Senta watched as the last pallet of copper was placed inside her rented warehouse by a lizzie crew working steam jacks.  The copper was made up of oval ingots about a quarter inch thick, dozens of which were packed together in crates and then the crates had been stacked together on wooden pallets.  The copper barely filled one corner of the warehouse, but occupying the rest was an enormous pile of pillows.  Not all of the pillows were new.  In fact most weren’t.  But it looked a comfy enough pile to take a run at and jump into.

A loud whomp on the pavement next to the Drache Girl signaled the arrival of Bessemer, the Steel Dragon.  The lizzies in the area reacted immediately, though not all in the same way.  Some scurried away, some placed their hands in front of their dewlaps in a respectful greeting, and a few dropped to their knees in genuflection.

“I hate when they do that,” said Bessemer.

“Kisses,” said Senta, and the steel dragon bent his neck toward her, air kissing first on one side of her face and then the other.

“Oh, good.  My copper is here,” said the dragon.

“Your copper?  What are you going to do with copper?”

“Make pots of course.  You put the copper ingot in a steam press and turn it into a pot or a skillet or even a kettle.”

“What do you know about making pots?”

“I read.  Some people could do a bit more of that.”

“I’ve been busy, but I’m planning on reading a bit today.”

“Do tell,” said the dragon.  “Anyway, why did you call me down here?”

“You need a place to sleep.  Well, here it is.  I’ve brought all your pillows down and got you a few more besides.”  She saw Bessemer’s dubious look.  “It’s just till we find something else.”

“Did you bring Mr. Turtlekins?”  Bessemer refused to sleep without his well-worn stuffed turtle.

“Yes, he’s in there somewhere.”

“Still, I don’t know.  It’s awfully noisy down here so close to the docks.”

“It’s very quiet at night.”

“I don’t just sleep at night.”

“You could sleep through an explosion.  I’ll tell you what though.  I’ll come down and sleep here with you for a few nights, until you get settled in.”

“That’s nice.  I miss crawling into bed with you when it gets cold at night.”

“Yes well, that’s why I had to get a new bed.  Anyway, it’s a bit too crowded at home.”

“What do you mean crowded?  You’re the only one there, aren’t you?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, I’ll try it out,” said the dragon, stepping inside the warehouse and sliding the large rolling door almost closed.  He poked his head out the small remaining opening. “You’ll be back tonight?”

“Yes.”

Bessemer pulled his head in and shut the door.  Senta turned around and was almost immediately confronted by Graham.  He had a big grin on his face.

“I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” she wondered.

“Your token.”

“Token of what?”

“Token of my affection… you know, like you said.”

“I did?  Oh, sure I did.  Okay. What is it?”

Graham held out a small box.  Senta took it and carefully opened it to find the interior lined with velvet.  Right in the middle was a silver pendant in the shape of a dragon on a thin chain.

“It’s real silver… mostly,” boasted Graham.  “It’s a real silver chain and the dragon is covered with silver, but it’s made out of… and this is the best part… a tyrannosaurus tooth! Do you get it?  Dinosaur for me and dragon for you—it’s like the perfect symbol for us.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty ace all right.”  Senta was quite sincere in her appreciation for her boyfriend having come up with an acceptable gift, especially considering his lack of romantic proclivity up to this point.  “Help me put it on.”

Pulling the necklace from the box and promptly dropping the box on the ground, Graham draped the necklace around Senta’s neck as she turned around.  He fumbled with the latch for a minute, but at last the silver form of the dragon pendant rested comfortably on her blue dress over her heart.

“Thanks,” she said, turning around.

“When do I get mine?”

“Am I supposed to buy you a necklace too?”

“No.  When do I get my, you know…” his voice grew quiet.  “My kiss.”

“How about right now?”

The boy turned around to see if they were unobserved, but as was so often the case anywhere the young sorceress went, quite a crowd of people were encircled about them, too afraid to get too close, but too curious not to stay and watch.

“Maybe tomorrow.  You’re still cooking dinner for me at your house, aren’t you?”

“Am I? I mean of course I am.  But you don’t want to wait all the way until then, do you?”

