The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad

by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

  What she could not get used to was being home with only his widow as the adult of the house. Clad in the most flattering and stylish ensembles of the best black fabric, her stepma-ma swanned about, crowning her carefully curled coiffure of mahogany tresses with a little hat with a veil of black fishnet when she went out. With her pale skin and unusual gold-brown eyes, she was the very picture of a devoted wife shattered by grief. Except her eyes were not unattractively reddened or puffed.

  Verity, whatever her feelings, was not about to let herself be out-mourned for her father, although all she had was an old black school uniform from Baroness Frontbottom’s School for Gentlewomen of Unfortunate Intellectual Leanings, which was a long way of saying it was a charm school keen on telling one how to look and sound while doing and saying utterly useless things. The Baroness felt that a little black uniform was always appropriate. Unfortunately, Verity had grown several inches since she attended that particular school. The uniforms were large and shapeless, however, on the theory that the girls would grow into them and also look unappetizingly dowdy while doing so. She only had to let it out a little, something she was perfectly capable of doing since needlework was one gentlewoman’s art all of the schools insisted the girls learn. With her long dishwater blonde (the cook’s unflattering term for light brown) braids pinned into a corona around the top of her head and the unusual medium olive complexion she shared with her father, not to mention the awkward gestures and posture of a body growing faster than her control of it, she looked like a poor relation.

  When she at last made her first appearance in the house after her week of self-imposed confinement, her stepmother, who had been drinking tea and in conversation with a man wearing a dark suit and a black armband, looked up absently and said, “Oh, Vanessa, there you are, my dear. Cousin Briciu, allow me to present my late husband’s daughter, Velocity. Velocity, Lord Briciu is my second cousin on my father’s side.”

  Verity made a little curtsy of acknowledgement, but couldn’t help saying, “It’s Verity, actually. There was a Sister Velocity at Our Lady of Perpetual Locomotion. All of the faculty had such modern, scientific names.”

  “Whatever,” Sophronia said, taking her cousin’s hand and gazing soulfully at him. He was not a bad-looking man, Verity supposed, though perhaps a bit older than her father. He was taller than Papa, and his hair was fair where Papa’s was dark brown, his complexion pale while Papa was naturally dark-skinned, as she was. His hairline showed a deep expanse of forehead, but the back of his hair, gathered in a handsome silver clip, was much more luxuriant and glossy than either Sophronia’s or hers. Above a sharp nose, his eyes attempted to hold her with a watery green gaze, which made it difficult for her not to squirm. “Lord Briciu’s lady wife died the same day as our beloved Gowen. I was, as you know, visiting them when it happened. I’ve asked Briciu to stay here for a time so we may be of comfort to one another in our time of need.”

  “Sir,” Verity said, with another curtsy since there was nothing else she could think of to say that was not a false pleasantry. The last thing she wanted was a strange man—and an ally of her stepmother’s—making free of her home. He looked awfully pleased with himself. If he was a grieving widower, then grief became him.

  “I trust you’re feeling much stronger now, my dear,” Sophronia continued. “Until we know the terms of Gowen’s will, I feel we must cut back on staff, which means you will need to pitch in a bit more, of course.”

  Oh, no, you don’t, Verity thought. She knew where this was going. She wasn’t the only one among her classmates with a conniving and selfish step-parent. More than once she’d learned of a girl whose real parent died not returning from the funeral. When someone called to offer condolences, they would find the formerly pampered daughter on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors.

  “That is unless meanwhile we can make a suitable placement for you. We’ll have to re-evaluate your situation soon to determine what’s best for you. I’m rather afraid you’ve gone through all the boarding schools of any description in the known world.”

  That brought on another headache. Not that it wasn’t true. She had gone through all of the boarding schools her father could find. But her stepmother was absolutely throbbing with insincerity about her worry over the situation. Verity was sure Sophronia intended to dispose of her somehow or other and she might have to go just to escape the woman. She hoped she could choose where and how for herself.

