Daughters of Aether Read online

  DAUGHTERS OF AETHER

  Book Two of the Clockwork Calamity

  By Nicholas Petrarch

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicholas Petrarch

  This is a work of fiction. Names, events, and settings portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Reproduction, in whole or in part, of this book in any form without the express written consent of the author and publisher is strictly prohibited.

  Cover Design: Biserka Design

  Author Photo: GinnyMae Photography

  ISBN: 978-1-7320642-3-2 (ebook)

  First Edition

  Published by Pelorus Books 2019

  To my loving wife,

  Who reminds me daily some things are worth sacrificing for

  Eight years before the fall of the meritocracy

  PROLOGUE

  MARGARETE GRIPPED THE BANISTER as she dragged herself up the narrow stairs. The climb proved difficult, what with the many layers of dress she wore and how her head spun. She’d come from one of the meritocracy’s parties. The event of the century, or so they said of every event they put on. Margarete wasn’t so sure. She’d attended many, and somehow they all seemed the same when everyone had returned home.

  The stairs tilted beneath her and Margarete grasped for the wall as she steadied herself. Her arms shook as her breaths came in shallow gasps. Her face tightened as she glared at the steps, demanding that they’d stay still and let her pass.

  The wine was getting to her.

  The pause gave her time to breathe, and the world righted itself a little more. Perspiration beaded on her brow with the effort to stand, but she swallowed hard and straightened up just as two girls appeared at the top of the stairs.

  The girls were only just beginning their nightly rounds while Margarete concluded hers. It was a privilege of girls who’d attracted the attention of the more influential members of society not to have to wander the streets. Instead, they scoured the Spire’s social escapades each night, hunting after some promising youth of the meritocracy or generous benefactor to support them.

  It was the goal of most girls when they came under Charlotte’s roof—a badge of distinction within the house. But it was a lie. If only they knew how undeserving she was of their envy, Margarete thought.

  Straightened up, Margarete tried to appear relaxed. As the girls came down, she kept her gaze focused downward.

  “Oh, Margarete!” one girl said when she realized who it was. “I was looking for you earlier, but I suppose you’d already gone out. I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Are… are you all right?” the second girl asked, noticing Margarete’s shaking as she gripped the banister.

  “It’s nothing, Faye,” Margarete managed to say. She wasn’t confident she could handle a conversation at the moment. Not in her current state. She needed to get to her room. She needed to get out of her dress.

  Most of all, she needed time to think.

  “Are you sure?” Faye asked. “You look—”

  She didn’t finish as Margarete forced herself past her on the steps. “I said it’s nothing,” Margarete insisted.

  The girls watched her complete the climb with concerned glances to one another. “Margarete? Margarete, what’s wrong?” they called after her, but she didn’t stop. Not until she reached her door.

  She fumbled with the clasp of the purse around her wrist until she’d retrieved a small skeleton key. The latch stuck when she inserted it, but she wiggled it and soon the door swung open wide. It swung faster than she’d intended and struck the edge of a wardrobe with a bang.

  Charlotte started in her chair, letting out a cry of alarm as she spun around. She looked at Margarete as though she were a ghost appeared out of the dark.

  “Goodness, child!” she said, once she’d found her voice again. “What was that all about? Why would you give me such a start? My heart is racing faster than a thoroughbred’s!”

  “I’m sorry,” Margarete said. The words bumped against one another as they traveled from her mind to her lips so they were more a mumble than an apology.

  She closed the door behind her, gentler this time, and locked it. Charlotte let out a long, exasperated sigh and returned her attention to the vanity mirror as she wiped away the final traces of her cosmetics with a damp cloth. She was already in her nightgown.

  “How was the opera?” she asked, clasping her kit closed and tucking it away in a drawer.

  “Nothing,” Margarete said.

  “What was that?”

  Margarete held a hand to her head. “I mean fine.”

  “Are you all right?” Charlotte asked. She rose from the vanity and came closer, looking Margarete over with critical concern. “You look as though you met Septigonee herself tonight.”

  “I’m all right,” Margarete insisted, brushing past her. She took her seat at the vanity and patted her perspiring brow with a cloth.

  They only had the one vanity, which made it difficult sometimes when both needed to get ready for an evening out on the Spire. With the high status of their clients they couldn’t afford to appear rushed. Fortunately, they’d devised a fairly efficient routine. It was rare when they had to compete with one another for time in front of the mirror.

  It was an art.

  Charlotte was watching her in the mirror, so Margarete busied herself to discourage further prying. Fetching her own cosmetics kit, she laid it open and pulled her own water basin closer to her. Charlotte’s curiosity seemed deflected as she let out one final sigh before slipping into bed.

  Like the vanity, there was only one which they shared. The two of them shared practically everything except the wardrobes. They’d each been furnished with their own when they’d attracted their first gentleman suitors. With the number of dresses they owned it would have been impossible to share the space. Gentlemen of the meritocracy insisted on adorning their mistresses with the most trending fashions. It was just one more way in which they competed amongst themselves.

