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

by Wanrow, Laurel

  “Dawdle?” Mary Clare snorted. “I made up that excuse, for him to hear. You shouldn’t have gone into the dining room with him there alone.” She steered Annmar to the rocking chair and handed her the teacup.

  “Who is that?”

  “Paet. He and his father, Maxillon, arrived yesterday to fill in for Daeryn, Maraquin and Terrent. We hear the team killed some vermin. Miz Gere has gone to learn how many. She’s pleased as punch, but they’re saying dozens more have ravaged the fields. Those hired men figure a week and they’ll have them all. Then they’re—” She motioned her extended thumb over her shoulder.

  Annmar clutched her teacup and nodded.

  Mary Clare nodded back. “You understand, then. One look and I knew that man was up to no good. I don’t even want to get close enough to tell.”

  “So it wasn’t just me thinking he was creepy?” Annmar blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Are they from the Basin?”

  “Yes, deeper into the Black Mountains, a different locale than our other ’cambires. Different temperament than any of them, too.” Mary Clare darted a glance to the closed dining room door. “Like you say, creepy.”

  Mercy. If these Basin residents feared the strangers, then they must be dangerous. Annmar took a sip of tea. She wanted to ask—she had to ask—questions to learn more about these strange people. Two nights ago she wasn’t ready to confide in Mary Clare. But after yesterday’s strange events—and this morning’s—she had to devise a way to fit in. Despite Jac’s newest prediction, Annmar was not leaving before Market Day.

  She looked up at Mary Clare. “So what are they?”

  “Ropen, Riv says. A bat-like flying mammal.” Mary Clare shrugged. “Our ’cambires have all heard stories, but none of them agree on what it is exactly.”

  Mrs. Betsy appeared between them. “Don’t matter. You girls steer clear of that man and his boy, you hear?” The wooden spoon in her hand pointed and jabbed to punctuate her strong tone. “Some things you don’t need to know to do that. Those ropens have Mistress Gere’s permission to be on Wellspring land to do a job. They will do it and be out of here soon enough.”

  Mrs. Betsy returned to her mixing. Annmar met Mary Clare’s gaze, and the redhead answered with a soft sigh. She went to the sink and picked up her washrag.

  When she’d finished eating, Annmar carried her dishes to the sink, intending to wash them, but Mary Clare waved her away. Annmar tossed her a smile and crossed to the breakfast nook where the small drafting table stood. She’d lose herself in drawing and try to forget she’d seen Daeryn and Maraquin together.

  Pint jars lined the adjacent counter where Mrs. Betsy said they’d keep her samples. Annmar picked up each in turn, all coded with letters on their lids. Some were familiar: apple butter, French beans and onions, and stewed tomatoes. But squash relish? What kind of squash?

  She caught Mrs. Betsy’s gaze. “I should like to go to the fields to check these specific varieties.”

  “Of course, duck. I can spare Mary Clare a few minutes. She’ll show you…hmm. Boots?”

  “About that. Would Mistress Gere allow me time to go to town to purchase a pair?”

  “May I accompany her? Please?” Mary Clare took a hold of Mrs. Betsy’s arm. “May I?”

  The cook looked between the two of them before settling on Annmar. “Can these trips wait until after the noon meal is served?”

  “Yes. I know a few vegetables well enough to get started.”

  Mrs. Betsy nodded. “Very well.” Mary Clare squealed, but when Mrs. Betsy frowned, she immediately returned to washing.

  “We can eat a bite on the run”—Mary Clare shot a look over her shoulder to Annmar—“so we have more time before I have to be back for dinner preparations. If you don’t mind?”

  Annmar lifted the jar of stewed tomatoes. “I doubt I’ll be hungry by noon,” she said with a laugh.

  Opening the larger sketchbook Mistress Gere provided, Annmar began to sketch, filling the first pages with drawings of small, oblong tomatoes. These sweet-tasting fruits came in a different shape than she and Mother had grown, but the plant and leaves were familiar. After several sketches, Annmar designed a label with a cluster of three fruits hanging deep under shadowy leaves, with room for the name in the corner Mistress Gere had chosen.