“I think it might be better.”

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind them.

Graham and Senta turned to look into the freckled face of a young woman.  She had evidently just come off one of the ships in port.  She wore a long traveling coat over a white blouse and brown dress. A brown bonnet held back bright red hair, a few strands of which escaped to hang down on the side of their face. In her right hand she grasped the handle of a small carpetbag.

Isaak Wissinger sprang suddenly from his cot, motivated by a particularly enthusiastic bedbug.  He was immediately sorry, as the pain in his back was exacerbated by the sudden movement.  He looked back down at the vermin filled, inch thick mattress, a few pieces of straw sticking out of a hole in the side, sitting on an ancient metal frame.  It was a sleeping place not fit for a dog. Then he laughed ruefully.  That was exactly how he and every other Zaeri was thought of here—as dogs.

The Kingdom of Freedonia, like the rest of the civilized world was divided in two.  There were the Kafirites, who ruled the world.  And there were the Zaeri, who had long ago ruled it.  Two thousand years ago, Zur had been a great kingdom, one that along with Argrathia, Ballar, and Donnata ruled the classical world.  Then a single dynasty of kings, culminating in Magnus the Great, had conquered the rest of the known world, and made Zur civilization the dominant culture.   Zaeri, the Zur religion, with its belief in one god, had replaced the pagan religions of the civilizations that Magnus and his forebears had conquered.  Even when Magnus’s empire had splintered into many successor kingdoms, the Zaeri religion had remained dominant.

Then a generation later, a Zaeri imam named Kafira had begun teaching a strange variation of the religion in Xygia.  Kafira had taught the importance of the afterlife, an adherence to a code of conduct that would lead one to this afterlife, and a general disregard for the affairs of the world.  Her enemies had destroyed her, but in so doing they had made her a martyr. From martyr, she rose swiftly to savior and then to godhead of a new religion, one that had spread quickly to engulf all that had been the Zur civilization.  In the following millennia, the Kafirites had converted the remaining pagans to the creed of their holy savior, thereby making it the only religion in the world of man—the only religion in the world of man save those who held onto the ancient Zaeri belief.

Now here in Freedonia it was no longer safe to be a Zaeri. First it had become illegal for Zaeri to be doctors or lawyers, and then actors or publishers.  Then laws had been passed which made it illegal for Zaeri to own businesses or property.  Finally entire neighborhoods became forbidden to Wissinger’s people and they had been pushed into ghettos, segregated from the other Freedonians.

Wissinger spent the day picking up garbage on the street. That was his job here in the ghetto. He had been an award-winning writer when he had lived in Kasselburg, but here in Zurelendsviertel he walked the street, a silver zed pinned to his jacket, picking up refuse.  At least people didn’t treat him like a garbage man. The other Zaeri knew him and respected him.  They asked his opinion about things.  They called him “professor” when they spoke to him.  It was not like that at all with the Freedonian soldiers who occasionally made a sweep through the ghetto.  They would as soon kick an award-winning writer to the side of the road as they would a street sweeper.

Back once again in his room, he pulled his tablet and pencil from its hiding place behind a loose board and continued writing where he had left off the day before.  He could not live without writing.  He wrote down what had happened that day, what he had seen, what he had heard.  He wrote about the death of Mrs. Finaman, brought on no doubt by lack of nutrition, and he wrote about her husband’s grief at the loss of his wife and his unborn child.  He wrote about the sudden disappearance of Mr. and Mrs. Kortoon, and the speculation that they paid their way out of the ghetto.  And he wrote about the disappearance of the Macabeus family, and the speculation that something sinister had happened to them.

That night on his uncomfortable cot, Wissinger had a wonderful dream.  He dreamed that a beautiful woman was making love to him.  She licked his neck as she rubbed her naked body against his.  She whispered to him in some foreign language—he thought it was Brech.  When he managed to pull himself out of the fog of sleep, and he realized that it wasn’t a dream, that the woman was really here with him, he tried to push her off of him.

“Don’t stop now lover,” she said, a noticeably Brech accent to her Freedonian.  “I’m just starting to really enjoy myself.”

