You don’t need to worry about your ticket. I’ll take care of it and seeing that the rack train waits for you to finish.”

  Annmar smiled. “And you needn’t worry about that. I can finish before the train is loaded.”

  Mr. Yates broke into a broad grin. With a tip of his hat, the stationmaster offered his arm and escorted her to the bench.

  Chapter seven

  Wellspring Collective, Blighted Basin

  Annmar arrived at Wellspring Collective to find it deserted. A farmyard of chickens wasn’t what she expected from Mr. Fetcher’s description of a growing agrarian business. However, the owner’s absence delayed her masquerade of impersonating her mother.

  By the third knock on the huge farmhouse’s door, Annmar’s muscles had tightened again. “Where is everyone?” she asked the livery driver.

  He shrugged. “Workin’, you know.” He dropped her trunk with a bang on the paving flags beneath the covered entry at the rear of the stone farmhouse. That should have brought someone running, but nobody appeared, even after the young man set her valise beside it, accepted his tip and left.

  Shifting from foot to foot, she stared after the wagon and then beyond the farmyard. In the crop fields between here and the western mountains, a mechanized engine steamed its way over rolling hills. She spotted the movement of wagons, but they were far off. She dug into her satchel for Mr. Fetcher’s instructions. But, just as Annmar recalled, they ended with Mr. Yates. The grateful stationmaster had dispelled her nervousness, and during the short ride to Chapel Hollow, the valley residents had looked and acted normal, as if it was a usual country shire. She’d just assumed Mistress Gere would meet her at the farm. No doubt she’d been delayed.

  Annmar folded the paper over the Proof, put it away and took out her sketchbook. She refused to allow her mind to create the melodrama of a penny dreadful. Nor would she snoop. Besides, Wellspring was too intriguing. Everywhere Annmar looked, something popped into her mind. Things she was sure most business clients wouldn’t appreciate in an illustration.

  Her drawing of the three-story stone house started out normal enough, but the structure altered under her pencil into an open-air pavilion with inviting cushioned wicker furniture. The surrounding old rowan trees reshaped into many-armed sentinels awaiting unwary intruders, their troops formed from the adjacent orchard trees. Beyond the farmyard’s spreading walnut tree, the long whitewashed outbuilding with its odd dormers changed into a parapeted fortification. The windmill and water tank transformed into clouds with cascades flowing into rivers between the fields.

  What would the fields look like at night? At dawn? Seeing the sun rise over the fields with rows of crops planted in their complicated cross-work patterns? Oh, it would be a glorious race to catch the colors in the sky and the play of shadows over the textures of different plants. The thought made her pencil twitch even faster, and the lines on the page coalesced into an expansive view of field after field rolling over the hills, with something connecting them.

  The pencil hung suspended above the page while she stared. Her focus blurred a moment, and part of her struggled to name what the other part drew—a fine network of lines, spider web-like, but underground, in the soil. They weren’t really lines, but tunnels. No, tubes…or, rather, roots.

  Annmar nodded to herself. The delicate lines had to be roots. They crossed her page in a lacy pattern, weaving the countryside together into an orderly system that spoke of life, fertile and vibrant. The sense of it hadn’t occurred to her while sketching, but now, looking at the entire drawing, a shiver of excitement ran up her spine.

  She drew a breath and glanced around the still-deserted yard. The farm smelled so good, too. A light flicked on in the fortifica—uh, the outbuilding.

  “Aha. Someone has arrived.” Annmar slapped her book closed and jumped up, but her steps across the gravel drive slowed as every stone made itself known through her worn soles. By the time she picked her way to the building, dust clung to the uppers. Annmar sighed and stopped at the open double doors to brush the tops of her shoes clean. There. First impressions had to be good impressions.

  She peered inside the building. To one side, workbenches holding tumbles of metal parts and hanging mechanic’s tools identified the area as a repair shop. Opposite, rolls of fencing, metal rods and bundles of wire surrounded the bottom of an old cast-iron spiral stair to the upper floor. From the layer of dirt and cobwebs, the stair wasn’t in use.

