Bitter Cold: A Steampunk Snow Queen (The Clockwork Republic Series Book 4)

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-942166-11-5

Electronic Edition 2014

Chapter 1

Curious Chemistry

With a little luck and steady nerves, she wouldn't blow up the laboratory again.

Greta Jane Singleton stood poised over a battered wooden table covered in beakers and vials filled with mysterious liquids in a kaleidoscope of colors. A few bubbled over small oil lamps. In one corner, a dusty old grandfather clock ticked away the early morning hours. A tea tray covered with half-nibbled cucumber sandwiches and a pot of tepid tea languished on a spindly-legged table nearby.

A polished brass clockwork canary perched atop the clock, warbling a tune from The Mikado in high-pitched metallic chirps. Sunlight streamed through four windows, two on either side of a heavy wooden door and two more on the side walls of the building. The laboratory had once been the family's garden shed. After Greta nearly set the kitchen on fire with her experiments, her mother insisted she move them to the small outbuilding. Her father constantly threatened to reclaim it.

If he hadn't been terrified of the volatile substances scattered on every surface, he would probably have cleared it out ages ago. By selling some of her more practical potions and formulae, she managed to pay him a stipend for the use of the building. He still grumbled that when she burned the shed down, neither of them would have the use of it. Her earnings as an amateur alchemist would hardly pay to have a replacement built.

She worked on through the morning, mixing and heating different substances and then grinding a compound to a fine powder in a battered ceramic mortar and pestle. As the sun warmed the room, she wiped her hands on the stained and bleached apron covering her red plaid wrapper. The dress was at least twenty years out of style, but these days most fashionable dresses featured a bustle, which tended to knock things over when she turned around. She much preferred the flame-retardant wool dress, which was far more practical than the frilly frocks her mother insisted she wear when they paid calls or attended the theater.

She remained absorbed in her work, blissfully oblivious to the chaotic mess around her. It was her second attempt at creating a new alchemical formulae which she called featherfall.

If it worked, it would defy the laws of gravity. A few drops could lift a carriage a foot in the air. Applied and activated with heat, the effect could last as long as a few days. A floating carriage would require less horsepower, whether steam-generated or horse-drawn. Her best friend Kit, a mechanical genius, would be so proud of her. Between the two of them, they could create something amazing by combining her anti-gravity formulae with his machinery.

But first, she had to get the formulae to work.

Her first attempt had ended explosively. Her mother found her hiding in the pantry afterwards, her hair singed and still smoking, apron covered in vivid green splotches. Mother had been kind, although frightened, and had taken the opportunity to beg her once again to give up these foolish experiments. Alchemy was no pastime for a well-bred young lady. Greta wished her mother would finally realize she made a much better alchemist, in spite of the explosions, than she would ever make a refined young lady. If anything was a foolish waste of time in the attempt, it was the latter.

When she managed to get the featherfall to work, it would serve as proof. Maybe it would even convince her parents to let her sit for the apothecary examination.

She had good reason to hope this time she would be successful. The compound was much more finely and consistently ground. There were no distractions -- with her parents off visiting relatives, there'd be no bothersome interruptions. She checked the clock. The solution mustn't simmer too long.

It's now or never.

Greta steadied her hands, lowering her protective goggles to sift the compound into a beaker.

This is where things had gone badly on her previous attempt. She held her breath. The first flecks slid into the beaker -- and dissolved. She stirred it gently with a glass baton, pouring the rest into the container. The liquid turned a soft, pearlescent blue which seemed to glow. Greta exhaled in relief.

So far, so good.

~*~

Her friend, Christopher "Kit" Merryweather, paced just outside. Unlike her father, his hesitation to enter the laboratory had nothing to do with any concerns about the experiment happening within. Greta was always working on some formulae; he'd grown used to their sometimes disastrous results. One accident had coated every object in the room, including Greta, with purple gelatinous goo. Another time, she had frozen the lab's contents and given herself frostbite by dropping the temperature 70 degrees.

She'd nearly given him heart failure on that occasion. A crash prompted him to run into the lab where he'd found her lying unconscious, coated in a light layer of frost. He'd carried her onto the lawn and tried to rub some warmth and color back into her hands and face. She'd sputtered awake after just a moment, only a little the worse for wear.

Although he worried, she hadn't injured herself badly. There was no use trying to talk her out of practicing alchemy. It would be like someone trying to convince him to quit tinkering with machines. They'd pursued their talents alongside each other for as long as either of them could remember, encouraging each other and sometimes working together.

