by Ann Hunter
Rebecca covered her and kissed her temple. She took the goblets downstairs and cleaned them and put them away. She started the fire and settled into the daily chores.
After the outdoor chores were done, she returned inside to work upon the indoor chores. Occasionally she paused to listen to her mother’s coughing and the ragged wheezes she drew. At midday she went up to check on her and offer her a mash of molasses and soaked oats. Lilly turned them away, but Rebecca left the bowl and spoon on the nightstand within reach in case she changed her mind.
When the sun began to set, Rebecca caught a glimpse of Preacher strolling up the lane. She let him in and guided him up to her mother’s room. He pulled up a chair from the corner and took Lilly’s hand in his. Lilly’s eyes opened and she offered a meek smile. “Preacher.”
“Hello, sweet Lilly.”
“The work continues.”
Preacher nodded and offered the mash, now cold, to Lilly. She accepted and ate from the spoon he held. Rebecca leaned against the wall on the other side of the door where she could remain out of sight but still hear their hushed voices.
“So it does.”
“King Andrus means to wipe us off the map.”
“It will never happen as long as we have you.”
“I fear you will not have me much longer knowing what I know. They are watching me. Always watching.”
Preacher called for Rebecca and asked her to fetch bread and water. Rebecca did as she was bid, but grumbled about it, knowing she was missing out on the conversation. She strained to hear them upstairs while she sliced bread and poured cooled boiled water in to a cup. She returned to them and gave the bread and water to Preacher.
“I am ready, Preacher,” Lilly said slowly.
Preacher looked up at Rebecca. “Lady Tremaine, will you help us?”
Rebecca was not sure what he meant, but she helped sit her mother up against the pillows. Preacher broke bread and prayed softly. “Maker Khronos, bless this woman in her endeavors. For as she serves others, she serves you. Please accept her as she accepts this offering. Her love knows no exception, be it stranger or kin. Protect her in the days to come, that her work may be accomplished and she may return home to her loved ones and never depart again. Amen.”
Lilly took the bread and water from Preacher and fell back against the pillows.
Rebecca looked between them. “When your work is done? Will you not work at The Corporation much longer, Mother?”
Lilly reached up and touched Rebecca’s face. “Soon we will have the means to usurp the king. Then my work will be done. I will be forever with you here at home.”
Rebecca’s face lit up. She could hardly believe it. To have Lilly with her here at home again. All would be right in the world! She could help her find her health and strength once more. Lilly would be able to hack up garden weeds instead of ash from her lungs. Life would be sweet.
Preacher rose and looked at Rebecca. “I expect to see you in church more often when your mother is gone.”
Rebecca would have given him the moon if he had asked for it right then. She shook his hand and smiled brightly. “You will. Thank you.”
She saw him out of the house. “Mother always feels better when she listens to your service. I know she will be much better in the morning.”
Preacher bowed his head. “We can only hope.”
Rebecca returned upstairs. The night was drawing on. She made sure Lilly was comfortable before curling up beside her. When Rebecca thought she was asleep, she pulled out the diary from under the pillow and returned to reading.
I keep returning to that place where they are building “the future”. A monstrous air ship meant to carry the poison of this city to wipe out our hamlet and our ways.
King Andrus took it upon him self to show young Prince Andrew around the main floor today. I wanted to surge forth and tell the boy what awful things his father is planning. I can see the hardness on Andrus’s, but it is not yet written there upon the boy. He is still a half empty slate, ripe for teaching, and for knowing. Not unlike my girl.
I hope they both find their place in The Great Wheel. I know he is a prince, and she now the lady of our estate, but titles do not assert your purpose in life.
The Corporation becomes increasingly more dangerous both to those who work there and to itself. A most horrible thing happened today. A sector of the factory caught fire.
Petunia was brought into the infirmary scalded, burnt, and barely alive. She endowed me with the secrets of The Corporation for she has been able to delve further in than Henrietta Bartleby, myself, or any of the other women from our hamlet who have applied themselves here.