  Verity was about to insist on clarification of the term pitch in, when one of the staff they could no longer afford, the Butler, a Kashinkarian named Sesame who had been with the family since before her mother left, stalked into the room bearing a small silver tray with a card on it.

  “Mr. Balgair, Madame,” he said, bowing slightly to Sophronia and much deeper to Verity. “Mistress, I have shown the gentleman to the formal drawing room.” He handed her a small silver tray the size of a dessert plate. On it was a card with the name Mr. Tod Niconar Balgair, Attorney at Law.

  “Thanks, Sesame,” Verity said. “No doubt it’s a condolence call. I’ll receive him in Papa’s study.” Sophronia turned pink, sensitive to the implied snub, and started to rise. For a moment, Verity was afraid the woman might trip her.

  However, Sophronia seemed to reconsider and said, “Do tell the gentleman that I will be free to receive him personally in a few minutes, my dear. His Lordship and I were having an important discussion before you arrived.”

  She seemed oblivious to Verity’s dislike or more probably, didn’t care. It wasn’t as if they actually knew each other. Papa had imagined they might be friends as at first, he had set great store by his new wife. He’d talked about her constantly to Verity when he first brought her home, about what a difficult life she’d had and that he thought that her hardships had made her kinder and more understanding, so she could be a good parent to Verity as well as wife to him. On his recent visits to her boarding school, he scarcely mentioned her at all. Verity doubted he had ever discussed her own unfortunate personality disorder with his wife. It was not widely known outside their family, since it smacked of the kind of magic mentioned in family stories and nobody in the present day would admit to believing in such things. Of course, she was sure that it had a perfectly sound basis in science, if only they knew what it was.

  Uncle Nic hadn’t changed at all. His sharp-featured face and un-attorney-like thatch of foxy colored hair made him look like some of the pictures of elves she had seen in books. He was slight and slender and seemed always to be looking over his shoulder, as if expecting that someone was chasing him.

  He was the only red-haired person she had ever met whose eyes matched their hair, being a peculiar copper color. “Well,” he said, looking her up and down. “You appear to be comparatively well, considering.”

  “I was rescued,” she said. “The dragon wrangler and the little dragon saved me.”

  “Is that so? They’re going to hang him, you know, for your father’s death.”

  “What?” She had been going to sit down, but now stood up straight. “They can’t! Why? Why would they do that?”

  “People naturally assume the dragon malfunctioned, as the term goes, and deliberately flamed the balloon, causing the accident.”

  “That wasn’t how it was at all. Uncle Nic, you have to help him. You’re an attorney.”

  “I am, but that doesn’t mean I practice criminal law. Besides, minds are made up, dear girl. When powerful people want a scapegoat…”

  “A scape-dragon and her minder will do? No. That won’t work at all. He saved me. She saved me. If they could have saved Papa, they’d have done so. The chain broke—the one holding the dragon platform to the balloon rim. It snapped. I saw it. I’ll go tell them, shall I? They’ll have to listen, won’t they?”

  He sighed and she thought he was going to say something soothing, but instead he shrugged. “Verity, I very much doubt it, but at least you’ll know you’ve tried. The balloon wasn’t recovered, so no one can verif
y what you say happened with the chain.”

  “Has anybody looked?”

  “No, I don’t believe they have.”

  At least he didn’t lie to her. She was remembering now that one thing she’d always liked about Uncle Nic was that although he looked very tricky, and could be tricky in legal dealings according to her father, he had never tried to deceive her, but treated her with more respect than most adults showed each other.

  “Hmmm,” she said, a vague idea forming in her mind.

  “If it’s not impossible, Verity, it’s the next thing to it. The harbor is deep and cold and the water is not particularly clean.”

  “I know,” she said. “I visited there recently, if you’ll recall. Will you do what you can for Toby?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be very much,” he said.

  “Even if you can delay things…”

  “I can keep an eye on the situation, anyway.”

  “Well, meanwhile I need a new dress and coat.”

  “Now you sound like a normal girl.”

  “If I’m going to go see magistrates and important people, I don’t want to do it in an old school uniform. If I’m dressed like a schoolgirl, I’ll be treated like one.”

