“So, which of our mothers claims this feat of prognostication?” Amelia asked as she and Alexander wandered Electo Park.
“Mine,” Alexander confessed, his smile grim. “Part of a multi-pronged assault comprised of disinheritance and threats of uncloseting Eli should I continue to resist.” His jaw clenched. “He takes orders next month. He has more to lose than I do.”
Alexander rarely spoke to her of his love life, preferring to keep his social and romantic spheres separate. Never the twain could meet without devastation. But the buoyancy in his demeanor the past several weeks intimated a lover, and he recently confirmed her suspicion. She felt sickened knowing their parents pitted his affection for Eli against him.
“They would ruin another man’s reputation?” Amelia flared.
“They know I would rather comply.”
“They’re tightening the noose, then,” she said, skewering fallen leaves with the tip of her parasol. “Will you separate from him?”
“He separated from me, actually,” Alexander replied with a bitter laugh. “By telegram.”
“How gutless!” Amelia said, astonished. “He should at least have the decency to break your heart in person.”
“I can’t blame him. Discretion is the better part of valor and all. It’s…cleaner this way. We don’t have the luxury of public sentimentality.”
“No, I suppose not.” She’d never considered the logistics of clandestine romance or the stealth required to love in secret. But then, she’d never felt toward anyone a particular regard that required concealment. She couldn’t imagine what her friend suffered, but she grieved for him, nonetheless.
“Their only demand is that we wed,” Alexander said. “So, we allow them this single victory. Once we are married, their threats lose potency. We can pursue our separate endeavors if we choose. And at least we have the benefit of friendship, which is more than many others can boast.”
“I see no alternative solution,” Amelia replied. “But this retreat will only mark the beginning of our misery unless it establishes our independence. Otherwise, there will always be another demand, another limitation. I have no qualms with marrying you; indeed, I can think of no one I’d prefer. It’s the addenda I oppose.”
“We propose a compromise, then,” Alexander said.
Negotiations commenced that evening at dinner, and concluded to general satisfaction before the arrival of tea. Amelia agreed to quit the boarding house within the week and the paper after the obligatory two-week notice she contrived for the occasion. She and Alexander agreed to wed in one month, fulfilling their mothers’ demands in return for guarantees of independence and cessation of manipulative tactics in perpetuity.
Having accomplished their objectives, the mothers made little fuss about treaty details and moved on to wedding plans.
***
Anonymous no more, Amelia’s name spread quickly in the realm of Adventuring ladies clubs. In one week, she attended a womens fencing demonstration by Lady Pell, a ballooning excursion, two innovation and engineering seminars taught by visiting Sennas from the Imperial Academy, and a steamcar derby. At each function, either her article or a reference by Lady Pell was mentioned as reason for requesting her attendance.
The whirl of activity provided an excuse for postponing the most odious part of the Wedding Compromise - actually quitting her position. Moving out of the boarding house had been difficult enough. She didn’t relish the prospect of relinquishing an occupation she found rewarding and challenging. She waited until the second week to tell McGoffery of her imminent resignation.
The telegraph machine’s announcement bell brought discussion to a halt. McGoffery waved for her to follow him as he exited his office, his lens apparatus bobbing from his forehead.
“What’s happening?” Amelia asked.
“Argonaut press release,” he said. “I thought you could work it up a bit, if you’re interested.”
“Not anonymously.”
He pushed through the crowd gathered around end of the almost three meter long machine. The chittering Morse code gave way to a cascade of clacking as the machine translated the code into words on the roll of paper.
“These can take a while to finish,” McGoffery said to Amelia. “But that was when the historiographer was writing them. You might have to flesh out the story some. Just keep the details consistent.”
“You mean I might have to-” Amelia began, her voice louder than she anticipated.
The machine had stopped.
“Fill in a lot of blanks,” McGoffery finished. “What’s wrong now?”
“Is it broken?” someone asked.
McGoffery flipped a lens over one eye and fiddled with the dials and switches on the machine for a moment. “Everything’s in order. What does it say, Miss Stodge?”
Amelia peered down at the message’s two lines of vibration fuzzy text, wondering how much of the story she would need to fabricate. “Argo,” she halted at the next word. “Argo...destroyed.”
McGoffery silenced the crowd with a bellow. “Keep reading,” he said.
“Argo destroyed,” she repeated. “Merriday and crew lost. Await details.”
Bleed Together, Fly Together, Die Together
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
Episode Four: Checkmate
Amelia found her usual machine at the Metropol office and clacked out what she had devised in her head on the way. She could hardly write about the Metropol’s ingénue punching an elderly man, even if word of the event would spread quickly anyway through the dozens of eye witnesses.
A shouted greeting snagged her attention, and she turned to find McGoffery carrying a bundle. She winced, hoping it wasn’t the writer’s cuff. Still, best to address the issue immediately rather than wait for him to approach her. She squared her mind and knocked on her editor’s office doorjamb.
McGoffery’s many-armed lens apparatus was pushed up on his forehead, and he glared at Amelia with two normal-sized eyes that still managed to wring her gut.
“Good morning, sir,” Amelia said in her most awake and energetic voice. McGoffery put his bundle on the desk with a clunk and a clatter that made her wince again with recognition.
“Thought you would be home sleeping off your evening,” he said.
“Not until the job is done,” she replied too brightly. “I’m afraid we had a little mishap with the cuff last night.”
“That what this is?” he jutted his chin at the bundle.
“Gavin punched Mr. Mordrake, who pulled me down with him. A stroke of luck, though; I was able to interview Merriday.”
He glanced up at her from his desktop of papers. For a moment, he looked impressed. Then he pulled his lens apparatus over his eyes as dismissal.
The page in her machine had been empty, she was certain, when she left to speak to McGoffery, but someone had typed a single sentence in her brief absence.
Write about it as an ignorant socialite, because you are one. G
She ripped the page from the machine and crushed it in her fists.
Fatigue and frustration had sapped all of her considerable stores of composure by the time McGoffery approved her article. She spent the majority of her homeward journey in a fog, still nettled by Gavin's snide writing advice. She received more than a little unwanted attention in her evening dress, ink-and grease-stained gloves, and haggard appearance as she made her way to the Kettery. She tried to ignore the smirks and amused glances of her fellow passengers, especially when, lulled by the warmth of the trolley carriage, she slumped into a momentary doze, only to wake herself with a less-than-graceful snore. So it was with immense relief that she flumped onto her bed at the boarding house and fell into an instant deep sleep.
Daylight streamed through the window the next morning. A plate of small edibles sat on the desk beside her, along with newspaper clippings and a note from Miss Kelley.
Eager to hear of your evening as once you’re conscious.
The first clipping, composed of three columns, was of her article, Gala Launches Latest Argonaut Expedition. She gazed at her name in the byline for several moments, then set the clipping aside without reading the article, knowing she would only tear it to pieces in her mind. The second, smaller clipping erased all thought of her article. Mind whirling, she quickly dressed and went in search of her friend and sole female housemate. She found Miss Kelley in the solarium fussing over an orchid.
"Have I gone mad?" Amelia asked without prelude.
"I should think so,” Miss Kelley said. “I thought you had no intention of marrying each other."
"Our intentions have little to do with this fracas." She gave a quick description of Alexander's proposal. "I should have suspected something when my mother decided to cut me off. I asked Alexander to give me a day or two to consider, especially since we had long ago agreed not to actively pursue matrimony. He asked only that I make my decision quickly, before a week had passed at the latest."
"That was only two days ago," Miss Kelley said. "The announcement must have been submitted under the assumption that you would accept him."
"But I didn't accept him and I gave no indication that I would." Her legs felt unstable and she sat on a small nearby bench.
"Except you have, for several years, led your families to believe you would marry," Miss Kelley supplied. "Under the circumstances, it isn't difficult to imagine both families believing they only sped along proceedings that all believed inevitable and desirable. You can’t deny the majority of this situation is your own fault."
Amelia gaped at her friend’s betrayal. "Our fault? We had no choice! Even if we had told them from the start that we didn't want to marry, they would have pressed it, anyway. It's what they are doing to us now. We were only making the best of a situation over which we had no control."
Miss Kelley looked at her friend with a mix of resignation and reproach signaling the end of that discussion. Her friend had a knack for playing devil's advocate. Sometimes Amelia found her friend's bluntness refreshing, especially when aimed at Kurt. She felt less satisfaction when her own actions were scrutinized.
She was still in the solarium silently pondering the ramifications of the engagement announcement when her mother descended in state upon the boarding house. Mrs. Stodge appeared significantly less impressed with the establishment than she had the day Amelia moved in, and she had deemed it squalid then. Amelia introduced Miss Kelley, then invited her mother to the common room, mentally willing her housemates to stay away.
Mrs. Stodge didn't hide her disgust with the somewhat tattered appearance of the furniture and sat as close to the edge of the chair as possible, holding her posture erect with the help of her cane. Dark circles already began to form around her eyes. The strain of the trip taxed her already depleted stores of energy, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble for anything less than vital business.
"I trust you have seen the papers," her mother said, confirming her suspicions.
Amelia took a calming breath and nodded. "Did you see my feature article? On Colonel Pell's gala?"
Her mother dismissed the questions with a wave of a gloved hand. "Mister Alexander Brinkley has agreed the ceremony should take place as soon as possible, within the month."
"But I haven't accepted him!" Amelia said. "Aren’t plans premature?”
Mrs. Stodge replied with a tight smile. "We understand his proposal was, perhaps, rather badly done. He is not what one would call romantic. But you are hardly unaware of his intention; I rather wonder why he waited this long."
"Perhaps because we don't want to marry," Amelia said, her chest tight from controlling her rising anger.
Her mother's sharp grey eyes held hers from an inscrutable face. "You will not refuse him."
"Why not? Because you say so? Because somehow it improves your chances of attending the Regent's Ball?"
"Because I refuse to die uncertain of my daughters' welfare." Her expression didn't change or falter when she spoke of her death, a topic Amelia knew she had learned to discuss with a level of detachment attained only with practice.
Amelia choked back her impertinent reply and drew a deep breath to compose herself. The conversation had reached a familiar juncture. She couldn’t argue with her mother’s dying wish. Even if the deathbed loomed on the horizon, it loomed large and immutable, and had done so for the past two years.
