Page 4 of Daghel

“Mr. Barkley,” I murmur in greeting and step back to let him in.

Although he barely tops my height by an inch or two, there is a shrewd look to his thin face as he steps inside with the smallest dip of his head in acknowledgment. He takes in the parlor with a sweeping look and hums to himself.

“You are leaving tomorrow, I presume?”

“In the morning, yes,” I agree, as I cast a regretful look over my elegant furnishings.

“Good, good,” he murmurs as he absently hands me a small sack of coins that fills both palms with its weight. “I will take the clothing and jewels today, but I will be by at sunrise to collect the furniture.” He turns to me with a pleased smile. “Show me the rest of the apartment, if you will.”

I nod in response. I expected this. “There isn’t much to show you,” I explain. “Although it is nicely kitted, the apartment is modest, with just a parlor, bedroom, and a small kitchen and washroom.”

He sniffs lightly and follows me through the house, his gaze flitting quickly around each room as if to commit to memory everything they contain. I don’t remark on it or say much of anything else. What is there to say? When he pauses at the sight of my trunk in the bedroom, I stand aside in stoic silence as he quickly sifts through its contents.

“Just a few things I purchased to replace my finer belongings,” I explain when he finally glances up at me.

“Smart,” he replies. “I hate it when women plead and cry to keep a few gowns that I’ve paid for so that they have something to wear.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a couple of silver coins and tosses them at me. “A little extra for saving me the time and trouble.”

I snatch the coins out of the air, nearly fumbling one, and slip them into the pouch with the others. “Thank you, Mr. Barkley.”

Although it’s humiliating to be so thankful for the scraps that he offers, I manage to hold my tongue and not cry when he returns to the front door to let in his workers. Neither man says a word to me, or even so much as glances my way, as they quickly begin to pick up my trunks and carry them away. I’m left to watch in stunned silence as every trunk and every neatly stacked jewelry box is carried out of my apartment. I’m relieved, however, when they finally file out with nothing more than a grunted reminder that they will be back tomorrow. That relief is overshadowed by a sense of numbness as I head back to my bedroom and collapse once more into the chair in front of my vanity to stare at my reflection bleakly.

It will all be fine. It has to be. I’m merely saying goodbye to the remnants of my old life before embracing the new. I wish that were more comforting.

Picking up a warm cloth, I wash my face and pat it dry before heading over to my plush mattress made up in its crisp linens and warm blankets. I suspect that my comforts will not be quiteso indulgent at the outpost, but I will at least have a husband to keep me warm. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never known a hard life. And that life sharpened me. Born into a poor family in the meanest quarter of the city, I had been as brutal as the dirty streets of my childhood and destined for far worse following the death of my mother, whom my father followed shortly after. That was before Mistress Marina had found me. Beneath the dirt and the sneer, she’d seen potential and had taken me under her wing. She renamed me Anastasia Hightower, and by her efforts I was fashioned into the image of a lady and introduced to my first clients.

Those memories feel ancient now. Childhood memories of bedding down on a thin mattress stuffed with straw and covered with thinner quilts are distant after all these years, as are the memories of snuggling beneath the blankets with my siblings to share warmth. It’s the memory of the perpetual cold that plagued me for so much of early life that refuses to leave me. And that is what finally prods me into hurrying to my bed and scooting beneath the plush bedding. A blissful sigh escapes me as the layers of blankets practically swallow me whole. I stretch, savoring the decadent feeling. The outpost won’t compare to my current quarters, but at least they will be far better than what I knew in my youth.

Never again will I know such misery as that terrible cold.

Chapter

Two

ANYA

The train station is busy despite the early hour, and men and women alike crowd the platforms, waiting for the trains that will take them to various parts of our large kingdom and even more far-flung places. This is the only place in all of Zylik that one can even see such a unique gathering of people within the city’s protective dome. Among them, cogwork servants docilely follow those of the wealthier class to handle their baggage and see to their needs. There are even a few metal dogs programmed for service tasks. Only a handful of platforms stand out because they lack all signs of Zyerk’s advanced cogworks, and those are the ones that serve trains heading outside of the kingdom.

None of Zyerk’s technology is allowed outside of the kingdom without special license—which cannot be afforded by just anyone.

Although I’ve never had the luxury of owning more than the most basic cogwork appliances, all of which have now been carried off by Mr. Barkley, I grew up in Zylik and have never been out of the capital city, much less outside of Zyerk. I’venever had a moment without the most minimal technological conveniences to be found within the city since entering the life of a courtesan. But even my childhood was filled with the familiar sight of cogworks. To see platforms without a trace of the familiar cogworks sends a shiver of unease through me, despite myself. They appear practically desolate, which doesn’t put me at ease.

Is this what I have to look forward to?

It isn’t exactly an inspiring sight. Those waiting for the trains there appear to be huddled together miserably. A few seem to talk quietly, but all activity is subdued compared to the bustle of the other platforms. The oppressive atmosphere briefly breaks up as a small group of wealthy ladies and gentlemen hurry toward a chain with the porters before disappearing into the sleeper cars at the rear of the train. I give them only the briefest glance of envy. Although the elite ticket-holders are boarding, I know that I’m in for a long wait before the passenger ticket-holders are loaded.

My hand tightens on my small valise as I head toward the platform. At least I don’t have to wait with my trunks. I had the forethought to set aside a small amount of money to pay the porters to load them for me. Still, the wait will not be a comfortable one. I enviously eye women clad in well-fitted trousers as they hurry past—onto their next adventure, I imagine. How nice it is to move freely without the weight of petticoats, skirts, overdress, and all the trappings of a proper woman’s attire.

I can privately admit that freely wearing trousers is one part of my old life that I miss before Mistress Madrina took away such things. Proper courtesans desired by the wealthy and nobles did not wear such items. And, unfortunately, the wife of an outpost governor would be expected to keep to properfashions as well. I bite back a sigh of envy as the simply attired women, one by one, all eventually disappear into the crowd.

I shake my head. It does me no good to stare wistfully after things that I cannot have. The dreams of my youth were hammered out of me through the long life lessons that came with being a courtesan. Some things will never be mine.

Drawing my shawl tightly around me, I quicken my pace, eager to arrive at my designated car and be done with it. At the last moment, however, I’m forced to sidestep in order to avoid being run down by a small group of men rushing past as they bark urgent instructions at each other. Frowning, I smooth my skirt as I watch them pass and head directly for the engine. How odd. The train won’t be leaving for some time yet, so what’s their hurry? I shake my head in wonder but then spy a free bench near my car and hurry along the platform to it; the gentlemen forgotten. I’m not going to lose the opportunity to sit and rest my feet. How I wish Mr. Mallory had thought of getting me a ticket for the dirigible rather than the train. I could board and rest by now if so. And in far more sanitary conditions than the dusty, filthy train floors.

The platforms are only slightly cleaner than the trains themselves. Only the opulent private cars are spared from such conditions.

I try not to grimace overtly as I take a seat on the bench. It quickly fills up all around me as more and more people hurry onto the platform with the angry whistle of the train. There is a savory tang perfuming the aircoming from somewhere nearby, and my stomach clenches miserably with hunger. With Mr. Barkley showing up so early, there wasn’t time to break my fast or to arrange anything to bring with me. My ticket indicates that meals will be provided, but there is no indication of when one might expect it, so I settle my hand firmly against my stomach and try to ignore the pangs.

I sit on the crowded bench for some time, my shoulders wedged uncomfortably between the people sitting on either side of me as a gradually thickening cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke chokes the air. I feel an immeasurable sense of relief when a lean man in a shiny uniform exits the train and gives us all an expectant look.

---