Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) by Jacqueline E. Garlick Page B

it.” I drop the reins, suck in a breath, and head for the carriage door, my hands wet inside my gloves.
    The buggy wobbles side to side. I hesitate, just outside the door. Shivering in the damp morning light, low mist curling about my feet, my hand hovers centimeters above the handle.
    Perhaps it’d be best if I just throw it open. Expose her to my ugliness straight away. Or will that be too much? I turn and pace. Will she die of fright at the sight of me? I turn again. Oh, good Lord, get on with it, will you? She’s not a monster. She’s just a girl.
    Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t already seen me. She looked me straight in the eyes. That much I know. Even so, has she really seen me? Had the chance to take me all in? And if she has, what must she think?
    Clementine shuffles her feet, growing impatient. The carriage lurches again.
    I close my eyes and fling open the door.
    The stranger gasps.
    I look to see her staring at me through eyes round and full as a harvest moon. She peeps, a startled fledgling in a nest of darkness.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, and throw out my hand. “May I?”
    She lunges backward. “May you what?”
    “Help you from the carriage, of course.”
    Long black lashes bat over caramel-colored eyes so striking I can hardly pull mine away.
    “No thank you.” She slides forward, averting her gaze. “I’ll be fine.”
    Creamy white hands grip the sides of the door, with nails as round and delicate as rosebuds. She exits toe first, followed by a lanky leg covered in a stretch of thigh-high spat-style stocking. The kind sophisticates wear. A ruse of buttons runs up the stocking’s side. Lace trims its top. A plume of emerald green skirts billows from the mouth of the carriage next, featuring a center skirt cut so shockingly short, a flash of bare leg winks between the finished edge and the top of her stocking— not that I’m noticing . I can’t help but wonder, do all Brethren girls where their skirts so scandalously short?
    She turns and swipes her lavish cranberry bustle out the door. It falls, adorning her bottom in layers of velvet, so rich, so plush, it looks as though she’s stepped straight out of the palace court. Granted, I don’t know much about women’s clothing, but I know no one in all of Gears or the Follies dresses so.
    Good God . I gulp. Don’t tell me I’ve kidnapped royalty. I’m both a kidnapper and a thief.
    Don’t be silly. I’ve kidnapped no one. She came of her own volition.
    Didn’t she?
    My eyes fall to her mud-caked hems, the lace on her sleeves stained in what appears to be…
    Good Lord, is that blood?
    She straightens, her bosoms bubbling up against the border of her low-cut chemise— not that I’m noticing. A tinge of heat rises in my cheeks. I tug down the tips of my waistcoat and avert my eyes. That’s when I notice it. The necklace she wears around her neck. A vial of something pulsing green, on an emerald-and-ebony beaded chain. I’ve never seen anything like it. I must ask her what that is. The vial rolls, lodging low between her breasts. Embarrassed, I dash my eyes away. Later, of course. Not now. I swallow. That would be ridiculous.
    Wouldn’t it?
    “What’s happened to your gloves?” I say, noticing them balled in her fist.
    “They’ve become soiled, I’m afraid,” she says, hiding them in her skirts.
    “Where are we?” she demands, turning her attention to the escarpment, her gaze tracing it from mount to base and back again. Wisps of nutmeg and crimson hair frame her face, where her upsweep has become all unswept. She brushes a rouge strand from her eyes and I’m rendered breathless.
    “Home,” I say, pulling myself back into the moment.
    “Home?” she repeats, sounding a mite frazzled. “And where might home be, specifically?”
    “Ramshackle Follies—”
    “Ramshackle Follies!” Her head swings around. “ The Ramshackle Follies?” Her mouth falls agape.
    “Yes.”
    “The Follies that lie beyond the limits of the