Petunia will not be returning home.
The last few days I have been tending a burn victim from the fire. The poor man had half of his face destroyed by the inferno. He is a lad not more than twenty. The other menders say he was trying to save his wife from the fire in the sector.
If I was not horrified before and moved to be the wrench in the inner workings of The Corporation, I surely am now.
Dear Diary,
I miss Rebecca.
Rebecca read the last entry again. There were no more after it. She welled up with tears a bit and brushed them away. She looked at her mother, stuffed the diary under her pillow, and snuggled up to her. “I missed you too, Mother.”
Rebecca’s eyes opened the following morning. She had rolled onto her other side where she was most comfortable. She rubbed her face and turned toward her mother, but the space where she lay was empty.
Rebecca sat upright with the force of a bullet. She practically tripped and twisted herself in the covers as she tried to get out of bed. She growled in frustration as she untangled her self and bolted from the room calling for Lilly.
There was a fire in the hearth, food on the table, and the chickens had been fed. Yet no sign of Lilly. There was only one place she could be on Oneday morning, but Rebecca refused to believe it.
“No.” She shook her head. “No.”
She ran her fingers through her hair and darted into the front yard. Tears welled in her eyes as she searched frantically up and down the dirt lane in front of their cottage.
“No, no.” She dropped to her knees and covered her face as she sobbed. “No, no, no!”
She ran back up to her mother’s bedroom and dug through the covers and pillows as if her mother was hiding in them. Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. The diary was gone too. She looked behind the headboard and under the bed. Gone, vanished, taken out from under her in the night.
Rebecca flung herself on the bed and wept bitterly. Lilly had been so very sick and she had still left. Why? To what end did she hope to accomplish? To be that sick and still expect to be useful… Rebecca recalled the conversation she had had with her father only a month or two prior.
”… Knowing your place is reassuring. Hearing the ticking without knowing can only drive one mad. It reminds us that we are losing time fulfilling our true purpose.”
“What if a cog is frozen stiff from knowing that?”
“Then we must hope they reach and every one out to Khronos for direction, or the consequences for that cog are dire. A stuck cog or gear is a cog or gear that must be removed and replaced. Imagine spending your entire life not knowing where you belong only to die without fulfilling your purpose. If you have found your passion, you should allow nothing to stop you. No excuses. When you find you are made for that one purpose you will find a way to prove it to yourself, to others, and to Maker Khronos. That is how He will know that you know your place in The Great Wheel. There may be times when The Great Wheel proves unkind. It will feel as though there are never enough hours in the day, days in the week, or months in the year. This can often render a weaker cog useless, as we have spoke of. Find your true north, and do it when it is hard. Do it when it is impossible. Do it even when the world seems to be crashing down around you. To not be deterred is to show our Maker we are worthy of ticking.”
Lilly was a mender. She had known it since she was a girl, Rebecca asserted. So why would she be meddling in the king’s plans? To prove to Khronos she was worthy of ticking?
Rebecca doubted there was really a way to stop anyone from doing something if they truly wished to do it. And with the money and power and influence King Andrus held, well… the end result, though catastrophic, seemed inevitable.
Rebecca pummeled her fist into a stray pillow. She knew she should not dawdle here much longer. Though the chickens were fed, the rest of the estate needed tending to. Weeds needed pulling today. Rebecca fixed her mother’s bed, changed in to her own work clothes, and got on with the day.
She executed her week much the same as the prior ones. Her body felt strong as it grew more and more used to the daily grind. Yet her insides felt weak and broken. She tried to keep busy, tried to look forward to Sixtherday when Lilly would return home, but Sixtherday came and went. The sun rose on Khronos Day and Rebecca woke up alone at the kitchen table. Her arm was damp with drool, and a half moon spot of spittle gathered on the wood table.