  Next, she opened the French beans. Their images came in a confusing mix. Annmar recognized the leaves made up of three leaflets, but long, spiky parts appeared among the foliage. Surely beans wouldn’t be that different in Blighted Basin. She tried to sort it out, but the image became more confused, with blue threads trailing from leaf to leaf.

  What was that? She lifted her pencil and by habit rubbed her eyes before realizing the image was no longer before her. The muddled vision disappeared, taking the blue lines with it. Her rough sketch showed vague leafy shapes covered in cobwebs. She peered closer, willing the vision back. In a blink, it returned. Blue cobwebs.

  Hadn’t she imagined blue lines in Daeryn’s drawing? She studied the webbing of tangled lines. In the sketch of Daeryn’s foot, the blue had followed her pencil lines, at first unnoticeable. These obstructed the sketch. Was she rushing her new Knack and making it work wrong? Would another bite of this preserve help…or worsen the vision?

  She turned to the cut French beans and onions on her plate.

  Oh. Beans and onions. She’d eaten both, so was seeing both.

  Annmar studied them a moment. If she’d realized this pickled preserve wasn’t as straightforward as yesterday’s jams or the tomatoes had been, she might have waited. Too late now. She put the pencil down and turned to a new page before spearing only a little white bulb on her fork. She held it up for a good look.

  Onions. They were the simpler plant, with their tubular leaves. “Just onions this time,” she whispered herself.

  Her neck flushed warm beneath the high collar of her blouse. Annmar plucked the material and waved cooler air to her collarbone. They hadn’t built up the fire, had they? But as quickly as she thought she might get too warm, the feeling passed. The kitchen was quiet, with both Mary Clare and Mrs. Betsy each kneading dough and talking quietly.

  Annmar concentrated again and ate the onion.

  Ahh. As she’d hoped, only images of the single plant came to her: rows of tubular stems poking through the mounded soil, the onions harvested while marble-sized and sweet. Her pencil stroked the lines, then spiraled into the white bulbs below, with fine roots spreading from their ends and…the blue cobwebbing entwined with the roots and particles of soil.

  Annmar froze, her focus blurring to analyze the image hanging in her mind. The webbing seemed to be the same fine roots she’d seen lacing through the ground when she arrived. But they couldn’t be roots, as she’d thought that afternoon. The cerulean blue color, the delicacy of the thread shape and their glow matched the filaments of light on the tea warmer. Just as they had tied the components of the machine together, the light threads connected the plants to the soil.

  She followed their paths. The luminated threads spread from the onion row, weaving in and out among other plants until they knit across the field. Instead of straight paths, they traveled in spirals, loops and twists of lines connecting, separating, and then coming together again. The arrangement might not be uniform, but Annmar saw order in the patterns.

  More so than in her first drawing, this vision showed strength. Energy. Vigor.

  “Life,” she whispered. Incredible. All this connected to a simple onion. And she, Annmar, could see it. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mary Clare at her side.

  “I-I think so.” A tear slid down her cheek. Annmar wiped it away. “They’re happy tears. I’m understanding this.”

  “Drawing…oh, your Knack.” Mary Clare hugged her around the shoulders. “I’m glad.”

  * * *

  Annmar finished the onions, and then the beans, before flipping through the pages to select sketches to use for the label. Running her fingert
ips along the onion row, she stopped. Hold on a second. Had she really asked her Knack to focus on just the one plant?

  She thought back, her hands folded before her mouth. She had.

  Just like she’d directed her Knack to focus on healing Daeryn’s one foot. And the opposite was true as well: If she missed an injury—as in the case of Daeryn’s tendon—it didn’t heal. The two vegetables at once had confused her Knack until she told it which to focus on.

  It wasn’t the food making her gift work. She was.

  Wellspring’s foods enhanced her existing Knack, but as Daeryn pointed out, she’d already seen sights in Derby. Could she merely focus on a food, without eating it, and see the same visions?

