It certainly didn’t feel like his house. Technically it was, even though it didn’t feel like it. Under Brech law, all of a woman’s possessions belonged to her husband. And Egeria had a great many possessions. The table that Zeah was sitting at, made of sturdy cherry wood brought all the way from Mirsanna and inlayed with jade and mother of pearl probably cost more than he earned in a year—than he had ever earned, in his best year. The teacup in his hand probably cost more than the table—at least the set that the teacup had come from. Another man might have been bothered by this feeling that he was living in someone else’s house, or felt a certain unease at owning so many things that didn’t feel like his own. Not Zeah. He had spent his entire life living in a home that didn’t belong to him, and even when he eventually had his own home, he had only lived there a week or two before he moved back out and began living out of a small room behind his office.

“What are you thinking about, Dearest?” Egeria had worked very hard to come up with just the right endearment to use after their marriage and “dearest” was apparently her choice. It seemed as though she used it every third sentence.

“I was just admiring this cup.”

“It’s from the Daliath Islands. They came overland to Brech, and then I had them shipped here.”

“Is that so?” said Zeah, taking a little more interest in the cup than he originally had. He only had a vague notion of where the Daliath Islands were—somewhere in southeast Sumir.

“It’s iron glaze over a colorless pigment. Tenth century.”

Zeah started and almost dropped the cup. He had to revise his estimate. The single cup cost more than he had made in his entire life. He looked around the table. There were one, two, three, four cups here, a saucer for each cup and a teapot. No wonder the teapot was so oddly shaped. That must have been the style nine hundred years ago.

“Careful Dearest, you don’t want hot tea spilled in your lap.”

“Yes, I mean no.”

Putting his teacup down, Zeah took a bite of toast. It was at least possible to get one’s mind around toast. A loaf of bread was 20P, an exorbitant amount if one were buying bread in Brech, but here in Birmisia, it was about half of what people had paid for bread only two years ago. Toast with a bit of honey; that was all a man really needed. What did a man need with thousand year old teacups? He ate the last bit of toast and washed it down with tea from his immoderate teacup.

Egeria stood up from the table and gathered the used dishes together. She had only just collected them, when Chunny, her lizzie servant, appeared at her side to take them from her. She swept back around the table and sat down opposite her new husband. Zeah could have forgotten all about cups and toast and spent the entire day looking at her. She was still in her dressing gown, layer upon layer of pink Mirsannan silk, which only hinted at the petite form beneath. Egeria’s long red hair hung loosely over her shoulders, framing her pretty face. Sparkling green eyes looked back at him.

“Seeing you like that makes me want to stay home.”

“You don’t have to go to the office. You could stay home with me. We could eat cake in bed and make love all day.”

Zeah felt the heat rise up into his face. “We could eat cake all day, but I don’t…”

“Grandpa! Grandpa!”

Shouts and the sounds of stampeding shoes on the fine wood flooring announced the arrival of Zeah’s grandchildren, and they piled on top of him before he had a chance to even turn around. Augie, a rough and tumble boy, who was proud to say he was “over four and a half”, grabbed Zeah around the neck, while his little sister Terra, a thin and rather pale three and a half year-old in a yellow dress, was satisfied with wrestling her grandfather’s knee into submission. When Zeah did manage to turn his head, he saw his grandchildren’s cousin Iolana standing demurely by the door. He held out an arm and she raced forward, giving him a big hug. Though her dress matched that of her young cousin, the tall and thin eight year old stood out, with her long, golden hair.

He expected to see his daughter with the children, but instead Chunny ushered Governor Iolanthe Staff into the room. She looked as striking as ever in a grey pin-striped dress, a very masculine-looking tie, and black boater. She smiled at the Korlanns. She seemed to be smiling a great deal lately, but to Zeah’s mind, it just never looked quite right on her. It was like painting a rainbow on the prow of a battleship.

“Good morning Mr. and Mrs. Korlann,” she said, reminding them that it was the first time she had seen them since the wedding.

“Good morning Iolanthe,” said Egeria, getting up and giving Mrs. Staff a hug.

This allowed Zeah to simply say “Good morning,” and not have to say “Good morning Iolanthe” which he found excruciatingly painful to do.