Wissinger pushed again, and slid his body out from under her, falling to the floor in the process.  She stretched out, lying on her stomach.  He stared at her open-mouthed.  Her long blond hair didn’t quite cover a fourteen-inch crescent moon tattoo at the top of her back.  Another tattoo, an eight-inch flaming sun sat just above her voluptuous bottom.

“Who are you?  What are you doing here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” she replied in a sultry voice.  “I’m here to warn you.”

“You… uh, what?”

“I’m here to warn you.”

She rolled over and stood up, revealing six star tattoos all over her front.

“In a short while, maybe a few weeks, the food supply to the ghetto will be reduced.  It will be reduced a lot.”

“They barely give us enough to survive on as it is.  They can’t cut it back anymore.”

“They can, and they will.”  She stepped closer to him.  “They are going to try and starve the Zaeri to extinction.”

“They won’t be able to.”

“No, it’s true, in the end they won’t.  But they will try and many will die.  Even worse things will follow.  Do you know how to get out of the ghetto?”

“I can’t leave.  People need me here.”

“No they don’t.  People like you, but they don’t need you and they won’t help you when things get very bad.  You have no family and when it comes to eat or starve, you won’t have any friends either—no one will.  I ask you again; do you know how to get out of the ghetto?”

“They say a Kafirite named Kiesinger will get you out if you can pay, but I don’t have any money.  I didn’t have any before I came here.”

“Here.”

The woman handed him a small leather pouch, though he had no idea where she could have had it hidden. He looked inside.  There was a small roll of banknotes and twenty or so gold coins.

“Of course I gave him the rope,” said Iolanthe.

Yuah shuddered.  No matter how close she had come to Iolanthe as a compeer, she had never forgotten that her sister-in-law and former employer could be merciless.  It still seemed like being given a cold slap, to be forced to come face-to-face with that realization.

“Why did you give him the rope,” asked Saba.

“I thought about giving him a pistol.  It would have been a much more appropriate way to do it.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t count on Mercy not to shoot me instead of himself.”

“He means, why did you help him kill himself,” said Yuah.

“She knows what I meant.”

“I don’t really need to explain it to you, do I Saba?  You have lived with us since you were born.  This family has been knocked down again and again, and I have done everything to build it back up.  After three generations of incompetence and stupidity, I have made the Dechantagnes a great family name again.  I will not let it be linked forever with treason.  Can you imagine a public trial and then an execution?  No, I will never allow something like that to happen.”

“He was your husband, though.”

“Yes.  He was. And at least he had the decency to take the honorable way out.”

Yuah couldn’t take any more.  She stood up and walked out of the parlor, down the hallway, and into the library. She stopped inside the door and took a deep breath.  Terrence was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs with a book in his lap. A pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, but he wasn’t really reading.  She stepped over to him and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

Jerking her hand away from his shoulder as though it had been burned, Yuah turned and rushed back out of the room.  She leaned against the wall and placed both hands over her stomach.  She could feel the cane strips in her corset but couldn’t feel the life growing inside of her.  Continuing down the hallway, she stepped into the kitchen.  One of the lizardmen was sweeping the floor and a black-haired teenaged boy sat eating a sandwich in the corner.

“Can you drive me now, Marzell?” Yuah asked the boy.

It might have been difficult to find humans in Birmisia who were willing to work as servants, but it was surprisingly simple to find young men willing to serve as drivers for one of only two steam carriages on the continent. Terrence had given out that the position was open and had faced an avalanche of applicants.  He had narrowed the selection down to three boys, and had let Yuah choose her favorite.  She had chosen one of the Zaeri boys from Freedonia.  Marzell Lance was a serious young man of sixteen, with a shock of perpetually mussed black hair and brown eyes.  He always seemed to be hungry.  Though he had proven he could not only drive, but maintain the steam carriage, that was not why he had been chosen.  He, like so many coming from Freedonia, had arrived alone.  His sister, the only member of his family with him, had died on the ship.

