Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology by Alyson Grauer, Anika Arrington, Aaron Sikes, A. F. Stewart, Scott William Taylor, Neve Talbot, M. K. Wiseman, David W. Wilkin, Belinda Sikes Page B
Authors: Alyson Grauer, Anika Arrington, Aaron Sikes, A. F. Stewart, Scott William Taylor, Neve Talbot, M. K. Wiseman, David W. Wilkin, Belinda Sikes
Tags: Cyborgs, Airships, Jane Austen Charles Dickens Charlotte Bronte expansions, classical literature expansions into steampunk, Victorian science fiction with classical characters, Jane Austen fantasy short stories, classical stories with steampunk expansion, steam engines in steampunk short stories, steampunk short story anthology, 19th century British English literature expansion into steampunk, Frankenstein Phantom horror story expansions, classical stories in alternative realities
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the cyclone for a woman debauched, debased, deranged, whose last semblance of sanity the storm stripped away.
That night, my end would have been a simple thing for her to accomplish. None would have questioned or suspected her. I would count it a blessing, relief to my guilt-riddled heart. She had me at her mercy. Wealth and independence sat at her feet, and me helpless to stay her hand. Yet, my insane, spite-filled, murderous wife refrained.
Although it broke his neck, the cyclone failed to wrest Rowland’s corpse from Julian’s grasp. My people found them lashed together high in a tree, where Julian had snatched his own life from the jaws of death. His mechanical arm had saved him. It never failed, although his natural limbs had done.
I buried Rowland in the cathedral at Spanish Town. He had buttoned Bertha’s Daguerreotype beneath his shirt, against his skin. Even Yvette’s crystal had not the power to intercede. I obliterated the picture in a crucible fueled by grief, but the purging failed to return Rowland—or Bertha.
After a year of recuperating myself and my ventures, I took Bertha away from the islands, hoping to affect some sort of improvement in her sanity. But, fourteen years with the best care money can buy and her condition only worsens. Only her brother knows I hide her away at Thornfield. None at that house know her as my wife.
Magic is nothing but the execution of knowledge beyond the understanding of the ignorant and superstitious. So I maintained as a youth, and so I always shall. But, I have become convinced that Yvette purchased my life at the cost of our happiness together. Because of it, for fourteen years, every morning I awaken to the warmth of her crystal resting over my heart, and I resolve anew to make good use of the gift she made such a sacrifice to bestow. I do not comprehend the how of it. But then, the sun does not require my understanding for it to shine. It simply does.
Even so, for fourteen years I have waited for . . . something. The other shoe to drop. The rest of the story. Some explanation as to why Yvette would demand this life of me, miserable as I am, shackled to a maniac but otherwise alone, unable to seek the true companionship of a loving wife. Pleasure, I have sought and sometimes found, but never happiness.
Had Yvette, or the Fates, or God, or whomever holds the whip that cracks over my head and now and again lashes my back—had they any mercy, they would free me of this torment, but Bertha remains as hale in body as I do myself. Decades yet will pass before either becomes infirm enough to anticipate the release of death.
My conscience prevents the neglect that would speed either of our demises. And so I plod through life seeking diversion where I can find it—and betimes dissipation when my soul grows weary, and my wits dull.
But I do make use of my talents. I resolved that the hurricane’s devastation would not impede our plans to assist the new American Federation, and it did not. That nation thrives, in large measure due to our efforts, and those of men like us. I have managed to keep Jamaica unpolluted by the mores of industrialization. My message has taken hold of the Caribbean and begins to spread throughout the Western Hemisphere.
To keep pace and the peace, coal and fascism have been forced to loosen their stranglehold on England. Each Rochester estate or venture enriches, rather than exploits the lives of its people. I have made a name for myself. I dare say I have done some good.
And, even in my blackest moods, I always had Yvette’s crystal to warm the ice in my heart and light my way through the bitter darkness. At least, I had done. Until this morning.
I awoke with the previous night’s dream of the storm vivid in my recollection. I sought the comfort Yvette’s crystal always afforded me, but it was gone. In a panic, I tore apart the bedclothes. I ransacked the room. I had not removed that rock since the day I reclaimed it from Rowland’s
That night, my end would have been a simple thing for her to accomplish. None would have questioned or suspected her. I would count it a blessing, relief to my guilt-riddled heart. She had me at her mercy. Wealth and independence sat at her feet, and me helpless to stay her hand. Yet, my insane, spite-filled, murderous wife refrained.
Although it broke his neck, the cyclone failed to wrest Rowland’s corpse from Julian’s grasp. My people found them lashed together high in a tree, where Julian had snatched his own life from the jaws of death. His mechanical arm had saved him. It never failed, although his natural limbs had done.
I buried Rowland in the cathedral at Spanish Town. He had buttoned Bertha’s Daguerreotype beneath his shirt, against his skin. Even Yvette’s crystal had not the power to intercede. I obliterated the picture in a crucible fueled by grief, but the purging failed to return Rowland—or Bertha.
After a year of recuperating myself and my ventures, I took Bertha away from the islands, hoping to affect some sort of improvement in her sanity. But, fourteen years with the best care money can buy and her condition only worsens. Only her brother knows I hide her away at Thornfield. None at that house know her as my wife.
Magic is nothing but the execution of knowledge beyond the understanding of the ignorant and superstitious. So I maintained as a youth, and so I always shall. But, I have become convinced that Yvette purchased my life at the cost of our happiness together. Because of it, for fourteen years, every morning I awaken to the warmth of her crystal resting over my heart, and I resolve anew to make good use of the gift she made such a sacrifice to bestow. I do not comprehend the how of it. But then, the sun does not require my understanding for it to shine. It simply does.
Even so, for fourteen years I have waited for . . . something. The other shoe to drop. The rest of the story. Some explanation as to why Yvette would demand this life of me, miserable as I am, shackled to a maniac but otherwise alone, unable to seek the true companionship of a loving wife. Pleasure, I have sought and sometimes found, but never happiness.
Had Yvette, or the Fates, or God, or whomever holds the whip that cracks over my head and now and again lashes my back—had they any mercy, they would free me of this torment, but Bertha remains as hale in body as I do myself. Decades yet will pass before either becomes infirm enough to anticipate the release of death.
My conscience prevents the neglect that would speed either of our demises. And so I plod through life seeking diversion where I can find it—and betimes dissipation when my soul grows weary, and my wits dull.
But I do make use of my talents. I resolved that the hurricane’s devastation would not impede our plans to assist the new American Federation, and it did not. That nation thrives, in large measure due to our efforts, and those of men like us. I have managed to keep Jamaica unpolluted by the mores of industrialization. My message has taken hold of the Caribbean and begins to spread throughout the Western Hemisphere.
To keep pace and the peace, coal and fascism have been forced to loosen their stranglehold on England. Each Rochester estate or venture enriches, rather than exploits the lives of its people. I have made a name for myself. I dare say I have done some good.
And, even in my blackest moods, I always had Yvette’s crystal to warm the ice in my heart and light my way through the bitter darkness. At least, I had done. Until this morning.
I awoke with the previous night’s dream of the storm vivid in my recollection. I sought the comfort Yvette’s crystal always afforded me, but it was gone. In a panic, I tore apart the bedclothes. I ransacked the room. I had not removed that rock since the day I reclaimed it from Rowland’s
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