“But you accept death knowing that your daughter is in a marriage neither party desires?” Amelia asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs. Stodge replied. “You are not a child, allowed to chase fantasies and white rabbits. You and Mister Brinkley have played this charade to its end, and we have reached the limits of our indulgence. He understands his responsibilities, but you appear to have forgotten yours. He is the only eligible young man who will have you after this,” she indicated everything in general, “and now the folly is ending.”
“Mister Brinkley,” Amelia said, her words measured and deliberate, “has no interest in women.” She watched her mother’s expression, certain the information would pierce the alabaster mask.
Mrs. Stodge sighed. “We know.”
“And you still insist that we marry?” Amelia asked, dumbfounded.
“For the sake of your continued well-being and provision, yes. Proclivities notwithstanding, Mister Brinkley is still functional, and while the prospect might not meet your romantic sensibilities, you are still capable of bearing children. How the two of you fulfill your differing desires is up to you.”
“Mamma, you know as well as I do that this marriage will only bring misery for both of us. I would much rather take my chances with the newspaper than put Alexander through the torment he will inevitably face. You cannot know what you and his mother require of him.”
“We know precisely what we require. Obedience, whether he or you understand the intricacies of the situation or not. Your scholar revolutionary friends have painted a glorious image of squalor and toil, the majesty of the laborer. They are fools, too drunk on absinthe and philosophics to know what a life of labor really entails: pain, hunger, penury. Someday, your scholar revolutionary friends will come to their senses and realize there is no glory in labor. Only suffering. I will not allow my daughter to endure such a life.”
Mrs. Stodge trembled as she leaned more on her cane to hold herself up, her skin paler than only minutes earlier. Amelia had never before witnessed that depth of feeling in her mother. She rarely discussed her life before marriage, and had even gone so far as to declare that she had not lived prior to meeting Mr. Stodge. What others viewed as charming, if not melodramatic, marital devotion was, in fact, sincere gratitude and truth. He had saved her. And now she looked to her daughter’s marriage with the same amount of idolatry.
Amelia prepared a cup of tea for her mother, if only to give herself time to consider. She needed to speak to Alexander again, and decided to send him a message as soon as her mother left. What she really wanted was to get on the sky trolley car to the Kettery, stow away on an airship, and never return. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“I will speak with Alexander again,” she said at last. It provided a degree of latitude without promising any particular outcome. That small amount of promise satisfied Mrs. Stodge for the present, and mother and daughter drank tea in what might be construed as companionable silence.
A clamor in the hallway announced Kurt and his friends had returned, somewhat elevated from the sound of it, just as Mrs. Stodge rose to leave. Amelia tried to stop her mother from leaving the room, but too late. Mrs. Stodge and Kurt nearly collided in the narrow hallway.
Kurt made a low and obsequious bow. “Madame,” he said, then looked up at Mrs. Stodge with an impudent wink. Amelia held her breath and gave Kurt a look of murder which he ignored. Mrs. Stodge glowered at Kurt and his company with evident disgust.
“I understand that you are stalling,” Mrs. Stodge said to Amelia before boarding her carriage. “And I understand why. But none of us are in a position to be particular anymore.” She lay a gloved hand against her daughter’s face and smiled weakly. “You will be comfortable, and well looked-after. And loved, in a sense. That is the best anyone can hope for.”
Amelia watched the carriage clatter away, one of the few vehicles on the street with real horses, she noticed absently, confused by her mother’s rare and unexpected demonstration of affection.
A folded telegram page was tucked into her bedroom door jamb when she returned.
AS We must meet. Electo Park. AB
A shouted greeting snagged her attention, and she turned to find McGoffery carrying a bundle. She winced, hoping it wasn’t the writer’s cuff. Still, best to address the issue immediately rather than wait for him to approach her. She squared her mind and knocked on her editor’s office doorjamb.
McGoffery’s many-armed lens apparatus was pushed up on his forehead, and he glared at Amelia with two normal-sized eyes that still managed to wring her gut.
“Good morning, sir,” Amelia said in her most awake and energetic voice. McGoffery put his bundle on the desk with a clunk and a clatter that made her wince again with recognition.
“Thought you would be home sleeping off your evening,” he said.
“Not until the job is done,” she replied too brightly. “I’m afraid we had a little mishap with the cuff last night.”
“That what this is?” he jutted his chin at the bundle.
“Gavin punched Mr. Mordrake, who pulled me down with him. A stroke of luck, though; I was able to interview Merriday.”
He glanced up at her from his desktop of papers. For a moment, he looked impressed. Then he pulled his lens apparatus over his eyes as dismissal.
The page in her machine had been empty, she was certain, when she left to speak to McGoffery, but someone had typed a single sentence in her brief absence.
Write about it as an ignorant socialite, because you are one. G
She ripped the page from the machine and crushed it in her fists.
Fatigue and frustration had sapped all of her considerable stores of composure by the time McGoffery approved her article. She spent the majority of her homeward journey in a fog, still nettled by Gavin's snide writing advice. She received more than a little unwanted attention in her evening dress, ink-and grease-stained gloves, and haggard appearance as she made her way to the Kettery. She tried to ignore the smirks and amused glances of her fellow passengers, especially when, lulled by the warmth of the trolley carriage, she slumped into a momentary doze, only to wake herself with a less-than-graceful snore. So it was with immense relief that she flumped onto her bed at the boarding house and fell into an instant deep sleep.
Daylight streamed through the window the next morning. A plate of small edibles sat on the desk beside her, along with newspaper clippings and a note from Miss Kelley.
Eager to hear of your evening as once you’re conscious.
The first clipping, composed of three columns, was of her article, Gala Launches Latest Argonaut Expedition. She gazed at her name in the byline for several moments, then set the clipping aside without reading the article, knowing she would only tear it to pieces in her mind. The second, smaller clipping erased all thought of her article. Mind whirling, she quickly dressed and went in search of her friend and sole female housemate. She found Miss Kelley in the solarium fussing over an orchid.
"Have I gone mad?" Amelia asked without prelude.
"I should think so,” Miss Kelley said. “I thought you had no intention of marrying each other."
"Our intentions have little to do with this fracas." She gave a quick description of Alexander's proposal. "I should have suspected something when my mother decided to cut me off. I asked Alexander to give me a day or two to consider, especially since we had long ago agreed not to actively pursue matrimony. He asked only that I make my decision quickly, before a week had passed at the latest."
"That was only two days ago," Miss Kelley said. "The announcement must have been submitted under the assumption that you would accept him."
"But I didn't accept him and I gave no indication that I would." Her legs felt unstable and she sat on a small nearby bench.
"Except you have, for several years, led your families to believe you would marry," Miss Kelley supplied. "Under the circumstances, it isn't difficult to imagine both families believing they only sped along proceedings that all believed inevitable and desirable. You can’t deny the majority of this situation is your own fault."
Amelia gaped at her friend’s betrayal. "Our fault? We had no choice! Even if we had told them from the start that we didn't want to marry, they would have pressed it, anyway. It's what they are doing to us now. We were only making the best of a situation over which we had no control."
Miss Kelley looked at her friend with a mix of resignation and reproach signaling the end of that discussion. Her friend had a knack for playing devil's advocate. Sometimes Amelia found her friend's bluntness refreshing, especially when aimed at Kurt. She felt less satisfaction when her own actions were scrutinized.
She was still in the solarium silently pondering the ramifications of the engagement announcement when her mother descended in state upon the boarding house. Mrs. Stodge appeared significantly less impressed with the establishment than she had the day Amelia moved in, and she had deemed it squalid then. Amelia introduced Miss Kelley, then invited her mother to the common room, mentally willing her housemates to stay away.
Mrs. Stodge didn't hide her disgust with the somewhat tattered appearance of the furniture and sat as close to the edge of the chair as possible, holding her posture erect with the help of her cane. Dark circles already began to form around her eyes. The strain of the trip taxed her already depleted stores of energy, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble for anything less than vital business.
"I trust you have seen the papers," her mother said, confirming her suspicions.
Amelia took a calming breath and nodded. "Did you see my feature article? On Colonel Pell's gala?"
Her mother dismissed the questions with a wave of a gloved hand. "Mister Alexander Brinkley has agreed the ceremony should take place as soon as possible, within the month."
"But I haven't accepted him!" Amelia said. "Aren’t plans premature?”
Mrs. Stodge replied with a tight smile. "We understand his proposal was, perhaps, rather badly done. He is not what one would call romantic. But you are hardly unaware of his intention; I rather wonder why he waited this long."
"Perhaps because we don't want to marry," Amelia said, her chest tight from controlling her rising anger.
Her mother's sharp grey eyes held hers from an inscrutable face. "You will not refuse him."
"Why not? Because you say so? Because somehow it improves your chances of attending the Regent's Ball?"
"Because I refuse to die uncertain of my daughters' welfare." Her expression didn't change or falter when she spoke of her death, a topic Amelia knew she had learned to discuss with a level of detachment attained only with practice.
Amelia choked back her impertinent reply and drew a deep breath to compose herself. The conversation had reached a familiar juncture. She couldn’t argue with her mother’s dying wish. Even if the deathbed loomed on the horizon, it loomed large and immutable, and had done so for the past two years.
“But you accept death knowing that your daughter is in a marriage neither party desires?” Amelia asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs. Stodge replied. “You are not a child, allowed to chase fantasies and white rabbits. You and Mister Brinkley have played this charade to its end, and we have reached the limits of our indulgence. He understands his responsibilities, but you appear to have forgotten yours. He is the only eligible young man who will have you after this,” she indicated everything in general, “and now the folly is ending.”
“Mister Brinkley,” Amelia said, her words measured and deliberate, “has no interest in women.” She watched her mother’s expression, certain the information would pierce the alabaster mask.
Mrs. Stodge sighed. “We know.”
“And you still insist that we marry?” Amelia asked, dumbfounded.
“For the sake of your continued well-being and provision, yes. Proclivities notwithstanding, Mister Brinkley is still functional, and while the prospect might not meet your romantic sensibilities, you are still capable of bearing children. How the two of you fulfill your differing desires is up to you.”
“Mamma, you know as well as I do that this marriage will only bring misery for both of us. I would much rather take my chances with the newspaper than put Alexander through the torment he will inevitably face. You cannot know what you and his mother require of him.”
“We know precisely what we require. Obedience, whether he or you understand the intricacies of the situation or not. Your scholar revolutionary friends have painted a glorious image of squalor and toil, the majesty of the laborer. They are fools, too drunk on absinthe and philosophics to know what a life of labor really entails: pain, hunger, penury. Someday, your scholar revolutionary friends will come to their senses and realize there is no glory in labor. Only suffering. I will not allow my daughter to endure such a life.”
