Page 13 of Mistletoe

“Which was destroyed,” Emma said, struggling to keep her voice neutral and failing. That blasted broadsheet was the reason her family had to flee to the West Lands. She had been far too young to understand that her father had radical politics and associated with other like-minded radicals, publishing a broadsheet they considered progressive, but the government considered seditious. She had not been too young, however, to understand that fleeing the city in the middle of the night like fugitives was atypical.

“The plates were destroyed. The press itself survives.” He nodded, resolved. “I shall write to an associate in Founding and have them ship the press.”

“And where will you store it?”

“In the workshop,” he replied breezily.

The poor, cluttered workshop, filled with her mother’s long-unused painting supplies and the detritus of Emma tearing apart and rebuilding machinery. They were most certainly not fitting a printing press into the building, not without somehow enabling the structure to defy physics and be larger on the inside.

“You’re not able to set the type by yourself, and it’s unfair to expect Ma to do the work for you.”

“I have an industrious daughter.”

“Oh no. I absolutely will not,” Emma said primly. “You’ll have to rent premises for your press and hire a shop assistant.”

Oscar grumbled about expenses.

“You were lucky to not be arrested,” she added, since the practical aspects of printing his own books apparently failed to make an impression.

“For poetry?”

“For sedition and conspiracy,” she said tartly. On the night in question, the government raided a meeting, resulting in the discovery of a detailed plan involving bombs. Everyone captured that night was arrested and still in prison. “You only avoided capture because you were late to the meeting.”

“Yes, well, I was unaware of all their activities,” he verbally fumbled, having the good grace to flush as if embarrassed. “I wrote poems about nature then, and the press will only be employed for poetry now.”

She wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

It was an old argument, sore like an aching tooth, and she decided to show great character and not poke at it.

Only… doubts niggled at her.

Blast it all. She had to know.

“Have you shared your decision with your publishers about going it alone, or is this a passing fancy?” she asked.

Oscar patted the front breast pocket of his greatcoat. “Agatha wrote my reply. I shall post it when we arrive in town.”

“Please consider negotiating for better royalties before you attempt to build a publishing empire in our barn,” Emma said.

“Do not be alarmed, my prairie flower,” he said in an indulgent tone, “it is all part of the process.”

His words were far from reassuring. No matter what her father thought, printing presses were difficult to transport and took a considerable amount of space. If he thought the blooming contraption to be just another task his family would do for him, he was in for disappointment.

They crested a lay hill, beyond which the town sprawled out in a disorganized mess. The fort was to the north with the wooden stockade; it had been built first and the town came next, huddled in the shadow of the stockade. Technically, the railroad came first. The original colonists laid the track, cutting a straight line across the prairie to the base being constructed in the mountains.

Only the colonists’ technology failed. People mutated into monsters for reasons poorly understood. Humanity barely had a toehold on the planet, and they nearly vanished. The military base was seized by a leader of the monsters. Needless to say, the railroad was never finished.

The surviving military force situated itself at the railroad terminus. The town came later, an afterthought sprouting up to service the soldiers and settlers moving into the west. It was a chaotic, disorganized mess and always filled with fresh faces.

Oscar moved stiffly as he dismounted from the wagon. Well into his sixth decade, his joints ached in the cold weather. Emma sympathized. Her body felt cold and stiff as well, despite her relative youth. He announced his intention to visit the broadsheet office in the hopes they had news. When that proved unsatisfactory, and it would because it was far too soon for news to have reached town, he would visit a tavern favored by soldiers. Nothing traveled faster than gossip.

“I will find you when I have finished my errands,” she said.

“Of course.”

“No politics.”

“I would never.”

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