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

by Wanrow, Laurel

  “Little,” Annmar said. “Strict parents, who would be furious she was having a baby without a husband. Mother knew returning would be difficult, but never cursed her birthplace. She said it blessed her with her artistic insight.”

  Mistress Gere nodded. “Exactly. Artistic insight. She had a natural talent. A talent people liked, if I’m not mistaken?”

  This woman knew this. She was the one who’d searched out Mother and offered her the excellent wages for that talent. What was Mistress Gere really asking? “Yes,” Annmar said slowly. “Mother’s art always sold. People came directly to our row house with requests for specific pieces, and Mother seemed to know just what they had in mind.” Annmar cleared her throat. “Did Mr. Fetcher investigate her business for you?”

  “No, dear.” Mistress Gere patted her hand. “The people born and raised in this valley all have a Knack, a natural talent, inherited through bloodlines. For your mother, and for you, it’s being able to see beyond the surface of things and communicate what you see through your art.”

  For your mother, and for you. She had a talent, a Knack? A wave of relief coursed through Annmar. Her strange visions—though not normal—had an explanation.

  Wait a second. Annmar closed her eyes to better absorb Mistress Gere’s meaning. Was the explanation magic?

  Her eyes flashed open, lifting to the lady’s studied gaze. Good heavens, she didn’t believe…

  Mistress Gere was not setting up a ruse. After a lifetime of speaking with Mother’s clients, and then her own, Annmar knew people. This businesswoman was not the smooth Mr. Shearing. Mistress Gere already proved honest and forthcoming in ways that restored Annmar’s sensibilities.

  Asking directly seemed foolish. Annmar darted a look at the new wall. “If I may be so bold to ask, is your Knack like the one that separates Blighted Basin from the Outside and secures the Gateway?”

  Mistress Gere smiled. “You’re very observant to have noticed the similarities. Yes, though the Gateway Knack-bearers don’t use their gifts as much as I use mine. Few Basin residents go or stay Outside. They can’t ever say what it is, but something about an Outside community isn’t right for them, and they return to the safety of the Basin.”

  “The area we passed through? Those were other rooms?”

  “Exactly,” Mistress Gere said. “The jumbled downstairs of this building is actually workrooms and storage. No one at the farmhouse heard you knock, nor could you enter, without my Knack’s permission. My gift guards the business and brings people together to work for common goals. Some excel in craft skills, like cooking, carpentry or mechanics, talents useful in our operation, though most of my people have Knacks with plants. For some, the talent is narrower, a special affinity with a particular plant or animal.”

  Annmar could tell herself these Knack phenomena were like the miracles of science occurring every day in Derby, and across all of England. But that was foolish. Whatever words Mistress Gere chose to use, she was talking about magic. Like something out of Polly’s fantastical stories.

  Though she wanted to rub her aching temples, Annmar kept her hands folded in her lap. Mistress Gere worked magic. And what’s more, she was saying Annmar could as well.

  A shiver ran down Annmar’s spine. Rational thought and every lesson given a well-brought-up young lady said Annmar ought to deny it, but she couldn’t. She would rather believe Mistress Gere, because unraveling the mystery of her visions was a better choice than acknowledging a faltering sanity. Even Polly had said she felt “some sort of magical workings” in Annmar’s art.

  A bubble seemed to burst inside her, scattering the clouds of worry that’d hung over her so long. Nerves weren’t her problem, magic was. A Knack. What did it do, exactly? And how? Could she manage to train herself to use it? And then…?

  Well, Annmar certainly knew what she would not do: work for Mr. Shearing. If having a Knack ensured her freedom and prevented her from becoming that random cog in an industrialist’s plans, then she’d spend every last minute of this trial learning to use it.

  She smiled at the thought and, with a start, realized Mistress Gere was smiling, too.

  The lady briefly pressed a hand to Annmar’s shoulder. “Your spirits appear to have recovered. It’s up to you to get to know Blighted Basin and your mother’s people.” She stood and waved to the closed door. “Your entrance is there. No one can access your room unless you give him or her permission, something my Knack links to you. Privacy is important, even in a well-functioning team such as ours. Is this arrangement acceptable?”