  “Very true,” he said, and mumbled, “Of course,” then said, “I don’t think that will present a problem.”

  He stood, the good leather chair creaking beneath him when Sophronia and her cousin swept into the room. “Now then,” she said, when greetings and introductions were exchanged, “About our family’s estate.”

  “Could I ask the gentleman to leave the room, please?” Uncle Nic said stiffly.

  “But he is my cousin and companion and what concerns me…”

  “The estate concerns you in a very limited way and your relatives, other than Verity, not at all.”

  “But I am the widow of one of the wealthiest men in Argonia!”

  Uncle Nic cleared his throat, staring pointedly at the houseguest, who nodded to Sophronia and left the room, closing the door behind him. Verity had the feeling that he might not go further than the other side of that door, where he might linger to overhear the conversation.

  Uncle Nic answered Sophronia. “Yes, but you are not blood kin and furthermore, Gowen Brown was wealthy chiefly because Verity’s mother brought a great deal of wealth to the union. Although it would be considered a dowry in many countries, we don’t actually follow that custom here. At least not automatically. Morag’s wealth was what purchased the holdings that Gowen administered, though he shared in the profits equally. But you were his wife, not her heir and on his death, except for a small allowance for you for gowns and entertaining, the bulk of the estate including all properties passes to Verity upon her majority at the age of 18.”

  “But surely I administer it until then?” Sophronia said. “She’s little more than a child.”

  He nodded dismissively as he tucked his papers back into his case.

  Oddly enough, Sophronia did not oppose Verity’s plan to have new clothes made. In fact, the Widow Brown got carried away looking through books of trousseau traveling clothes and wedding gowns, and the next morning took the carriage bright and early, leaving Verity stranded at the house.

  However, she needed only to walk down the long drive leading away from the house and onto a fashionable thoroughfare, on the corner of which she found a horse taxi.

  “The garment district, please,” she told the driver.

  He nodded with a skeptical glance at her clothing. She climbed in. He drove her down the promenade, past cafes and restaurants, hotels, and a theatre advertising the return of the Magnificent Madame Louisa, Siren of the Seven Seas, past the fashionable dress shops where she might have run into her stepmother, and across the railroad tracks to another section of town where clothing was on display on hooks and racks outside awnings. The clatter of treadle-driven sewing machines made background music for the hawking and haggling, such as there was, within the five or six stalls there. It wasn’t what she’d had in mind, but she could see that there were some very fine-looking garments there. Ladies of quality often gave their unfashionable clothes to servants who, if they had no other use for them, re-sold them.

  “This will do,” she said.

  “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” he said and looked pleasantly surprised when she produced it.

  Chapter 4

  Not a Thing to Wear

  Dismounting the cab, she entered the first stall, turning, looking up and down to see if there was anything that might serve her purpose.

  “Nice shawl perhaps, Miss, or a hat maybe?” the owner asked.

  “Looking for a frock, actually,” she said.

  The woman looked her up and down, quite frankly and shook her head. “Nothing your size, Ducky. Not for a lady.”

  “Anything that might be altered or let out to fit me?” she asked.

  “Sorry, my dear, doubt putting two of them together would cover a—fine sturdy lass such as yourself.”

  The woman pointedly turned her back on her and began straightening men’s braces.

  “Wasn’t anything here I fancied, anyway,” Verity mumbled and tried her luck at the next stall.

  It appeared to be devoted to men’s clothing; however, shirts with frayed cuffs and collars, pants and jackets often let up or down at the hems, faded waistcoats in brocades with a lot of snagged threads and moth holes.

  The third stall was much like the first, and the fourth featured mostly children’s wear and some alarmingly stained things for babies.

  The fifth stall looked promising, however. It was wider and deeper than the others, and while the items in the front, nearest the street, were of poor quality, she saw the gleam of nicer fabrics, sunlight catching bits of bead trim and colorful embroideries. Not that those were for her, since she was in mourning, but perhaps they had something in the back?