Mrs. Stodge trembled as she leaned more on her cane to hold herself up, her skin paler than only minutes earlier. Amelia had never before witnessed that depth of feeling in her mother. She rarely discussed her life before marriage, and had even gone so far as to declare that she had not lived prior to meeting Mr. Stodge. What others viewed as charming, if not melodramatic, marital devotion was, in fact, sincere gratitude and truth. He had saved her. And now she looked to her daughter’s marriage with the same amount of idolatry.
Amelia prepared a cup of tea for her mother, if only to give herself time to consider. She needed to speak to Alexander again, and decided to send him a message as soon as her mother left. What she really wanted was to get on the sky trolley car to the Kettery, stow away on an airship, and never return. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“I will speak with Alexander again,” she said at last. It provided a degree of latitude without promising any particular outcome. That small amount of promise satisfied Mrs. Stodge for the present, and mother and daughter drank tea in what might be construed as companionable silence.
A clamor in the hallway announced Kurt and his friends had returned, somewhat elevated from the sound of it, just as Mrs. Stodge rose to leave. Amelia tried to stop her mother from leaving the room, but too late. Mrs. Stodge and Kurt nearly collided in the narrow hallway.
Kurt made a low and obsequious bow. “Madame,” he said, then looked up at Mrs. Stodge with an impudent wink. Amelia held her breath and gave Kurt a look of murder which he ignored. Mrs. Stodge glowered at Kurt and his company with evident disgust.
“I understand that you are stalling,” Mrs. Stodge said to Amelia before boarding her carriage. “And I understand why. But none of us are in a position to be particular anymore.” She lay a gloved hand against her daughter’s face and smiled weakly. “You will be comfortable, and well looked-after. And loved, in a sense. That is the best anyone can hope for.”
Amelia watched the carriage clatter away, one of the few vehicles on the street with real horses, she noticed absently, confused by her mother’s rare and unexpected demonstration of affection.
A folded telegram page was tucked into her bedroom door jamb when she returned.
AS We must meet. Electo Park. AB
Episode Three: Ballroom Blitz
Amelia arrived at Colonel Pell’s country estate grateful for the distraction from Alexander’s proposal. Struck as inarticulate as her (clearly mad) suitor, she escaped with a promise to communicate her decision after the gala article ran.
A two-seat Ticker clockwork car zoomed around the circle to the front steps of the Colonel’s home. Gavin slid out of the Ticker and took the stairs two at a time, not seeing Amelia until he nearly ran her over.
“Ah, Miss Stodge! Delighted that you could make it!” Gavin said with uncharacteristic geniality. He adjusted his driving goggles on his forehead with his customary swagger. “McGoffery gave you the clunker model, I see. The new ones are more streamlined and the roll adjusts automatically.”
Gavin’s breath explained his happy demeanor.
Amelia admitted inwardly that the cuff was, indeed, clunky. But if she hadn’t worn it she would have felt, if not underdressed, then certainly under-accessorized. Almost everyone she saw, women as well as men, sported some kind of gadget. As she and Gavin joined the crowd in the expansive foyer, Amelia noticed that the gentleman in front of them appeared to have encased his entire right shoulder and arm with a gleaming brass and leather contraption. With every movement of his arm or fingers, various pressure releases hissed and tiny pistons clicked.
“General Beauregard Pillington,” Gavin whispered to Amelia, leaning close so he wouldn’t be overheard. Amelia held her breath to fend against the rolls of whiskey vapor billowing from his mouth. “His arm was paralyzed by a bullet in the wars. Leading from the front, right? The Regent wanted to award him a medal, but the general refused. ‘What good is a medal if I can’t shake a man’s hand?’ he said. Colonel Pell arranged for an Argonaut sponsor company to design and fabricate this apparatus for him. He has been a solid contributor to the Society ever since.”
Not wanting to admit her ignorance – she had no idea who the Argonauts were – Amelia appeared duly impressed. General Pillington reached out to take a glass from a passing tray and the apparatus clicked and hissed as his fingers gripped the fragile glass.
“Of course, he can’t wear it all the time,” Gavin continued sotto voce. “It’s blasted heavy.”
I can sympathize, Amelia thought, her shoulder already beginning to ache from the weight of the cuff on her arm.
Colonel Pell and Captain Merriday greeted Gavin and Amelia as they approached.
“Gavin!” Colonel Pell said, “How good of you to join us. Will you be writing the article? I couldn’t imagine a better man to do so.”
“If I were, I couldn’t enjoy the breadth this evening’s festivities,” Gavin answered with a wink. “The editor has chosen the lovely Miss Stodge for the writeup. You might have read some of her articles in the social activities page.”
The Colonel offered a warm welcome and introduced her to the man of honor.
Captain Merriday, the beneficiary of the evening’s festivities, appeared a tad older than Amelia anticipated, with shots of grey in dark hair and lines about cheerful hazel eyes in a tanned and rugged face. Precisely the countenance one expected in an expeditionarian. He welcomed her and expressed his desire for an interview if circumstances allowed.
“Remember McGoffery’s rule,” Gavin said as they entered the ballroom, “as long as you wear the cuff, behave as one representing the Metropol. No wine and dancing for you tonight, I’m afraid,” he chuckled.
Sighing, Amelia looked about. Couples swirled about the floor to a vivacious waltz, while other guests gathered in clusters to observe and converse, like any social gathering of sufficient attendance. That much at least remained familiar, she thought.
Before this evening, Amelia’s interaction with the self-named Adventuring class - aside from Gavin Graves - had been limited to the occasional moment or two in a Kettery elevator. These were the people whose fortunes sprang from and directly fueled the scientific and industrial advancement of the territory. They were factory owners, tradesmen, inventors.
“Do you see Mister Louis Grant?” she asked Gavin. “I understand he may have recently abdicated to the Adventuring realm.”
He smiled, somewhat mischievously. “I expect he will be in the Green Room already.”
“Is that so,” Amelia replied.
“You should just admit to your ignorance, and ask me what it is.”
“I’ll figure it out,” she said. “I have work to do, if you don’t mind.” Gavin smirked and merged into the crowd.
Since dancing was out off limits, Amelia wandered in search of inspiration for her article.
Her press credentials attracted the garrulous and several guests regaled her with thrilling tales of dubious veracity involving sky pirates, junkers, and even a sea monster or two.
She had just concluded with one such conversant when a young woman bumped into her, causing her to lurch sideways against a man in a gold kurta pajama, a telescoping monocle faceplate strapped to his head.
“Oh! I’m so, so sorry!” the young woman said, eyes wide. She couldn’t have been older Margaret, with none of the benefit of deportment lessons to smooth the age’s awkwardness. “Bit preoccupied, I’m afraid.”
“Quite all right,” Amelia said. righting the ungainly cuff, tightening the buckles to hold it in place. “Rather crowded, isn’t it?”
“You’re the Metropol reporter?” the young woman asked, crestfallen. “You don’t look the part. Well, except the cuff, but everyone here has a something-or-other. I just thought you would be…well, I thought I saw Gavin – sorry, Mr. Graves. He works at the Metropol, too. Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Amelia supplied, glancing around. “But I haven’t seen him for over an hour. Perhaps he’s in the green room.”
“Of course he’d be, that cheek! But I’m not allowed in there; Papa’d murder me.” She sighed. Then, as a hesitant afterthought, she thrust out a gloveless hand in greeting. “I’m Cacity Darrowell. Reg’s daughter. Have you met Reg? The Peregrine’s mechanic.”
Not knowing which volley of the verbal bombardment to address first, Amelia shook Cacity’s hand.
“Oh, wait!” Cacity swept a glass of champagne off a passing tray, draining half of it in a gulp. Amelia caught herself staring and looked away.
“I hate these things, parties” Miss Darrowell said, fiddling with her glass. “Too many people. And it isn’t easier knowing someone as not. I never feel like I’m doing the right thing.”
“A fairly common annoyance,” Amelia replied. “I’m Amelia Stodge, by the way.”
“Enchante. Have you seen the bravura yet? I’ve already seen it dozens of times,” she said. “But you really must. For the article.” Flashing an impish grin, Miss Darrowell took Amelia’s hand and guided her through the crowd, her brown curly braid swinging.
A large globe centered the exhibit, bristling with large flag-topped pins. Tables and curios radiated out, covered with artifacts, mission scrapbooks, equipment.
“The pins show where he’s been,” Miss Darrowell explained. “And each of his expeditions are coded by color. Most of them started at the Argonaut headquarters.” She pointed at a particularly large pin a few territories east. Strings of different colors sprouted from the pin in all directions. Many strings of the same color connected pins across the world, including the North and South Poles. There were easily three dozen pins along six colors of string, and a hundred more single pins without string.
“He was personally involved in all of these excursions?” Amelia asked, incredulous.
Miss Darrowell nodded. “He’s always looking for a new adventure. He thought of the Amazon trip when he was helping settle a civil war in northern Africa.” She tapped her forehead. “Always thinking ahead. He climbed a mountain in the Himalayas, though not the biggest mountain. He’s been on two African safaris. Was nearly trampled to death by a hippopotamus on the first one so he had to go back. He had the hippo stuffed, too, as payback.” She pointed out a photograph of Merriday beside the hulking beast. “He accompanied an archaeologist in Egypt and helped discover a lost pharaoh’s tomb. Did you know the Egyptians didn’t think the brain served a purpose, so they didn’t preserve it? All those little jars, and not one single brain.”
“Out of their minds,” Amelia said. A few of the guests around the display cast amused glances at Miss Darrowell, who appeared utterly oblivious to the attention.
“Let’s see,” she mused, torquing her lips sideways and glancing at the globe for inspiration. “Oh, of course, he has been to the East Indies and visited the temples there, but that didn’t get much attention. He traveled with a tribe of Bedouins, too. And then for a while he fought in the Unification Wars, but he doesn’t talk about that, and he refuses to include anything from that time in the exhibit, even though those stories were the most popular series of his career so far.”
“So he’s a journalist as well?”
“Oh no, he doesn’t write his own stories. He has a historiographer, part of his crew. Well, had a historiographer. Sen Bradford died a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Amelia said.
“Sen Erasimus Bradford will be hard to replace,” a familiar voice slurred from behind, “and I believe I know who they should choose.”
“Gavin!” Miss Darrowell cried. Then, recollecting herself, “I mean, Mister Graves.” She bobbed a rather awkward curtsy and beamed at him.