Marzell jumped up and held open the outside door.  Yuah walked through and he followed.  The steam carriage was parked near one of the sheds.  It looked as pristine as it had when it had arrived on the ship from Greater Brechalon.  The minor damage caused by Yuah’s accidental diversion into a snow bank had been repaired, and from the rich black leather of the seats to the shining copper bonnet, it was clean and polished.

“I’ll have to fire up the boiler, Ma’am,” said Marzell.

“I know.  That’s fine.”

Marzell held out a helping hand for Yuah, as she stepped up into the passenger seat.  As she sat with folded hands in her lap, he stepped around to the back to light the boiler. He shoveled in several more scoops of coal for good measure as well.  Then, popping back around to the driver’s side, he climbed in.

“If I had known you were planning to go out, Ma’am, I would have fired it up earlier.”

“I know.  It’s all right.”

“Where did you want to go, Ma’am?”

“Please stop saying ‘Ma’am’.  I feel old enough as it is.”

“Yes, Ma’am.  Where did you want to go, Ma… Mrs. Dechantagne.”

“Take me to Miss Hertling’s home, please.”

Shifting the vehicle into gear, Marzell stepped on the forward accelerator, but with a still relatively cool engine, the steam carriage rolled forward very slowly.  It seemed as though it took at least five minutes to reach the gate, which was no more than fifty feet away.  Once the young man had gotten out and opened the gate though, steam had built up enough that they were able to start down the road at a respectable speed.  It was less than ten minutes later that Yuah was knocking on Honor’s door.

The front door of the small cottage opened and Honor stepped outside.  She immediately pulled Yuah to her and enfolded her in her arms.  Tears welled up in Yuah’s eyes, but she bit her lip and fought them back.  By the time her friend let go of her, she had screwed her face back into order.

“Come in.”

“Just a minute.  I didn’t know if you were here.  I have to tell Marzell that I’ll be staying a few minutes.”

“Tell him you’ll be a couple of hours and that he should come back,” said Honor.  “Don’t argue. Just do it.”

Yuah did as she was told, and as Marzell took off with a whoosh in the steam carriage, she stepped inside the Hertling house and closed the door behind her. Honor was stirring the contents of a large crockery bowl with a big wooden spoon.  Her typical brown and black dress was covered by a white apron, now stained with a brown smear.

“I made Hertzel a cake last week, so now I’m making one for Hero.”

“Chocolate?”

Though winter was well on its way out in Birmisia, it was still cold enough at night—cold enough to bundle up tight, cold enough to blow steam in the air with your breath, and cold enough that the lizzies moved with their characteristically slow gate.  Police Constable Saba Colbshallow watched them from behind the corner of a warehouse building across the street from the dock.  He didn’t know why they were working in the middle of the night, but he hadn’t spotted them taking from the ship any of the curious long crates that he had seen on previous occasions.  He watched for more than thirty minutes as the reptilians moved freight.

Finally deciding that the activity represented nothing nefarious, Saba stretched his sore back, pulled a sulfur match from his pocket, and lit the oil lantern sitting on a barrel next to him.  Then taking the lantern with him, he made his way across the street.  There were half a dozen lizzies loading wooden crates onto a pallet that was attached to the crane to be loaded aboard the ship. As he approached, several of the lizardmen eyed him.  Half of them were taller than his six foot three, but all of them hunkered down to look shorter than they actually were.  It was a demonstration of submissiveness that the constable had grown used to over the years.  Coming to a stop beside the workers, he crossed his hands over his chest.

“Working awfully late, gentlemen.”

One of the lizardmen hissed.  Even though Saba was not fluent in the aboriginal language, he could tell it was a non-verbal expression of anger or annoyance.

“Identification.”

The two closest lizardmen held out their arms.  They each wore a wooden and twine identity bracelet.  Saba held up the lantern and read the engraved information on each of the tags.  “Finn: Serial Number 22211 BL”, and “Ishee: Serial Number 22214 BI”.

“All right.  The rest of you too.”

“Does there seem to be some problem, PC?”

Saba looked up to see the tall, silhouetted form of a man walking toward him from the direction of the ship.  When he reached the circle of lantern light he was revealed as Professor Merced Calliere.

“Good evening, Professor.  Just checking identifications.”

