But his arms were still weak and his shoulders sore and he couldn’t muster the strength. He’d have to push clear to keep from falling onto the tracks, but in the crowded train yard, there were a great many hard and sharp objects to fall on.
Taz, peering down at him, saw his hesitation and took matters into her own talons, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up. He had just enough freedom of movement to slide the door aside, then she pushed him in and flew in after. Before he caught his breath and slid the door shut, the train was rolling out of Queenston at a good clip and out into the moonlit fields beyond.
He slept against Taz, lulled by the rocking motion and rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the rails.
He woke to the distant whistle of another train, the southbound, and the answering whistle from theirs, which slowed and braked with a hiss and squeal. Peering out a crack in the door, Toby saw the oncoming train slow and pull off onto a side track. Once it was out of the way, their train rumbled northward again on the main track. “Nothing to do with us, girl,” he told Taz. He was wrong.
Ephemera
The conductor sighed and answered the summons of the little round gray-haired lady dressed all in brown dubiously adorned with hundreds of small shells. Her manner was vague and somewhat anxious as she asked in a voice surprisingly clear and melodious, “What’s happening now? Why did we go off those tracks?”
“Another train was coming, Madame,” he said patiently. “We wouldn’t both fit on the same tracks, so one of us had to pull onto this little spur, you see?”
“Oh, yes, well, that makes sense. Fascinating, actually. Thank you. You’ve been ever so kind. This is my first ride on one of these things, you know.”
“I rather thought as much. Going all the way to Queenston?”
“I am. My nephew died recently in a balloon accident. Terrible. Terrible thing. He was quite a young man, too, and left a daughter.”
“Very sorry to hear that, Madame. So you are going to the funeral?”
“It was a memorial service, actually, and I’m rather afraid I’ve missed it. I ran into the most fascinating man at the station in Little Darlingham and he knew extra verses to the Disappearing Dragon song so I had to record them, of course. Or was it the Wandering Wizards song? Perhaps it was both? Anyway, fascinating fellow and I didn’t realize how long I’d tarried until I heard the second howl. I missed returning to my original train and barely managed to catch this one. The station master was so kind and exchanged my ticket without a fuss.”
The conductor was aware of the station master’s concern and thought it might be owing less to kindness than to not wishing to be saddled with the old dear for another week until the next southbound train. He’d taken the conductor aside and told him, “Be sure and take good care of this one. Her ticket said she came from Wormroost and I’m told there’s still witches there—or witch relations, anyway. She seems nice enough. She and old Warden had a grand time, but since he left, she just sits on the bench and taps her foot and sings to herself. Rocks a bit sometimes. Hope it’s not some evil spell.”
“Probably just some ditty that was popular when she was a girl, Mr. Thomas. I shouldn’t worry. I’ll look after her.” And he’d done his best.
The odd old duck muttered songs to herself—sometimes smiling and at others allowing tears to course down her cheeks. The shells attached to her homespun dress clacked in time when she rocked to and fro to the music inside her and rattled wherever she walked. He was very happy to help her down from the train when it pulled into Queenston Station, and a little alarmed that no one from her family was there to meet her, although if they’d expected her a week ago, it was no wonder, he supposed. “Will you be quite all right, Madame? Do you have the address?”
“Right here, you lovely man. My assistant sewed it inside my cuff when she attached the new shells, see?”
“You’ll find the taxi rank over there, Madame,” he said, with an encouraging nod in the right direction. “Good luck.”
“You’ve been a dear. You put me in mind of one about Noble Sir Norman from the song. You know the one?”
For the sake of the timetable, he nodded. With her carpet bag in one hand, she waved with the other and set off in the direction of the taxis.
Verity emerged on her own from the cemetery where she’d been hiding. She was glad it was so early, because there was little traffic at that hour, and her dress was smelly and wet from the ditch around the castle foundation. She suspected soldiers on watch and casual passersby not admitted to the castle might use it as a casual latrine.
