The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance (21 page)

Annmar was not at the half-filled table, and the kitchen door was closed. That was unusual. Opening it would have Mrs. Betsy sending him back to bed, making the better choice just to wait. Paet was just sitting down with his plate, so Daeryn stopped to say hello. “Surprised to see you here at midday. I hear you had a good night.”

“That’s it exactly, mate.” Paet grinned. “I wanted to make sure they found all our kills, and meals come with the job, so why pay elsewhere?”

“Our day guards won’t miss anything. You might catch one of them rotating through for lunch.”

“I’ll wait for that woman. I’d rather talk to her, if you get my drift.”

His disrespectful tone regarding Famil was intolerable. Daeryn ground out, “I do, and I suggest you talk to Wyatt.”

Paet cocked back his head. “And who are you telling me what to do?”

By sheer will, Daeryn kept his own chin down. “Daeryn Darkcoat. I’m in charge of the night team.”

The ropen curled his nose in disbelief. “That wolf bitch—”

“
Jac
”—Daeryn paused to let that sink in—“is filling in for me for another day until I’m off these.” He lifted one crutch and stood his full weight on both feet.

Paet looked him up and down. “Another day?” He shrugged and turned to his plate. He spooned his vegetables onto one hunk of bread, slapped the meat on top and pressed a second slice of bread over the lot. Wrapping his fingers around the mess, Paet rose. “Right you are. Tonight’s soon enough to hear they gathered up our kills, or collect the rest myself.”

He headed into the hall and turned toward the back door. Cursing under his breath, Daeryn angled around the table to one of the front windows. If Paet didn’t walk down the drive and off the property, he’d send… Daeryn scanned the growers still eating and spotted the younger Henry. He’d send Henry for Mistress Gere. All he had was a bad feeling, but he didn’t want Paet around unsupervised. Thank the Creator that man was here only temporarily.

* * *

Soon after Mary Clare’s
sisters arrived to help with the noon meal, Annmar stood and stretched. The session of drawing seemed to have tired her more than a typical day at Rennet’s. Around her the staff moved at a dizzying pace while she gathered her art materials and the new label sketchbook. When Mary Clare offered her a napkin with bread and roast beef, Annmar took the package gratefully and slipped out the door to mince her way to the bunkhouse—hopefully one of her last times braving it in these town shoes.

In her room, she opened her personal sketchbook and flipped to Daeryn’s drawing. Thinking he was interested in her was just plain stupid. It stung how badly she’d misjudged his supposed interest in her. Annmar sighed.

Her gaze landed on the drawing’s lower right corner. While she’d trained with Mother, she’d started marking her art with a joined printing of her initials, AM. To complete Mother’s drawings and paintings after her death, she’d used Mother’s cursive signature.

This mark was neither.

The bar of the A now wound into a circle around the letters and ended in a flourish below. The result looked like a tradesman’s mark, or a brand, something she’d never thought of developing or practicing. When had she drawn this? She brushed her fingertips from Daeryn’s body to his face to his feet, trying to remember completing it. She’d been tired…thinking herself like an automaton… Afterward, she’d seen the blue light on the tea warmer.

She glanced at it now, and then shook herself. The machine was special, but had nothing to do with her drawing. She paged through the rest of the sketches she’d done since arriving at Wellspring.

A version of the mark was on every drawing.

On the first ones drawn in the farmyard, the extra lines were simply trailing wisps. Those dashes grew over the sketches of Pat and her peach tree, Daeryn sleeping and the jams she’d sampled in the afternoon. Annmar opened the new sketchbook. Each drawing bore the stylized initials, their lines firmly executed and identical to the one on Daeryn’s drawing.

The new mark had grown with her Knack. It had to be a part of it.

chapter twenty-three

Annmar sank to
the chair and cupped her hands over her mouth. Just when she’d learned one new thing about her Knack, another popped up. How long would this continue? Thank goodness Mary Clare offered to accompany her to town. These questions couldn’t risk eavesdropping.

When Annmar came down her spiraling staircase fifteen minutes later, a rough engine whined in the workshop. The mechanic who’d been operating the windlass finished loosening a bolt on a spider machine and lifted off the housing. The exposed gears jerked and banged as they turned.

How unlike the smooth humming of the little tea warmer.

The white-haired man stooped, checking each of the gears and rods. A short boy of probably thirteen or fourteen, with messy blond hair and dirty-kneed trousers, looked on. They didn’t notice when she moved beside them to get a better look at this machine’s stream of blue light. The energy, for lack of a better term, wasn’t like the tea warmer’s either. The ragged lines ran thick over a few gears and thin over the rest. At the joints, it wriggled in tangles before continuing on.

The mechanic pressed the end of a wrench to the largest gear. The rattling stopped, then started again when he removed the tool. He eyed the boy over his shoulder. “Henry, how many days have you worked this machine without having it back for us to check the oil?”

“Er, I’m not sure. Sir.” The boy stuffed his hands into his pockets. “A week. Maybe a little over.”

A snort sounded from the next stall.

