by A. F. Dery
Her breath caught to see him posed thus; she had always thought him a very fine looking man, and she was particularly taken with him when he donned the monocle, looking, as he did, so distinguished to her eyes! He was lean, tall without being towering, strong without being very muscular, every inch a scholar or a dancer rather than a brawler, like the men she'd grown up around down in Redswild. His hair was gray as iron and clipped close as soldiers favored it, but Margaret would not have changed him for anything, no matter the prevailing fashion. He was hers, and he was perfect.
Then her eyes dropped to the horse so freshly dismembered and her heart joined her breath in her throat.
"Oh, no, husband! Not our Ben!" she cried. Her husband gave no sign of having heard her, which was unsurprising, given both the distance and his evident absorption in the matter at hand. Margaret drew her head back into her chamber and very quietly shut the window with a trembling hand, hot tears quickly gathering in her hazel eyes as she sank down on the window seat's cushion.
Margaret recalled so clearly the first time she had met Ben, and in meeting Ben, her husband, Edmund, the Lord Malachi. She had been in the market the day he had ridden in to meet a traveling merchant for some part or another for one of his projects, and his horse had nearly trampled her in his haste, not seeing her where she stood by the roadside with a basket of fruit on her hip.
Of course, she thought of it now as a "horse," but that...thing..was nothing living. It had resembled a horse only, four long legs on a torso suitable for riding, with a vaguely horse-shaped head and even two twitching horse-like ears atop that head. If one stood close enough to it, even with the crowd of people always present on market day and all their noise and bustle, one could hear the whirring inside of untold numbers of unseen gears and mechanisms that somehow powered that metal beast, which was lacquered a uniform dark gray for appearance's sake and even fitted with a traditional leather saddle, though it had no hair, no mane or tail or jaunty forelock. Small jets of steam puffed from inky metallic nostrils and glassy black eyes reflected the world around, including one terrified Margaret as it narrowly avoided treading right on top of her at its brisk and vaguely clanging trot.
The horse-thing, as she had thought of Ben then, had narrowly avoided crushing her beneath its metal hooves. Margaret had felt the steam on her bare face, flattening the honey-colored curls that framed it. The willowy man who had been seated atop the thing had wheeled towards her with a fierce scowl. His eyes were as black and bright as Ben's, albeit markedly more intelligent.
"Haven't you got the sense to move when you see something about to crush you, girl?" he had demanded. His voice was rough and low, those black eyes narrowing at her in obvious disapproval.
"I...but...that is..." she had stammered, still stunned as the fact that she had almost been flattened by a metal horse sank in. She stared at it, curiosity edging out her shock. "I say, HOW does that thing run, sir?"
Its rider had blinked at her once, twice, the scowl fading into a frown that was merely puzzled. "It's steam powered, of course. It would be bloody impractical to have to wind the whole thing up."
"Steam?" she echoed, tilting her head for a better look at the side of it. "Does it...drink, then?"
Lord Malachi had laughed then, a sudden, sharp bark, then looked as surprised at the sound as if the mechanical horse had issued it instead. He had dismounted and spent nearly an hour explaining the intricacies of his mount with her, entirely missing the planned meeting with the merchant, as she learned later.
But he had returned on market day the following week, and then the next, under an ever-growing list of increasingly flimsy excuses until at last he had appeared for no better reason than to carry her basket when she walked home. It was the single oddest courtship Margaret could ever have conceived of. There were no coy glances, no stolen kisses, no fumbling, hasty embraces. Lord Malachi had seemed, in fact, to take no notice of her physically at all; it was her mind and her budding enthusiasm in his passion for all things mechanical that had caught, and somehow held, his interest. And bizarrely enough, it was his apparent apathy for those feminine charms that had been the only attraction for her past suitors that had caught hers. Attractive as she found Lord Malachi, it was plain that he was no few years her senior, and she endured many a lecture from her Gran during their courtship that she was by no means of his class, either. But his boyish enthusiasm for his creations, his own quiet unwavering devotion to her as their courtship progressed, had sent her doubts fleeing.
And when after a respectable length of time he had married her and brought her home to his castle stronghold- the only castle she'd ever stepped foot in at that point in her life- it had been like coming home to a wonderland. The castle had a full complement of servants, and it was only the three that breathed that she had any trouble with. The others- all creations of her husband's, running on gears and cogs and all manner of strange fuels- she was far more comfortable with. She knew how every one worked, and how to make them mind her. Some worked by flashes of light created from odd pieces of glass positioned by sun or candlelight, or by certain trills performed on a whistle, both of these perceived by mechanisms that went far beyond her ability to understand; still others by switches and levers set in particular patterns. The simpler ones were simply wound up, and set about a single task until their springs wound back down again. Perhaps it should have been unsettling, that she was more comfortable with creatures of metal than ones of flesh, but any apprehension she may have felt about this inclination abruptly evaporated in the warm glow of her husband's approval.