She kept to the middle of the street as she passed the warehouses, noticing as she passed several pairs of shiny eyes watching her from the gloom beneath the boardwalk and in the alleyways. A cold drizzle permeated the few dry bits of her gown. She would have to sneak into the house and then what? Damn this clothing business anyway. The heroes of pirate stories and detective novels didn’t have to worry about their wardrobes so continually. But then, they were gentlemen and people didn’t remark on what they wore so much except that it reflected their stations in life.
Anyone judging her by her clothing now would think she was a very low life indeed. She walked past the Changeling Club, hoping it might be open and she could borrow one of Madame Louisa’s less flamboyant frocks to go home in, but the place was dark and the front entrance barred.
Since it was equidistant to home or to Madame Marsha’s, she chose the latter. She could wait outside the shop for the proprietress to arrive. She had the general impression that seamstresses worked long hours and started their days quite early so perhaps she wouldn’t have long to wait.
As it turned out, she did not have long at all. The light was on in the back of the shop and she heard the steady clack and thump of the treadle machine. She knocked on the inner door and the sewing machine noise stopped. She knocked again. “I know it’s early, Madame, but I…”
Madame flung the door wide. She was a small figure, almost fragile looking, though her movements were brisk and graceful, strength suggested by her fluidity. “Miss! You’re here early,” the lady said.
“Well, I had to return the captain’s gown and as you can tell, I’ve spoilt this one so I don’t dare go anywhere like this. Even if it’s patchwork, could you possibly stitch something together for me to cover myself with? In a somber color suitable for mourning if you can?”
“What a coincidence! I was just thinking about your problem and it occurred to me that I did have some cloaks of suitable yardage and color that could easily become skirts. See what you think.” She showed her some sketches and the cloaks she had in mind. “I can stitch these two together and use this one, cut in half, for an underskirt. Some modest tiers in the back for a bustle and drapes in the front and you’d never know it wasn’t meant to be a skirt. There’ll be enough from the third one to salvage a little capelet. I took the liberty of adding some scraps of lace to the collar and cuffs of this gentleman’s shirt—with the blousiness of it, I daresay the groom he bequeathed it to found it unsuitable so it hasn’t been stained. What do you think?”
“When I return home, I shall search the attic. Supposedly, there have been other women of my stature among my forebears. It is possible some of their gowns might have been saved and you could re-fashion them for me. Some were quite elegant ladies, I believe.”
Madame Marsha looked dubious, but summoned a modicum of enthusiasm for the enterprise.
“I can pay you—quite well, actually.”
“Then I can certainly refurbish the gowns for you, in that case.” she said. “And if you can pay as well as all that, I could buy yardage and make you something entirely new if you’ll give me some idea of color and function.”
Verity clapped her hands, cheered for the first time in days. “Oh, I love blue!” then sobered and said, “But I suppose it must be black until I’m out of mourning.”
“Perhaps something reversible or with trim that can be changed out later?”
“Can you do that?”
“Certainly. I’m very good with design and I think if you ask around, you’ll find I’m much faster than many of the sewers on Tailor Street. If I wanted to work for someone else, I’d be there. But I prefer to use my imagination a bit more and theatrical folk do not frequent Tailor Street as a rule.”
Verity nodded, but her mind was already reviewing the incidents of the night. She shivered again. The drizzle was turning to slushy snow. Where was all of that lovely clear weather she used to see out of the school room windows, making her long to be out in it instead of confined to her books and sums? Nasty weather seemed to have appeared only when she had to be abroad in it, especially on foot.
Madame said, “Meanwhile, you’d better get out of that frock and let me clean it or perhaps burn it, the way it smells.”
“But I’ve nothing else to wear. And—what about unmentionables?”
“No problem at all, though I lack the fabric. Such delicate things seldom get handed down or passed on. Perhaps, just for now, you might try these.” Reaching into a bag, she pulled out a pair of trousers and from another bag, a shirt and pullover sweater of the type popular with gamekeepers. “The pants may be a bit short, but they’ll cover what’s necessary and I’ve some large boots you can wear woolly socks with to keep your feet dry on the way home.”