  An artfully lettered sign hung from the awning: Madame Marsha’s Re-Imagined Finery.

  A small, genteel looking lady sat at the sewing machine placed where she could oversee the shop.

  Shyly, Verity asked her question. “You would be Madame Marsha?”

  The lady nodded.

  “Do you have anything nice, ladylike, in black that might be made to fit me?”

  Madame Marsha shook her head. “Sorry. I just filled a large order for five gowns that took all of the finer garments I had on hand plus yard-goods to supplement them.” She nodded toward a bed sheet pinned around a bulky bundle in the corner of the shop.

  Verity nodded and sighed, and was about to turn to go when a shadow momentarily blotted the sunlight, though none of the dust, from the street and the stall was suddenly redolent with a spicy, exotic scent that quite overcame the smell of second-hand cloth, leather, a hint of mold, and a fainter hint of leftover body odor.

  “Arrr,” said a voice and Verity beheld—well, it had to be a pirate, surely? She had never met a pirate, but this person wore a tri-cornered hat with long greasy matted braids entangled with clay beads and silver trinkets, huge silver earrings, big black boots with embossed gilt scrollwork, a burgundy colored coat with gold buttons and tarnished braid along the deep cuffs and collar, open to reveal a blousy shirt of scarlet silk.

  “There you are, Captain Lewis!” the seamstress said with a nod to the pirate. “Your order has been ready for a week. This young lady was just trying to talk me out of it, so it’s a good thing you came in when you did.”

  The pirate shot Verity a warning look and hastily moved to the sheet-wrapped bundle, patting at it with possessive eagerness. “They all be here, do they? Ye had no trouble locatin’ the peacock feathers to trim the blue number with the aqua bustle, train, and neckline?”

  “The room in the back is available as always, Captain,” the little woman said. “It was difficult, of course, finding enough cloth in the proper colors to fit your measurements…”

  The pirate retreated to the fitting room, carrying the sheet-wrapped bundle high so the skirts p
eeking out beneath their covering didn’t drag on the floor.

  The proprietress turned her attention to Verity, who said, “I wish I’d come sooner. I’m having the same problem myself.”

  “If you can give me a couple of weeks and describe what you need, I’m sure I can accommodate you, dear,” Madame Marsha said, “but I’ve spent the last two months working on the captain’s order. Your statuesque build presents a few unusual challenges, but I fancy I’m up to them. Just wait and see. What is the occasion or occasions for which you desire your gown?”

  “It’s not exactly for an occasion—I’ve been in boarding schools for the last four years and I grew rather quickly so the only thing I have that fits me is this old uniform and I need to see the magistrate about releasing a prisoner. I doubt he’ll listen to me when I look like an overgrown schoolgirl. You know how much store some people set by appearances.”

  “Arrr,” interrupted the cooing and oohing and ahhing noises from the room in the back.

  Verity inquired in a low, discreet voice if he was buying something for his wife or maybe a lady pirate, but the seamstress had just smiled a little tight-lipped smile.

  The captain, however, had been listening to her just as she was listening to him, for he called out, “Prisoner, ye say, lassie? What prisoner might that be?”

  Her voice trembled a little and she sometimes forgot what she was saying as she described the balloon accident and her rescue by the dragon wrangler and his small charge. “And now they blame him for Papa’s death, they’re going to execute him, but nobody has asked me what happened, so I want to go tell them.”

  “Oh, my dear,” said the shopkeeper sympathetically, but the door to the fitting room crashed open and a person of a quite unfamiliar appearance swept out of it wearing a lovely black taffeta with crepe overlay, a train and bustle on a jet-bead fringed skirt that parted in the front to reveal a daringly short skirt, similarly trimmed and revealing in its turn long legs clad in black net stockings, serving to disguise knobby knees. The bodice was cut fairly deeply, but the gap was partially covered with black beaded lace. The large woman wearing the ensemble had luxuriant locks artlessly twisted into a tall up-do, pierced with slender rapier-like daggers to compel it to remain as it had been arranged.