Zeah stood up, Augie still wrapped around his neck, Iolana wrapped around his waist, and Terra wrapped around his knee. He reached down and scooped the smallest child up under his left arm and he guided the oldest with his right hand behind her head. He took two steps forward and doubled over, letting the middle child’s feet hit the floor.

“You must let go of Grandpa, children,” he said. “He’s way too old for this.”

“Come with me and I’ll get you a biscuit,” said Egeria.

Only Terra yelled “Yay!” but all three followed her into the kitchen.

“My daughter’s not with you?” he asked.

“Obviously,” replied Iolanthe. “I don’t know where she is actually. Cissy had the children dressed, so I thought I would bring them along to my office. They can play in the garden.”

“I’m sure Egeria wouldn’t mind letting them stay here.”

“It didn’t take you long to start making her decisions for her.”

The train station, originally a wooden structure smaller than most homes, had been partially rebuilt of stone and marble. It was in fact, well into a program of construction that would require the better part of a decade. That was not to say that the station was not in service. Trains rolled in from distant St. Ulixes in Mallontah on an average, three times a day. Every other day, a coal train arrived from the south. Two trains were in station at the present time. One was sitting idle and would leave for Mallontah later that day. The other, the B-412, had arrived from St. Ulixes within the last half hour and its engine was still emitting steam from its boiler.

More than one hundred passengers had arrived on the B-412 and most of them were still at the station, collecting their luggage and waiting for friends and relatives to meet them, or hugging and kissing those friends and relatives who had already arrived. Graham Dokkins was just swinging off the steps of the passenger car, with a duffle bag over his shoulder.   A stocky young man of seventeen, a late growth spurt had brought him up to his full five foot eleven. He wore a grey wool suit straight from Greater Brechalon, but his bowler hat was all Birmisia, with its hatband made of velociraptor skin. Not what most would call handsome, he had a thick shock of brown hair and laughing eyes.

“You look quite dapper in that suit,” said Senta.

Graham smiled, tossed his bag on the cement platform, and stepped over to embrace her.   As she pressed her cheek to his, Senta closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his skin. After a moment, he took her by the shoulders and held her back at arm’s length, looking questioningly into her face.

“You’ve been gone too long.” She answered his unasked question.

“It’s nice to be missed.”

“I was at the docks. I thought you’d come by ship.”

“I could have, but I would have been another three days getting home. The new cranes are coming on the Gabrielle.”

“It’s good that you had the option. I suppose that comes from being an important muckey-muck.”

“Assistant Port Manager, at your service.” Graham doffed his hat and bowed at the waist.

“Do you want to go to the Café for tea?”

“Ma will kill me if I don’t go straight home. Walk with me?”

Senta nodded.

Graham picked his duffle back up and threw it over his shoulder. He held out his elbow and Senta took it as they walked through the half constructed station, down the stone steps in front, and down the brick-lined street to the trolley stop. The southbound trolley arrived only seconds after they did. It was pulled by a triceratops, but not Harriet. Senta didn’t recognize the animal, but Graham did. He knew all the city’s dinosaurs.

“Hello Meg,” he said, slapping the beast on its right hind leg before climbing into the trolley cab.

“Hey Graham,” said the driver.

“Hey Gideon.”

Gideon gave Senta a sidelong glance but didn’t meet her eyes. Graham pulled two pfennigs from his pocket and dropped them into the glass box next to the driver’s station before leading Senta by the hand to the middle seats and sitting down. After Meg had been fed, and with a clang of the bell, the vehicle began rolling down the grass pathway in the center of Terrence Dechantagne Boulevard. The triceratops let loose of five or six gallons of dung, which dropped onto the tracks beneath her tail, and which the trolley subsequently ran over.

“They have steam-powered trolleys in St. Ulixes now,” said Graham.

“Were they nice?”

“Oh, heck no. Too much smoke and soot everywhere.”

“Not as many dung pies though?”

“That’s good fertilizer. I always said it was a shame to let the lizzies have all of that. We should keep some of it for our own gardens.”

“Don’t you have enough fertilizer already?”

“I meant all of us—all the soft-skins.”

