“Her bad leg requires support.”
Cade arched an eyebrow.
Karigan wondered if he thought her incompetent in its handling, or just didn’t trust her. No, he wouldn’t think her incompetent, for he’d seen her use hers in the alley that first night. She could not resist a jibe: “Are you afraid of me?”
He scowled, but to his credit did not rise to her bait.
“Well,” she said in the face of his silence, “considering what I’ve seen of your moves so far, you should be.” With that she walked away, not waiting for either of the men, the tip of the bonewood tapping on the floor as she went.
She heard some angry, hushed mutters from Cade behind her, and she smiled. The professor responded in a calm voice with, “We shall discuss it later, Old Button.”
Before Karigan had gotten very far, the professor caught up with her. “I’ve your taper,” he said, “and will carry it since you’ve the bonewood to hold onto.”
She was relieved, because she also had that shard of mirror closed in her fist beneath her shawl and, with her broken wrist, would not have been able to carry another thing.
“Cade will follow in a little while. He’ll close up behind us.”
Karigan glanced back and observed as he put away his practice weapons, shoving them with more force than necessary. Yes, she had irked him. Her smile deepened.
They traveled down, down, down, back into the earth, which proved more tiresome to Karigan and harder on her leg than going up had been. The professor tried to assist her where he could, but on the narrow stairs she was pretty much on her own. When finally they reached the very bottom stair, which ended on the first floor of the building in the underground city, they paused to catch their breath. Karigan was really tired now. Her days in bed had sapped her strength and endurance, despite her efforts to remain limber and in condition.
The light of the taper cast sharp, intersecting shadows of the support beams across the walls and ceiling. It gleamed dully on broken pieces of pottery scattered across the floor.
“Is all of Sacor City underground?” she asked. Her own voice sounded close, damped down.
“Er, no,” the professor replied. “In the coming days I’ll show you what remains above ground. It’s mainly the lower parts of the south side that are buried.”
Abruptly he left the building, puffs of dust rising in his wake. Karigan hastened after him before the cage of shadows closed in on her. The professor stopped in the middle of what had once been the Winding Way, gazing at the facades of buildings.
“It was a stroke of luck, really, finding this place,” he told her when she reached him. “I knew, of course, that parts of old Sacor City lay beneath Mill City, so I did some test digs looking for artifacts, surreptitiously, mind. Found the occasional pot or horse shoe, a copper coin or two. Whenever anything is built over the old remains, objects are found, old walls and chimneys, a few interesting objects here and there. But nothing like this with buildings intact.”
“Did you find this with one of your test digs?”
“I had excavated to a certain level through all manner of rock and rubble and was resting at the bottom of my pit when I felt a breath of air from the earth. It had that unmistakable dank odor of wet stone and dirt. I found the hole and tapped my shovel round it, and the ground crumbled beneath my feet, and I fell through.” He laughed hard, and the sound seemed to raise dust. “By whatever graces still exist in the heavens, the fall did not kill me, nor was I buried alive.”
They started walking along the street. Their reflections in clouded windows startled Karigan, as if she saw ghosts who inhabited the ruins.
“Naturally I explored,” the professor said, “and was astonished this pocket of preserved city appeared to extend as far as the Josston Mills Complex, number four. That’s when I decided to build my house adjacent to the hole I’d fallen through. I needed to be able to do an extensive study of the site, and I thought it might prove useful in other ways, which it has.”
“As a secret corridor to the mill.”
“Exactly. The elite of the Capital think me exceedingly strange for living out here among those of lesser status. Most of the Preferred would not even consider it, but then again, they’ve thought me eccentric from the beginning. But tell me, do you recognize any of this?”
Karigan nodded, pointing out the saddlery shop with the smithy beside it. She explained how the lower city tended to be occupied by rougher neighborhoods.
“The nobility and wealthier classes were closer to the castle,” she said. The professor nodded as if he knew this.
When they reached the Cock and Hen, she sighed. “This place was known for its ale, but it was also well known for its brawls and the unsavory characters who frequented it.”
“Fascinating,” the professor replied, gazing up at the tilted sign. “If you were to enter the building and descend to the cellar, you’d still find intact kegs of ale. It’s rather turned at this point, I fear.” He puckered his face from what appeared to be an unpleasant memory. “I should have liked to have tried it when it was freshly tapped.”
They continued on until they reached the rough door that opened to the stairwell that led up to the professor’s house. Before they proceeded, he placed his hand on Karigan’s arm. It was warm through her sleeve.
“Please, I must remind you to speak of this to no one. Not any of it. And do not attempt to return unless I say otherwise.”
Karigan nodded and followed him along, up the spiraling stairs and into the house. By the time she reached her room, she was stumbling tired. Before dropping into bed, she carefully leaned the bonewood in a corner and hid the mirror shard in one of her slippers, which she tucked under the bed. She pulled the sheets over her and fell into a deep sleep full of dark passageways with only a dying moonstone to light the way . . .
. . . and was abruptly awakened by daylight beaming through her window. She squinted, taking in the silhouette of Mirriam opening the curtains, then turning round to face her with hands on her hips.