  Deeper into the building lay more messy storage. This place was nothing like her sketched images of various chambers befitting the castle’s inhabitants. She shook her head. Why had that bit of whimsy struck? Like her nerves at Gapton, that nonsense wouldn’t serve her well in her new position. The cadence of voices rose and fell beyond the door. Mess or not, she’d announce herself to these people.

  A few steps inside, movement caught her eye, small and dark like an airborne rock coming at her. Annmar ducked and stumbled. Blurs—birds—dove from the rafters, shrieking in a growing swirl at her head. With a cry, she threw up her hands to fend them off and dodged for the doorway.

  The tumult of birds flew from the workshop and disappeared into the trees. Annmar panted in time to their quick wing movements. Had they meant to scare her, or had she scared them? She shook her head at the thought. “Wild animals. A rough farm. Why did I think this was a good idea?”

  Nothing held her here, yet everything kept her from returning home. Her hand crept to her bodice and felt for the coins. Still there. Those in her waistband, too. She reached out to steady herself and knocked something that gave way.

  A pile of wooden crates tipped in slow motion.

  Thunk. Creak. Thunk. Creak. Bam.

  Annmar jumped just as the crates landed, shooting up a cloud of fine powder. She covered her mouth and nose, but choked on air so thick its particles tickled her skin. A fit of coughing overcame her, making a few tears leak from the corners of her eyes. She dashed outside.

  Leaning on the sun-baked wall, she gulped in clean air. A final cough cleared her throat, but a shake of her traveling skirt released more billowing dirt. She skittered aside.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t get this filthy in a week in Derby. Her carefully contrived first impression was lost, dreams of an independent shop drifting away with the dust she brushed from her shoulders and sleeves.

  “Hello there,” called a woman behind her.

  Annmar turned, her hand rising to swipe back her escaped curls. A woman strode along an avenue created by rows of fruit trees. She was tall, her lean figure dressed in the style Mrs. Rennet wore, a ruffled blouse topped by a suit vest styled for a lady. But unlike Mrs. Rennet, this lady had on a split skirt, the kind worn by women who rode horseback. She would most certainly be holding a sword when she rode—

  “Would you be Anna Mary Masterson?”

  Annmar dismissed the images springing up in her mind and bobbed the half-curtsy expected of Rennet’s Renditions’ workers. Then she caught sight of her filthy gloves. She tucked her sketchbook under her arm and removed them. So much for appearances.

  “I’ve just arrived. Well, not just. I saw a light and heard...” She nodded back to the white building. “I was looking for someone because no one was at the main house.” Oh, Lord, she was talking too much. Annmar stopped and forced a smile. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to Mistress Gere?”

  “You have found her. I am Constance Gere.” The sword-bearer—lady—offered her hand, also gloveless.

  Annmar said a silent thanks her impropriety would be overlooked in thi
s country setting and shook the work-roughened hand.

  The woman glanced her over from head to foot. “I’m sorry not to have been here to meet you. Not the best introduction for a young lady, stumbling around what must have appeared to be the storage. I hope you aren’t too put off…” She peered down at Annmar with intense gray eyes and slowly said, “Yes, young lady.”

  Caught. Annmar met the formidable woman’s gaze. “My mother, Anna Mary, passed away last year. I am Ann Marie Masterson, also an artist with a very similar style to my mother, who instructed me.”

  Mistress Gere inclined her head slightly and wiped a hand over her mouth. When she dropped it, Annmar was relieved to see she was smiling.

  “Mr. Fetcher, the vain peacock, did not wear his spectacles when he met you, did he?”

  Annmar couldn’t help smiling. She shook her head. “Only when he looked at this.” She extended her sketchbook. It fell open where the pencil still marked the last drawings.

  Mistress Gere stared at the page, the one with the lacy roots, suddenly silent.

  Oh, Lord, no. Not those whimsical sketches. Annmar’s neck and face heated. “In the front, there are better—”

  Mistress Gere raised a hand, one finger up. She drew a breath before lifting her gaze to meet Annmar’s. “This page will do. You have a talent not seen in Blighted Basin since your mother left nearly twenty years ago.”

  chapter Eight

  Annmar accompanied Mistress Gere to the farmhouse. At the back entry, the lady pulled a rope hanging along one of the porch posts. A bell clanged once overhead. When they entered the dim hall, a stout woman with short white hair met them.