“Well done, Miss Darrowell,” Gavin said, hiding a grin behind a look of appraisal.
She blushed – quite prettily Amelia noticed with a sting – and at a loss for what to do with her hands, worried at a compass hanging from her watch chain. “I think you should be the new historiographer.”
“I intend to join the Argo in some capacity soon enough.” He looked meaningfully at Amelia with glazed eyes. He reeked of licorice, incense and something resembling body odor.
“Even while your father’s business founders?”
The older gentleman materialized among them, leaning on a carved ivory cane. He studied Gavin through round spectacles, his countenance a display of placid curiosity.
Gavin’s face hardened with disdain. “Mordrake.”
“I was grieved to hear about the unfortunate explosion in your father’s factory,” Modrake said with a tone of regret in his age-weathered voice.
Gavin’s chest heaved and he struggled to hold his composure. Those nearby glanced at him and spoke in close whispers. “I assure you, Mister Mordrake, the malfunction was not as destructive as you desire.”
“Desire? I desire anything of the sort. My business quite depends upon the success of your father’s factory.”
Gavin’s jaw and hands clenched. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but we have all to hand.”
Mordrake nodded. “Please tell you father that I am available should he require any assistance.”
Gavin exploded, landing a punch to Mordrake’s jaw before anyone could stop him. Mordrake toppled backward, dropping his cane and grasping anything to arrest his fall, which happened to be Amelia’s arm. Already teetering on her destabilizing heels, Amelia fell. The cuff struck the marble tiles and shattered in dozens of pieces that skittered across the floor.
Gavin stood over Mordrake and gripped his lapel, his other fist prepared for a second assault, face purple in rage, eyes wild. “We need none of your assistance,” he seethed.
A hand grasped Gavin’s arm to disrupt the assault. Unprepared and wild with fury, Gavin rounded blindly, clubbing Captain Merriday across the jaw. Realizing what he had done, Gavin blanched, his rage drained.
Mouth set in a grim line and rubbing his jaw, Merriday glared at Gavin. “Bring him with me.” Two large men gripped Gavin’s arms and and led him away.
Amelia returned Mordrake’s cane, which had rolled next to her. The gentleman wiped blood from his mouth with an otherwise pristine white kerchief. A few bystanders helped Amelia gather the pieces of her cuff in her bag. She held the larger mechanism in her hand.
“I apologize for getting you involved, my dear,” Mordrake said. “I will, of course, see to replacing your cuff.” He bowed slightly and offered his white gloved hand. “As our mutual acquaintance is incapacitated at the moment, I will eschew convention. Bertram Mordrake.”
She dipped a brief curtsy and returned the introduction. “I appreciate your generosity, sir, but Mister Graves should pay for the cuff, not you.”
“His pride may be his undoing,” Mordrake said with a worried shake of the head. “And the destruction of everything his father has worked so hard to build.”
“Forgive my boldness, but why would he attack you so?” Amelia asked.
Mordrake leaned on his cane and sighed. “That Graves pride, I’m afraid. Gavin and his father. Neither wants to accept assistance, or even admit they might require it. I’m sure you’ve witnessed what I speak of.”
Amelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I have.”
“And he becomes more intractable when inebriated, I’m afraid. He seems to have visited the Green Room too eagerly.” He glanced toward the nearby door, which had been opening and closing with some regularity, accompanied by billows of smoke and laughter.
Mordrake must have seen Amelia’s befuddled expression, though she tried to hide it. “The room designated for the consumption of absinthe and other foreign substances,” he explained. “Personally, I find it repulsive concoction that robs the mind of sense. But it seems to be a favorite of the younger set, and Pell caters to all his guests when possible. Even if it isn’t necessarily advisable.”
The cuff's mechanism smeared her gloves with ink and grease, and her roll of typed notes unwound into looping ribbons. Anger soon claimed her better nature and she excused herself to search for Gavin. After witnessing such a reprehensible display, she believed him more than capable of stealing her interview with the famed explorer.
As she neared the hallway where Merriday had disappeared with Gavin, she heard men's laughter behind a closed door and lost no time imagining her coworker gathering material for his unsolicited article. She rapped quickly on the door and didn’t wait for word to enter.
“You have destroyed my cuff, and I insist that you arrange for its repair.”
Gavin Graves lay unconscious on a divan, a tumbler of some golden liquid on the floor beside him. The men who had escorted him out of the ballroom sat with Merriday, who paused in the act of mimicking some large and intimidating beast.
Merriday dropped his arms and chuckled. “Gavin’s taken a sobriety tonic. He’ll sleep for about an hour, and when he wakes, he should be clear-headed. I can do nothing for his inevitable head ache, but he’ll be more tractable.”
“If one could ever describe him as ‘tractable,’” Amelia said. “I apologize. I will leave you to your…charades.” Flustered and no doubt flushing unprettily – wouldn’t her mother be proud – she turned to leave.
“Don’t I owe you an interview?” Merriday asked.
Amelia nodded, recollecting herself. “I’m afraid my recording device has been damaged beyond immediate repair, however.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “But we have pen and paper here. After hours at the receiving line, I’m in no hurry to return to the party. ”
She settled at the writing desk. “I assume you would prefer Gavin’s indiscretion not appear in my article? Though it would coordinate well with your general reputation, from what I hear.”
Merriday spread his hands in front of him like a banner. “Argonaut Captain Incites Gala Brawl. One can imagine. The public will hear of it, regardless.”
“Well, then,” she said, surveying her surroundings.“Where shall we begin?”
“Would you like a full life history, or a survey of my expeditions?” he asked. “I will admit my childhood is rather dull, so perhaps let’s skip to the exciting bits.”
“Exciting bits.” Amelia grinned as she wrote the words.
What followed, Amelia ascertained, was a nearly verbatim recitation of his interview script. Recruitment by the Argonaut Society by sheer coincidence when he and an Argonaut foiled the armed robbery of a carriage. Various wild and glorious adventures in all parts of the globe. A spare mention of his participation in the Wars. Meeting celebrated individuals in every country, territory, and city. And a few moments imploring the general public to contribute to the continuation of his exploration by purchasing his books or donating to the Argonaut Society Exploration Fund.
“Do you have any other questions?” he asked at the end.
Amelia’s hand had gone past cramping, and her handwriting devolved into illegible scratches and fragmented phrases as she tried to keep up.
“What will your next adventure bring?” She massaged her aching fingers as Merriday thought.
“More of the same, I’m afraid. Allow me to explain. My excursions have challenged my stamina as well as my wits. Those stories inspire the imagination, encourage people to support the cause so they can live through me. But as I’ve grown older, I appreciate intellectual endeavors more. Perhaps because I am less physically resilient. Adventures take their toll on the body.”
“I’d like to join a meditative community. Maybe a Buddhist monastery in the east. Learn from the lamas how to meditate, to quiet the restless mind for a while. My mind is restless, you see. It never sleeps. And more often of late, I can’t sleep, either. Endless nights with a restless mind filled with memories like mine…they prey on the spirit, and the only way to quiet them is to keep moving. Keep busy. Make plans, find new adventures, keep the heart pumping so it remembers its purpose. Maybe in those mountains I can finally find peace.”
Amelia had stopped writing. Merriday stared at the ceiling and appeared for the first time old and fragile. His voice had lost the warmth, had taken on a hollow, husk-like quality, as though he had fed on these hopes for too long with little return.
“What prevents you?”
Even his chuckle sounded dead. “Meditation and self-discovery sell poorly.”
“Then the Argonauts are only interested in money?” Somehow, this discovery failed to surprise her.
“Exploring the world requires funding, my dear,” he replied. “Don’t let’s be naïve.” He looked at his interviewer directly for the first time since the interview began. “Off the record?”
Amelia nodded and set the pen aside.
“The Argonaut Society has done considerable good. Technology invented by Argonauts and produced by its sponsors helped win the Wars. An Argonaut, Kettery, designed and funded the sky trolley system here. We have brought medicine to regions ravaged by disease, mediated international conflicts, even killed for a common good. None of this could be organized without considerable financial support. Our industrial investors require various modes of compensation. None of these persons are what one might call philanthropists. So, if the Argonauts want to continue their good work, they must look to the less magnanimous details of funding. A monastery in Tibet provides little monetary incentive, and the public in general cares little for introspective pursuits.” He shrugged. “QED, they send us where the money is.”
“Fund raising galas, for instance?” Amelia asked, though another question nagged just under the surface. She couldn’t fix words to it, couldn’t even determine its source.
“And a glorious gala it is,” Gavin muttered from the divan.
“Then we must get back to it,” Merriday said, composing his face once more for the public.
***
The sun’s first sliver of light rose behind the mail shrouded crimson balloons of the Argo. Every inch of the ship’s gleaming wood hull had been polished to reflect the flickering lamps, torches and spotlights surrounding it. Trays of champagne circulated the crowd while Colonel Pell spoke about the glories of exploration. Merriday himself, arrayed in his trademark uniform, thanked the guests and sponsors for their generous donations, praised them for believing so fervently in the future of science, exploration, and a more just world. A toast, a cheer, then, amidst a riot of fanfare and applause, Merriday stood in the open cabin doorway waving as the Argo lifted into the pearl grey sky.
Gavin and Amelia watched until the dirigible’s crimson balloon disappeared into the clouds. They sat on the steps leading to the lawn, a nearly empty bottle of champagne between them. Over the course of the evening, they had spent, in total, three hours in each other's presence actively conversing - a miracle Amelia credited to the effects of fatigue and wine.
Amelia’s curiosity finally got the better of her. “How did you get involved in all of this?” She gestured with her champagne glass at the general pageantry and splendor.
“I was born for it,” he replied, then drained the bottle in a gulp.
Episode Two: Conflicts of Interest
Kettery Depot, the glittering steel and glass hub of the sky trolley system, rose a few blocks from the newspaper offices. Throughout the bustling in-city, elegant wrought iron and concrete trellis pedestrian bridges arched between buildings on several levels, high above the residents, vehicles, and grime of ground level.
Though Amelia had lived next to the university for months, and had taken the sky trolleys nearly every day, she found the Kettery's beauty still inspired giddy awe when she neared it. The cascading glass and steel arches some twenty levels high erupted from the expansive surrounding plazas. Trolley tracks crisscrossed overhead, and hanging trolley cars glided to and from the building through Gothic steel arches in every direction.
