Comets and Corsets

by Anthea Sharp

  Lady Eldwin inclined her head in thanks. “I see you have brought us a gift. How kind.”

  “Yes.” Lady Thomas gave her an insincere smile. “I thought it only right, in the spirit of friendship, to bestow this fine instrument upon Miss Anne.”

  She beckoned to the footman, who set the harp down on the marble floor and pulled the silk cloth off with a flourish. Eleanora watched closely, but none of the Eldwins showed any flash of recognition—or fear—at the sight.

  “How very cunning,” Anne Eldwin said. “Does it play?”

  “Of course it plays.” Lady Thomas sniffed, then looked at Eleanora. “Do wind it, my dear.”

  Heart thumping, Eleanora bent and turned the brass key three times around.

  Nothing happened.

  The Eldwins’ looks of expectation turned to boredom.

  “Play,” Eleanora whispered, turning the key again.

  One of the spidery legs jerked, then fell off, landing on the marble with a metallic ping. Some of the nearby guests laughed.

  “A pity it’s not in working order,” Lady Eldwin said. “I suppose it can go in the back parlor as a curiosity.” She turned her gaze to the next guests in line, clearly dismissing Lady Thomas and her gift.

  “Wait!” Eleanora cried.

  Impulsively, she pulled one of her hairpins free. She scooped up the leg and deftly re-attached it, bending her hairpin to help hold the appendage in place.

  The clockwork instantly sprung into motion, plucking out a sweet waltz. From the corner of her eye, Eleanora saw a tall, white-haired gentleman push through the crowd. He stared at the harp with a look comprised equally of relief and revulsion.

  The waltz slowed, and as it did, the lights began to dim. Lord Eldwin commenced chiding his wife about not taking proper care of the chandeliers, but he fell silent as a chilly blast of air swept through the ballroom. The mechanism folded itself beneath the soundbox of the harp, yet the instrument continued to play. The Cruel Sister rang out, and Anne Eldwin’s sallow skin turned pale.

  The lyrics of the ballad echoed in Eleanora’s mind.

  The first string sang a doleful sound:

  “The bride her younger sister drowned.”

  Whispers of consternation rose from the assembled guests, all attention drawn to the front of the dais. The harp was beginning to glow, bluish-white light outlining the strings and pouring from the soundbox, where Eleanora had replaced the hair necklace.

  Lady Eldwin took a step back, her eyes wide, but her daughter seemed frozen in place. A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. Beside the harp, a figure coalesced—a young woman with long, flowing hair, gowned in white. Slowly, she raised her hand and pointed at Anne Eldwin.

  “No!” Anne cried, her voice filled with terror. Tears glazed her face.

  Beside her, Sir William Hunt stared at the ghost, love and longing clear in his expression.

  “Belinda,” he whispered.

  The glowing figure nodded, once. A cold wind whipped about the ballroom, jangling the crystals on the dim chandeliers and blowing skirts wildly about.

  Quickly, Eleanora deactivated the mechanical lifters of her gown to keep it from twisting and billowing. The white-haired gentleman moved to stand beside her, his gaze fixed on the ghost.

  “She will have her vengeance at last,” he murmured.

  The wind died down to an icy breath, and quiet filled the emptiness it left behind. The ghost of Belinda Eldwin glided toward her sister, until they stood face to face. Mirrored dark and light, alive and dead.

  Slowly, the dead girl raised her hand and pointed at her sister.

  “I pushed her in,” Anne Eldwin sobbed. “Belinda—oh, I am so sorry!”

  For still moment, the ghost of Belinda Eldwin regarded her murderer. Then, with a sigh, the glowing figure walked right through the living flesh of her elder sister.

  Anne let out a harrowing shriek and fell to the floor. Sir William went to one knee beside his betrothed and took her wrist.

  “She has fainted,” he said after a moment. “Someone, fetch smelling salts.”

  Eleanora noted that he let go of the young lady’s wrist rather quickly and wiped his fingers on his trousers, his expression veering into loathing.

  As the lights brightened, Lady Elwin regarded the harp, her face twisted with despair.