  “Ah, Mrs. Betsy, thank you for interrupting your baking. Meet our new artist, Anna—Ann Marie—”

  “Please, call me Annmar.”

  “Annmar Masterson.” Mistress Gere smiled. “Annmar, Mrs. Betsy Campbell is in charge of the house kitchen.”

  Mrs. Betsy wore an apron and smelled of fresh bread. The older woman dipped her head, revealing sprinkles of white dust. She took Annmar’s proffered hand in her strong ones, her gaze as warm and welcoming. “All right, duck?”

  Duck. Annmar swallowed. She hadn’t heard the friendly endearment used by Peak District folks since Mother had died.

  “Mrs. Betsy and her staff serve three meals a day.” Mistress Gere paused and ran her gaze down Annmar again. “But if you need something in between, get her permission. She runs a tight ship. Mrs. Betsy, not only did this girl have a long trip from Outside’s Derby, but she had a bit of an adventure in the bunkhouse’s lower storage. Might we have something light for her in my office?”

  Annmar’s stomach sank. That was the bunkhouse? Yet the reference to Outside piqued her curiosity. Mr. Yates had also used the term. Apparently, these Blighted Basin people knew about the rest of England, but no one Outside knew about the crater valley, or the Gateway.

  They followed Mrs. Betsy down the hall bisecting the house. She turned left through an archway into a huge dining room. Mistress Gere gestured to the right of the old house’s enormous front door, to what would be the receiving parlor in most town houses. Shelves lined the walls, holding books but also an assortment of glass canning jars. In their thick syrups and tinted juices, the fruits and vegetables displayed vibrant colors, like a kaleidoscope in the afternoon sun. A delicate lady’s desk angled into a corner so someone sitting at it could see the hills out the side window.

  Mistress Gere pointed Annmar to a seat before the desk, while she took her chair and picked up a paper. “Mr. Fetcher gave you my letter explaining the terms of employment, but may we review?”

  Annmar took the letter from her satchel. Mistress Gere didn’t get far before a girl about Annmar’s age arrived with a tray. Under her kitchen apron she wore a blue flannel shirt and… A bib-and-brace?

  Trousers, like a man? Annmar stared. And on her feet, work boots. This farm girl’s feet wouldn’t hurt from walking on rough stones.

  The girl set a tea tray on the corner of the desk and straightened. Instead of leaving like a servant would, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Mary Clare Pemberton.”

  She had reddish-blond hair, and the brightest green eyes… Which started to disappear under her frowning brows.

  Annmar shook herself and jerked out her hand. “Oh. Pleased to meet you.” If Annmar painted this girl’s hair loose from the ribbon binding it back—it had to be curly with those puckering waves—she could draw twining flowers, or better yet, vines of some farm crop that would offset the bib-and-brace. What a contrast the feminine and masculine elements would make—

  “Are you well?” Mary Clare peered at her. “Miz Gere, I think you better put her to bed as soon as possible.”

  Drat, she’d drifted again. “No, I mean, yes, I’m fine, though a little tired perhaps. I apologize for staring.” The truth was probably her best explanation. “I was picturing your unusual eyes and hair in a painting.”

  Mary Clare burst out laughing. “Unusual? I shall introduce you to my sisters. The lot of us green-eyed, strawberry blondes, and any curious enough to sit for you to paint, I’m sure.” She headed to the door with a wave. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Annmar the Artist.”

  Annmar the Artist? Would her job separate her from the local people as much as coming from…the Outside? Annmar squeezed the sketchbook in her lap and darted a glance to the contemplative Mistress Gere.

  “Eat, please.” Mistress Gere returned to her papers. “The traveling expense money has been turned over, correct? Eight half sovereigns.”

  Annmar nodded and picked up a dainty cup.

  “Good. You have arrived to start a two-week trial and are therefore due those weeks’ compensation.” Mistress Gere took four gold coins from an envelope and passed them across the desk. “Beyond that, I pay out wages each Saturday evening, after we return from Market Day.”