Amelia climbed the curving marble stairs to the second level then took one of the elevators up the central spire to her homeward trolley line. The new Daedalus Port for private dirigibles and airships bloomed far overhead, and she couldn’t help admiring the vessels as they glided about. Even if Gavin Graves had written about the port’s grand opening.
"Son of a board member, indeed," Amelia muttered with a glower. An older lady beside her, a sprout of feathers wilting from her hat, blinked at her in befuddlement.
Amelia walked the last blocks to her boarding house in the company of some of her housemates returning from classes.
"How's news?" Kurt asked. "Any more thrilling flower shows to write about?" A "reformed" gentleman of twenty who abdicated his minor title after his first semester, he often remarked about Amelia's soft assignments, attributing to them some mark of classism or another.
"Too many," she replied wearily.
"It's too bad you don't attend uni," he said. "You would be a proper journalist, not just a society writer." He attempted to put his hand around her waist. Amelia suspected he had mislaid his common sense in a bottle of wine and used two fingers to extricate his hand from her person.
"And, with your understanding of social mechanisms," Kurt continued, "you could explain how they only serve to keep women locked in the drawing room. I could assist, should you have need of a more nuanced perspective. I have, as you know, written a considerable amount about...such things. I'm sure women of consequence haven't altered significantly since I surrendered my title."
Neither have you, I'm afraid, Amelia thought as she hurried into the house.
Miss Kelley sat curled in a tufted chair in the common room, reading, when the group arrived. The evening newspapers lay in an untidy pile on the floor beside the chair.
"Dinner's an hour off still," she said without looking up.
"Who asked? Are you finished with this?" Kurt asked, flouncing sideways on the threadbare settee and picking up the top newspaper. "Professor Whitenham graced us with his wisdom at the Winding Wheel today. A great shame you missed him."
"You usually ask about dinner before you've even said hello," Miss Kelley replied. "I've learned to anticipate. Yes, I have read them all. What did our good professor have to say?" She turned down her page corner and dropped the book in her lap.
"Nothing out of the usual, really," Kurt replied, ruminating on the ceiling tiles. "I find his theories increasingly irrelevant, though they have their merit. He is the backbone of the movement, after all. In a year or two, though, I predict progress will have already greatly outstripped his scope of comprehension. He'll need fresh perspectives, and I intend to provide one."
"Anything of general interest to those of us not attempting to usurp social progress for personal gain," Mister Warren, who studied economics, asked.
"He did express disappointment in how few females were in attendance," Kurt mused.
As Amelia settled in a cushioned armchair to observe, Mr. Betteredge, a maths student, stuck his head around the door jamb. "That's because he can't seduce the lads in public."
Miss Kelley rolled her eyes. "The bar girls' gossip has got to your head."
"Which head," Kurt asked with a wink. Miss Kelley made to throw her book at him but thought better of it and settled for an indignant scowl.
Mr. Betteredge returned with tea things. "Compliments of Mrs. Frey," he said as he placed the tray on the table.
"I'll pour," Miss Kelley said petulantly. "You two always miss the cups and douse the biscuits."
"That's a darling," Kurt said, though he hadn't moved to help.
"How's news, then, Amelia?" Betteredge asked, passing her a cup of tea. "Any more Periwinkle Society expositions?"
She shook her head. "I have another assignment for this weekend, but it's still a society event. Colonel Pell's Gala."
Kurt snorted. "Oh, a gala! Good for you! At least you'll be in your element."
"Shut it, Kurt. You're hardly coal stock." Miss Kelley said. "But it is exciting. Pell's guests are always quite amusing from what I've heard. Why does he want reporters there, I wonder?"
"It's a fund raiser for some society. I'm sure he hopes others will contribute, even if they aren't invited to attend." Amelia dipped a biscuit in her tea, a guilty pleasure she learned from her house mates. Her mother would have chastised her for such a display of ill-breeding, which only made the pleasure sweeter.
Kurt tossed and caught a small velvet pillow over his head. "If it's Pell, it's the Argonauts. I wonder if it'll be on his dirigible. A magnificent soiree floating about the city. Wouldn't that be a grand farce?"
"Would you like to accompany me?" Amelia asked with arched brow.
Kurt scowled in response. "Why not ask Mr. Graves? Two reporters, one ballroom. You could write about who attended and what they wore, and he could write about things that actually matter."
Amelia contemplated smothering Kurt with his pillow.
***
The next morning Amelia checked the house's telegraph machine. She saw, with an inward groan, that she had received an invitation from her parents to dinner that evening. The Brinkleys and others were to join them for an impromptu evening of cards, which meant her mother and Mrs. Brinkley had planned the gathering some time ago. She crumpled the page and dropped it in the waste bin.
As she passed the common room, she saw Miss Kelley curled in her oversized chair devouring yet another book and softly penciling notes in the margins. The morning newspapers lay in their customary place beside the chair.
"Good morning, Sophia," Amelia said, stopping by the tea table. "Do you mind if I join you?"
Miss Kelley looked up with a welcoming smile and closed her pencil in her book. As the only two female borders in the house, Amelia and Miss Kelley became instant friends despite a significant class difference. Miss Kelley was the fortuitous recipient of a university scholarship for women of the labor class, and intended to become a professor of literature. While the male residents approached their education with casual lassitude, Miss Kelley devoted all of her time and her not insignificant intellect to her studies. She also made a point to read the morning and evening newspapers every day and often commented on Amelia's articles.
Amelia sat in her favorite chair with a sigh.
"Not bad news I hope," Miss Kelley said.
Amelia nodded."An invitation to dine with my parents tonight."
"My condolences, then."
"The Brinkleys will be there, and Mamma and Mrs. Brinkley still hope to see me married to Alexander. It's her only consolation for my dismal prospects this Season. Of course, since neither Alexander nor I intend to marry each other, it's a fragile consolation."
Miss Kelley shook her head in amazement, as she often did when Amelia described the mechanics of her family and social life. "Why keep up the pretense?"
"Pragmatism, to be honest. We never want for a dance partner, and since our futures are already settled, we aren't burdened by the anxieties of courtship."
"Indeed," Miss Kelley said. "But why don't you intend to marry each other? By now you are both secure in each others’ character, and have no familial or social obstacles to surmount. You would live comfortably."
"All excellent arguments in favor of marriage. If that alone were the entirety of our circumstances, we wouldn't have delayed. I care for him deeply as my oldest friend and partner in crime. But marriage brings with it a host of obligations we have no desire to fulfill. I wouldn't be allowed to write for the paper, for instance.” She shook her head. “Besides, his passions lie elsewhere.”
Miss Kelley nodded her understanding. "Will you tell your parents about Pell's gala?"
"Absolutely not!" Amelia cried, grateful for the change in topic. "Could you imagine their outrage to know I was attending a fundraising event for Adventurers, full of people in trade? No, I would rather inform them afterward and temper their censure with gratification."
***
Providence failed to provide a means for Amelia’s unfortunate absence from dinner that evening. She joined her parents and their guests in the drawing room only minutes before dinner was announced, ignoring looks of disapproval for her rather flushed complexion. A quick kiss on the cheek for her parents, and she took her customary place in line next to Alexander Brinkley with a grateful sigh and greetings for the other guests.
"Miss Stodge, would it be amiss to hazard that you've been running?" Alexander murmured as the company went through to dinner.
"A lady never runs, Mister Brinkley, at least not in full view of the street. I was severely pressed for time."
He held Amelia's chair for her as she sat. "After a leisurely stroll from the station?"
"Whatever do you mean?" She feigned imperious smugness. "Are your family returning to the country next month?"
"We should need to. My mother always needs at least a month of peace and quiet to recover from the Season. I'm amazed how your family manages remaining in town all year."
"I assure you, an extended span of peace and quiet would ruin this family."
"Perhaps you and Margaret can join us for a month? Calliope could benefit from a stabilizing female influence."
Amelia paused. They had previously decided against a long visit, considering it implied, at least for young couples, an imminent marriage. "A lady journalist living with university students in a boarding house would provide a ‘stabilizing influence’ for a fifteen-year-old girl preparing to debut? Perhaps you are referring to my sister."
"You don't intend to keep up this newspaper fantasy past this Season, do you?" He hid an expression of reproach behind his wine glass.
Though startled and disappointed, Amelia composed her face into lighthearted teasing. She could feel her mother's gaze. Any sign of displeasure would lead to scrutiny later. "I thought you approved of my fantasy."
"Perhaps we were being naive." He, too, maintained an expression of interest and levity, but something ran awry. Rather than address it in company, however, Amelia changed topics.
"I hear that your father intends to build a dirigible and hangar on your grounds. How uncharacteristically modern! Will you learn to fly it?"
"I intend to," he said with relief. "Construction should take a month, maybe two, and in the meantime, I will be taking lessons from one of my father's acquaintances. It is another reason why I hope you will visit us. I thought you would enjoy a floatabout."
She didn't mask her genuine excitement. "I would, indeed!"
***
An hour of whist with her mother, Mrs. Brinkley, and her sister Margaret exhausted what little stores of sociability Amelia had left. Her smile felt brittle and she found her patience chipped away with every chime of the mantle clock. She began sabotaging the game and, having established her pattern of mistakes, surrendered her seat to Mr. Brinkley and escaped to the sofa.
Not many minutes passed before Mrs. Stodge also resigned her seat and joined her daughter.
"I'm delighted that you could join us this evening," Her mother said, her well-composed face belying her words. Amelia could see deepening shadows under her eyes, the only sign that the evening had taken much of her waning strength. She knew her mother wouldn't leave her bed for the next several days. Whatever illness plagued her, it eluded physicians. For a moment, Amelia felt ashamed for thinking so ill of her and thanked her for the invitation.
"Your father and I have accepted this Season has been irreparably lost." She sighed and adjusted the fall of her gown. "Nevertheless, we shall rebound. Once you relinquish this writing nonsense, some consequential members of society may once again feel inclined to accept our invitations. We may be able to salvage Margaret's chances for next Season."
"Mamma, I have no intention of relinquishing my ‘writing nonsense,’" Amelia said.
Anger roiled in her mother's eyes, which she hid behind a cutting smile as she moved closer to Amelia. "Your father and I agreed to support you at the boarding house only because the ignominy of a daughter impoverished surpassed that of an imprudent one," she said quietly. "We assumed you would tire of it in a month and repent. You haven't. We will not endure another foundering Season. Your sister will not endure it. Margaret lost Mister Goddard because of your selfishness."