“Have we relapsed?” the housekeeper demanded, her abrasive voice making Karigan cringe.
“Relapsed?”
“It is eleven hour. Well past breakfast, so you will have to do without.”
Karigan sat up with a yawn. This was certainly a change of routine. Usually she was allowed all the rest she desired and was served breakfast no matter when she woke up.
“Your uncle deemed you well enough on in your recuperation that it was time you began fitting into the routine of this household. The dressmaker will be here after the midday meal.”
“Dressmaker?” Karigan still was not awake and found herself in need of a pot of strong tea.
“You don’t expect to spend the rest of your life in a nightgown, do you?”
“Well, I—”
Then Mirriam bent toward Karigan, drawing her monocle to her eye. Her frown deepened as she scrutinized Karigan’s nightgown. Her glance swerved to the bonewood cane leaning in the corner, then back to Karigan.
“Miss Goodgrave, have you been rolling around in a dirt pile?”
“I—” Karigan glanced down at her nightgown and saw it was smudged with dirt, and no wonder after the previous night’s wanderings through underground cities and old mill buildings.
The monocle dropped to the end of its chain, and Mirriam straightened. “Oh, never mind. Nothing a good washing can’t fix.” And she rolled her eyes.
Karigan was surprised Mirriam did not pursue the matter and wondered if the woman was simply too overcome by the sheer offense of all the dirt, or maybe it was that she knew where Karigan had been.
Mirriam steered her into the bathing room where the tub brimmed with steaming water. As Karigan eased into its warming depths, maneuvering carefully to keep her cast dry, she realized that from now on she would constantly wonder who in the household knew wha
t, and how much, and which ones were supposed to remain ignorant. To keep the professor’s secret, she’d have to be on her guard. He’d seemed to think his enemies were everywhere.
DRESSED
After Karigan bathed and ate a midday meal, she had no time to worry about who knew what, or to think about old mills and underground cities, for a Mistress dela Enfande, accompanied by a coterie of young, stylishly attired assistants, invaded her chamber and instructed her to stand on a stool for her measurements to be taken. And measure her they did, her every dimension.
“She will need everything,” Mirriam informed Mistress dela Enfande, “including the intimate basics.”
There was much clucking of tongues among the assistants and pitying looks. Karigan hugged her nightgown to her. They were unable to conceal how appalled they were that she hadn’t even any undergarments, but Mistress dela Enfande’s expression was fierce.
“All the better,” she declared. “We shall not have to build upon someone else’s inferior work. She’s a blank canvas. We shall create perfection from the foundation up; from the most private garment to the most public.”
“That is why the professor desired you to take on this challenge,” Mirriam said.
Mistress dela Enfande discussed inseams and bust lines and hems with her young ladies, and patterns and colors and fabrics. Two of the young women took notes, while still others sketched pictures Karigan was not privy to. She sighed in resignation, the object of their attention but an object only, and listened to Mistress dela Enfande’s sing-song voice. Her accent sounded Rhovan, and Karigan almost asked her about it before remembering, just in time, that Rhovanny was probably just another part of the empire, and no longer known by its old name.
Now and then, she was instructed to turn around or stretch out her arms. She was pinched and prodded and then measured again until, after what seemed like hours, she was allowed to step down from the stool as Mistress dela Enfande and her assistants flittered from the room. She flopped onto her bed with a groan of exhaustion.
“You will have one of the finest wardrobes in all Mill City,” Mirriam told her, “suited to a young lady of your station. Your uncle is being very generous.”
“Yes, of course,” Karigan replied, though all she wished for was the simplicity and comfort of her Green Rider uniform. “I’m tired is all.”
“I shouldn’t wonder why,” Mirriam murmured before leaving.
Karigan watched after Mirriam, wondering herself . . .
Once she was sure Mirriam was gone, she retrieved her mirror shard. She’d hidden it behind the headboard of her bed after she’d nearly crushed it when stepping into her slippers earlier.
She sat back on her bed and polished the shard with one of the sheets. It was two-sided—the looking mask had been mirrored on both the inside and the outside. When she gazed into it, she hoped to see Captain Mapstone again, or any sign of her friends, but all she saw was a small fragment of her face in the now. Even when she flipped the shard over, there was no change, just in the distortion from concave to convex. The looking mask had been made in a contoured form to fit over a person’s head. Made? she wondered. Who could have made such a thing?
Frustrated, she wrapped the shard in a handkerchief and returned it to its hiding place behind the headboard.
Over the ensuing days, she saw nothing of the professor or Cade, but much of Mistress dela Enfande and her assistants with their arms full of fabric and rough-cut garments. Karigan was relegated to the stool once again as hems and superfluous fabric were pinned up and the seamstress consulted with her assistants on the fit.
Karigan was amazed to see so much progress so quickly, and said so.
“Our empire is a modern wonder, is it not?” Mistress dela Enfande said. “Yards and yards of fabric rolling off the looms in mere minutes, and treadle machines that save our fingers in the sewing room. Can you believe it was once all done by hand?”
