The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance (9 page)

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 Delia 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?”

Annmar ducked her head, letting her brown curls fall to hide the heat coursing to her cheeks. This girl did
not
know about Mr. Shearing’s untoward attention. Yet her body’s reaction was out of her control.

“For surely the boys will be asking me, seeing us talking together—oh!” Mary Clare’s warm hand covered hers, still on the table clenching the serving spoon. “I’m
so
sorry to make you ill at ease. They warned me to watch my tongue, saying the…what was it? Right, the protocol for certain subjects differs Outside the Basin. No one heard, if that helps. They really are famished and thinking of nothing else but the food before them. Forgive me?”

Perhaps it was the kind words or Mary Clare’s soft squeeze of her hand, but Annmar felt her embarrassment slide off and dared a glance around the noisy table. No one was listening, let alone looking, grinning or laughing. She took a breath and nodded.

A frown still creased Mary Clare’s brow. “So, relationships aren’t spoken of in society, as Miz Gere called it?”

This sweet girl appeared so hesitant now Annmar couldn’t help but reassure her—but in a low voice. “Definitely not. The wrong kind of talk could ruin an unmarried girl, though once one marries, it seems to all fall by the side. One can speak of interest in men among those who wouldn’t divulge the information.” Her face had cooled. “I, uh, do not have a beau.”

The girl’s frown eased, and she leaned forward. “I hope you’re not intending to keep too many secrets at Wellspring. It’s close quarters living and working together. We know each other well.”

Hadn’t Mistress Gere said the same thing? Annmar shrugged.

Mary Clare sighed. “I hope we can be friends.”

“I’d like that.” And she meant it. Without Polly to confide in, she needed a friend, especially with a bad-tempered girl like Jac sharing the bunkhouse.

“Good.” The grin returned to her freckled face. “As we get on, I can acquaint you with life in the Basin, and you can tell me about the city ways. I plan to visit Outside and don’t want to stand out like a rotten turnip.”

Annmar laughed. Funny how at ease this girl was and how quickly that ease transferred to her. Imagine having this conversation with anyone she’d just met in Derby? Months of living together passed before Annmar told Polly, and only Polly, of Mr. Shearing’s offer. “It may take some time to relay all you need to know about town society. The etiquette is, um, set. Unspoken rules are not ever crossed.”

Mary Clare patted her arm, reminding Annmar even more of Polly. “Those rules don’t exist in the Basin, and even less here. It’s a farm community, you understand? All of us have grown up on farms. Even Mary Grace at eight knows how bulls and cows… Uh, males and females, er…” Mary Clare leaned in close again. “You do know about
that
, right?”

“Yes,” Annmar said and added in a whisper, “Since fourteen, when my monthlies—” She covered her mouth with her napkin. How had that slipped out? At least Annmar did know what to expect. Mother explained men’s desires when her failing health made it clear she wouldn’t be around when Annmar came of age.

Mary Clare didn’t seem at all appalled. She just grinned more. A family of girls. Obviously, they talked about women’s issues. “But I suppose there in Derby, in your society, girls don’t—”

“No.” Mercy, where was this conversation going? “Not until you are wed.” Well, that wasn’t entirely
correct. “Or, uh, you decide, or are forced by circumstances.”

Mary Clare’s eyes widened. “Forced?”

“I mean if a girl has no money, no way to make money or live, she may be forced to marry or to take a…
job,
uh…” Annmar waved her hand.

“Ohhh.” Mary Clare’s nose wrinkled with understanding. “Imagine doing it when it’s not your choice of a partner.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

Oh, my. This girl made it sound like she
had
chosen partners, as she phrased it, and hopefully not the way Mr. Shearing had tried to choose Annmar. How could she extricate them from this oh-so-intimate conversation? “Right, well, desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. Say, I’d appreciate it if this could stay between the two of us.”

“Of course. And don’t worry, I’ll get you on track with all this. In the meantime, you come to me with any questions.”

Annmar blinked. In this short—but personal—exchange, Mary Clare
had
become her friend. She beamed at the other girl. “I will.”

Mary Clare grinned back. “Great. Sorry to run, but Mrs. Betsy is giving me the look. I’ve dishes to refill before someone bites at me. And I have to bring out dessert. Wait until you try our apple spice cake!”