  “Take it away!” she cried, then turned, weeping, into her husband’s shoulder.

  Conversations sprang up all over the ballroom, loud and speculative. Eleanora felt overcome with sadness. Justice had been served, surely, but she had not enjoyed her part in it.

  “Who are you, sir?” she asked, catching the arm of the white-haired gentleman.

  “My name is Tallesin Woodweft,” he said.

  “But… you are the minstrel mechanic who made the harp.” Eleanora studied his lined face, his faded blue eyes.

  “Indeed, to my sorrow. A sad tale, that.”

  “Perhaps you might tell me. Some time, under better circumstances.”

  He nodded and handed her his card. “You seem a sensible young lady. Do write—I feel we might have a beneficial future correspondence.”

  “I shall.” She tucked the card into her reticule.

  With a weary nod, he turned and beckoned to one of the nearby footmen.

  “I shall remove this cursed harp,” the minstrel said. “Convey it to my carriage.”

  The footman hesitated, then, at an impatient gesture from Tallesin Woodweft, lifted the instrument. As he hefted it into his arms, the clockwork structure disengaged from the base of the harp and fell to the marble floor with a metallic clatter. The footman started violently and dropped the instrument.

  “No,” Tallesin cried, lunging forward as Eleanora rushed to help.

  Too late. The harp shattered, bits of wood flying. The strings snapped from the soundbox in a cacophony of discord, and in that sound, Eleanora heard the last cry of an unearthly voice.

  The noise silenced the guests once again, and they moved far back from the ruined harp lying in the middle of the ballroom: cracked wood and tangled strings, splintered inlay, and the pale weave of a dead girl’s hair.

  ~*~

  Lady Elizabeth’s Betrothal Ball (The Adventures of Liza Roth - 1)

  Her Royal Highness Elizabeth Calloway von Saxe-Roth, sole daughter of the Duke of Albany, stood before the grand double doors leading to the ballroom and tried to breathe past the tightness of her corset. The last taste of free air ought to have been sweeter in her lungs, but she was perspiring in her extravagant gown and elbow-length gloves.

  Her heavy coiffure weighed upon her head, making her neck ache, and her diamond earbobs pulled uncomfortably on her ears. The nano-lifters in her skirt swayed the gossamer fabric up and down, but that was the only buoyant thing about her. Her soul was cased in lead.

  Beyond those tall, gilt-encrusted doors, down the endless staircase, lay her doom.

  “Don’t look so nervous,” her lady’s maid, Tilly, had admonished as she’d helped Elizabeth dress in preparation for the ball. “’Tisn’t as if you’re going to your execution, milady. You’ll end this night a betrothed woman!”

  Yes, and that was the problem.

  Elizabeth as she was would cease to exist, and some other creature would take her place. A future wife. A prize to be won, auctioned off to the highest bidder.

  She had contemplated running away, but Father would send his men after her. Even the farthest star systems lay within reach of the British Empire and its nobility. As an eligible daughter of royal blood, she would be hunted down for the rest of her life. They would never simply let her go.

  That was no existence—to subsist as fugitives, fleeing from planet to planet. Not for her, and not for Odile.

  “Cherie,” Odile had said, stroking her hair as they lay together upon her narrow bed. “You have a future, a destiny, that does not include me.”

  “What good is being a member of the royal family, if I’m powerless?” Elizabeth h
ad drawn a ragged breath, binding the cracks in her heart to keep it from splitting wide open. “I love you.”

  “And I, you.” Odile had met her gaze, her green eyes clear as she spoke the truth. “But I am a foreigner, and so far beneath you it is a matter for laughter. I am a tradeswoman, a mechanic, and you, a princess.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Those words had become a chant, lodged deep in Elizabeth’s chest. I don’t care.

  The duke insisted she marry soon. Too much trouble could be stirred up by the fact of an unattached royal daughter. Even in London, the rebel faction was active, and any chance to harm the queen or her family would be seized upon.

  “You might be kidnapped, held for ransom. Used to breed future pretenders to the throne.” Her father’s voice was hard and uncompromising.

  “I don’t care.”