Rebecca leaned back and rubbed her neck sorely. The fire had died down of its own accord. She rose to stoke it. She poured a goblet of ale and sliced fresh bread she had made the day before and took it on a tray up to her mother’s room. She expected to find her there. Perhaps Henrietta had not needed help. But the bed was just as smoothed over and pristine as she had left it on Oneday.
Her shoulders slumped, chin trembling. Was her mother alright? Why had not she come home? Rebecca placed the food on Lilly’s night stand and sank down on the bed. She stared at her hands as though she had no idea what to do with herself. Then a gnawing voice in her head simply said, “Feed the chickens. Tend the cottage. Get to church.”
Rebecca sighed. She did all of those things and tried to pay attention to Preacher, but his words fell on lost ears. He found her after church and showed her concern and offered comfort, but it did little for Rebecca. She dragged her feet home.
Oneday and Twosday she slid through the motions. Triunsday was not much different. Then, late on Fourthday night, a knock fell on the door. Rebecca had been reading her father’s clockwork book near the hearth and rose to open the door, not caring if it were friend or foe. Farmer Diggory’s lumbering, bearded figure thrust a cake at her. “From the missus.”
Rebecca took it and looked down at it. Mrs. Diggory’s baking at its finest. “Um… thank you?” she offered.
Farmer Diggory nodded curtly. “Happy Name Day.” And shut the door all of a sudden.
Rebecca stood there staring at the closed door, then down at the cake. She placed it on the table and sank in to a chair. “My name day.”
How could she have forgotten her own name day? Her thirteenth year had arrived without the fanfair that most other girls enjoyed. No gifts, save for this cake. No loved ones to share it with. Rebecca folded her arms on the table and laid her head down upon them. “Happy Name Day.”
Though her stomach growled with anticipation, Rebecca pushed the cake away. What point was there in celebrating one’s name day if one was alone? Perhaps if she had been happier about her circumstances, she would have thought to honor her father and mother and have a slice for each of them. She would tell her self that it was likely what they would have wanted for her. Yet she could not bring her self to take even one bite. She merely traced a line in the silky, buttery, frosting until her finger drilled a hole into the cake itself.
Perhaps in the morning she would leave it where Gregory Diggory would find it. He was due for another visit any day now. She would not be surprised if he came tomorrow to snoop for truffles in exchange as payment for the cake, although her parents had always assured her that Farmer and Mrs. Diggory were very nice, generous, compassionate people. At least Gregory Diggory would enjoy it. He would likely be the most interesting name day party guest to visit.
Rebecca retired to bed, leaving the cake exactly where it was on the table downstairs.
She took the cake outside with her and set it on top of the chicken coop as she fed the hens in the morning. The chicks were growing exceedingly well and becoming bolder and more confident about straying further from their mothers.
Rebecca reckoned next month she would have to sort them and ready others for market. She was becoming fond of two young broods, however. The plucky one that pestered all the others she had taken to calling Petunia. Then there was a smaller, sturdy, plumper one she had named Henrietta Bartleby. If Gregory Diggory could name a pig Gregory Diggory, then Rebecca could certainly name her hens after the neighbors, especially when they reminded her so much of them.
Just when Rebecca was settling into the cottage to take her evening meal, a knock fell on the door. She opened it to see Farmer Diggory again. He held his old straw hat in his hands and wheeled it between them. He nodded in the direction of his wagon. “Come.”
Rebecca dusted her hands off on her apron, for she had been working on dough for a loaf of bread so that it could rise over night. “Is everything all right, Mr. Diggory?”
“You are needed.”
“Will we be gone long?” she asked.
Farmer Diggory retreated toward his wagon. His old Belgian gelding, Hank, pawed the ground anxiously. When he saw she was still stuck in the door, Farmer Diggory called to Rebecca, “Come, now, Lady Tremaine. She’s calling for you.”