  Annmar rose from the chair and swiveled to survey the lovely room again, a ridiculous grin stuck on her face. “I believe it is.”

  “Let’s set your room’s barrier and leave you with a few minutes to freshen up before the dinner bell rings.”

  Annmar did as Mistress Gere directed. She touched the doorknob and ran her hand down the railing of the spiral staircase. Both were warm, warmer than the metals should have been. The staircase was the same one she’d noted earlier, across from the workshop. This time the curlicue decorations of the metal were clean, and the space surrounding it cleared.

  Annmar felt as if she’d donned special spectacles, but stopped herself from gawking at what hid beneath Mistress Gere’s magic. No, Knack. She ought to use the local term. That Mistress Gere managed all this, and ran a business, simply thrilled Annmar.

  Mistress Gere nodded to a neat line of small machines. “You’ll share an entrance with our mechanic’s inventory.”

  Poised on jointed legs like huge insects—no, eight legs, so spiders—they looked ready to march from the bay. A small engine, the head, powered them from one end of the water tank body. The engine was a typical steam design, but the machine moved by way of legs? A pulley and cable system with tiny gears graced each articulated leg joint. Clockwork techniques.

  Before her sat more intricately operating steam machinery than anything Annmar had been shown at Mr. Shearing’s factory. “I hope I can see them in action.”

  “The growers won’t be using these much longer for the late crops. In fact…” Mistress Gere frowned and stepped to the doorway, where the afternoon light had grown fainter. “It’s time I see to a certain problem we’ve experienced.”

  Annmar followed her. The dark-skinned man who had been operating the mechanized windlass now stood beneath the walnut tree, along with a younger man. Like the mechanics at Shearing’s, both wore leather aprons over waistcoats and trousers. Several other men wearing bib-and-braces, hats and carrying work gloves joined them. Farmers.

  “Excuse me, please. I’ll see you at dinner in a few minutes.” Mistress Gere strode to the gathering group, arriving before a number of other workers crossing the farmyard.

  Annmar returned to her room, closed the door and scooted to the window. Below, Wellspring’s farmworkers collected around the owner while she listened to the younger mechanic, tall and skinny beneath his leather apron. While speaking, he waved his hands in an animated way, his tufts of short tawny hair glinting with blue-gray highlights as he fluttered in the low afternoon sun.

  Fluttered? Annmar bent her head, trying for a better angle against the glass to make out the exact movements of his sidestepping feet and flipping elbows, but he wasn’t moving. Had it been a trick of the lighting, or—her hand flew to her mouth—her Knack?

  Several more people approached, including Daeryn. A girl with a cascading mane of dark hair bounced in strides across the farmyard. She’d been working in the loft, but now it struck Annmar what was different about her, beyond dressing like a man: her loose hair. No woman in Derby would think of going out with her hair not styled in some way. And covered.

  The girl approached Daeryn and jostled him about the shoulders. My, her touch was blatantly open. How would the fellow respond—

  Daeryn turned, scooped the girl into a hold and rubbed his knuckles over her hair, mussing it.

  Disappointment coursed through Annmar. With such familiar actions, the fellow
was obviously courting this girl. Or something. But then Daeryn released the girl, and she stepped away, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder. Why…oh. Another girl, with a matching head of free-flowing dark hair and the same curvy build as the first, marched up. Sisters? Both were older, definitely older than Daeryn.

  But this one didn’t touch Daeryn. Far from it. She kept her arms crossed and leaned in to say something that made Daeryn’s eyes narrow. At his gesture, they headed over to Mistress Gere and the rest of the farmworkers. Were these the nocturnal guards he headed? He must be good at his job to supervise others older than himself.

  While they walked, Daeryn glanced up to her window.

  Annmar backed away, bumping into the stool, which crashed against the wall before she could grab it.

  Did he see me? She put her hands to her warming cheeks. No, Mistress Gere said the rooms were private. It had to be a coincidence. But Annmar’s behavior was as improper as the familiarities below her.

  Dare she risk another look?

  Annmar licked her lips and edged to the window. Everyone stood in a semicircle, listening to a tall farmer and Daeryn talk and point in various directions. Mistress Gere spoke, then broke from the group. She went directly inside, but a girl who had been with her veered to pull the bell rope Mistress Gere used earlier. The bell pealed loudly.