  It was a game—one which Margarete had grown to enjoy less and less with the passing years.

  Pulling out the pin that held it in place, Margarete set her hat on a stand before removing the rest of the pins which held her hair in place. It seemed silly when she thought about it, and altogether ridiculous at times, the ordeal they put themselves through to prepare themselves each night when all of their work would likely be undone only a few short hours later. It was the same routine each night and sometimes it took as long as it did to enjoy the festivities themselves.

  If she’d ever enjoyed them.

  Margarete couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely enjoyed herself among all the pomp, prestige, and parading. They’d held her fascination when she was young, but why? She couldn’t say.

  She drew out another pin, letting another curl fall free. It bounced over her ear, its subtle red reflecting in the mirror. The men of the meritocracy were finicky about hair. Most favored brunettes as was fashionable on the Spire in the years following the Great War. It showed stability in a woman, or so they supposed. And with the horrors of war still fresh in everyone’s memory stability was a desirable trait.

  Margarete, however, was an outlier among the women on the Spire. She broke the common mold. In most settings her hair did appear brunette, but those streaks of red came through when she turned in just the right light. It gave her an air of risk and unpredictability—a fire which enticed men’s fancy.

  It was just that air which had first attracted her gentlemen suitors.

  She’d felt fortunate in those early days, having caught t
heir eyes. Her men had once been badges of accomplishment—a sign of security. It meant a better quality of life for a girl in her otherwise fallen state. So long as she’d held their gaze, she’d no longer had to walk the streets at night in search of the downtrodden and desperate. With it came the pleasures of high society and a measure of recognition, or—dare she say—respect.

  Yet, as Margarete looked in the mirror at the bare pink walls and worn furniture, she couldn’t help frowning. Despite all she and the other girls had sought after they still possessed so little. All she saw was a child’s doll done up to be pretty, framed in the middle of a room that didn’t match the costliness of her dress.

  She didn’t belong there as much as she didn’t belong on the Spire.

  Dipping a cloth in her water basin, Margarete wiped away the cosmetics around her eyes and on her lips. It came away in thick swatches of color. They bled together into streaks that clung to the cloth. She dipped and wiped again and again, but, no matter how she tried, traces of them always remained.

  Margarete released the cloth, letting it sink below the water, and clasped her hands in her lap. She was shaking again, but this time it wasn’t just her hands. Her whole body shook, and she twisted her hands in her lap. Despite her efforts to drown out the memory with the wine it bubbled up within her.

  She looked into the mirror, pleading with herself to let it go. Yet, despite her miserable efforts, the memory still surfaced.

  I love you, he’d said.

  Margarete’s shoulders slumped forward as her chest compressed, the words echoing within her head. Whispered to her only hours before, they’d stunned her into silence inside Worthington’s carriage as they’d left the party.

  From the beginning they’d been clear about their limitations, yet he’d gone against everything they’d agreed upon. They’d spoken about love and agreed that neither was free to do so given certain complications. It was a relationship born entirely out of convenience, and yet for whatever reason Worthington had changed the rules when he’d said those three unwelcome words.

  And in the same breath he’d refused her to come to him again!

  Margarete wasn’t certain what to do with his declaration. What did he expect her to do? His family would arrive in Hatteras the following day, and he’d made it clear he would not upset his family life by entertaining a mistress while his wife was there. He had promised to continue to support her, in honor of their relations and her discretion, but they would have to go their separate ways. It was what she’d always expected.

  But then why say he loved her?

  Margarete rose from the vanity and paced the room, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor. He didn’t love her, she told herself for the hundredth time. He couldn’t love her. He cared for her, perhaps, but only as much as she provided him companionship. Only while she played the part he’d fashioned for her.

  Her dress caught the raised corner of a loose board in the floor and she stumbled, fighting to keep her balance. Her mind was spinning, and she sat back down at the vanity before she took a tumble. Examining the edge of the dress, she saw the fresh tear which ran across the hem.

  Margarete’s chest shuddered again as her emotions rose in her throat and threatened to choke her.

  What would she do? What was she supposed to do? Was Worthington softening toward her? He’d always been stern when it came to the guidelines he’d set. While many gentlemen of the meritocracy were open about their mistresses, Worthington had always kept her at arm’s length. He’d made it clear he would not cross his private life with his public.

  But then, in the privacy of their solitude, he’d opened to her and revealed a tenderness few others knew. He’s surprised her, like no man had before. Was he saying…

  No!

  Margarete shook the thought from her head. It was clear so long as his family was in Hatteras she was to keep her distance. There was still a possibility their circumstance might change. It wasn’t unheard of for a mistress to accompany a gentleman even while his wife was present. As long as he sanctioned it there was little one could do to deny him.