And now Ben, whom she had named herself (for her Edmund had no such sentimental fancies), lay in pieces. She wondered if Edmund meant to rebuild him, or if the instrument of their first meeting was destined to be no more than scrap. Her tears were falling freely now and she sat there absorbed in her memories of the metallic creature for some time until one of the servants who troubled her- that is to say, one of the ones that actually had a pulse- brought in her breakfast on a tray. She was a small, squat woman, dark haired and dark eyed with skin gray as ash, and in every way indistinguishable from the other woman and the man who were the other two living servants. All three dressed alike, in shapeless, brown and gray clothing, trousers under long tunics- or she supposed the long tunics on the women might have been meant to be shapeless dresses. Margaret had often speculated as to their origins, for she was herself a native Malachaian and looked nothing at all like them, but her fancies were only that. She had never quite mustered the courage to ask Edmund about them directly, her mantle as Lady resting rather uneasily on her even after almost three years of marriage, at least when it came to anything made of flesh.
At least it seems clear they must be related, Margaret reflected doubtfully as she dabbed at the wetness on her cheeks unselfconsciously with the hem of her sleeve. Truth be told, it could have been the man standing there with her breakfast, for all she knew. They truly looked identical, and they never seemed to speak above a whisper, their voices also blurring into indistinguishable rasps.
"Good morning, Lady," the servant rasped now, but her tone was utterly flat, her dark eyes cold, the corners of her mouth wilting sourly at the words.
That was another thing Margaret didn't like about them. All three of them seemed to act as though every word spoken to her was the bitterest poison to their tongues, no matter how innocuous the actual words, and since they only ever addressed her in her husband's absence, Edmund had never had occasion to witness this unfathomable behavior.
If only I could take control and act like the Lady Malachi instead of a timid village girl, Margaret thought regretfully. But timid she was, at least with those three, and too embarrassed of it to confide in her husband, who no doubt believed she was getting along with them just fine and doing him justice as his Lady.
Margaret's cheeks burned unpleasantly at that thought and she looked away from the disapproving servant, murmuring, "Good morning" and busying herself with tracing
the embroidery on the skirt of her nightgown with her fingers until the loathsome woman had gone without another word and certainly without any show of respect towards her. Margaret sighed. Even a lowly girl from Redswild knew this wasn't normal behavior for a domestic servant, even though she'd never been one herself. No doubt they thought poorly of her because their lord had not married nobility, a born Lady rather than one made by an auspicious marriage.
Most countries expected, no, demanded, that nobles marry other nobles. Margaret knew this and she anticipated her eventual presentation at Court with a sick feeling of dread. Edmund normally went to Court once every 5 years or so, but his correspondence with the High Lord was far more frequent, particularly of late. She hoped very much he would not be expected to make an appearance before the babe was born. He could excuse her absence on those grounds, but the last thing she wanted was to be left here alone with those three. She felt a tremor in her belly and she patted it consolingly as she rose to inspect her breakfast tray.
That was one thing she had to give them: whatever their sentiments, they did not tamper with her food, or if they did, she'd seen no signs of it. And since her condition became obvious, though no formal announcement had been made (and likely would not be, according to Malachaian custom, until the birth had transpired without incident), it actually appeared as though they took extra care to make sure the food was arranged appealingly and presented at the proper temperatures. Not that it mattered; she had been unable to keep anything down since she'd stopped her bleeds. Whatever they did, or did not, think of her, they were evidently pleased at the idea of their lord having an heir, whoever its carrier.
She shuddered a little, and hearing a sudden clicking noise, whirled nervously to the door. One of the servants, perhaps the same one who brought the tray, stood there, staring at her with inscrutable dark eyes.
"Wh-what is it?" Margaret asked, chiding herself on her momentary loss of composure. She was not usually so jumpy. She told herself it was most unbecoming for a Lady and willed herself to square her shoulders and lift her chin.
The servant said nothing, only turned and left, again pushing shut the door. Margaret frowned, slowly turning again to the tray.
But she could not bring herself now to even attempt to taste a bite of it.
"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself under her breath. "They wouldn't risk any harm to the baby." She caught herself raising her fingertips to her lips and pushed them hastily back down to her sides. "Ridiculous," she muttered again. The servant had likely come to do or say something, then forgot what it was. Or perhaps had even been staring at her just to unnerve her.
She tried to ignore the aromas coming from the tray, that somehow mysteriously managed to both revolt and attract her, swallowing hard against the bitter-tasting saliva welling in her mouth.
Again Margaret felt tears threaten, her throat aching. She heard another movement at the door and she turned back to it, embarrassment and anger joining her worry as she blinked them away rapidly. "Have something to say now, do you?" she demanded sharply as the door swung open, but it was not any of the three identical servants, but her husband.
"Oh Edmund, I am sorry," she stammered, taking a step backward in surprise. "I thought you were someone else!"
"I wonder who," Lord Malachi said dryly, but his eyes belied the humor in his tone. “Are they giving you a hard time, Maggie? Do I need to have a word with them?”
Margaret was sorely tempted to throw herself in his arms and sob out all her troubles, but the fear of disappointing him held her back. Besides which, she was sure that she would only earn still more contempt from the trio behind her husband's back if she resorted to having him deal with them instead. That was not the route to earn their respect, and she suddenly realized that was really what she needed to do.