  Dinner. Annmar’s gaze dropped to her dusty travel clothes. Oh, now she would be late. She rushed to the bathing room.

  chapter Eleven

  Annmar entered the main house, her heels ringing a tap, tap, tap down the hall to the dining room. She shouldn’t have worn her dressier shoes. The heels floundered on the gravel, slowing her even more when she wanted to hurry. But her work skirt would drag without the heels’ height, something she’d forgotten until after changing.

  Ahead, voices rose and fell. Annmar paused to collect herself before she faced the other employees. The aromas of meat, onions and mixed herbs filled the hall. Her mouth watered.

  “I can’t wait a minute longer,” came a boyish grumble. “And if I don’t get to eat before the day guards call it quits, then I refuse to go out.”

  “Shh,” a girl hissed. “She’s here.”

  Why couldn’t the floor swallow her up? Annmar stepped to the archway, and blinked. So many people, the colors and styles of their strange clothing, their movement—

  “Finally,” snapped someone standing feet away.

  Annmar’s gaze shot to the speaker, one of the dark-haired girls she’d seen from her window. The stern one. With arms crossed and lips pressed tight, her yellow-green eyes scoured Annmar head to toe. The survey ended with a look that left Annmar no doubt of her disdain.

  “We’ve waited dinner for you to dress up?” she snarled in a husky voice, low enough that it didn’t carry. “You won’t last a week if that’s what you’re used to.”

  Her cheeks heating, Annmar put a hand where her satchel should be, but she’d left it in her room. She dropped her hand into the folds of the plain skirt, one of several suited for work and mourning clothes, all she owned, except for the travel clothes. The girl’s weird-colored eyes didn’t waver. Annmar stood her ground. But her mouth dried under the girl’s stare, leaving her unable to speak, even if she were willing to admit she had nothing like their country-wear.

  “Great Creator, Jac.” Daeryn elbowed through a group of fellows, coming up behind the taller girl. “Don’t be rude. She looks nice.” His scowl fairly snapped at Jac, his eyes bright amid a face that suddenly seemed dark, as if cast into shadow.

  Jac turned on him to reply, her lips rolling back over pointed teeth.

  Annmar backed up a step. Her eyes, the teeth. What kind of person was—

  “Here you are, dear.” Mistress Gere slid a hand to Annmar’s elbow and drew her into the room. “Now we may put an end to Terrent’s stomach woes.”

  “Nothing will stopper his mouth.” Jac transferred her daggers to a lean boy as tall as she was.

  Terrent lifted his chin, but the hurt showed in his earnest brown eyes, half-hidden beneath cadmium-red bangs. The younger boy looked about to retort, until Daeryn poked him from behind.

  Heavens, her lateness had all but started a row, and though it was hardly her fault, this wasn’t getting off on the right foot. Annmar darted a glance to Mistress Gere, ready to apologize, but the words fell away at the unexpected smile on the lady’s face.

  “Really, Jacqueline,” she said. “Have you already forgotten that Terrent’s booming yells roused the entire bunkhouse to secure your team help, to repair your poor judgment?”

  Jacqueline let her arms slide to her sides and gave a small head shake, her hair glinting red among the black waves.

  “Neither have I,” said Mistress Gere.

  The girl’s motion didn’t quite translate to an apology, but Mistress Gere turned away and announced, “Thank you for your patience, everyone. While I have most of you together, let me introduce Wellspring’s newest employee, Ann Marie Masterson, who prefers to go by Annmar. She will be executing the artwork for our collective’s advertising push. Please make her feel at home during her stay.”

  Murmurs of hello came from the sea of faces, most bearing smiles. Mistress Gere waved forward a group that included Jacqueline, Terrent and Daeryn. He flashed her a smile, and his copper skin shone with it.

  His shadowed skin and bright eyes must have been her imagination. He looked normal, for an exotically handsome boy. And he’d stood up for her. Annmar sent him a small smile in return.

  “Nocturnal team? I’ll introduce you first, so you may begin eating.” They shuffled over, and Mistress Gere added, “They go on duty soon, switching off with our day guards.”

