Daughters of Aether

by Nicholas Petrarch

  When she’d ascended the steps, she met him at the center of the stage leaving a healthy gap between them. Her body remained rigid and her jaw squared as she glared into his triumphant eyes.

  “Didn’t I say we still had business, you and I?” Dempwolf asked.

  Margarete didn’t respond. Her voice had gone stale during her walk and she couldn’t find the words to engage with the man. He didn’t seem to mind, however. He turned and paced a bit as he took in the look of the theater.

  “So this is where your little act winds down?” he said, his nose turning up as he noticed a particularly soiled corner. “Fitting. It’s been an entertaining pastime, this little game of ours. However, as with all things, there must come an end.”

  “This was never a game,” Margarete said.

  “Call it whatever you’d like,” Dempwolf said. “The victor is clear.”

  Margarete blood boiled under her skin. Everything about the man irked her, and the more he spoke the more she felt her self-restraint breaking. He deserved to feel the consequences of what had happened—of what he’d done.

  She took an aggressive step forward.

  “Ah!” Dempwolf warned, raising a finger to stop her. “Let’s keep things civil. We wouldn’t want another accident to befall us, would we?” He gestured behind her and Margarete turned to find Vanzeal emerging from his hiding place in the opposite wing.

  “Hello again, Margarete,” he grinned. “It seems I missed you.”

  Margarete’s heart beat even faster in her chest. It was a trick! She’d been set up! Her hand went to her waist, and she clutched Charlotte’s knife.

  “I’ll only say this once,” Vanzeal said, his voice like a purr. “You make the same mistake as your matron and I assure you you won’t be long removed from her.”

  He stepped forward and Margarete hesitated, her eyes hot as her anger and pain tortured her. Her heart spasmed in her chest, but finally she let go of the knife and let her hand fall to her side.

  “Is this it then?” she asked. “You’re just going to do away with me now?”

  Dempwolf gave her a confused look. “Why would we do that?” he asked. “I think you have the wrong impression of me. I’m a businessman, not a killer. Worthington was clear that we were to do you no harm as long as you handed over the letters.” He eyed her critically. “You have brought the letters, haven’t you?”

  Margarete nodded.

  “Good. Then all we have left to do is a simple trade,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Again, Margarete’s temper flared with the casual manner in which he acted. But what could she do? So long as Vanzeal was near she doubted she’d be able to so much as scratch him. With reservation she reached into her dress and drew out the letters. Dempwolf’s eyes glowed with satisfaction when he saw them.

  He placed the case down on the ground before Margarete. “Your compensation,” he said.

  Margarete looked at it with distrust, clutching the letters tightly. “How do I know they’ll be honored after our last encounter?” she asked, glaring at Vanzeal.

  “Do you think we’d go through that hassle again?” Dempwolf asked. “As you’re likely aware, if we still meant to silence you we could take care of that here and now in a matter of seconds. But we don’t, so these pleasantries continue. In fact, I want to thank you for what you’ve accomplished here. It’s been… revelatory.”

  “What does that mean?” Margarete asked.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” Dempwolf said, waving his hand dismissively. “What matters is that from now on you have everything you ever dreamed of. Though, if I were you, I would have asked for more. I’m sure as soft as Worthington has become for you he would have gladly surrendered his entire estate.”

  “I only wanted enough to get away from here,” Margarete said. “I’m not trying to ruin him.”

  “Well, whatever it was that you intended, you’ve done a bang-up job,” Dempwolf chuckled. “It’s a shame you won’t be sticking around to see the effects.”

  He kicked the case forward, and it slid across the stage to Margarete’s feet. Margarete eyed the two of them before she knelt down and opened the latch. True to his word, the case was filled with standard banknotes and across the top was a ticket written out in Worthington’s hand for full accommodations out of the city.

  “You’re welcome to count it if you’d like,” Dempwolf said. “I took the liberty of adding my own contribution. Call it a tip for your services. It should be more than enough to recover your losses. After all, from what I’ve heard she was a real tyrant to work under.”

  Margarete’s hair bristled as he said it and everything else seemed to fall away. Something clicked in her mind and before she’d realized what she was doing Margarete had risen from the floor and closed the distance between her and Dempwolf. He turned with surprise as her hand struck him across the face and sent him stumbling backwards.

  She was raising it again for a second strike when Vanzeal seized her from behind and pulled her off him.

  “Let go of me!” she yelled, lashing out to try to get at Dempwolf.

  Vanzeal’s grip tightened around her, but Margarete wouldn’t be restrained. She flailed wildly, twisting in his arms and spitting in his face. Vanzeal cursed loudly, throwing her to the ground. She landed hard, recovering herself just as Vanzeal’s hand went for his sword.

  “Don’t!” Dempwolf barked, and Vanzeal hesitated—his sword drawn inches from its sheath.

  Margarete glared at the two men as Dempwolf touched his cheek tenderly.

  “I see now why Vanzeal had trouble with you before,” he chuckled, though his expression was devoid of humor. “You’ve got some spark in you, girl, but you’re testing our patience when you carry on like this.”