  He’d looked as if he wanted to slap her, and she lifted her cheek in invitation. Instead, he’d turned on his foot and stalked away.

  “You will be the loveliest girl there tonight,” Tilly had said, affixing the heavy diamond necklace about her neck. “This ball gown turns your eyes the exact shade of periwinkles, and brings out the russet in your hair. So becoming!”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Oh, darling, being a married woman is wonderful,” her mother had said, kissing the air above her cheek. “I’m so delighted. Which gentleman will you choose? Aren’t you excited? It’s just like a fairy tale.”

  “I don’t care.”

  But of course she did, desperately.

  She had tried to explain to her mother that she did not find men attractive in the least, but Lady Albany had waved her hand and declared that a few weeks in the marriage bed would certainly change her mind. And if not, there were any number of talented young men who would be happy to please the duke’s daughter. For a small fee, or perhaps a trinket of favor.

  The thought turned Elizabeth’s stomach. She only wanted Odile’s kisses, the shape of a body pressed against hers that mirrored her own.

  From the other side of the double doors, a trumpet sounded a fanfare. The brassy notes rang through the air, calling attention to the head of the stairs, as they were meant to. It was Elizabeth’s cue to enter.

  The footmen pulled the doors open. Elizabeth lifted her chin and stepped forward. The noise and smell of the ballroom struck her like a blow: high pitched laughter, the last notes from the string quartet as they quieted, a mix of cologne and rose water and sweat that made her eyes sting.

  She blinked three times. Duke’s daughters were taught at an early age to present a composed face to the world, no matter the firestorm raging inside. Or the imminent threat of annihilation.

  There was one thing, however, that her parents had neglected to take into consideration.

  What if no one actually offered for their daughter?

  It was an enormous obstacle to overcome, of course. The prestige of her breeding alone made Elizabeth a catch even had she been hideous (which she was not), or unintelligent (a plus in some gentlemen’s eyes), or clumsy, or tasteless, or any number of flaws in appearance or personality that could be overlooked due to the fact that she was the Duke of Albany’s daughter.

  Indeed, she found it quite unlikely that anyone actually saw her, Elizabeth, the young woman beneath the royal veneer, the expensive nano-mechanical gown and glittering diamonds.

  She stepped to the top of the stairs and paused, one gloved hand clenched on the balustrade. Her heartbeat fluttered recklessly.

  Tonight, she would make them see.

  Her reputation would die a spectacular death, and her parents might well disown her, if they did not lock her up for decades. Ruin was preferable to the alternative, however.

  The assembled guests turned to the grand stairwell, conversations trickling to a close as their gazes fixed on Elizabeth.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” yet another footman announced. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Elizabeth Calloway von Saxe-Roth of London.”

  The trumpet blasted a run of notes, and the crowd applauded as Elizabeth slowly began to descend the stairs.

  She had considered deliberately tripping, to land sprawled and disheveled, possibly bleeding or with a broken limb. But that would only elicit pity and a postponement of the betrothal ball. It was no permanent solution.

  She had also thought of flinging herself from a high balcony onto the polished marble floor, but no. For one thing, Odile would never forgive her, and for another, Elizabeth was too fond of her own life to seriously entertain the idea of taking it.

  Every gaze fastened upon her. She counted the carpeted treads as she went. Two. Three.

  Some faces were appreciative, some avaricious. Some contemplated advantageous futures, others had lust for power writ upon their expressions. The women looked jealous, or scornful, or pitying, depending on their natures.

  Five steps down, out of fourteen stairs. Elizabeth held her head high.

  It was not too late to surrender. She could continue the full flight down, reach the bottom and let the crowd close about her like dark water over her head. She could smile and say empty words, and meekly go into a bleak and soul-killing future.

  “It is not so bad, darling,” her mother had said when she came to deliver the diamond necklace. “Men can be wrapped about your little finger, if you only care to exert yourself a little. And the true power is behind the throne, as they say.”

  She let out her usual laugh, so throaty it almost sounded natural. Sometimes, though, Elizabeth could see the trapped look in her mother’s eyes, hear the brittle edge to her words, each one weighed so carefully.