  So then was she meant to wait on him? And if so, for how long? Worthington had given her no clear time-frame. What if he never sought her out again?

  Did she even want him to?

  The whole prospect was too much to take in. Too frustrating to think about. Her head ached and Margarete clasped it tight in her hands to stop the thoughts from spinning about her—but they would not relent.

  I love you, he’d said.

  Margarete let out a shrill cry as she glared at the image of the girl in the mirror. Rising from the chair, she lashed out at it with a tightened fist, splintering the surface in a web of crystalline threads. The girl on the other side glared back at her, tears streaming down her cracked facade.

  With a heavy sob, Margarete slumped off her chair and onto the floor exhausted.

  “Margarete!” Charlotte was sitting up in her bed. “What on earth is wrong? What happened?” She threw off the blanket and hurried to Margarete’s side, kneeling next to her as she placed a hand on Margarete’s shoulder.

  Margarete leaned into her, not looking up into her eyes. She was staring at the blood forming at the base of her palm, running down along her wrist. It stained the edge of her sleeve, but she didn’t care. She was at the end of caring. She was finally numb.

  “You poor thing,” Charlotte said, taking Margarete’s hand in her own. “What have you done to yourself?”

  PART I

  It’s only been a year since the war has ended, and the city still bears signs of what it has suffered. It will take time to rebuild, but the spirit of industry that has gripped the people is contagious. It has gripped me! I’m convinced it won’t be long before I will be able to send for you and our little Emmaline.

  —Excerpt from Worthington’s Early Letters Home

  CHAPTER ONE

  Coming Home

  EMMALINE STOOD IN THE CENTER of the pier, her arms outstretched as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the unfamiliar sights of the city. The buildings rose like smokestacks among the cliffs, many of them with new construction. Their iron frames stood exposed, offering a glimpse into their inner workings. They dwarfed even the tallest building back home in Sorrento and Emmaline felt a profound sense of her own miniature stature amidst them.

  They had told her things would be different in Hatteras, but she wasn’t sure anyone could have prepared her for this.

  Their airship had landed at a sky-port along the upper rim of the immense cliff-face that rose like a spiraling shell from the edge of the water. It extended out over the Basin below, a sheltered cove shielded from the open sea. On the surface many vessels cut across its glassy mirror while airships like theirs drifted close to the slopes as they rose from the docks. They were all sizes and colors, turning the sky into a prismatic display. Emmaline had never seen anything like it. It reminded her of the honeybees swarming around their hives.

  Craning her head as far over the edge of the platform as she dared, Emmaline tried to get a better view. She wasn’t comfortable enough yet to step too close. She’d grown used to the sight of the sea below her during their long trip, but that feat had taken a week at the almost constant prodding of the crew. Now, standing on the edge of the cliff with firm ground underneath her feet once again, her apprehension of heights returned.

  A gentle gust of wind rose from below and swirled around her, ruffling her dress and threatening to steal away her hat. She clasped it tight to her head.

  “Emmaline,” her mother called. “Come away from there this instant. I don’t like you so close to the edge.”

  “She fine, ma’am,” one of the deckhands said, lugging a chest down the ramp. “She only curious.”

  They’d been told to travel light, her father insisting they’d find everything they needed in their new home. But her mother hadn’t found it easy to let things go. Emmaline stared at the growing tower of parcels. It was strange to see all
of their possessions in one pile. It brought a sense of finality to the move. This was their home now, for better or worse.

  Emmaline clutched the necklace around her neck.

  “I didn’t ask for the opinion of a hired man,” her mother said. She cast the man a severe look, and the deckhand bowed his head low, mumbling his apologies.

  “Oh, don’t fret too much over the girl, Mary,” Emmaline’s uncle said as he came forward from the ship with his own luggage. “The man’s right. She’s perfectly safe here on the pier. And it’s good for her to stretch her legs a little, I would think. Especially after being boxed up so long in her cabin. One can’t get half a dozen good steps in that ship without hitting a wall.”

  Emmaline’s mother let out a huff of annoyance, her opinion clearly unaltered. She might have said something more but her attention was seized again when another deckhand dropped one of their bags as he came down off the plank.

  “Be careful with that!” Mary cried. She huffed again and hurried to direct them how to handle the last of their parcels.

  “I think your mother is wound a little too tight from all the traveling,” her uncle whispered to Emmaline as he stepped up beside her. He gave her a wink, and Emmaline smiled.

  Lewis was his name, or Lewis von Kappa as he insisted when he was feeling fancy—which was often. She’d only known him a short while, yet she’d enjoyed him immensely during their trip. She couldn’t imagine how dull it would have been without his all-around pleasantness to cheer their discomforts.

  She hadn’t realized she’d even had an uncle. He’d been employed by her father to accompany him when he’d first come to Hatteras five years before and had remained with him ever since. Her father had entrusted him to fetch her and her mother as well as tie up any final business their family had in Sorrento.