Comets and Corsets
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Comets and Corsets
Five Victorian Spacepunk Stories
Anthea Sharp
Fiddlehead Press
Contents
COMETS & CORSETS
A Splendid Wedding
The Clockwork Harp
Lady Elizabeth’s Betrothal Ball (The Adventures of Liza Roth - 1)
One More Star, Shining (The Adventures of Liza Roth - 2)
Stowaway (The Adventures of Liza Roth - 3)
About the Stories
Also by Anthea Sharp
About the Author
COMETS & CORSETS
Five Victorian Spacepunk Stories
ANTHEA SHARP
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons is purely coincidental.
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Collection copyright 2018 Anthea Sharp. All rights reserved. A Splendid Wedding first appeared in Futuristica, Volume 2, published 2017. The Clockwork Harp first appeared in Fiction River: Haunted, published 2016. Lady Elizabeth’s Betrothal Ball first appeared in Fiction River: Last Stand, published 2016. One More Star, Shining first appeared in Beyond The Stars: At Galaxy’s Edge, published 2016. Stowaway first appeared in Orphans in the Black, published 2016
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Thank you to the editors who selected these tales for their anthologies: Chester Hoster, Kerrie L. Hughes, Dean Wesley Smith and Felicia Fredlund, and Patrice Fitzgerald.
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Visit the author at www.antheasharp.com and sign up for her mailing list, Sharp Tales, for a free story and news of upcoming releases!
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QUALITY CONTROL: If you encounter typos or formatting problems, please contact antheasharp@hotmail.com so they may be corrected.
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COMETS & CORSETS
Steampunk with an intergalactic twist! Enter a fantastical world filled with alien spacecraft and Victorian sensibilities, formal balls and travel to the stars.
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From a mishap-filled wedding to a fugitive’s fresh start, experience the world of Victoria Eternal - where nanotech ball gowns are all the rage, steam power vies with alien starship technology, and the yearnings of the human heart remain unchanged…
A Splendid Wedding
It was warm in the dressing room, the sticky smell of freesias mixing with perfumed lotions until Lady Belinda Montfort’s head pounded. She smiled through it, though. A lady did not complain. From her perch on the stiff-backed chair, she nodded at her daughter, who stood before the imager applying a final bit of color to her lips.
“You look beautiful, Cerise,” Belinda said. “The wedding will go flawlessly.”
It must.
The white fabric of Cerise’s gown floated about her, the nanolifters making it seem as though the bride was adrift in pale sea of spangled stars. Her dark hair was drawn up in an elaborate coiffure studded with constellations of white flowers, and gems twinkled at the corners of her tilted eyes.
The tall wooden door on the far wall opened, and a woman poked her head in.
“Five minutes,” she said, her voice as bright as her glossy azure hair. “Lady Montfort, your son is coming to escort you. The big moment is almost here!”
Belinda gave the ceremony manager a smile, though her face felt as stiff as plas-glass. Her son would accompany her to her seat… because her husband already had a companion. Lord Montfort, Viscount of Ridgley and Xeros Station 418, had taken a mistress years ago, making it clear that his wife’s happiness was of little concern.
Bitterness welled in her throat, and she pressed it back down. This was Cerise’s day and she was determined it would be perfect. There was no room for any other outcome.
“Don’t worry, Mother.” Cerise turned from inspecting herself in the shining surface of the imager. Her dress swirled about her like the spiral arms of a galaxy. “Everything will be fine, no matter what happens. Arun and I love one another, and really that’s the only important thing.”
She was so wrong.
Appearances were essential. And beginnings. If everything went smoothly then surely Cerise’s married life would be happy. Or at least tolerable.
The Montfort estate had spared no expense to secure the cathedral on 3753 Cruithne. It was considered good luck to hold the ceremony on Earth’s co-orbital, and the church was the perfect blend of tradition and modernity. The grand cathedral was reconstructed from an original building shipped up from England at great cost. Half the windows and the ceiling had been replaced with durable plas-glass to let the light of the galaxy shine in on the proceedings. The wedding today would offer views of both Earth and the moon as Cruithne scudded through space. Most auspicious, indeed.
Belinda had been repeatedly assured that the atmospheric pressure bubble surrounding the cathedral and mini spaceport was completely dependable, with several backup systems in place. Still, she’d be relieved to fly back to London for the reception.
She swallowed, and smoothed the lavender silk of her own, less extravagant, skirts. She’d had the good sense to forgo breakfast. The bride’s mother might be pale, but she would not be so horribly indelicate as to lose the contents of her stomach during the wedding. She was already somewhat prone to spacesickness, but the medicines she’d taken would hold it at bay.
“Mother?” Colin’s voice, followed by a rap at the door.
“A moment,” she called.
She rose and went to Cerise, careful of the drifting skirts. Resting her fingertips on Cerise’s shoulders, she gave her daughter a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I love you,” Belinda said.
A hundred more words tangled behind her tongue. Don’t do this. Be careful. Marriage is a trap you will die inside.
She could voice none of them.
Cerise smiled, like a brilliant sun. “I love you, too.”