Amelia flared, but maintained her composure. "Mister Goddard is an arrogant — "
"He is the heir to a baronetcy and has never missed a Regent's Ball since he came of age. He has fifteen thousand a year. Margaret might have enjoyed prestige and wealth, and she would have raised our prospects as well. But now Miss Eloisa Trewe has that luxury, and her family will benefit instead. We have supplemented your income thus far, but no longer. We are withdrawing our support."
Before her daughter could respond, Mrs. Stodge rose to assist Mrs. Brinkley with a dire hand of cards, indeed.
***
Mrs. Frey’s curfew for boarders, though non-existent, offered Amelia much-desired means of escape from ever more taxing family engagements. Desperate for air and anonymity, she claimed this excuse to take her leave. Alexander offered to escort her to the trolley station, and as she couldn’t imagine a better end to a tedious and disappointing evening than half an hour’s walk with her dearest friend, she gladly accepted his offer. She also took the opportunity to share her sole item of solace: her assignment to Colonel Pell’s gala.
Alexander hesitated. "You have an assignment tomorrow night? You didn't mention it."
"I avoid discussing work in my parents' company. It tends to amplify their displeasure."
"Damned inconvenient," he muttered darkly, brow creased.
"Has my tepid fortune interfered with some scheme?" Amelia asked, keeping her voice light, thankful the shadows concealed her weary and irritated countenance. The day’s barrage of ill news had soured her disposition, but Alexander had no fault in it. "I regret, if others have engaged me without my knowledge, I must decline."
"We have agreed to join you again tomorrow evening. I thought you already knew. Our mothers agreed upon it."
"As they have done for most of our lives, and without our consent," Amelia replied, irritation seeping into her voice. "I cannot, under any circumstance, miss this assignment tomorrow evening. My chances of independence rest upon it."
They walked in silence for a few moments. "I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you. I fear any additional deliberation will drain me of my determination altogether," Alexander said.
"Good heavens!” Amelia chuckled. “If it's so very ephemeral that 24 hours will mean the death of you both, spare yourself the agony and speak now."
Even in the shadowy lamplight, Alexander's face visibly paled. Afraid she had somehow accosted the limits of her friend's temperament, Amelia clamped her lips closed before she goaded him to an early grave.
Mr. Brinkley regained enough composure to stammer and gape like a fish. "I'm afraid — I'm quite — unprepared at present to adequately..."
"My dear," she said, laying a calming hand on his arm, to no result. His irrational behavior attracted attention from other pedestrians. Amelia smiled to dismiss their curiosity. "Do calm yourself, please." He continued to sputter about family obligations, independence, financial security.
Oh, dear. I've broken him, Amelia thought as her friend continued to ramble. It wasn't particularly difficult to crack his composure, as she had learned as a child when the shadow of rebuke launched him headlong into a detailed confession of an otherwise well-wrought tartlet heist. She listened for a few more moments, hoping her friend would regain his wits. When it seemed his spiral was infinite, her long-held composure cracked. "Do quit babbling, Alexander, or I'll see myself to the trolley station," she hissed.
"Amelia," Alexander huffed, then spoke each word deliberately, "We must marry."
Though Amelia had lived next to the university for months, and had taken the sky trolleys nearly every day, she found the Kettery's beauty still inspired giddy awe when she neared it. The cascading glass and steel arches some twenty levels high erupted from the expansive surrounding plazas. Trolley tracks crisscrossed overhead, and hanging trolley cars glided to and from the building through Gothic steel arches in every direction.
Amelia climbed the curving marble stairs to the second level then took one of the elevators up the central spire to her homeward trolley line. The new Daedalus Port for private dirigibles and airships bloomed far overhead, and she couldn’t help admiring the vessels as they glided about. Even if Gavin Graves had written about the port’s grand opening.
"Son of a board member, indeed," Amelia muttered with a glower. An older lady beside her, a sprout of feathers wilting from her hat, blinked at her in befuddlement.
Amelia walked the last blocks to her boarding house in the company of some of her housemates returning from classes.
"How's news?" Kurt asked. "Any more thrilling flower shows to write about?" A "reformed" gentleman of twenty who abdicated his minor title after his first semester, he often remarked about Amelia's soft assignments, attributing to them some mark of classism or another.
"Too many," she replied wearily.
"It's too bad you don't attend uni," he said. "You would be a proper journalist, not just a society writer." He attempted to put his hand around her waist. Amelia suspected he had mislaid his common sense in a bottle of wine and used two fingers to extricate his hand from her person.
"And, with your understanding of social mechanisms," Kurt continued, "you could explain how they only serve to keep women locked in the drawing room. I could assist, should you have need of a more nuanced perspective. I have, as you know, written a considerable amount about...such things. I'm sure women of consequence haven't altered significantly since I surrendered my title."
Neither have you, I'm afraid, Amelia thought as she hurried into the house.
Miss Kelley sat curled in a tufted chair in the common room, reading, when the group arrived. The evening newspapers lay in an untidy pile on the floor beside the chair.
"Dinner's an hour off still," she said without looking up.
"Who asked? Are you finished with this?" Kurt asked, flouncing sideways on the threadbare settee and picking up the top newspaper. "Professor Whitenham graced us with his wisdom at the Winding Wheel today. A great shame you missed him."
"You usually ask about dinner before you've even said hello," Miss Kelley replied. "I've learned to anticipate. Yes, I have read them all. What did our good professor have to say?" She turned down her page corner and dropped the book in her lap.
"Nothing out of the usual, really," Kurt replied, ruminating on the ceiling tiles. "I find his theories increasingly irrelevant, though they have their merit. He is the backbone of the movement, after all. In a year or two, though, I predict progress will have already greatly outstripped his scope of comprehension. He'll need fresh perspectives, and I intend to provide one."
"Anything of general interest to those of us not attempting to usurp social progress for personal gain," Mister Warren, who studied economics, asked.
"He did express disappointment in how few females were in attendance," Kurt mused.
As Amelia settled in a cushioned armchair to observe, Mr. Betteredge, a maths student, stuck his head around the door jamb. "That's because he can't seduce the lads in public."
Miss Kelley rolled her eyes. "The bar girls' gossip has got to your head."
"Which head," Kurt asked with a wink. Miss Kelley made to throw her book at him but thought better of it and settled for an indignant scowl.
Mr. Betteredge returned with tea things. "Compliments of Mrs. Frey," he said as he placed the tray on the table.
"I'll pour," Miss Kelley said petulantly. "You two always miss the cups and douse the biscuits."
"That's a darling," Kurt said, though he hadn't moved to help.
"How's news, then, Amelia?" Betteredge asked, passing her a cup of tea. "Any more Periwinkle Society expositions?"
She shook her head. "I have another assignment for this weekend, but it's still a society event. Colonel Pell's Gala."
Kurt snorted. "Oh, a gala! Good for you! At least you'll be in your element."
"Shut it, Kurt. You're hardly coal stock." Miss Kelley said. "But it is exciting. Pell's guests are always quite amusing from what I've heard. Why does he want reporters there, I wonder?"
"It's a fund raiser for some society. I'm sure he hopes others will contribute, even if they aren't invited to attend." Amelia dipped a biscuit in her tea, a guilty pleasure she learned from her house mates. Her mother would have chastised her for such a display of ill-breeding, which only made the pleasure sweeter.
Kurt tossed and caught a small velvet pillow over his head. "If it's Pell, it's the Argonauts. I wonder if it'll be on his dirigible. A magnificent soiree floating about the city. Wouldn't that be a grand farce?"
"Would you like to accompany me?" Amelia asked with arched brow.
Kurt scowled in response. "Why not ask Mr. Graves? Two reporters, one ballroom. You could write about who attended and what they wore, and he could write about things that actually matter."
Amelia contemplated smothering Kurt with his pillow.
***
The next morning Amelia checked the house's telegraph machine. She saw, with an inward groan, that she had received an invitation from her parents to dinner that evening. The Brinkleys and others were to join them for an impromptu evening of cards, which meant her mother and Mrs. Brinkley had planned the gathering some time ago. She crumpled the page and dropped it in the waste bin.
As she passed the common room, she saw Miss Kelley curled in her oversized chair devouring yet another book and softly penciling notes in the margins. The morning newspapers lay in their customary place beside the chair.
"Good morning, Sophia," Amelia said, stopping by the tea table. "Do you mind if I join you?"
Miss Kelley looked up with a welcoming smile and closed her pencil in her book. As the only two female borders in the house, Amelia and Miss Kelley became instant friends despite a significant class difference. Miss Kelley was the fortuitous recipient of a university scholarship for women of the labor class, and intended to become a professor of literature. While the male residents approached their education with casual lassitude, Miss Kelley devoted all of her time and her not insignificant intellect to her studies. She also made a point to read the morning and evening newspapers every day and often commented on Amelia's articles.
Amelia sat in her favorite chair with a sigh.
"Not bad news I hope," Miss Kelley said.
Amelia nodded."An invitation to dine with my parents tonight."
"My condolences, then."
"The Brinkleys will be there, and Mamma and Mrs. Brinkley still hope to see me married to Alexander. It's her only consolation for my dismal prospects this Season. Of course, since neither Alexander nor I intend to marry each other, it's a fragile consolation."
Miss Kelley shook her head in amazement, as she often did when Amelia described the mechanics of her family and social life. "Why keep up the pretense?"
"Pragmatism, to be honest. We never want for a dance partner, and since our futures are already settled, we aren't burdened by the anxieties of courtship."
"Indeed," Miss Kelley said. "But why don't you intend to marry each other? By now you are both secure in each others’ character, and have no familial or social obstacles to surmount. You would live comfortably."
"All excellent arguments in favor of marriage. If that alone were the entirety of our circumstances, we wouldn't have delayed. I care for him deeply as my oldest friend and partner in crime. But marriage brings with it a host of obligations we have no desire to fulfill. I wouldn't be allowed to write for the paper, for instance.” She shook her head. “Besides, his passions lie elsewhere.”
Miss Kelley nodded her understanding. "Will you tell your parents about Pell's gala?"
"Absolutely not!" Amelia cried, grateful for the change in topic. "Could you imagine their outrage to know I was attending a fundraising event for Adventurers, full of people in trade? No, I would rather inform them afterward and temper their censure with gratification."
***
Providence failed to provide a means for Amelia’s unfortunate absence from dinner that evening. She joined her parents and their guests in the drawing room only minutes before dinner was announced, ignoring looks of disapproval for her rather flushed complexion. A quick kiss on the cheek for her parents, and she took her customary place in line next to Alexander Brinkley with a grateful sigh and greetings for the other guests.