  Market Day sounded normal enough. Trying not to appear too eager to pick up the money, Annmar blew across the steaming tea before sipping it.

  Mistress Gere sat back. “I request a two-week trial of all employees. Give our collective the full two weeks before making a decision if we are suited to each other—your art for our advertising needs and our ways to your lifestyle.”

  “I believe that sounds fair.”

  “Fair is exactly the term I like to use,” Mistress Gere said. “In fact, equitable, unbiased treatment of my workers is a maxim I practice. My operation has attracted a diversity of…peoples from throughout the valley. Blighted Basin is home to several distinct cultural groups that may not appear different, but their talents are unique, and I dare say, I’ve needed them all for the successful operation of a large farm. Yet, as a consequence, our atypical customs may not meet the conventions others wish to accept.”

  Annmar took a sip of tea while sorting the information. What unusual customs might these valley dwellers have? It didn’t matter. Any country ways would be foreign to her. She could accept a fair amount of oddness to earn these wages.

  “I ask that you keep an open mind,” Mistress Gere said. “Following the trial, we will discuss the autumn weeks and perhaps an obligation for the winter months, when the weather makes leaving Blighted Basin more difficult.”

  So much was at stake. Annmar had to hope Mistress Gere would decide on offering her the full position, or not, by the end of the trial, because much beyond that and Mrs. Rennet likely would have found another machinery illustrator, even with the current high demand. She had to try. “I will.”

  “Tomorrow, try some of our products,” Mistress Gere said. “Explore how you would depict them. We’ll meet in the evening to review your thoughts and sketches. It may take us a few days to come to an agreement on a style, but by next Wednesday, I’d like to see ten to a dozen label mock-ups of a variety of fruits and vegetables.”

  The expectations sounded reasonable. While Wellspring’s owner read the work agreement aloud, Annmar took another, deeper sip of tea. Hints of herbs danced about her
mouth, so subtly mixed she couldn’t discern them. The sandwich was a tasty blend of minced vegetables in a creamed cheese, but what were they? How in the world would she contrive labels for Wellspring’s products if she had no idea what these ingredients were?

  Annmar shifted in her seat. It was a trial she was agreeing to, after all. If she couldn’t do the work, they’d know soon enough and dismiss her.

  They signed the contracts, and after Annmar tucked her copy and the coins in her satchel, Mistress Gere rose. “Come, let me give you a proper tour of our whitewashed fortress.”

  “Sorry about that.” Annmar grimaced, but to her relief, Mistress Gere smiled.

  Outside, they walked toward the bunkhouse building, now a center of activity. Several wagons pulled by steam tractors had arrived. Two boys and a woman—all dressed similarly to Mary Clare, or in trousers and their shirtsleeves, with only waistcoats topping their homespun shirts—unloaded bushel baskets onto a dumbwaiter platform. It hung by chains from a dormer extension where several more farmworkers waited beside a barrel-like engine.

  Annmar’s gaze shot to the gears on one end. Chains wrapped around a sprocket led up to a cogged pulley at the peak of the dormer roof. Beside the machine, an older, dark-skinned man called down and everyone backed away. He threw a lever. The engine chugged to life and the chains jerked stiff. They crept over the grinding gears and the platform rose.

  “Oh, my,” Annmar exhaled. “The mechanized windlass in use.”

  Mistress Gere raised a brow at her. “You recognize the machine? It’s among the latest in farm improvements.”

  “I, uh…” Annmar stared at the churning apparatus. She could leave Mr. Shearing out of this. “The shop I worked at produced its advertisements.” Ones she had drawn.

  “Ah. Yes. Shall we?” Mistress Gere gestured to the wide wooden stair leading to the second floor.

  They ascended and the platform kept pace, its crates filled with squash and tomatoes. The clinking chain made conversation impossible. By the time they reached the top, the idling windlass hissed quietly. The gray-haired man held the platform steady while men and a few girls grabbed the crates and swung them into the space beyond. One of the young men sported a rather unruly haircut. While his dark brown hair lay short around his ears, most on the top swept long across his brow, something never seen on the streets of Derby. He turned and met her gaze.