She looked into her husband's expectant, concerned eyes and said, "It is under control, husband. I will handle it."
Lord Malachi's mouth wilted slightly in an almost-frown. "Are you sure, wife? I don't think anything should be upsetting you right now."
"Upset? Me?" Margaret attempted a small laugh. Lord Malachi crossed the room to her and brushed her cheek gently with his knuckles.
"You've been crying," he pointed out. "What is going on?"
Margaret thought quickly, and remembering the original source of her tears, said, "You killed Ben!"
Lord Malachi looked taken aback. "I did no such thing. It is not possible to kill that which was never alive."
"You know what I mean!" Margaret cried. "We never would have met if not for Ben, and I wake up to you snapping his legs off and breaking him into pieces right outside my window!"
"Not right outside," Lord Malachi said cagily. "But you know my workshop is out that way. I hadn't the room to dismantle it in there, not with everything else I'm doing."
She sniffled, and he said hastily, "But I am sorry if it upset you, Maggie. Really, it was past time for...Ben...to be...eh, laid to rest."
"You're humoring me, husband," Margaret said flatly.
"Well, yes," Lord Malachi admitted, having the grace to look sheepish. "You know I don't see my inventions that way. Ben was a tool, who happily served more than its intended purpose, as it turns out. But it was never alive and certainly has no objection to being dismantled upon reaching the end of its usefulness. I will build another, with improvements."
"To find your next wife, you mean?" Margaret asked a bit pettishly, crossing her arms. Now why can't I be this assertive with the damned servants? she wondered.
Lord Malachi looked askance at her. "Why? Where are you going?"
Margaret sighed. Her fits of pique were as lost on him as her fits of sentiment.
"Nowhere, dear. I'm being difficult," she explained, feeling as though any hope of finding satisfaction in her difficult behavior was evaporating before her eyes.
"Oh," Lord Malachi said, with the air of the enlightened. "Well, carry on, then. I only came up to bid you good morning before returning to...other things." He waved his hand as though dismissing those "other things" as mere nuisances that she need not trouble herself about, but of course, it was too late for that. She knew full well "other things" at this juncture meant "sorting through the bits and pieces of the mechanical horse that my wife has a bizarre and incomprehensible emotional attachment to." "You know should be in bed, my love. The midwife said-"
"I know what she said," Margaret said on a sigh. "But nothing helps, everything hurts no matter what I'm doing." As if in the babe were agreeing, she felt the gentle ripples of their unborn child wiggling, but not a moment later, she let out a cry as her belly suddenly cramped as if gripped by hot metal claws.
She clutched her arms around her middle, feeling her husband's arms wrap around her before she could drop to her knees.
"Maggie," she heard her husband cry worriedly, as if from far away. She felt something warm dripping down her leg, and everything went black.
Lord Malachi sat in a chair with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands outside his wife’s bedchamber door, feeling utterly numb. The midwife had arrived at once, having taken up lodgings for the duration of Lady Margaret’s condition in the castle.
She had shooed him out at once without even hearing his stammered explanation of what had happened. Maggie had passed out only briefly; even now, he heard her moans, and felt desperation like a lead weight on his chest.
The pregnancy had been difficult from the very beginning; his Maggie could barely eat. But soon enough, the pain had started, and he knew it must be terrible, for she never complained about anything to him if she could help it, yet she could not stifle her groans if he came upon her at certain times, taking walks through her flower garden or even just rising from a chair. In the beginning, she did not have the weight to justify such discomfort; he had known at once that something was wrong, and she had been tended by the midwife each day since then and mostly confined to her bed.
Despite the little sustenance she could keep
down, even now, over a month since the midwife had assured him her nausea should be easing, her belly, and it alone, was growing; otherwise she appeared painfully thin, her bones pressing in sharp relief against pale skin. He feared every moment for her and went to her frequently throughout the day, more than he even had in the first year of their marriage when he could barely endure being away from her side for as much as an hour, with all the ardor of a man much younger and more passionate than he.
But his age had meant nothing to her and indeed, he hadn’t felt it at all since she had come into his life. He had never been lonely in his solitude, before he’d met Margaret, but once she had entered his life, it had seemed somehow lacking when they were apart. The hours he had spent pleasantly engaged in his inventions or in the day to day running of his country or absorbed in one of his books had abruptly begun to ring hollow, his mind wandering- often at inopportune moments- to the lovely fair-haired girl and her childlike wonder and curiosity at his creations- and her far more adult intelligence when he explained them to her. He had never met a woman who shared his interests before, and it had been...gratifying, to say the least. He was still objective enough to recognize that there were many things about which his wife was not particularly learned; her education, on the whole, was rather poor, as could be expected from her young age and former station in life. But when it came to the mechanical creatures who virtually ran his castle and protected his borders, she was vastly intelligent, learning quickly and showing no end of fascination. She had even offered a suggestion or two in the past that had improved his inventions remarkably. He had long since given up trying to give her due credit; she always managed to surprise and amaze him.
And he knew with no doubt that he could not live without her now, not now that she was as much a part of his life as the cogs and gears that turned in many of his inventions. He had not felt loneliness before her, but he was sure that was something that would change if there were an “after” her.