Henry shot a furtive look that way and scuffed a foot. “More like three, but I haven’t run it
much
the last week, what with the bush beans ripening. Mistress Gere ordered a double crop for this fall, and those new vermin threw a wrench in our schedule, tearing up plants and sending us to our knees to gather them, but Mistress Gere is not one to take excuses. Got done just this morning, and I came right in with the spider applicator.”

The man shook his head. “Your head grower won’t berate you for taking a break to keep your equipment in working order, son. I know it looks built for rough work, but there are delicate components inside.”

“Much more so than anything Shearing Enterprises is putting out,” Annmar said.

Both turned to look at her. From the next stall Rivley’s head popped out. “How would you know that?” He joined them, wiping his hands on a rag.

Annmar backed up a step. “I, uh…” Wait, she didn’t need to hesitate. Her work wasn’t a secret, at least not by the time the machines went to advertising. Only Mr. Shearing’s attraction to her was. “I drew the advertising for a number of their engines, ones machined of bulkier rods and thicker gears. These of yours have innards more like fine clockwork.”

Giving a nod, the mechanic reached out a dark hand and flipped a lever.

The gears stopped. Annmar expected to see the blue light run its course and gather into the center as it had with the tea warmer. It tried, but the machine gave a shudder. The stream broke with a snap and shot off a spray of sparks.

Annmar jumped, and felt foolish when none of the others did. Was this normal for their machines? The handful of sparks at once didn’t seem right, and now just a faint glow of cerulean light came from the center of the engine.
The heart.
Too little energy cycled through this machine. It did need help.

The older man cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He stuck out his hand. “Master Horatio Brightwell.”

“Pleased to meet you, Master Brightwell.” She shook his hand. “Annmar Masterson.”

He squinted at her, then dug through a shirt pocket, found a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and settled them on his nose. “Never heard of a Masterson family. Could be a Shaw.”

Annmar’s heart leaped. Could that be Mother’s family name? Her resemblance to Mother must carry through the family for this man to make an instant guess. “I don’t know.” She could ask—

“Here to draw for Constance Gere, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My inventions are off-limits.”

His firm statement left no room for anything but agreement. No, she couldn’t ask. Not until she gained his trust. But she knew how. Confidentiality was second nature after working for Mrs. Rennet. “I’ve been hired to draw labels for the farm produce. If you want me to stay away from your machines, I will.”

“I can’t very well ask you to
stay away
from them, since you live here.” He stared for a moment before wiping his mouth and chin. “Just don’t draw them. Don’t need to alert the competition to what we’re doing here, right Mr. Slipwing?” he said gruffly.

Rivley hopped forward between the man and Annmar. “Exactly, Master Brightwell. We have a good chance of winning the Basin Mastermind Competition again this year.”

“If we can stop the help from ruining the prototypes.” Master Brightwell glowered down at Henry.

The boy clenched his jaw and flipped the lever on the machine again. “It’s not ruined. It’s still running. See?”

Indeed, the pistons cranked and turned the gears with a clatter. The thin blue light inched forward, crackled and broke. It formed again, fainter than the tea warmer’s lines.

Snap, snap, bang!
Sparks sprayed everywhere. The spider shuddered and wobbled off-kilter. Henry leaped to catch it. His quickness told her he’d done so before, as did his reddening face.

Master Brightwell reached past Henry and threw the lever. He kept his hand there, clenched in warning.

The boy backed away.

“Mr. Slipwing, I don’t like the sound of that rattle,” the inventor said. “I believe the system hasn’t had enough lubricant in so long, she’s shaken herself out of alignment. This one needs a complete oil change, and while we have it in here, clean her joints good and tighten them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Master Brightwell straightened. “Henry. You understand the cause of the problem?”

The blond boy nodded.

“Good. You go report to Mr. Hortens. Tell our head grower where your equipment is for the next few days.”

The boy nodded again and backed to the door.

“Not done yet, Henry. You tell Mr. Hortens I’m going to need help here in the workshop while Mr. Slipwing takes this spider apart and puts it back together. Who does he think he might be able send over to clean?”

Henry swallowed. “Uh, me, sir? I’ll, um, volunteer.”

“Good lad.” Master Brightwell patted him on the back and walked with him through the double doors, a few swallows darting out with them.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry for the trouble, sir.”

“I’ll be glad to have your help. Might be able to teach you something about the upkeep of machines as others come in for their maintenance.”

They disappeared, leaving Annmar alone with Rivley.

“You feeling better, girl?”

She sighed. He wasn’t going to stop calling her girl. “Better than this machine. It must be on its last leg, the poor thing.”

“Don’t worry.” He laughed. “I’ll get it running as smooth as the tea warmer we sent up to your room last night. It operated fine for you, I assume.”

She nodded. “No blue sparks or bangs.”

“I should hope not.” He frowned at her, like he had no idea what she meant.

Hold on a second. He didn’t. None of the others had jumped when she did. Annmar eyed the machine. The lights streamed in lines, much like the blue threads on the plants and soil. She must be seeing the same phenomena on this spider and the tea warmer, but in real life, instead of visions. Rivley already knew about her Knack experiments, so she could ask. “A substance runs over these gears. What do you call it?”

