1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Im Rev 2

Name: Christina Im
Genre: Young Adult Steampunk
Title: On the Midnight Streets

The envelope in my hand has corners sharp enough to cut me, and for a long moment, I trick myself into thinking it will if I hold it for too long. The clock on our wall ticks one, two, twenty-two times, calmly enough that I can let it time my inhales. My eyes wouldn’t trick me - the messenger who passed it to me through a chink in our doorframe was dressed in livery finer than anyone in these parts has seen in decades. But stranger still was his expression, so guardedly incredulous that the memory of it makes me afraid of the letter he’s brought me.

Strained light coming through the boardinghouse window just barely lets me notice the creamy sheen of the parchment and Mother’s name, printed primly on one side in a hand I don’t recognize. That is what catches me, the unfamiliarity of the writing. For years I’ve been taking Mother’s post in the mornings, but never this early, and never from anyone I haven’t known all my life. My heart shrinks as I stare at the address, undeniably ours, right down to the boardinghouse room. All that’s keeping my fingers from prying it open is bone-deep foreboding.

It’s a letter, Chantilly. The worst it can do is nick your fingers.

It’s far too smooth to be anything less than Upper City material, so thick that it sets me on edge. I turn it over to break the seal when I see it: the emblem of the king and crown, Clarabel’s dagger overrun by thistles. My breath grows stale in my mouth - the crown’s crest is a rare sight here in the Middle City. This knife, these flowers, belong on the other side of the looming stone wall that keeps us away from the wealthy.

My first thought is that plainly the world has gone mad, but as I open up the flap, the greeting that jumps out at me - Salutations to Miss Diane Rosewater - is too sure of itself. Doubt pierces my mind. Did I remember to hand in the rent to our landlady the week before last? Have I forgotten to pay our monthly tithes to the royal coffers? No, no - I do all that out of my own pocket, and I remember scarcely bypassing the paperwork. The king should have no quarrel with us, and a debtors’ warning wouldn’t bear his symbol.

The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, groggy.

“Tense, aren’t you?” she says, smiling. “I would say good morning, but you look as if you’ve been up a while.” Her eyes amble over to the letter, still clutched in my hand, and gradually become more alert.

“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” She sidles to me expectantly, and together we skim over a block of the letter.

In language too garbled even for a scholar, it declares that our “esteemed relative”, a duke of somewhere or other, is dead, and extends an invitation for a service in his memory. I don’t try to fight the grin that rises onto my face. This can’t be anything but a mistake.

When we arrive at the end of the passage, Mother lets out a soft, dry laugh, like rustling papers. “They’ve certainly gone to a fine bit of trouble,” she muses. “Is there any more?” I clear my throat to go over the rest of the page, and her brow furrows before smoothing itself out again. I pay more attention this time to each word.

As His Grace’s nearest surviving relations, you and any family members have inherited and lawfully acquired the duchy of Fellonsley, its corresponding Henlow House, all affiliated staff members and household appurtenances, and the full and uncorrupted contents of the duchy coffers, totaling to a monetary sum of approximately fifty million arors. Due to the utmost necessity of the presence of an estate head and peer whenever possible, a carriage is planned to arrive at this place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in order to convey you, your family, and the sum of your possessions to your new domicile in the Upper City.

I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands on the floor. I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. All around me, splinters hold me down: half-finished mending, worn fabric and old promises, draped over our only table; the rush of air that leaves me as I collapse into a chair; Mother’s wide, wide eyes that I’m sure must mirror my own. Fifty million arors - a prince’s ransom, enough to buy all of the Lower City and then some. Certainly enough to provide for Mother, my sisters, myself for as long as we live.

Try as I might, I can’t begin to fathom the weight of an estate on Mother’s hands, or mine. Who would Chantilly Rosewater be without a rent to pay, without work to pay it? I ought to be glad, I know, of something to ease our stretched-tight expenses, but all I can find inside myself is a clammy feeling of loss. A servant to dress me? A house wide enough to swallow me up? No, no - I would only break, like a cog placed in the wrong part of an automaton. I’ve spoken to Upper City girls twice before, and even that’s enough for a lifetime.

After a moment, a finger of almost-sunlight creeps through the window. Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order.

“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother gasps as she realizes the time.

We flurry into motion, tossing a loaf of hard bread and a small mountain of odds and ends into my satchel without even a word to spare. I get dressed and straighten out my sleeves like clockwork, even as my mind asks why I’m bothering.

Mother shoos me out the door a little too quickly, and my mind won’t let me ask about the letter. “This,” she says with a condemning sigh, “is the latest you’ve ever been in your life.”

It’s a foolish thought, but she looks as if she knows something.

I nod, pull the door open with a rough yank to steady myself. Questions shuffle back and forth in my head, tumbling over one another to be the first out of my mouth, but instead I blurt, “Make sure you get Chamomile and Velvet up.” Mother blinks in understanding; in the mornings, my younger sisters are harder to move than mountains.

I half-run down the stairs of the boardinghouse, not bothering to soften my steps. Clouds are gathering outside, a formation that could be thunder in a few hours. Peralton’s clouds sweep together too suddenly to keep track of. Turning the doorknob and striding out is one thoughtless, mechanical gesture, and then there’s rain, rain, rain, clawing at me from all sides.

This early in the day, mist tends to make visibility poor, so the Middle City is gaslit. Thick sheets of rain pound the cobblestones, and the air breathes chill with fog. The streetlamps glow a dull orange above the people, and above those, the occasional airship drifts lazily across the sky, smearing black smoke onto a patchwork of clouds. Their balloons look almost ludicrous. I let my steps slow; no matter how late I am, it won’t matter tomorrow.