  “I don’t like gentlemen,” Elizabeth had said.

  “Now, now.” Lady Albany had patted her hand. “When you are married, the first few times will be difficult, I daresay. But after that you may develop a taste for it.”

  Elizabeth had narrowed her eyes, and said nothing.

  Ever since she was a girl, she’d known she had no attraction to the male gender—at least not in the fashion expected of man and wife. She did not dislike men in general. Only the thought of lying with them.

  Halfway down the stairs, she stopped. Her heart was thudding in her chest, her gloves damply adhering to her palms. This was her moment. Act now—or be forever lost in the role society had set for her. Obedient wife. Mother of heirs. Pretty bauble to be displayed hanging from her husband’s arm.

  No.

  She swallowed, her throat dry.

  “Dear guests,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “Thank you for attending. However, I have a confession to make.”

  That riveted the drifting attention. At the foot of the stairs, she saw her father scowl. She must finish quickly, before he strode up and dragged her from the ballroom.

  With a quick flick of her fingers, Elizabeth activated the specially modified nano-lifters in her gown and coiffure. The dress split open and floated away, to reveal Elizabeth wearing close-fitting black trousers, boots, and a low-cut shirt that revealed the shocking dragon tattoo winding across her chest.

  The gasps of surprise were gratifying, but even better were the shrieks of dismay as her wig—made of her own hair—lifted from her shaven head. It tumbled to the floor, an inanimate, hairy pet.

  “Elizabeth!” Her father, the duke, took the stairs two at a time, and caught her shoulder in a hard grasp.

  “Wait,” she called, stripping off her gloves and letting them fall. Her arms were inked with snakes and flowers, a mad riot of color. “I must admit the truth—I have had carnal congress, and am no longer an innocent!”

  Her words rang through the ballroom. Lady Albany fainted, and was caught by two nearby gentlemen as the crowd erupted. The noise of shocked speculation rose like a rogue wave, washing over her. Later, Elizabeth would be able to savor the looks of dismay and revulsion, but for now her father had her in his grasp.

  “Enough.” The duke turned his back on the hubbub and hauled her up the stairs.

 
He towed her through the double doors and down the hall to the wing of private rooms.

  “You are an idiot,” he said, his voice furious, though his expression remained set. A duke never outwardly displayed his rage on his face. “How dare you ruin your reputation, and your chances of making a brilliant match? Who will have you, now, after that ridiculous display?”

  “No one, I hope.” Her voice shook, but triumph raced through her.

  “We will salvage this yet,” her father said, eyes dark with anger. “For now, you are confined to your rooms.”

  He thrust her into her sitting room and slammed the door. She heard the snick of the lock, and then her father giving instructions to the footmen to guard her well.

  Despite the trembling in her legs, the soreness of her newly tattooed skin, Elizabeth smiled. She had won. Oh, her parents did not yet know it, but by the morrow Elizabeth’s sordid tale would be broadcast by every gossip rag in the galaxy. Her Royal Highness Elizabeth’s reputation would be soiled beyond repair—no matter that half of the story she had sent to the news reporters was complete fabrication. The damage would be done—never to be undone.

  She went to her wardrobe and removed the length of rope, her store of coins, and the small pack holding a knife, a change of clothing, a thermal kit, and two outbound tickets to Hermetica’s moon. As she closed the wardrobe door, the mirror caught the image of a small, determined young woman wearing a diamond necklace—incongruously bright above the indigo dragon inked into her skin.

  The necklace, sadly, must remain in London. As would the tattered remains of Princess Elizabeth Calloway von Saxe-Roth’s reputation.

  She tied the rope around the bedpost of her heavy bed, then opened the near window to the night. It was warm for May, the scent of earth and green things borne on the breeze. Elizabeth glanced once more about her bedroom—her prison—the ashes of her past.

  Then, rope coarse against her palms, she climbed over the sill. Regret crouched on her left shoulder, fear on her right, like sentinel gargoyles. What had she done? The enormity of her actions nearly bore her crashing to the dew-speckled ground.