Rummaging in dustbins for cogs, springs and bits of metal, Kit had been building small labor-saving devices which he sold to buy tools and more parts since he was a child. He'd taken over the carriage house behind his home as a workshop, right around the time Greta had commandeered the Singleton's garden shed.

Starting with plants from the garden and common ingredients, she'd progressed as he had, by selling basic apothecary compounds and tinctures to buy more exotic elements and supplies. Despite a few calamities, she was just as good at the alchemical sciences as he was with machinery. She just lacked his healthy sense of caution.

He raised his hand to knock on the laboratory door, then paused, struggling to find the right words. He laughed nervously. Talking to Greta was usually so easy.

She'd been his best friend since the age of five. Their houses rested comfortably against each other in a quiet St. Louis neighborhood which shared a garden plot. Their relationship began with an argument about whether to plant vegetables or flowers. Greta had wanted roses: a rare moment of girlish behavior on her part. He conceded, fascinated by the little girl with green eyes and honey-colored braids. She admitted there was no reason they couldn't plant both, and so they did.

The two soon became as inseparable as their homes. They worked together in the garden and played make-believe in nearby Riverside Park. Kit, always the knight, and Greta alternating between being the princess and the dragon. She'd gotten quite good at capturing herself.

When they were older, he built a mechanical dragon, which she armed with an alchemical flamethrower. They only got to use it once. In hindsight, they probably should have warned the local constable before taking it to the park. The trouble had been completely worth it, just to see the look of awestruck glee on Greta's face.

After that, he'd kept the devices he made for her small and limited in destructive potential.

Kit slipped a hand into his pocket, rubbing the smooth polished wooden box which held his latest token of affection. It had taken all his skill, but fortunately only a little money and materials. They were nearly twenty and little had changed between them in fifteen years. While she seemed perfectly content with their friendship, Kit had grown restless and worried. His thoughts turned often to grown up problems and desires, most of which revolved around her.

Inside the box nestled a ring which would hopefully resolve a few of those problems and fulfill his greatest desire. Fashioned with exquisite care after countless hours staring through rows of magnifying glasses, he'd poured his heart into a ring like no other.

Interlocking copper, silver, gold, and steel made an intricate pattern resembling roses and vines. Within its narrow works, the ring held the tiniest music box imaginable. Twisted just so, it would play Greta's favorite tune. A work of master tinkering so sublime, it seemed like magic. The ring displayed his finest work. Determined, he intended to offer it and a proposal of marriage to his best friend.

The lab had grown quiet, the tinkling of glass beakers and jars stilled for a few seconds. Moments when Greta wasn't flitting around like a hummingbird were few and far between. Better act now before he lost his nerve or she set something on fire.

~*~

Inside the laboratory, Greta frowned in fierce concentration, consumed by the featherfall formulae. The time had come time to add a second solution, and heat it until it turned silvery white. She poured in the vial of lemon-yellow liquid, and the formulae turned bright green. She stirred it, setting it above an oil lamp. She lifted her goggles to her forehead, unable to see through the fog. Now she just had to watch it constantly and remove it from the heat the moment it began to turn white.

She'd barely had a moment to relax when Kit flung the door open, striding into the room. Greta turned in surprise. Her eyes widened at her friend's disheveled appearance.

Kit was always as neat as his perfectly-ordered workshop, his soot-black hair combed as precisely as he tuned the springs in his machines. His overalls and shirt might be smudged with grease, but they'd be starched and pressed beneath the grime, sleeves rolled up past his sinewy forearms.

At this moment, his tan face glistened with sweat. His dark hair stood on end from running both hands through it bracing himself. His wire-rimmed spectacles were pulled off his face and dangled precariously from his breast pocket.

He was wearing his Sunday suit, and it was only Friday.

Greta found this change alarming. Her Kit was as reliable as the sun. Something bad must have happened. Was he on his way to a funeral? Did she know the dearly departed? Her inability to note or remember such social details made Kit her only friend, as well as her oldest and dearest. Well, that along with her tendency to cause violent explosions.

"Good gracious, Kit! Has someone died? Are you feeling ill?" She brushed a lock of amber hair back from her face. She hurried towards him, hand outstretched to check for a fever.

In her distress, she failed to notice the featherfall formulae change to silvery white behind her.

~*~

A concerned motherly reaction was not what Kit had in mind at all. He stepped backward into the doorway, as if that could rewind time so he could begin again.

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