Rebecca, perplexed, doused the fire and grabbed a shawl from a hook near the door that she had knitted for her mother. Yet seeing she did not know when she would be with her again, she took it up and put it upon herself. She climbed in the cart with Farmer Diggory and looked at him. “What’s going on?”
Farmer Diggory flicked the reins and said nothing, save for the command of “Move up.” to his golden gelding.
Hank surged forward at a quick trot. It caught Rebecca off guard as she’d never seen him go faster than a steady plod. She fell back against the buckboard seat and grabbed a bar of iron to prevent her self from tipping completely over and out of the cart. The mid-spring evening air prickled against her cheeks and she pulled the shawl tighter about her. “Where are we going?” she asked.
Farmer Diggory merely bent his head in the direction of the city.
“But why?”
Farmer Diggory chewed on the vetch steadily. He glanced at Rebecca before flicking the reins again, encouraging Hank to pick up the pace. The blonde gelding broke into a canter. The great hunk of horse rocked back on his haunches just to get his front under him each stride. He leaned into the collar determinedly. The wagon rocked back and forth rhythmically over the dirt road.
When they crested the hill, Rebecca was shocked to see how much the pollution had spread from the city. Instead of being able to prepare for it from miles away, they were all of a sudden in it, ambushed by it. Where the corn had bowed before the outskirts, it was now entirely removed. Fields lay barren and wasted. Even the crows had given up at picking bones of small rodents from the wasteland.
As Farmer Diggory and Rebecca drew closer to the city limits, the crows became invisible against the sky. Hank slowed. His breathing quickly labored, and he coughed deeply. Rebecca removed the shawl from her shoulders and buried her nose and mouth. Her eyes watered. The air seem to grow considerably warmer. They eeked through what appeared to be a thick fog, but as Rebecca looked up she felt soft, tiny flakes light upon her brow and realized the fog was a curtain of ash.
A sudden clap of thunder made Hank veer violently to the right. Rebecca grabbed hold of the wagon boards as Farmer Diggory steadied his steed. The veil of ash thinned, and Rebecca made out the overbearing shadow of The Corporation. It gushed and wooshed like some living, breathing monster.
Steam cars plowed by and a swell of people gathered near the gates of the corporation. Great drums filled with candles turned toward the sky and were swung back and forth on a swiveling base by mustachioed men wearing black velveteen top hats and dark goggles. Music surged and pumped as a steam car pulled up. Out stepped a rotu
nd, balding man with mutton chops and beet red cheeks. His white suit with gold buttons and red trim was adorned with small gauges and flickering colored lights. He raised a gloved hand toward The Corporation and the aristocracy among the crowd cheered wildly.
Rebecca turned in the cart as the party fell behind them. She lowered the shawl from her face and squinted at the man. “Is that King Andrus?”
Farmer Diggory gave a simple nod. Hank was breathing heavily.
Rebecca’s brow furrowed. “Such a little man to fear.”
“Always fear the smallest foe,” Farmer Diggory murmured.
Rebecca reached out into the air until King Andrus’s head fit between her fingers. She stuck her tongue out and closed her fingers. “Squish.”
Farmer Diggory chuckled.
Not too much farther from the party, the cart finally stopped. A simple rest house towered above them, painted black to hide the soot. Rebecca buried her face in her elbow and coughed. “Curse this air.”
Farmer Diggory set the brake on his cart and motioned to the front door. “Take as long as you need.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows knit together. She regathered the shawl about her shoulders. Farmer Diggory reached in back of the cart to retrieve a cloth to throw over Hank’s wide nose and stroked his head quietly.
Rebecca knocked upon the door. Her heart skipped a beat as she waited. Finally the door swung open. A small cloud of ash took flight from the hinges. Rebecca started into a coughing fit.
“Is that the Lady Tremaine?” a familiar voice asked.
Rebecca waved the air, trying to clear the cloud from around her head. She squinted. “Henrietta?”
Mrs. Bartleby reached out to her. “As I tick and tock! Get inside here, girl. There is not much time left.”