Verity gathered her brown-gold locks into one hand and pulled them up. In the long dark mirror leaning against the wall, the boy with the pulled up hair looked like quite a different person above the neck and below.
Madame Marsha looked up from her sewing machine again and sighed. “I was saving this, but you need it to complete your ensemble. It’s yours for ten coppers.” She reached into another bag and produced a sou’wester hat, suitable for seamen. It was made for a larger head and fit Verity and her hair nicely. The front flap also concealed much of her face.
“A likely-looking lad!” Madame Marsha said. “What do you think?”
Verity turned this way and that, but didn’t see herself anywhere in the mirror. “Not only covered and drier but disguised as well! Excellent.” She stomped and twirled and stuck her hands in the pockets. “Pockets,” she said. “Please, Madame, could you put lots of pockets in my skirts and coats?”
“I was going to anyway,” Madame Marsha said. “You look like a pocket sort of person.”
“I believe I am,” she said. “And I see no need to wait. I can go home like this with no difficulty. Thank you.” She handed the seamstress more tangible thanks before stuffing her purse into her manly new pocket.
“Excellent,” Madame Marsha said with a smile when she had counted out the coins. “Will you call for them later or should I have them delivered?”
“I’ll come for them if possible,” Verity said. “If I am—detained somehow—I’ll send a messenger.”
“Maybe it would be better, really, if I bring them round myself. That way I can do any necessary last-minute fittings.”
“Splendid,” Verity said, and started to leave.
“Wait!” Madame Marsha said and pulled an enormous fisherman’s sweater out of one of her bags. It must have been quite a few years old, but still smelled strongly of sheep. “Take this. The lanolin in the wool will keep off some of the rain.”
Verity pulled it on, grateful for the warmth, and waggled her fingers in a cheerful farewell quite effeminate for the strapping youth she appeared to be. Much cheered by her clothes shopping, she understood more clearly why many of her former classmates could talk of little else.
The clack of the sewing machine followed her out into the early pre-dawn as far as Queen Street, where the guard, totally overlooking the man no doubt on his way to work, continued searching for an escaped prisoner, a flashy gypsy woman, and a runt of a dragon.
Verity walked up the drive, glad to be home again as the sou’wester had protected only her head from the damp. The rest of her was once more soaked though the sweater, being of natural wool, deflected the moisture to some degree. She thought to go around to the back again. The door to the kitchen garden was always unlocked. Cook would not be up just yet, which suited her fine.
But as she picked her way around the side of the house, she noticed a light glowing in the window of her own room, and against the curtains she saw a figure moving slowly back and forth. Who would be in her room at this hour? Had they discovered she was missing and were searching for clues as to her whereabouts? Or… what? For a panicked moment she thought the castle guards might be looking for her, but the household would have been awakened in that case.
No, more likely it was her stepmother, snooping.
Verity had half a mind to confront Sophronia and demand she explain herself, but then she’d have to justify where she’d been and why she had returned in men’s attire.
Once through the back door, she grabbed a candle and crept up the back stairs past the floor where she slept, past the floor where the servants slept, and onto the smaller, narrower staircase leading up to the attic.
She had been there once that she remembered, helping her father store her mother’s things after she’d left them. If she’d had brothers or sisters or any playmates at all at home, perhaps she’d have revisited it later. But her place to play was her father’s workshop, where she had his company and attention. The attic reminded her only of the loss of her mother. Now she could visit both places all she liked and there would be no love, no companionship, no pats, or hair strokings. Emptiness except—well, perhaps there were some dresses.
By the light of her candle, the room was full of bulky shapes. Sitting on one of them was a candelabra with twelve half-melted candles in the holders. She lit each of them with her candle, trying not to spill hot wax on any possible treasures—or flammable items.