“I would appreciate some haste then.  These fellows have work to do.”

“So they’re working for you?  I noticed these two don’t seem to have night passes, and my guess is that the others don’t either.”

“Yes, well I needed help on what you might call an ad-hoc basis.  It’s very important business—government business. So I would prefer it if you not delay them any longer.”

“Then I had best let them get back to work,” said Saba.  “As soon as I check the rest of their identification.”

“This ship is leaving first thing in the morning.”  Professor Calliere hissed from between clenched teeth.

“I am aware of that, Professor,” said Saba, then to the other lizardmen. “Stick your arms out.”

The two reptilians that he had already checked stepped aside, and the remaining four held out their arms to show their identification bracelets. Calliere folded his arms and scowled. Saba read them off one by one.

“Maddy: Serial Number 19705 BL.  Sassine: Serial Number 18234 BI.  Guster: Serial Number 10100 BI.  Swoosy: Serial Number 11995  BI. Oh, I know you, don’t I?”

Saba looked up at the last of the lizardmen. It was a hulking brute, at least six foot five, though it was doing its best to seem shorter.  Its skin was deep forest green with large mottled patches of grey here and there.  It looked nothing like the lightly colored, rather short female that the constable had seen saved by Graham Dokkins from the new arrivals.

“Hold on,” said the constable, grabbing the wrist with the bracelet.

With a hiss that bordered on a roar, the lizardman leapt forward, grabbing Saba’s helmet in its clawed right hand as its momentum carried both of them backwards.  As he fell, Saba felt the alligator-like mouth clamp shut on his right shoulder. The gravel of the street flew as the man and the reptilian landed.  The latter flipped completely over and onto his back.  Saba jumped to his feet, his hand suddenly holding his truncheon even though he didn’t consciously grab it.  With a speed belying its supposed cold blood, the lizardman rolled onto his stomach, and without even getting up, launched himself into Saba.  They both fell into the pallet of crates, one of which splintered, spilling its contents onto the ground.  Saba swung his truncheon, but couldn’t tell if it connected. The next moment, his opponent was gone.

Jumping to his feet, the constable saw his attacker disappearing into the darkness, running south.  All of the other lizardmen were either running or were already gone.  Saba reached into his reefer jacket to feel his shoulder and pulled out a hand with several streaks of blood upon it.  His pulse was pounding in his ears.  Professor Calliere stood with his mouth open.  The ground was strewn with papers.

Saba reached down and picked up a fist full of the papers.  They were white, 8 ½ x 11 inch papers, covered on one side with long strings of numbers.  He kicked the damaged crate and it busted open completely, spilling out more of the number filled sheets.

“Papers?  Just papers?”

Calliere looked unhappily at the ground.

“What the hell are these?”

“Just… just some calculations.”

“Are all these crates filled with these calculations?”

Calliere bit his lip.

“Professor, you’re going to need to come with me.”

Calliere’s eyes shifted but then he nodded.

Senta strolled down the white gravel street toward her home, singing the latest song to arrive from Brech.   The wax cylinder had come by ship exactly one month before, and it was already almost worn smooth by constant playing on the music box in Parnorsham’s store.

I’ll pay you a pfennig for your dreams,

Dreaming’s not as easy as it seems,

Images of her, are keeping me awake,

And so I’ll have to pay a pfennig for your dreams.

When Senta sang it, she replaced “images of her” with “images of him”. She thought that it made more sense for a girl to be kept awake with images of a boy than the other way around. If it had been her choice, she would have chosen a girl to sing the song, rather than the somewhat effeminate-voiced man on the recording.

“Not a very catchy tune.”

Senta turned to see a man emerging from behind a tree along the east side of the road.  It was the same tall, dark man that she had seen arriving on the Majestic.  His long, black rifle frock coat had made him blend into the background of the woods in the shadows of the late afternoon.  She didn’t need to guess that he was a wizard. She could see the magic aura amorphously floating around him.  She wondered if he could see hers.

“I’ve been waiting quite a while for you, sorceress.”  He smiled broadly, his thin-lipped mouth seeming abnormally wide across his heavy jaw line.