  Annmar slid off her stool and, after some study, selected a jar of blackberry jam. She was familiar with the plant’s canes and leaves, so this might not be a true test, but she didn’t know what else to try. Using a spoon, she plucked a berry from the jam and held it before her.

  Focus.

  Her neck heated again, but this time she ignored it. She kept her gaze on the jam, her thoughts focused on the berry, the flower it came from, a spot where it must have grown—

  A lush bush appeared in her mind’s eye, dotted with five-petaled white flowers. Nearby, a small, round woman stood beaming. White curls capped her head, touching the turned-up collar of a purple cloak from which one gloved hand poked to grasp a thorny walking stick. Grinning, Annmar set the spoon on her plate and snatched up her pencil.

  * * *

  The clunk of heavy platters on the dining room sideboard signaled the start of the noon meal. Daeryn held a crutch under each arm, but paced a circle around the den-like sickroom with his weight on both feet. Should he go out now, before the majority of the growers arrived, or wait until most had left again? If he waited, he risked missing Annmar. But now, he hardly had a chance to catch her alone.

  He wanted very badly to do just that. His foot, though not getting much of a test in this confining space, was healed. Completely, the best he could judge. After giving his fresh shirt another round of tucking and adjusting his braces, he made his way to the busy room, using the crutches.

  Annmar was not at the half-filled table, and the kitchen door was closed. That was unusual. Opening it would have Mrs. Betsy sending him back to bed, making the better choice just to wait. Paet was just sitting down with his plate, so Daeryn stopped to say hello. “Surprised to see you here at midday. I hear you had a good night.”

  “That’s it exactly, mate.” Paet grinned. “I wanted to make sure they found all our kills, and meals come with the job, so why pay elsewhere?”

  “Our day guards won’t miss anything. You might catch one of them rotating through for lunch.”

  “I’ll wait for that woman. I’d rather talk to her, if you get my drift.”

  His disrespectful tone regarding Famil was intolerable. Daeryn ground out, “I do, and I suggest you talk to Wyatt.”

  Paet cocked back his head. “And who are you telling me what to do?”

  By sheer will, Daeryn kept his own chin down. “Daeryn Darkcoat. I’m in charge of the night team.”

  The ropen curled his nose in disbelief. “That wolf bitch—”

  “Jac”—Daeryn paused to let that sink in—“is filling in for me for another day until I’m off these.” He lifted one crutch and stood his full weight on both feet.

  Paet looked him up and down. “Another day?” He shrugged and turned to his plate. He spooned his vegetables onto one hunk of bread, slapped the meat on top and pressed a second slice of bread over the lot. Wrapping his fingers around the mess, Paet rose. “Right you are. Tonight’s soon enough to hear they gathered up our kills, or collect the rest myself.”

  He headed into the hall and turned toward the back door. Cursing under his breath, Daeryn angled around the table to one of the front windows. If Paet didn’t walk down the drive and off the property, he’d send… Daeryn scanned the growers still eating and spotted the younger Henry. He’d send Henry for Mistress Gere. All he had was a bad feeling, but he didn’t want Paet around unsupervised. Thank the Creator that man was here only temporarily.

  * * *

  Soon after Mary Clare’s sisters arrived to help with the noon meal, Annmar stood and stretched. The session of drawing seemed to have tired her more than a typical day at Rennet’s. Around her the staff moved at a dizzying pace while she gathered her art materials and the new label sketchbook. When Mary Clare offered her a napkin with bread and roast beef, Annmar took the package gratefully and slipped out the door to mince her way to the bunkhouse—hopefully one of her last times braving it in these town shoes.

  In her room, she opened her personal sketchbook and flipped to Daeryn’s drawing. Thinking he was interested in her was just plain stupid. It stung how badly she’d misjudged his supposed interest in her. Annmar sighed.

  Her gaze landed on the drawing’s lower right corner. While she’d trained with Mother, she’d started marking her art with a joined printing of her initials, AM. To complete Mother’s drawings and paintings after her death, she’d used Mother’s cursive signature.

  This mark was neither.

