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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