The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance by Laurel Wanrow Page A
Authors: Laurel Wanrow
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in town.
Taking her instructions from her satchel, Annmar assured herself the Proof seal was still in place and skimmed to Mr. Yates’ name, her last listed contact. She folded the paper and glanced to the piles of wooden boxes still to be moved. They bore the names of many farms besides Wellspring Collective. Gapton was a trade center, Mr. Fetcher had said, and Mr. Shearing must know of their active commerce.
Annmar shook her head. Mr. Shearing and his doings must not follow her any longer. She should dismiss thoughts of him as she hoped he would do of her. With the paper-covered seal weighing her hand, she strode to the station building.
It was empty. Rail tracks led past the building, tracks the steam loader operated on. Mr. Yates’ business must be there, at a second platform. Annmar squeezed the seal. She was eager to get this next transport arranged, so followed a path of paving stones behind the station into shadows. The rails ran in the old roadway, closed in on either side by rock outcrops. The stones canted eerily. A frigid breeze swept down from the overarching trees. This place prickled the hairs on the back of her neck, like passages from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
She stopped and drew in her shawl. The gorge’s curving walls seemed to converge, like a perspective drawing with no end in sight. Strangely, she felt this convergence was real, that the dark end ahead would be so narrow she wouldn’t be able to turn and escape it.
Polly’s stories have caught hold of me. She was being ridiculous. But in the dimming light, her determination ebbed toward turning around—
Brrrroo. The rumbling—or was it a growl?—echoed off the walls, surrounding her. Could it be a wolf? Waiting on a ledge, ready to spring? Annmar darted searching looks across the cliffs and stumbled. Flinging out a hand, she scraped stone and felt the paper in her hand slip—
She clenched the packet, and though her shoulder jammed into the rocks, she didn’t lose her Proof seal. Warmth spread across her palm. Mercy, I’m bleeding. Her glove must be tattered, ruined. If only she could see.
Then she could see. The rock canyon around her lightened, as if the sun had come from behind a cloud. Under her feet, a wide platform proceeded along the railbed to an open area steps ahead.
Annmar glanced at her hand. The glove wasn’t ripped, or bloodstained. But it was blue.
Had the seal melted under the heat of her hand? Shaking, she transferred the paper packet to her other hand. The blue faded as she raised her hand to a shaft of light.
What had happened? She’d felt the warmth, seen the coloring. But as she turned them, neither the paper nor her gloves were stained. Had it been a trick of the light? Or—Annmar pressed a hand to her mouth—nerves?
Indeed, her escape from Mr. Shearing and the excitement of her trip must be wearing on her nerves. However, she had to consider the new employment. She could not afford to be dismissed for suspicion of being prone to vapors, even if her stomach felt like she was back in Mr. Shearing’s presence. Lowering her hand, Annmar drew a deep breath and forced herself to walk forward. Nothing of the incident or her worries need be mentioned.
The crisp mountain breezes teased her uncovered hair and perked her nostrils with the rich smells of the ground and growing things. She followed them to where the railway platform ended in nothing. Heart pounding, she gasped at the panorama before her. Mountains circled the perimeter of an oblong crater, and down within it—farther than the hillside she’d come up—rolled gentle hills patchworked with fields, pastures and woodlots. Streams glinted like satin ribbons, meandering between the mounds. Roads connected clusters of buildings, each village spouting a spire or two.
It looked like the Midlands. But since when did mountains surround the Midlands?
The knots in her stomach tightened. This must be one of those craters the scientists swore wasn’t a
Taking her instructions from her satchel, Annmar assured herself the Proof seal was still in place and skimmed to Mr. Yates’ name, her last listed contact. She folded the paper and glanced to the piles of wooden boxes still to be moved. They bore the names of many farms besides Wellspring Collective. Gapton was a trade center, Mr. Fetcher had said, and Mr. Shearing must know of their active commerce.
Annmar shook her head. Mr. Shearing and his doings must not follow her any longer. She should dismiss thoughts of him as she hoped he would do of her. With the paper-covered seal weighing her hand, she strode to the station building.
It was empty. Rail tracks led past the building, tracks the steam loader operated on. Mr. Yates’ business must be there, at a second platform. Annmar squeezed the seal. She was eager to get this next transport arranged, so followed a path of paving stones behind the station into shadows. The rails ran in the old roadway, closed in on either side by rock outcrops. The stones canted eerily. A frigid breeze swept down from the overarching trees. This place prickled the hairs on the back of her neck, like passages from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
She stopped and drew in her shawl. The gorge’s curving walls seemed to converge, like a perspective drawing with no end in sight. Strangely, she felt this convergence was real, that the dark end ahead would be so narrow she wouldn’t be able to turn and escape it.
Polly’s stories have caught hold of me. She was being ridiculous. But in the dimming light, her determination ebbed toward turning around—
Brrrroo. The rumbling—or was it a growl?—echoed off the walls, surrounding her. Could it be a wolf? Waiting on a ledge, ready to spring? Annmar darted searching looks across the cliffs and stumbled. Flinging out a hand, she scraped stone and felt the paper in her hand slip—
She clenched the packet, and though her shoulder jammed into the rocks, she didn’t lose her Proof seal. Warmth spread across her palm. Mercy, I’m bleeding. Her glove must be tattered, ruined. If only she could see.
Then she could see. The rock canyon around her lightened, as if the sun had come from behind a cloud. Under her feet, a wide platform proceeded along the railbed to an open area steps ahead.
Annmar glanced at her hand. The glove wasn’t ripped, or bloodstained. But it was blue.
Had the seal melted under the heat of her hand? Shaking, she transferred the paper packet to her other hand. The blue faded as she raised her hand to a shaft of light.
What had happened? She’d felt the warmth, seen the coloring. But as she turned them, neither the paper nor her gloves were stained. Had it been a trick of the light? Or—Annmar pressed a hand to her mouth—nerves?
Indeed, her escape from Mr. Shearing and the excitement of her trip must be wearing on her nerves. However, she had to consider the new employment. She could not afford to be dismissed for suspicion of being prone to vapors, even if her stomach felt like she was back in Mr. Shearing’s presence. Lowering her hand, Annmar drew a deep breath and forced herself to walk forward. Nothing of the incident or her worries need be mentioned.
The crisp mountain breezes teased her uncovered hair and perked her nostrils with the rich smells of the ground and growing things. She followed them to where the railway platform ended in nothing. Heart pounding, she gasped at the panorama before her. Mountains circled the perimeter of an oblong crater, and down within it—farther than the hillside she’d come up—rolled gentle hills patchworked with fields, pastures and woodlots. Streams glinted like satin ribbons, meandering between the mounds. Roads connected clusters of buildings, each village spouting a spire or two.
It looked like the Midlands. But since when did mountains surround the Midlands?
The knots in her stomach tightened. This must be one of those craters the scientists swore wasn’t a
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