  He stepped forward and picked up the letters from where they’d fallen in the scuffle. Thumbing through them he pulled the ribbon that held them together and tossed it aside.

  Seemingly satisfied, he tucked the letters into his suit pocket. “This is the last bit of hospitality you’ll get from me,” he said. “I suggest you take your compensation and go while Vanzeal is still under my employ. Because in a moment I’ll have no further use of him and he’ll be free to act as he will.”

  Margarete sat up, careful not to take her eyes off of Vanzeal. The man looked like he might come unhinged at any moment. His hand still gripped the pommel of his sword, so tightly that she could hear the leather of his gloves creaking. At any moment she expected his sword to spring and the end to come. She braced herself for it. Almost welcomed it.

  But it never came, and with the crack of metal on metal Vanzeal forced his sword back into its sheath.

  Margarete breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Enjoy your spoils,” Dempwolf said, turning as he gestured for Vanzeal to follow.

  Vanzeal stepped over Margarete, stooping down to pick up the knife she’d dropped. Flipping it once in his hand, he caught the blade and eyed her. Finally, he spat on the ground and the two of them stepped through the wing, leaving Margarete to herself.

  The tension of the confrontation took some time to disperse from the room. Margarete didn’t move for a while, her arms shaking as she held herself up. She was still there. Still alive. She’d not expected it, but there she was still breathing. She glanced at the open case and the small fortune it contained. She’d done it. Everything she needed to start over was within arm’s reach.

  Blood money for Charlotte.

  The thought of using it sickened her and Margarete turned away. She’d never intended such a steep price for her freedom, and now she wasn’t even sure she could follow through with her original plan. Not when she knew every day what it had cost. She wasn’t the type to use others for her own gain.

  Margarete froze. Another thought had disturbed her lamentations as she recognized those familiar words. She’d heard them before, not long ago. Margarete lifted herself from the ground as the sudden revelation flooded her with new purpose.

&nbs
p; She knew who’d betrayed Charlotte.

  While it’s been a privilege to have assisted you all these years, it’s with regret that I inform you that I will no longer be continuing on as your apprentice. A singular opportunity has come my way, and I intend to take it.

  —Excerpt from Stoddard’s Letter of Resignation

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Packing

  EMMALINE STRIPPED A DRESS FROM its hanger and dragged it out onto her bed, stuffing it into the suitcase she’d laid open. It was one of the dresses she’d originally brought with her from Sorrento and she smiled in satisfaction is it saw light again. She wanted to leave behind as much of the memory of her family’s debacle as she could. Unfortunately, despite the simpler design of the dress, she still had trouble fitting it in with everything she’d need in the coming weeks.

  Of course, it didn’t help that she didn’t really know what she’d need. Everything had been decided so quickly that she’d had little time to think ahead or make plans. And, if she were honest with herself, she quite liked the feeling it gave her—like butterflies tickling her stomach and feet simultaneously. All she knew was that she’d made up her mind and there was nothing that could persuade her to turn back now.

  In just a few short hours she’d begin her new life with Stoddard.

  The dress sufficiently stuffed, Emmaline sat on the edge of the bed a moment to rest. Thoughts of their future adventures together played out before her as she fantasized about where the next step would take them. Would they go far away, seeing ends of the world neither of them had heard of? Or would they stay within the city, hiding from her family right under their noses? Perhaps they would return to Sorrento and she’d be able to show him all the places she’d told him about.

  Wherever they ended up she was certain it would be better than where she was now—forever a pawn of her parents, only intended for an advantageous marriage. Under this roof she knew it was only a matter of time until they made that decision for her. Her mother had made that intent perfectly clear. And with the loss of trust in her father Emmaline couldn’t convince herself that any choice they’d make would be in her best interest.

  Stoddard, on the other hand, had done nothing except inspire her trust. He was innovative and capable, humble and determined, and in all things he treated her like a lady—more so than any of the so-called gentlemen.

  It was nothing personal, her mother had told her. It was only politics. But then Emmaline wanted to know who had first decided life was all about political gain anyway. And what had possessed them to abandon their own feelings in the face of it? Emmaline wished she could meet that unfortunate person and plead with them to reconsider. It wasn’t worth it.

  But that wasn’t going to be her fate. Emmaline’s heart was beating clear, if not a little fast, and she was determined to follow it to the very end. Her mother may have married into disaster, but not her.

  The jingle of the doorknob startled Emmaline out of her thoughts.

  “Miss?” came Anne’s voice from behind the door. “Is everything alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Emmaline answered. Leaping into action, she snapped the suitcase closed and shoved it under the corner of the bed before darting about the room to hide any sign of her departure.

  “The door is locked.”

  “One moment!” Emmaline called as she shut the drawers. She quickly scooped up the rest of her clothes and stuffed them into the wardrobe unceremoniously. When everything was more or less back in its place, she unlatched the door and allowed Anne in.

  Anne gave her a curious look as she entered, a freshly pressed dress draped carefully over her arms. “What was that all about just now?” she asked. “It’s not like you to lock the door. Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Emmaline insisted, returning to the corner of the bed. “I was just… I was thinking. By myself.”