“I’m not a sorceress.  I’m just a little girl and you should leave me alone.”

“Ah, I know that game.”  He pulled the horn-rimmed spectacles from his upturned nose and wiped first his eyes and then the lenses with a handkerchief, replacing the glasses on his face and the handkerchief in his pocket.  “You make three statements.  One is true and the other two are lies.  Then I have to guess which is true.  Right?  Then I will have to say, you are a little girl.”

Senta crossed her arms and rocked back onto the heels of her shoes.

“My turn,” said the wizard.  “My name is Smedley Bassington.  I was born in Natine, Mirsanna.  I know nothing about magic.”

“That’s too easy,” said Senta.  “Smedley.”

“You should say Mr. Bassington.  After all, I am your elder.  One mustn’t be rude.”

“Okay, this one is harder,” replied Senta.  “I’m going to have to say, number two, you are my elder.”

Bassington took a step forward, and then another.

“Uuthanum,” said Senta, waving her hand.

“Uuthanum,” said Bassington, waving his hand in an almost identical motion.

It might have seemed as though the two were exchanging some kind of secret greeting.  In actuality, Senta had cast an invisible protective barrier between them. Bassington had dispelled the magic, destroying the barrier.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, the chosen apprentice of the most powerful sorceress in the world.  That is, after I found out Zurfina was here.  I had no idea where she had gotten to.  Here I was, checking out that idiot and his machine, and instead I find the two of you.”

“I think that’s too many statements,” said Senta.

He stopped in the middle of the road about five feet away from her.  A little wisp of wind whipped his short graying hair.

“Did she leave you here alone to take care of yourself?  That’s just what she does, you know?  She’s totally unreliable.”

“Are you allowed to use questions?” asked Senta, thinking to herself that this wizard did indeed seem to have her guardian pegged.

“Let’s not play that game,” said Bassington.  “Let’s play something a little better suited to our unique abilities.”

He held out his hand, waist high, palm down and said.  “Maiius Uuthanum nejor.”

Red smoke rose up from the ground just below his hand.  It swirled and coalesced into a shape.  The shape became a wolf.  Its red eyes seemed to glow and the hair on its back and shoulders stood up as it bared its dripping fangs and snarled at Senta.  She held out her own hand, palm pointed down.

“Maiius Uuthanum,” she said.

Green smoke rose from the ground below her hand, swirling around in a little cloud, finally billowing away to reveal a velociraptor with bright green and red feathers.

“A bird?” said Bassington, derisively.

The wolf lunged forward, snapping its teeth.  The velociraptor clamped its long jaw shut on the wolf’s snout, and grasped its head in its front claws.  The huge curved claw on the velociraptor’s hind foot slid down the canine’s belly, slicing it open and spilling steaming entrails out onto the gravel. A moment later, in a swirl of multihued smoke, both creatures disappeared again.

“Prestus Uuthanum,” said Bassington, placing his right palm on his chest, and casting a spell of protection on his own body.

“Uuthanum uusteros pestor,” said Senta, spreading her arms out wide.  She seemed to split down the center as she stepped both right and left at the same time.  Where there had been one twelve-year-old girl a moment ago, there were now four twelve year old girls who looked exactly the same.

The wizard waved his hand and said.  “Ariana Uuthanum sembor.”  All four Sentas found themselves stuck in a mass of giant, sticky spider webs.

Had her lavender top hat not been tied onto her head with a thick strand of lace, Yuah was sure that it would have been blown away and lost.  The wind whipped around her face and she tightened her grip on the steering wheel.  Scenery was flying past her on both sides at an alarming pace—trees, houses, lizardmen, a group of playing boys.  Suddenly something appeared at her left elbow.  She carefully turned her eyes left without looking away from the road. One of the boys that she had passed was running beside the carriage.  A second later, the others had caught up and were running along beside her as well.

“Hey lady!” yelled one boy.  “Why don’t you open her up?”

“Yeah!” called another.  “We want to see this thing go!”