  The bar of the A now wound into a circle around the letters and ended in a flourish below. The result looked like a tradesman’s mark, or a brand, something she’d never thought of developing or practicing. When had she drawn this? She brushed her fingertips from Daeryn’s body to his face to his feet, trying to remember completing it. She’d been tired…thinking herself like an automaton… Afterward, she’d seen the blue light on the tea warmer.

  She glanced at it now, and then shook herself. The machine was special, but had nothing to do with her drawing. She paged through the rest of the sketches she’d done since arriving at Wellspring.

  A version of the mark was on every drawing.

  On the first ones drawn in the farmyard, the extra lines were simply trailing wisps. Those dashes grew over the sketches of Pat and her peach tree, Daeryn sleeping and the jams she’d sampled in the afternoon. Annmar opened the new sketchbook. Each drawing bore the stylized initials, their lines firmly executed and identical to the one on Daeryn’s drawing.

  The new mark had grown with her Knack. It had to be a part of it.

  chapter twenty-three

  Annmar sank to the chair and cupped her hands over her mouth. Just when she’d learned one new thing about her Knack, another popped up. How long would this continue? Thank goodness Mary Clare offered to accompany her to town. These questions couldn’t risk eavesdropping.

  When Annmar came down her spiraling staircase fifteen minutes later, a rough engine whined in the workshop. The mechanic who’d been operating the windlass finished loosening a bolt on a spider machine and lifted off the housing. The exposed gears jerked and banged as they turned.

  How unlike the smooth humming of the little tea warmer.

  The white-haired man stooped, checking each of the gears and rods. A short boy of probably thirteen or fourteen, with messy blond hair and dirty-kneed trousers, looked on. They didn’t notice when she moved beside them to get a better look at this machine’s stream of blue light. The energy, for lack of a better term, wasn’t like the tea warmer’s either. The ragged lines ran thick over a few gears and thin over the rest. At the joints, it wriggled in tangles before continuing on.

  The mechanic pressed the end of a wrench to the largest gear. The rattling stopped, then started again when he removed the tool. He eyed the boy over his shoulder. “Henry, how many days have you worked this machine without having it back for us to check the oil?”

  “Er, I’m not sure. Sir.” The boy stuffed his hands into his pockets. “A week. Maybe a little over.”

  A snort sounded from the next stall.

  Henry shot a furtive look that way and scuffed a foot. “More like three, but I haven’t run it much the last week, what with the bush beans ripening. Mistress Gere ordered a double crop for this fall, and those new vermin threw a wrench in our schedule, tearin
g up plants and sending us to our knees to gather them, but Mistress Gere is not one to take excuses. Got done just this morning, and I came right in with the spider applicator.”

  The man shook his head. “Your head grower won’t berate you for taking a break to keep your equipment in working order, son. I know it looks built for rough work, but there are delicate components inside.”

  “Much more so than anything Shearing Enterprises is putting out,” Annmar said.

  Both turned to look at her. From the next stall Rivley’s head popped out. “How would you know that?” He joined them, wiping his hands on a rag.

  Annmar backed up a step. “I, uh…” Wait, she didn’t need to hesitate. Her work wasn’t a secret, at least not by the time the machines went to advertising. Only Mr. Shearing’s attraction to her was. “I drew the advertising for a number of their engines, ones machined of bulkier rods and thicker gears. These of yours have innards more like fine clockwork.”

  Giving a nod, the mechanic reached out a dark hand and flipped a lever.

  The gears stopped. Annmar expected to see the blue light run its course and gather into the center as it had with the tea warmer. It tried, but the machine gave a shudder. The stream broke with a snap and shot off a spray of sparks.

  Annmar jumped, and felt foolish when none of the others did. Was this normal for their machines? The handful of sparks at once didn’t seem right, and now just a faint glow of cerulean light came from the center of the engine. The heart. Too little energy cycled through this machine. It did need help.

  The older man cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He stuck out his hand. “Master Horatio Brightwell.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Master Brightwell.” She shook his hand. “Annmar Masterson.”

  He squinted at her, then dug through a shirt pocket, found a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and settled them on his nose. “Never heard of a Masterson family. Could be a Shaw.”