Although some of the trunks felt as if they were packed full of horses or full-grown dragons instead of frilly dresses, she was plenty strong enough to unpack them without undue noise. First however, she doffed the sou’wester and tied her tangled hair in a self-knot behind her neck.
The first trunk almost undid her. It held what she supposed must be her mother’s wedding dress, and that was all. With a great long train, the gown took up the entire interior of the trunk. She let the lid drop and shoved the chest aside with her foot. A wedding dress was of no use whatsoever.
The next trunk held more of her mother’s things, and she started to shove it aside too when she felt the rectangular item at the bottom and pulled it free of skirts and shirt-waists. A book! Not a fictional one, she was disappointed to see, but what appeared to be an accounts book, judging from the first few pages. But then, as she kept turning pages, the figures were replaced by sketches and words. It would certainly bear later examination!
Her mother had been (and presumably still was) a big woman, though not as big as Verity. Her clothing had quite a lot of fabric in it, however, so maybe Madame Marsha could transform it.
The other woman in her family reported as having frost giant blood was a queen who lived back before the Great War. If any of her things were stored in the attic, they would be very far back indeed. Unlikely as it was that such ancient items had survived, Verity searched behind all of the trunks closest to her, dragging out chests stored against the walls. Dust was so deep on top of them that she began coughing just pulling them away from the wall.
When she finally stopped coughing long enough to open the lid, she heard slow deliberate steps on the staircase.
Lifting the cloak on top of the contents of the trunk, she held it against her chest. These things belonged to her now if to anyone and the attic was hers, too, but she couldn’t help feeling as if she were being caught doing something wrong.
Briciu
“Hello?” a man’s voice said. She’d been hoping this might be one of the servants, but instead, for some reason, Sophronia’s cousin was abroad at this early hour—far enough abroad that he had heard her on the attic steps apparently and followed.
“Hello. Did you think I was a bu
rglar?” she asked.
“I didn’t know what you were,” he said. It cost her a pang, but she let it pass. “But I’m glad to see it’s you.” His voice was very warm and approving, as if she were his favorite person. “We were starting to get worried.”
“No need for that,” she said. “I’m quite capable of looking after myself. I’m actually looking for some clothing I can use as is or to make something new for myself, since Sophronia seems unconcerned that I have nothing suitable to wear.” It was the truth, after all, and if she sounded more concerned about it than she actually was, that was not actually an untruth.
“She gets a bit carried away with fripperies,” he said. “It shows how little confidence she has in her feminine wiles, unassisted by laces and face paints. Someone as striking and majestic as you are probably finds that difficult to understand.”
Was that a compliment? Flattery even? From him? Fancy that! was her first thought. I wonder what he’s up to, was her second. “Striking and majestic,” she said. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”
“Now, now, don’t do that. You’re a magnificent young lady and if you’re not already aware of that, you should be. You realize that now that you’re an orphan and due to inherit your family’s business, you will soon be one of the most powerful and influential women in Argonia?
“Except I’m not an orphan, really,” she said.
He looked surprised and quite alarmed, actually. “You’re not?”
“No, my mother disappeared—voluntarily, I’ve been led to believe. No one has said she is dead.”
She probably was, of course, and everyone believed it, but it was a true thing Verity could point out that made a crack in the smooth case her stepmother’s cousin was setting forth. He quickly polished over it with a rueful quirk of the mouth and a quick glance from eerily clear green eyes. “Perhaps not. But you’ve felt motherless since she left, haven’t you? And now your father is gone, too, and you’re alone, trying to figure out the world by yourself. That will be difficult for a girl as guileless as you seem to be, from what Sophronia has told me. You can use an ally, someone to go to for advice and confide in. Please consider me. Since losing my dear wife, I feel adrift with no one to be close to. I do love Sophronia, but I don’t feel a real connection with her. But with you—well, I just know I’d like to be your friend if you’ll let me.”
The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad Page 8