Yuah turned her attention back to her driving.  She was sure that the steam carriage would outpace the children shortly, but they stayed right at her side, encouraging her to increase her speed. When she finally pulled up to the front of Mrs. Bratihn’s, the boys gathered beside the vehicle, scarcely breathing hard.

“Why didn’t you go faster?”

“Yeah, how come?”

Tears welled up in Yuah’s eyes.

“I was going as fast as I could!”  She let out a sob.

“Don’t cry, lady,” said the oldest boy, apparently the one who had called out first on the road.  “Here. Let me open the relief cock for you.”

Yuah pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her face, as the boy moved around to the back of the vehicle and turned the lever.

“Be sure and don’t –sob– burn your fingers on the steam.”

“What are you boys doing here!” yelled Mrs. Bratihn, shooting out from the door of her shop with her own head of steam.  “Get out of here and leave Mrs. Dechantagne alone!”

“We didn’t do nothing!” yelled back one small boy, but they nevertheless went running.

“What did they do to you, dear?” asked the older woman, placing her arm around Yuah’s shoulder, once she had climbed down.

“They didn’t do anything.  It’s this damned steam carriage.  I hate it, but Terrence wants me to drive it.”

“Did he tell you that you have to drive it?”

“No, but he brought it all the way here from Brech.”

“Come inside and have some tea.”

Yuah followed Mrs. Bratihn into her shop where they both sat down on the couch.  Mrs. Luebking, who was already in the process of pouring tea, added another cup and handed one to each of the other women, then took the last for herself and sat down in a chair.  Yuah sipped the tea and took a deep breath.

“Now tell me all about it,” said Mrs. Bratihn.

“You know I used to watch the steam carriages zipping around Brech every day and I always thought it would be just ace to have one of my own.  But it’s just so bleeding complicated.  You have to push in the clutch to shift gears and you have to press down on the forward accelerator just the right amount when you let the clutch out.  And you always have to watch the steam gauge or the whole thing might explode.  It’s just too much pressure.”

“You should just tell your husband that it’s too much for you,” said Mrs. Bratihn. “Men love it when you act helpless anyway.”

“That may be fine for most,” replied Yuah, putting away the handkerchief, “but I’m a Dechantagne.  At least I am now.  There are different expectations for me than there are for most women.”

“Maybe you could tell him that you want a driver,” suggested Mrs. Luebking. “Back in Brech, most of the ladies have drivers.  After all, driving is a lot of manual labor.”

Yuah was thoughtful for a moment.

“That might work,” she said.  “Mrs. Calliere is always saying that women of our station should do less.”

“Mrs. Calliere, your sister-in-law?”

“Oh no, the professor’s mother.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Bratihn.  “There you go.  Tell him you need a driver and Bob’s your uncle.  Now what else can we do for you today?”

“I need another new dress.”

“My dear, do you even have room in your closets?”

Yuah smiled slightly.  “I have spent rather a lot on fashion in the past few months.  But this one needs to be different.  I need a dress for shrine.  It needs to be a little more subdued.”

Mrs. Bratihn and Mrs. Luebking looked at one another.

“I’ll be quite frank, dear,” said Mrs. Bratihn.  “I don’t know anything about the requirements of your religion and what might be appropriate for your shrine.”

“Oh, there’s nothing special really.  I just need something nice, but simple, without a lot of extras—you know, no feathers or flowers, and not too much brocade.”

“I don’t know…”

“Here.  Just a moment.”

Yuah sat down her teacup, got up, and stepping out the door.  She was back a moment later, having retrieved a periodical from the steam carriage.  It was the Brysin’s Weekly Ladies’ Journal from Magnius of last year, the newest issue likely to be found in Birmisia.  Flipping it open, she showed the dressmaker a photograph of a woman wearing a new creation from Freedonia.  The dress was black and simple, featuring black lace around the waist and in a square collar around the neckline.  Though it was swept up in back and emphasized with a massive bow, the bow too was black and didn’t stand out from the rest of the dress.

“I think we may be able to do that,” said Mrs. Bratihn.  “Yes, yes, I quite like that.  It’s simple but elegant.  You may become a real trendsetter.  I imagine with you wearing that, many women here will want to copy it.  Of course you are always good for business, dear.”