  Besides Terrent and Jacqueline, who reminded Mistress Gere she preferred to go by Jac, the night guards included Maraquin—Jac’s distant cousin, their coloring matching down to the bizarre eyes—and a sandy-haired fellow with a full beard, Zar. Daeryn approached last.

  “You’ve met her, my dear boy,” Mistress Gere said.

  “Just making sure she doesn’t forget, surrounded by the hordes.” He winked at Annmar, friendly and warm, but dropped her hand after only the briefest shake. “Don’t think she’s really going to remember us all, do you?”

  Mistress Gere sighed. “I suppose not, but introductions are proper. Move along.”

  Daeryn did, striding with a fluid ease to join his seated teammates serving themselves from platters on the table. Though Annmar wanted to watch him longer, she returned her attention to meet the next in line. As Daeryn predicted, she lost track of the names. There were a dozen or so people ranging in age from teens to… Annmar couldn’t even begin to guess the ages of several of the gray-haired, wiry men and women. However, the “growers,” as Mistress Gere referred to them, all had two things in common: deep tans and darkish fingernails.

  The clink of tableware rose with the chatter, and Mistress Gere steered Annmar to the closest end of the plank table where a few wooden chairs remained empty. Mary Clare Pemberton seemed to be everywhere, delivering an endless stream of dishes with the same efficiency as she’d served the tea earlier. She placed two bowls of steaming vegetables on the table and threw Annmar a quick smile before dashing through the kitchen door near where Daeryn sat. Several chairs beside him were empty…

  Mrs. Betsy appeared and took one. Two redheaded girls joined her to fill the others. Both looked and dressed like Mary Clare in bib-and-braces and men’s work shirts.

  Two Mary Clares? Annmar dropped into the chair in front of her and looked sideways at them while the chair on her other side scraped back.

  “Hey, Annmar. Take some beans and pass them. How are you getting on?”

  Annmar started and turned to the girl spooning broad beans onto her plate and handing off the bowl at the same time. “You, uh, are you—” She glanced down the table bustling with farmworkers passing dishes.

  “Mary Clare. Yes, I’m me.” She laughed. “Those are my sisters. Little sisters. Mary Deli
a is fifteen and Mary Ellen is thirteen. They help out with dinners.” She pointed to the other end of the table. “And the grower with the red braids? Mary Beth. She’s twenty.”

  “Three sisters?”

  Mary Clare laughed again and handed her a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Keep the food moving or you’ll make enemies fast. Everyone is starved by this time.”

  Annmar snatched up the spoon, plopped a dollop on her plate and handed the bowl to the boy on the other side of her.

  “Seven girls, my poor pa, though he loves us all. Mary Alice, Mary Beth, Mary Clare, Mary Delia, Mary Ellen, Mary Francis and Mary Grace. Our range is fourteen years, currently twenty-two on down to eight. Everyone asks, so I may as well tell you right off. And no, my mom won’t be having any more kids. She’s set in a store of Regulatia and never forgets. I’m eighteen. How about you?”

  A range of what? Oh, ages. And Regulatia? Could this be a plant or something else that stopped conception? The chatty Mary Clare probably would tell her all about it if she asked, but this wasn’t the place for that kind of women’s talk. Instead, Annmar answered the question. “My nineteenth birthday fell last spring.”

  “It did?” The surprise in her voice echoed in Mary Clare’s face. “Dressed like you are, I figured you for older, twenty-two like Mary Alice.” Her eyes narrowed, and she scanned down Annmar’s figure. “It’s because you’re wearing a corset, I suppose.”

  Annmar blinked. At least Mary Clare had said this quietly, and the boys on either side of them paid no mind. Our atypical customs may not meet the conventions others wish to accept, Mistress Gere had said. Clearly, no woman working here wore a corset, but without it, Annmar had no figure to speak of.

  Mary Clare passed her yet another bowl, this one filled with heavenly smelling orange mash. “Only a few married town ladies in the Basin wear corsets. You’re not married, are you?”

  “No,” Annmar murmured while serving herself the vegetable. What a personal discussion this was. “All women wear them in town.”

  “You have a beau then, someone who dotes on you?”