"Miss Stodge, would it be amiss to hazard that you've been running?" Alexander murmured as the company went through to dinner.
"A lady never runs, Mister Brinkley, at least not in full view of the street. I was severely pressed for time."
He held Amelia's chair for her as she sat. "After a leisurely stroll from the station?"
"Whatever do you mean?" She feigned imperious smugness. "Are your family returning to the country next month?"
"We should need to. My mother always needs at least a month of peace and quiet to recover from the Season. I'm amazed how your family manages remaining in town all year."
"I assure you, an extended span of peace and quiet would ruin this family."
"Perhaps you and Margaret can join us for a month? Calliope could benefit from a stabilizing female influence."
Amelia paused. They had previously decided against a long visit, considering it implied, at least for young couples, an imminent marriage. "A lady journalist living with university students in a boarding house would provide a ‘stabilizing influence’ for a fifteen-year-old girl preparing to debut? Perhaps you are referring to my sister."
"You don't intend to keep up this newspaper fantasy past this Season, do you?" He hid an expression of reproach behind his wine glass.
Though startled and disappointed, Amelia composed her face into lighthearted teasing. She could feel her mother's gaze. Any sign of displeasure would lead to scrutiny later. "I thought you approved of my fantasy."
"Perhaps we were being naive." He, too, maintained an expression of interest and levity, but something ran awry. Rather than address it in company, however, Amelia changed topics.
"I hear that your father intends to build a dirigible and hangar on your grounds. How uncharacteristically modern! Will you learn to fly it?"
"I intend to," he said with relief. "Construction should take a month, maybe two, and in the meantime, I will be taking lessons from one of my father's acquaintances. It is another reason why I hope you will visit us. I thought you would enjoy a floatabout."
She didn't mask her genuine excitement. "I would, indeed!"
***
An hour of whist with her mother, Mrs. Brinkley, and her sister Margaret exhausted what little stores of sociability Amelia had left. Her smile felt brittle and she found her patience chipped away with every chime of the mantle clock. She began sabotaging the game and, having established her pattern of mistakes, surrendered her seat to Mr. Brinkley and escaped to the sofa.
Not many minutes passed before Mrs. Stodge also resigned her seat and joined her daughter.
"I'm delighted that you could join us this evening," Her mother said, her well-composed face belying her words. Amelia could see deepening shadows under her eyes, the only sign that the evening had taken much of her waning strength. She knew her mother wouldn't leave her bed for the next several days. Whatever illness plagued her, it eluded physicians. For a moment, Amelia felt ashamed for thinking so ill of her and thanked her for the invitation.
"Your father and I have accepted this Season has been irreparably lost." She sighed and adjusted the fall of her gown. "Nevertheless, we shall rebound. Once you relinquish this writing nonsense, some consequential members of society may once again feel inclined to accept our invitations. We may be able to salvage Margaret's chances for next Season."
"Mamma, I have no intention of relinquishing my ‘writing nonsense,’" Amelia said.
Anger roiled in her mother's eyes, which she hid behind a cutting smile as she moved closer to Amelia. "Your father and I agreed to support you at the boarding house only because the ignominy of a daughter impoverished surpassed that of an imprudent one," she said quietly. "We assumed you would tire of it in a month and repent. You haven't. We will not endure another foundering Season. Your sister will not endure it. Margaret lost Mister Goddard because of your selfishness."
Amelia flared, but maintained her composure. "Mister Goddard is an arrogant — "
"He is the heir to a baronetcy and has never missed a Regent's Ball since he came of age. He has fifteen thousand a year. Margaret might have enjoyed prestige and wealth, and she would have raised our prospects as well. But now Miss Eloisa Trewe has that luxury, and her family will benefit instead. We have supplemented your income thus far, but no longer. We are withdrawing our support."
Before her daughter could respond, Mrs. Stodge rose to assist Mrs. Brinkley with a dire hand of cards, indeed.
***
Mrs. Frey’s curfew for boarders, though non-existent, offered Amelia much-desired means of escape from ever more taxing family engagements. Desperate for air and anonymity, she claimed this excuse to take her leave. Alexander offered to escort her to the trolley station, and as she couldn’t imagine a better end to a tedious and disappointing evening than half an hour’s walk with her dearest friend, she gladly accepted his offer. She also took the opportunity to share her sole item of solace: her assignment to Colonel Pell’s gala.
Alexander hesitated. "You have an assignment tomorrow night? You didn't mention it."
"I avoid discussing work in my parents' company. It tends to amplify their displeasure."
"Damned inconvenient," he muttered darkly, brow creased.
"Has my tepid fortune interfered with some scheme?" Amelia asked, keeping her voice light, thankful the shadows concealed her weary and irritated countenance. The day’s barrage of ill news had soured her disposition, but Alexander had no fault in it. "I regret, if others have engaged me without my knowledge, I must decline."
"We have agreed to join you again tomorrow evening. I thought you already knew. Our mothers agreed upon it."
"As they have done for most of our lives, and without our consent," Amelia replied, irritation seeping into her voice. "I cannot, under any circumstance, miss this assignment tomorrow evening. My chances of independence rest upon it."
They walked in silence for a few moments. "I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you. I fear any additional deliberation will drain me of my determination altogether," Alexander said.
"Good heavens!” Amelia chuckled. “If it's so very ephemeral that 24 hours will mean the death of you both, spare yourself the agony and speak now."
Even in the shadowy lamplight, Alexander's face visibly paled. Afraid she had somehow accosted the limits of her friend's temperament, Amelia clamped her lips closed before she goaded him to an early grave.
Mr. Brinkley regained enough composure to stammer and gape like a fish. "I'm afraid — I'm quite — unprepared at present to adequately..."
"My dear," she said, laying a calming hand on his arm, to no result. His irrational behavior attracted attention from other pedestrians. Amelia smiled to dismiss their curiosity. "Do calm yourself, please." He continued to sputter about family obligations, independence, financial security.
Oh, dear. I've broken him, Amelia thought as her friend continued to ramble. It wasn't particularly difficult to crack his composure, as she had learned as a child when the shadow of rebuke launched him headlong into a detailed confession of an otherwise well-wrought tartlet heist. She listened for a few more moments, hoping her friend would regain his wits. When it seemed his spiral was infinite, her long-held composure cracked. "Do quit babbling, Alexander, or I'll see myself to the trolley station," she hissed.
"Amelia," Alexander huffed, then spoke each word deliberately, "We must marry."
Episode One: Where Ladies Dare Not Tread
Amelia Stodge cursed under her breath and set to untangling the keys and fixing the ribbon on her typewriter, whispering the genius sentence she'd concocted to prevent its escape. It took a certain amount of talent to bring sparkle and flash to something as tiresome as the Periwinkle Society’s annual Spring Rooftop Garden Exposition. But Amelia had endeavored to inject some of her youthful enthusiasm into what amounted to a gathering of old women showing off their prized petunias and grandchildren while collecting dusty bits of gossip over weak tea.
The ribbon slipped into place. At last, she sighed, and wriggled her fingers over the keys in expectation. But the sentence had vanished, like a wisp of steam from the sky trolley. She cursed again, this time out loud.
“What ladylike language, Miss Stodge,” a male voice said behind her, belonging to a Mister Gavin Graves. Amelia scowled at her typewriter, then plastered on a complacent smile as she turned to greet her coworker.
While in no way a gentleman pilot, fellow journalist Gavin Graves chose to wear the accouterments of one: radiant white linen shirtsleeves, waistcoat festooned with chains attached to gleaming brass compass and pocket watch, unspoiled riding boots that likely had never experienced grass, let alone a horse. His top hat was tucked in the crook of his arm. Despite its slavery to fashion, Amelia was reluctant to admit, however, that he pulled it off. Mister Gavin Graves could pull off just about any article of clothing he liked, according to the office girls.
Gavin was speaking, but Amelia’s thoughts drowned out his babble. He could carry a one-sided conversation with a stump for all she cared, but breeding required she not appear openly rude. Reluctantly, she reigned in her attention and focused on what he was saying.
“…and so I’m off to the Exporium for the latest airship advances out of the Terra, and I wondered how your — ahem — Periwinkle Society article is going.” He attempted to conceal a smirk behind one immaculate leather-gloved hand.
Amelia pulled her snarl into a semblance of a smile. “Tops and tails!” she replied. “Can’t say enough.” No truer words had been spoken.
Gavin smirked outright and turned to go, his figure cutting a larger portion of swagger than propriety allowed.
Amelia wanted to lob her typewriter at him. Instead, she bashed out the rest of her article.
***
“You realize you needn’t wait for my approval anymore, don’t you?”
Mister Quinn McGoffery, the Metropol’s stalwart editor-in-chief, perused Amelia’s Periwinkle Society article with the same lack of enthusiasm that he showed every page that crossed his desk. After a minute’s contemplation, he stamped it approved and tossed it in the press tray.
“Fine job,” he said without looking up.
Amelia waited. After a few moments, she offered a discrete cough to signal her continued existence in his plane of existence. Finally, she threw aside all social stricture and addressed her employer directly. “Sir, do you have another assignment for me?”
McGoffery’s head snapped up, the fragile lens-bearing arms of his head-mounted magnification apparatus bobbing. He stared at her for a moment, one pale grey eye appearing to bulge grotesquely through the lens. Trick of the glass, Amelia hoped, but found herself staring with mingled disgust and wonder. One slender vein zigzagged through the white of his eye, appearing to puncture the iris. She imagined it had sucked the color from his eye, and wondered if it had hurt.
“I’m beginning to resent that stipulation,” McGoffery grumbled. “You’d think by now they’d trust you to fend for yourself.” With a bluster of throat clearing and indistinguishable mumbles, he pawed through the stacks on his desk before finding the social activities calendar under his inkwell. He leaned back in his chair with an air of being thoroughly put upon.
“Let’s see,” he murmured, flipping lenses with well-practiced flicks of his fingers. “Do you have any requests? The Ladies Watercolor Club, perhaps?”
“Perhaps, if I can mention the club president’s husband had a hand in quashing the recent Coal Workers Union strike.”
“You may not.” He tossed down the social calendar and picked up an assignment list at random, flipping lenses over his eyes with restrained scorn. “But here's an idea: for the sake of demonstration, let’s determine if a lady journalist such as yourself would be welcome at any of these. Perhaps you can cover the Bankers’ and Brokers’ Conference on Exchange Street next week. Or, if you prefer sport, you can report on the rugby club’s new manager. If you like getting your hands dirty, you can write an eye-opening expose of the meat-packing industry. Would you like to work in an abattoir for a month or so slicing pig throats? Get to know the laborers? Maybe learn to boil the feathers off a chicken?”