It was blessedly cooler in the hallway, though perhaps that was simply the effect of the dark paneled walls, the bare wooden floor beneath her shoes.
Colin stood there, waiting for her. He looked entirely handsome in his pinstriped suit, although his hair, the same dun brown color as her own, was sticking out a trifle on one side from that cowlick that could never quite be tamed. She resisted the urge to smooth it down for him.
Her son held out his arm. “Shall we?”
No.
Belinda inclined her head and set her gloved fingers on his forearm. They emerged into the confines of the narthex. Small stone gargoyles perched at the peaks of the carved arches, their expressions sour. She knew exactly how they felt.
Her breath hitched as they approached the immense arched doors leading into the cathedral itself. Through them, she glimpsed bright colors—the gathered audience in their finery, the spatters of light thrown from the remaining stained-glass windows.
A breathtaking array of stars peeked in on the humans gathered below. Belinda hoped the cold promise of that light would be a benediction upon the proceedings, and not a blight.
Music drifted out, solemn yet celebratory, the harmony of a string quartet echoing beneath the soaring roof. It had been a very long time since she had visited a church. They reminded her too much of her own wedding day.
Colin patted her hand and stepped over the threshold, bringing her with him. Though she was aware of the wooden pews on either side, the anticipatory faces turned her way, she kept her gaze on the figured burgundy carpet stretching down the aisle. Colored light smudged the edges of the carpet as she and Colin moved forward, toward the high altar. The scent of old incense dried the back of her throat.
Her son’s arm was muscled under her hand, and he moved with the graceful strength of a martial artist. At least she had that
much—a strong son, a lovely daughter.
And the music was well played. The opening movement of one of the later Hayden quartets, though she could not say precisely which.
The hiss of whispers tickled the back of her neck, and Belinda finally looked up. The groom’s family was seated on the right-hand side of the cathedral, many of the women wearing bright silken saris, and scarves edged with sequins. She felt suddenly stuffy and matronly in her lavender dress.
The altar rose before her, the dais surrounding it raised three steps from the floor. Great cascades of freesia and white roses decked the polished wood. Tall, unlit tapers rose on either edge, and behind was the gilt altar screen. The gold glowed, but Belinda suspected it was nothing more than a thin layer of gold leaf, applied over the base wood.
Four musicians were seated in a semi-circle to the right of the altar. The Canterbury Quartet had come highly recommended, and Belinda was relieved that, so far, they had deserved their reputation.
She and Colin reached the front pew. Her husband sat there, looking dashing in a gray suit that matched the brush of silver in his dark hair. Beside him was That Woman.
At least he’d had the decency to seat her on the far side of himself. Head high, Belinda let Colin guide her to her place beside Lord Montfort. She sat holding her body away from him, her spine straight, her feet together. The cushion was thin and uncomfortable, but she would endure.
The music stopped, signaling the audience that the ceremony was about to begin, and the priest entered from the clerestory door and paced deliberately toward the altar. His surplice, draped over his white robes, was heavily embroidered with purple and red. The gold-tipped edges floated ever-so-slightly, the nano-lifters defying the cathedral’s artificial gravity in a manner that was supposed to suggest divinity, but bespoke only vanity to Belinda’s eye.
There were a few muffled coughs, the slip and hush of people thumbing their programs. Then the quartet started up. Pachelbel’s Canon in D—nearly a thousand years old and still one of the most popular pieces in the galaxy.
Belinda refused to glance to her left, beyond her husband to where That Woman sat, her presence a black hole. Instead, she watched the cellist pluck the obbligato, his long, elegant fingers caressing the neck of his instrument like a lover. Her gaze shifted to his face, partially obscured by the fall of his sandy hair, and a low flutter of recognition breathed through her.
Robert Huntington.
She had not seen him in over two decades, but she was certain. Robert—who had attended London Conservatory with her. Who had given her her first kiss. Who had met her, soul-to-soul, in the music they both adored.
And who had lost her to the illustrious Viscount Montfort.
The first violin entered with the Canon’s melody, the descending scale mirroring the bittersweet fall of her heart.
The crowd stood, in a series of genteel rustlings. All heads turned toward the arched doorway, and Belinda was forced to look away from Robert.
Cerise and Arun entered the cathedral together—a departure from the usual ceremony, but they had insisted. No doubt Lord Montfort’s open association with That Woman had something to do with it. Cerise had not wanted her father’s escort down the aisle, that much was plain. Neither had she and Arun wanted the formality of attendants.
Belinda had argued, until she had realized that the fewer people involved in the ceremony, the safer it would be. The less chance that things could go wrong.
Cerise was so lovely, tears pricked Belinda’s eyes. The dress was perfect, and Cerise looked radiantly happy. Arun smiled at his bride, almost a grin, his teeth a flash of white against his brown skin. Surely he loved her enough.
The two paced up to the altar, mounting the stairs without mishap. The quartet timed their ending precisely, so that the music finished just as Arun and Cerise halted. The wedding gown floated and sparkled, and Belinda let out a tiny breath of relief.