Karigan opened her mouth, then closed it again, not sure what to say without giving away her ignorance. Yards and yards of fabric in mere minutes? What would her father, the textile merchant, make of such a miracle?
By the end of the week, boxes began to arrive: hat boxes, shoe boxes, glove boxes, undergarment boxes, and a couple of dress boxes. There was more to come, Mirriam told her. Mistress dela Enfande and her assistants were working at a terrific rate, all so Karigan could appear appropriately attired in the public sphere.
Arhys came into the room to observe each box as it was opened, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. “These are sooo pretty. You’ll be a princess!”
“You would do well to remember there are no princesses in our empire,” Mirriam scolded.
Karigan had to admit the new clothing was very fine, but compared to her own time, very modest and subdued. Even veils draped from the hats to conceal the face of the wearer. She was not going to complain, however, if the clothing allowed her to finally leave the house.
“Why can’t I have dresses like these?” Arhys asked, lifting a deep sapphire dress from its box.
“Because, if you will recall,” Mirriam said, “you are a servant. You are not a member of the Preferred set.”
“Wish I was,” Arhys said, pouting. She carelessly dropped the dress back into its box. “I’m just as good as anyone.”
“Arhys!” Mirriam said in warning.
Without another word, the girl stomped out of Karigan’s room, still pouting.
“That girl,” Mirriam muttered. “I don’t know what I’ll do as she gets older. I can’t expect her to come to her senses and know her place, what with the professor spoiling her. She’s been jealous of you since you arrived, and this—” she pointed at all the boxes “—can’t be helping.”
Karigan felt only pity for Arhys; just because the class system of this world made her a servant, she’d never be treated to an entirely new wardrobe. For Karigan, all of this—the dresses, everything—was a fluke of circumstance.
The next morning, she was roused by Lorine as the morning bells rang in the distance.
“You must ready yourself for breakfast, miss,” the servant told her with an anxious expression. “Your uncle asks that you join him downstairs. I will help you dress.”
One thing that had not changed since her own time, Karigan discovered, was corsets, though now they were no longer structured with whale bone, but with wire. Karigan begged Lorine not to cinch it too tightly and the young woman obeyed. Lorine then added the other layers with the necessary hooks and lacing. The dress itself was a subdued green that buttoned all the way up to her neck and covered her arms all the way down to her wrists. At least it was green! Even the shoes laced up to above her ankles.
Lorine made several braids of Karigan’s hair and pinned them up, then brought in a mirror so Karigan could see the result. She was not sure she recognized herself.
“It is so good to see you out of that nightgown, if I may say so, miss.”
She smiled feebly at Lorine. It wasn’t that she disliked dressing well—in fact if she hadn’t heard the Rider call and remained a merchant, she’d often be garbed in the latest and best—but she missed the freedom of her Rider uniform, which had become as natural to her as a second skin. That was the crux of it. She felt trapped in these clothes, consigned to a role of what was appropriate, a prisoner to the professor’s good graces.
She needed to stem that line of thought. Instead she must think of the new clothes as freedom, for now she could escape the confines of the house.
Before leaving her room, Karigan grabbed the bonewood. If she was going to create the pretense of needing it to support her leg, she’d better get accustomed to using it in that fashion.
As she descended the stairs with Lorine, mouthwatering aromas and the clatter of dishes rose up to meet them. It was clear that breakfast was already underway. When she reached the dining room, she paused in the doo
rway, Lorine halting meekly behind her.
The professor sat at the far end of the table, with Cade to his right. Four other young men sat with them, carving into steak, or sipping from teacups. One had a book open beside his plate.
The professor was the first to notice her presence. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and rose. “Good morning, my dear! So good to see you up and about.”
There was a scraping of chairs as all the others hastily stood and regarded her with unabashed curiosity. The professor rounded the table and took her by the elbow, guiding her toward the chair at the closest end of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Kari Goodgrave.”
This was followed by a polite chorus of “good morning” and “delighted to make your acquaintance.”
The professor pushed her chair in and proceeded to his end of the table. Once ensconced, he said, “Kari, these gentlemen are my students. You’ve met Mr. Harlowe, of course.”
She glanced at Cade. He did not smile or scowl, just kept his expression neutral. Karigan rested the bonewood against the table, the silver handle clinking against wood. This faint sound produced a subtle twitch in Cade’s cheek. She thought, perhaps, she should amuse herself by finding ways to irritate him. He almost reminded her of a Weapon the way he remained stoic, keeping his countenance cool and stony.
The professor introduced the others. If she were any judge, she guessed they were her age or just slightly younger. They nodded politely in each one’s turn, their relaxed demeanors, fine dress, and seeming careless confidence not so very different from other young men she’d known from her own time.
She hesitated, unsure of whether or not she was expected to carry on a conversation. What if they started asking questions? What if they wanted to know something about her past? Did they know that she’d supposedly been rescued from an asylum? Would the professor share what must be such a stigma with his students? Did he tell any of them who she really was?