  “Ah,” Anne said, a look of comprehension coming over her, though clearly she’d not read Emmaline’s meaning. “I wish I had my own little corner to weather the storms when they come. It has been a rather odd few days, hasn’t it?”

  Emmaline nodded.

  “A little space is good, I think,” Anne continued. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so. It’s probably not my business to say, but it seems your father has caught a case of melancholy. He was locked up in his office all through the night, and no one’s been able to persuade him out of it all day. Something is hovering over the man, for certain. I can feel it through the whole estate. Do you know what it is, miss?”

  Emmaline shrugged. She didn’t care to entertain Anne’s curiosity, especially if it threatened to delay her departure any longer.

  “That’s a shame,” Anne sighed. “It’s never any good when your father gets this way. That an entire house could be turned on its head because of one person, it’s silly don’t you think? Everyone walking around on eggshells all day long while we wait to see what comes of it. Well, whatever it is, I do hope something comes along to steady things again soon.”

  She was just about to open the wardrobe to put away the pressed dress when Emmaline leapt up from the bed. “Wait!” she cried out. Anne jumped at Emmaline’s sudden outburst, spinning around like a top.

  “What?” Anne said.

  Emmaline rushed forward and snatched the dress out of Anne’s hands.

  “Wha—” Anne looked positively puzzled. “What has come over you today? I thought you’d seen a mouse or something.”

  “No,” Emmaline said. “I wanted to see the dress.”

  “There’s no use leaving it out if you’re not going to be wearing it,” Anne protested.

  “I can wear it tonight,” Emmaline insisted, eying the wardrobe warily. “For my father.”

  “Oh?” Anne asked, still looking unsure.

  “It’s one of his favorites,” Emmaline feigned. She swept it away toward the mirror, holding it against her and pretended to check her reflection.

  “Very well,” Anne said. “Perhaps it’s not much, but you never know what will turn a man’s day. Did you want me to help you change into it?”

  “No,” Emmaline said. “I can manage.”

  Anne gave her a doubting look, but didn’t protest further.

  “Very well,” she said. “But if you do find you need help, I won’t be far.”

  “Thank you,” Emmaline said. She was practically on her tiptoes waiting for Anne to go and only after what seemed like ages did she finally manage to usher her out the door.

  When the door was safely secured again, Emmaline laid the dress down on a chair and flung herself down on the bed with a exasperated sigh. She glanced out the window at the sun. It was still so high in the sky. She wanted desperately for evening to come.

  As she laid waiting, she felt a pang of guilt surfacing in her mind. Was she wrong to abandon her family like this when they were all at such a low point? There was a part of her that couldn’t quite excuse herself. She’d fought desperately to keep it silent, but, now that Anne had mentioned her father, Emmaline felt it nagging at her conscience.

  Sitting up in her bed, she stared out the window. There were only a few more hours to endure.

  Perhaps what I’m doing now will make little sense to you. It seemingly goes against every one of my best interests, but recent events have proven to me the exact opposite. This is the only way I can see to preserve them.

  —Excerpt from Worthington’s Letters of Confession

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Restitutions

  WORTHINGTON WORKED FURIOUSLY, PENNING HIS sixth letter of the past hour. Though his hand cramped from the effort, he wouldn’t allow himself to stop. Ever since his meeting with Margarete he’d felt the profound responsibility for what he’d done to her. There was no illusion he could summon, no self-delusion he could indulge to dispel the role he’d played in nearly destroying all the things he’d ever come to love.

  Had he only realized where it would lead, he’d have taken no such risks.

 
But if there was nothing he could do now to turn back the clock and fix his great mistakes, Worthington was intent on ensuring that what followed was not a repeat of the same. And so he worked through the afternoon, gathering documents and penning letters.

  He was still hunched over his desk when a knock at the door pulled his attention away momentarily and Geoffrey entered.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Geoffrey said, “but Lord Dempwolf is here to see you. He said you would be expecting him.”

  “Let him in,” Worthington gestured as he set a small dish on his desk over a flame and began to heat the wax inside.

  It was nearly finished. The loose ends were being tied up and final arrangements being made. In a few short hours this horrible ordeal could be laid to rest once and for all. All that lay before him were a few difficult conversations, the first of which was coming through his door that very moment.

  Dempwolf entered the study, nodding toward Worthington as he removed his coat and laid it over one of the chairs. By the gleam in his eye and the sureness of his step Worthington perceived the exchange had gone off without a hitch. But that wasn’t the first order of business he had with his partner.

  “You went behind my back,” Worthington said.

  Dempwolf looked a little surprised at the tone Worthington was taking with him. “To take care of what had to be,” he said, “when it was clear that you couldn’t.”

  “You’ve gone too far!” Worthington rose to his feet, his deep voice resonating against the walls. But Dempwolf appeared unimpressed.

  “There’s no such thing as too far when someone threatens my interests,” he said.

  “Yes, there is,” Worthington breathed. “And we both should have known it.”

  Taking up the small dish he poured a bit of the wax onto the envelope and, fetching out his signet from a small case beside him, he pressed it firmly into the hardening seal.