There were so many places the ceremony could go awry. She had gone over and over the program with the manager, down to the last detail. If only the wedding went perfectly, it would set the template for the rest of the couple’s lives together.
Her own wedding day had not been a disaster, nor marred by any great tragedy. But looking back, Belinda had realized that each small flaw had foreshadowed her entire married life.
The uncomfortable wedding dress, with a stray pin left in the bodice that stabbed her when she least expected it—and in a place she could not possibly extract in public. The fumbled rings. The vow that was so scarce-voiced it had to be repeated. Twice.
Nothing catastrophic, but seen from a distance, a complete and utter failure.
The same would not be true for Cerise.
Belinda could not quite listen to the priest say his measured words. For a time, she stared at Robert, willing him to glance at her. He and the other musicians sat immobile, in the perfected art of hired invisibility. She catalogued the changes to his profile: the faint fan of wrinkles about his eyes, the way the dimple beside his mouth had deepened, the weathering of his elegant hands.
Robert shifted forward, and the first violin lifted his honey-colored instrument. It was time for the candle lighting. The ceremony manager had assured her that the music would be perfect.
The first strains of Tekra’s Infinitude nearly brought Belinda to her knees. Written for cello and violin alone, the piece was full of soaring melodies, twining light and darkness.
Hope. And despair. And hope again.
She and Robert had spent hours, months, playing this piece, bending and shaping and perfecting it to the best of their abilities. Memories sped through her: the fall of light through the practice room’s high window, the glory of mastering a difficult passage, the way Robert would grin at her when they finally did so. The feel of his lips brushing hers.
Two altar boys approached, bearing faux fire on the ends of their bell-shaped candle snuffers. Through the scrim of her tears, Belinda saw their arms rise, like white wings. Glow to wick, the candles lit with the perfect illusion of flames. The steady golden light bloomed like halos. She trembled, her body a long, yearning string vibrating with memory.
The Infinitude ended. Robert lowered his bow and met her eyes directly. She nearly gasped at the expression revealed there—as if he had known all along that she was watching him. As if the past were a tangible, golden thing, just beyond their grasp.
She wanted to curl into a ball of lavender silk and weep.
Instead, she turned her face away, catching the sobs that gathered in her throat and swallowing them back down. The priest was speaking again, but she could not hear him. Her ears were scorched from the music, incapable of making sense of such dense and ponderous things as words.
After an eternity, the priest paused. Belinda blinked, forcing herself back to the moment, the rustling cathedral, the couple standing expectantly before the altar, the endless stars behind.
The past was gone. And if she secretly took her violin out, in the late and empty nights, tightened the bow and played, it was only for memory’s sake. Only that. She had made her choice. There was no place for music in her life—had not been for years. Her husband had decreed that the wife of a viscount had no need of such frivolity.
From the pews behind her she heard the soft rise of whispers, and a moment later she was shocked to see the skirt of her dress begin to float upward. Across the aisle, the groom’s mother was winding her scarlet scarf about her arm to keep it from flying away.
“One moment.” The priest held up his hand, and to Belinda’s horror his feet left the burgundy carpet. “We are experiencing a slight gravity delay. Everyone, please hook your feet beneath the prayer kneelers in front of you to avoid injury from falling when things normalize. Which they will immediately, I have no doubt.”
Arun grabbed the man’s forearm to keep him from floating up into the nave, and Cerise’s gown bobbed alarmingly. For an appalled second, Belinda imagined her daughter airborne above the congregation, h
er underwear revealed for the world to see. The thought made her pulse freeze. Cerise would be the laughingstock of London when they returned.
Then, with a bump, gravity returned, and Belinda’s heart began beating again. She drew in a shaky breath. Disaster had been narrowly averted—but the incident did not, could not, bode well for her daughter’s future.
As if nothing untoward had happened, the priest continued with the ceremony. After a short homily, he nodded to the groom and Arun slipped his hand into his coat pocket. It was time for the rings.
Belinda glanced down at her gloved hands, carefully folded in her lap. On the fourth finger of her left hand, shining against the pristine white of her gloves, she wore the blood-red Montfort Ruby.
Her gaze slipped sideways. Yes, her husband still wore his heavy silver signet ring—although that had more to do with his authority as Viscount Montfort than any importance he ascribed to the wedded state.
Despite herself, Belinda’s eyes continued to where That Woman sat.
It would be one thing if Lord Montfort’s lover was a great beauty, possessed of youth and angelic features. It would even be understandable had she been an accomplished artist of any persuasion. Then Belinda would not have to suffer the hot, bewildering confusion that swirled at the base of her skull whenever she beheld That Woman’s plain features and graying frizz of hair, her stocky figure and thick, blunt fingers.
Belinda yanked her attention back to the couple at the altar. Arun was holding up a golden ring, the flash of diamonds visible from where she sat. She tamped down the sudden, wild impulse to leap to her feet and dash the ring from his hand.
He slid the band onto Cerise’s finger, and she smiled. Belinda’s collar constricted her throat. She lifted her chin, trying to find room to breathe. From the corner of her eye, she saw Colin shoot her a concerned glance.