Amelia struggled to maintain a neutral expression, but imagined boiling his feathers off. She had written for the Metropol for over two months, and had often asked for more substantive assignments, only to be met with scorn or ridicule at every level.
“I’ve told you a hundred times,” McGoffery continued. “There are only certain places lady journalists can go and only certain stories they can tell. I’m afraid you simply can’t pursue the types of assignments you want. Men won’t take you seriously as a reporter, and the public won’t take the paper seriously as a result.” McGoffery dropped the lists back on his desk and shook his head.
Amelia’s façade failed. “Tripe, Mr. McGoffery. Jillian Chaudry from the the Standard has cracked major stories in her territory for a number of years, and the paper’s readership hasn’t faltered a blip as a result. If women aren’t allowed to tell the stories they want to tell, it’s because men like you relegate us to the society pages and parlors where we can do the least amount of damage to your blessed reputations. Give me something worth my time and talents or I will find a newspaper that will.”
“Did you learn that from your uni friends?” McGoffery snorted, but considered her for a moment. He shifted through his papers and removed a card. Fanning it between his fingers for a moment, he appeared to weigh his options.
“Allow me to rephrase. There are only certain places here where a lady of print is welcome. You may not accept this fact, but your disapproval won’t change the matter. Still, I’ve received more compliments from society chairwomen about your articles than any other reporter I’ve assigned to these types of events.” He held out the card to her.
Amelia felt her face and neck flush from the sidelong praise. You don’t blush well, my dear, her mother would say, not like our Margaret. Unlovely blush aside, she took the offered card and read it eagerly.
It was an invitation for a Gala Ball at the country residence of Colonel Raymond Pell.
“A ball,” she said, face slack in disbelief. “You’re patronizing me now?”
McGoffery spoke carefully, glaring his warning. “Colonel Raymond Pell finances many celebrated personages and is a member of the Argonaut Society. He is hosting the ball as a fund raiser for Captain Franklin Merriday’s upcoming Amazon excursion. This gala is the event of the season, as Colonel Pell’s galas tend to be, and it promises to be the making of a society writer such as yourself.”
“Indeed. Only he isn’t considered polite society, and I don’t wish to be a society writer.” She tossed the card on the desk.
Mr. McGoffery slapped the desk with one meaty hand. “You confound me, Miss Stodge. You demand a more substantive assignment, but when I offer you the opportunity to cover an event that would make your career, you snub it. You are not an established journalist, miss. You’re an apprentice for all purposes with no prior experience. You have no latitude to make demands."
She jabbed her finger toward the closed office door. “Mister Graves and I started in the same month. He had as much experience as I had when he began, and he has had cover page stories!”
“Mister Graves is also the son of a prominent board member.”
Deflated, Amelia gobbed like a fish. “Rubbish.”
“Fact.” He planted the tip of his ink smeared forefinger on the desktop. “Now I’m giving you one more chance to make the right choice. Cover Colonel Pell’s gala. It’s bigger than a few hundred words and it will give you a by-line, even if it might not make the cover page. Do it justice and you will have established yourself as more than a social events writer. Or snub it and see yourself out.”
She hesitated, then retrieved the card. “Thank you,” she whispered.
McGoffery nodded curtly and, flicking his lenses into place, resumed his business in silence.
The ribbon slipped into place. At last, she sighed, and wriggled her fingers over the keys in expectation. But the sentence had vanished, like a wisp of steam from the sky trolley. She cursed again, this time out loud.
“What ladylike language, Miss Stodge,” a male voice said behind her, belonging to a Mister Gavin Graves. Amelia scowled at her typewriter, then plastered on a complacent smile as she turned to greet her coworker.
While in no way a gentleman pilot, fellow journalist Gavin Graves chose to wear the accouterments of one: radiant white linen shirtsleeves, waistcoat festooned with chains attached to gleaming brass compass and pocket watch, unspoiled riding boots that likely had never experienced grass, let alone a horse. His top hat was tucked in the crook of his arm. Despite its slavery to fashion, Amelia was reluctant to admit, however, that he pulled it off. Mister Gavin Graves could pull off just about any article of clothing he liked, according to the office girls.
Gavin was speaking, but Amelia’s thoughts drowned out his babble. He could carry a one-sided conversation with a stump for all she cared, but breeding required she not appear openly rude. Reluctantly, she reigned in her attention and focused on what he was saying.
“…and so I’m off to the Exporium for the latest airship advances out of the Terra, and I wondered how your — ahem — Periwinkle Society article is going.” He attempted to conceal a smirk behind one immaculate leather-gloved hand.
Amelia pulled her snarl into a semblance of a smile. “Tops and tails!” she replied. “Can’t say enough.” No truer words had been spoken.
Gavin smirked outright and turned to go, his figure cutting a larger portion of swagger than propriety allowed.
Amelia wanted to lob her typewriter at him. Instead, she bashed out the rest of her article.
***
“You realize you needn’t wait for my approval anymore, don’t you?”
Mister Quinn McGoffery, the Metropol’s stalwart editor-in-chief, perused Amelia’s Periwinkle Society article with the same lack of enthusiasm that he showed every page that crossed his desk. After a minute’s contemplation, he stamped it approved and tossed it in the press tray.
“Fine job,” he said without looking up.
Amelia waited. After a few moments, she offered a discrete cough to signal her continued existence in his plane of existence. Finally, she threw aside all social stricture and addressed her employer directly. “Sir, do you have another assignment for me?”
McGoffery’s head snapped up, the fragile lens-bearing arms of his head-mounted magnification apparatus bobbing. He stared at her for a moment, one pale grey eye appearing to bulge grotesquely through the lens. Trick of the glass, Amelia hoped, but found herself staring with mingled disgust and wonder. One slender vein zigzagged through the white of his eye, appearing to puncture the iris. She imagined it had sucked the color from his eye, and wondered if it had hurt.
“I’m beginning to resent that stipulation,” McGoffery grumbled. “You’d think by now they’d trust you to fend for yourself.” With a bluster of throat clearing and indistinguishable mumbles, he pawed through the stacks on his desk before finding the social activities calendar under his inkwell. He leaned back in his chair with an air of being thoroughly put upon.
“Let’s see,” he murmured, flipping lenses with well-practiced flicks of his fingers. “Do you have any requests? The Ladies Watercolor Club, perhaps?”
“Perhaps, if I can mention the club president’s husband had a hand in quashing the recent Coal Workers Union strike.”
“You may not.” He tossed down the social calendar and picked up an assignment list at random, flipping lenses over his eyes with restrained scorn. “But here's an idea: for the sake of demonstration, let’s determine if a lady journalist such as yourself would be welcome at any of these. Perhaps you can cover the Bankers’ and Brokers’ Conference on Exchange Street next week. Or, if you prefer sport, you can report on the rugby club’s new manager. If you like getting your hands dirty, you can write an eye-opening expose of the meat-packing industry. Would you like to work in an abattoir for a month or so slicing pig throats? Get to know the laborers? Maybe learn to boil the feathers off a chicken?”
Amelia struggled to maintain a neutral expression, but imagined boiling his feathers off. She had written for the Metropol for over two months, and had often asked for more substantive assignments, only to be met with scorn or ridicule at every level.
“I’ve told you a hundred times,” McGoffery continued. “There are only certain places lady journalists can go and only certain stories they can tell. I’m afraid you simply can’t pursue the types of assignments you want. Men won’t take you seriously as a reporter, and the public won’t take the paper seriously as a result.” McGoffery dropped the lists back on his desk and shook his head.
Amelia’s façade failed. “Tripe, Mr. McGoffery. Jillian Chaudry from the the Standard has cracked major stories in her territory for a number of years, and the paper’s readership hasn’t faltered a blip as a result. If women aren’t allowed to tell the stories they want to tell, it’s because men like you relegate us to the society pages and parlors where we can do the least amount of damage to your blessed reputations. Give me something worth my time and talents or I will find a newspaper that will.”
“Did you learn that from your uni friends?” McGoffery snorted, but considered her for a moment. He shifted through his papers and removed a card. Fanning it between his fingers for a moment, he appeared to weigh his options.
“Allow me to rephrase. There are only certain places here where a lady of print is welcome. You may not accept this fact, but your disapproval won’t change the matter. Still, I’ve received more compliments from society chairwomen about your articles than any other reporter I’ve assigned to these types of events.” He held out the card to her.
Amelia felt her face and neck flush from the sidelong praise. You don’t blush well, my dear, her mother would say, not like our Margaret. Unlovely blush aside, she took the offered card and read it eagerly.
It was an invitation for a Gala Ball at the country residence of Colonel Raymond Pell.
“A ball,” she said, face slack in disbelief. “You’re patronizing me now?”
McGoffery spoke carefully, glaring his warning. “Colonel Raymond Pell finances many celebrated personages and is a member of the Argonaut Society. He is hosting the ball as a fund raiser for Captain Franklin Merriday’s upcoming Amazon excursion. This gala is the event of the season, as Colonel Pell’s galas tend to be, and it promises to be the making of a society writer such as yourself.”
“Indeed. Only he isn’t considered polite society, and I don’t wish to be a society writer.” She tossed the card on the desk.
Mr. McGoffery slapped the desk with one meaty hand. “You confound me, Miss Stodge. You demand a more substantive assignment, but when I offer you the opportunity to cover an event that would make your career, you snub it. You are not an established journalist, miss. You’re an apprentice for all purposes with no prior experience. You have no latitude to make demands."
She jabbed her finger toward the closed office door. “Mister Graves and I started in the same month. He had as much experience as I had when he began, and he has had cover page stories!”
“Mister Graves is also the son of a prominent board member.”
Deflated, Amelia gobbed like a fish. “Rubbish.”
“Fact.” He planted the tip of his ink smeared forefinger on the desktop. “Now I’m giving you one more chance to make the right choice. Cover Colonel Pell’s gala. It’s bigger than a few hundred words and it will give you a by-line, even if it might not make the cover page. Do it justice and you will have established yourself as more than a social events writer. Or snub it and see yourself out.”
She hesitated, then retrieved the card. “Thank you,” she whispered.
McGoffery nodded curtly and, flicking his lenses into place, resumed his business in silence.
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