1st 5 Pages April Workshop - Im

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

When things like stars or kingdoms or fates collide, even the worst novels give their heroines prophetic dreams for a week in advance - at the very
least.

If I were the heroine in a novel, I’d feel something coming. It would be as clear to me as if there were grim, thunder-laden clouds clustering around my head, and I would know it, better than anything I ever have. I would get a stirring in my chest, maybe, or a choice sentence or two of foreshadowing.

But I’m standing in my family’s boardinghouse room, not in a book, and it’s quite plain that the blood running through my veins is the common red rubbish and not ink off of a printing press. And it's even plainer that I don’t know what's in the wax-sealed letter on the table any more than I know what I'll look like thirty years from now.

The clock on the wall ticks twenty-two times while I decide to make a move. The waiting envelope has corners sharp enough to cut me. I hesitate and let my heart shrink in my chest as I stare at it.

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

I reach for it before I have a chance to talk myself out of anything. 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 stills and 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 this must be some colossal prank, but as I open up the flap, the words that jump out at me are too sure of themselves, too crisp. A needle of doubt worms its way into my mind. Our records, if a little dusty, aren’t stained in the slightest.

The floor sags behind me with a creak, and I nearly spring out of my skin. Mother steps into the room, disheveled and 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 dart to the letter, still clutched in my hand.

“Oh.” I force my limbs to loosen and wave the paper in her direction. “The post came for you.” And as I start to scan the page, I see that its greeting really is addressed, albeit stiffly, to Mother:

To Miss Diane Rosewater -

We truly regret to inform you on this most unfortunate day that your esteemed relative, His Grace the Duke of Fellonsley, Reginald Harneld, has passed away due to a severe bout of consumption. We will, of course, be quick in our numerous assurances that Lord Fellonsley took leave of this world peacefully and painlessly. On behalf of His Majesty, our illustrious King Alastair, we would like to extend our sincere condolences for this most dreadful loss, as well as a congenial invitation to attend a solemn service in His Grace’s highly honored and cherished memory on the first day of the coming month, at precisely three hours past noontime, on the hallowed Harneld plot of Peralton’s finest Upper City burial grounds.

When I read the passage out loud, 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 see her brow furrow before smoothing itself out again.

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.

Cordially,

His Majesty’s Residential Council

I don’t notice how badly I’m shaking until the letter lands helplessly on the floor and I glance down at my hand, fluttering like a leaf in a gale. My vision bleeds into itself. 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.

After a moment, I become vaguely aware of a finger of sunlight creeping through the window.
Sunlight? My mind drags itself into order.
Then what time...?

“Oh, stars.” I groan, and Mother starts as if she’s never heard my voice before. She shakes her head, frowning, and then gasps in realization.

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.

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.”

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. 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.

What little light there is has been thrown to the ground in desperate pockets. As I expected, people are already roaming the streets. Some walk with a clear destination, like me, while others meander, with an arm sometimes raised as a makeshift umbrella. I shiver and gaze up at the sky. It’s a stubborn whitish-gray, and I’ll wager that won’t change until the sun goes down this evening.

It’s all so beautiful.