He looked at her oddly. “Oil? I know you have it in Outside’s cities, though the color differs since ours is locally made. Our mixture is vegetable based, one part corn to two parts sunflower oil with just a touch of lanolin.”

“Lanolin?” Annmar’s brow creased. “I’ve never heard of that plant.”

Rivley laughed. “Not a plant. Lanolin is derived from the grease found in sheep wool. It’s a fine lubricant and inhibits corrosion.”

“Oh, for land’s sake.” Mary Clare strode through the doorway. “You aren’t getting Rivley started on gears and piston talk? You’ll never get the boy off the topic. And there are so many better things to discuss with him.” She lightly swatted him on the chest. “Want to go shopping with us, Riv?”

He grinned down at her. “I know that look in your eyes. You’re going off to some fancy female store to purchase garments to tempt the males on Market Day.”

She swatted him again. “Close, but no.”

“The venue is the bonfire, then.”

“Wrong again.”

His grin broadened. “You’ve finally given up the hunt and have set your cap for me.”

Were things that serious? Annmar darted looks between the two of them in time to catch the stiffening of Mary Clare’s jaw as the smile slid from her face.

Yet the redhead ran her hands up Rivley’s chest, over his shoulders and down his arms, stopping to squeeze his biceps.

Annmar swallowed. How brazen to take such liberties.

“Rivley.” Mary Clare gazed up into his eyes, totally solemn. “I’ve had you, you peacock.” Without warning, she dropped her hands and tickled him.

“
Girl!
” squawked Rivley. He jumped back and wrapped his arms protectively around his belly. “You know I hate it when you do that.” He shot a glare at her, long strands of hair falling across his brow that hadn’t been there seconds ago, strands clumped together, looking little like hair and more like…feathers.

“I know.” She spun off and linked her arm through Annmar’s. “You’ll never guess, so I’ll just tell you. We’re going to get Annmar boots.”

Rivley nodded, all the playfulness gone. He swept his hands across the crown of his head, gathering the feathers into a bunch and holding them as his gaze darted to Annmar.

She should have looked away, but couldn’t. When he released his hands, only tufts of hair remained, brownish-orange and blue-gray, colorings like the fancy chickens in the farmyard. Annmar shifted while Mary Clare and Rivley glared at each other like enemies, when seconds ago they were nearly intimate, by society’s standards.

Something was afoot. Something not really her business.

Annmar tugged at Mary Clare. “We should be going. Thank you, Rivley, for explaining the lanolin oil to me.”

His gaze fell on her, then he picked up the rag he’d dropped. “Any time.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the stall where he’d been working when she arrived.

Beside her, Mary Clare sagged. Annmar nudged gently and they escaped the bunkhouse, falling into step across the farmyard. No, it wasn’t her business. Yet she wanted to know. About many things, not the least of which was how exactly Mary Clare had
had
Rivley.

Once they’d passed Wellspring’s stone entrance pillars and had only the cemetery’s headstones and the neighboring farm’s fruit trees for company, Annmar broke the silence. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I don’t know how else I’m going to learn my way here. Rivley’s hair turned to feathers. Did you know tickling would do that?”

Mary Clare kept her gaze on the road. “I knew.” She sighed. “It was mean, I admit, but I’m sick of him picking at me about—never mind. Under those sober trappings, Rivley is a tease. I don’t let him get away with it.” She finally looked up, staring at the church steeples rising beside a square stone tower above the town below. “I’d rather not talk about him, and enjoy our outing.”

Dash it all, she should have asked about Rivley’s species first. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry into a row between”—lovers?—“friends.”

“We are friends. Have been since he arrived. That’s not going to change.” She pressed her lips together.

Fine, Rivley couldn’t be discussed, but Annmar couldn’t pass up this chance any more than she had the one with Rivley. “Do you ever see blue lights, like threads, on things here? The plants, their roots, machinery, uh, other places?” It wouldn’t do to say
everywhere.

“No. But I don’t have a vision Knack. Did you see them on Daeryn, too, when you healed him?”

Rivley had told her. “No, I… Oh. I did. On my drawing, that is. I thought the tint was from the gaslight, but—” She stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Mary Clare rounded back to her and squeaked, “What?”

“On that drawing of him, a tradesman’s mark appeared, and I don’t recall making it.” She told Mary Clare about her standard initials becoming fancier.

Mary Clare chewed her lip. “Could this mark mean your Knack worked? Have you spoken with Daeryn yet to learn if he’s healed from that drawing?”

She didn’t want to reveal that morning’s foolish mistake. “Maybe I’ll talk to him later,” she murmured, and began walking again.

“Have you tried to sketch
not
using your Knack? With practice, you can use it only when you like.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea.” Annmar grinned. “I’ll do that first thing when we return.”

Mary Clare put up a finger. “I have an even better idea. You said on the plant roots? We’ll take a shovel along when we go to the fields. It’ll be a snap to check for these thread lights while you look with your Knack.”