“How did you find the lizzies in Mallontah?” she asked, remembering her own visit years before.

“They’re not really lizzies at all, are they? Different animal altogether. They call them trogs.”

“That’s right,” remembered Senta.

The trolley stopped four times on the main boulevard before it turned east onto Whipple Avenue. The second stop after the turn was Graham’s, and both he and Senta stepped out. Two years before, the Dokkins family, reveling in new wealth, had purchased a family estate in what seemed at the time, a remote location. The city had quickly expanded though to gobble it up. Had it been in Greater Brechalon, the two-story house would have been the home of some gentry, and indeed though from common enough stock, here in Birmisia, that was just how the Dokkins family was thought of. An unusually high wrought iron fence surrounded the estate, which encompassed some twenty acres. Graham opened the gate and allowed Senta to enter before him, then closed it after them. Almost immediately the ground began to tremble.

The rumbling grew stronger and stronger and bursting from behind a stand of bushes, a monster raced toward them. The creature was an iguanodon, almost thirty feet long and weighing more than three tons. Roughly the same size as Harriet and Meg, it was much sleeker than a triceratops and ran on its hind feet, though it remained bent over like a quadruped. It trumpeted loudly as it ran at the two humans.

“Whoa, Stinky!” shouted Graham. “Whoa!”

The Church of the Apostles was a stately stone structure—no less imposing for the fact that it wasn’t yet complete. On the first day of Septurary 1907, the church was filled to overflowing as the citizens of Port Dechantagne, dressed in their finest, celebrated a wedding that was the social event of the season. Mother Linton, the High Priest of Kafira in Birmisia stood at the pulpit, unwilling to relinquish her position to anyone. Behind her and to her right however, owing to the era of tolerance now in full flower, was the Zaeri Imam Mr. Francis Clipers. The wedding party members were arrayed across the chancel. The matron of honor, Mrs. Yuah Dechantagne, and the four bridesmaids Miss Hero Hertling, Miss Gabrielle Bassett, Miss Dutty Speel, and Miss Laila Melroy wore shimmering gowns of teal trimmed with white lace. The groomsmen, Mr. Paxton Brown, Mr. Leopold Ghent, Mr. Isaak Wissinger, and Mr. Efrain Rochambeau were all dressed in black tails, though the Best Man Inspector Saba Colbshallow wore his blue police uniform. In the center of the group was the groom. Zeah Korlann unlike the building around him, could not be described as stately, though even in his days as a household servant, he had been dignified. After nine years as mayor of Port Dechantagne, he had gained a kind of gravitas. As the string quartet struck the first chords of Kafira’s Marriage he, like everyone else in the church, turned his attention to the back of the aisle where the bride appeared.

No cloud could have aspired to the whiteness of Egeria Lusk’s wedding gown. The bodice was tight but simple and it blossomed out at the waist to a truly remarkable expanse at the hemline, the train following twenty feet behind her. Though the dress was strapless and shoulderless, it had long, gauzy sleeves, split on the outside and held together by a series of small white bows. She defied convention by not wearing a veil, but had a mass of tiny white flowers arranged within her brilliant red hair, which was swept up into a complex Mirsannan twist. She slowly walked up the center aisle, unattended, in time to the music, arriving before the alter to join her beaming bridegroom. Mother Linton began the litany.

Senta Bly sat in the third row on the groom’s side. She wore a dress of deep purple silk, gathered together in bunches so that if fell in pleats. With thin straps over bare shoulders and no sleeves, it showed off her tall, lithe body to best advantage. It was completely unadorned with brocade, beading, or fringe and didn’t even have a bow over the bustle, though none could tell that with her seated. No one else sat on the pew with her despite the fact that every other seat in the building was taken, and more than sixty people stood across the narthex. It might have been that her disappointment at not being invited as part of the wedding party caused an unpleasant expression to sit upon her countenance, or it might have been something else entirely.

As Mother Linton approached the portion of the service in which she explained the duties of a husband and wife, Hero turned around and waved two gloved fingers discreetly to Senta, who returned the gesture. She smiled, but her hurt feelings didn’t go away. They had hung on for six weeks now. She had known Egeria Lusk for more than eight years. They got on well too. She was closer to her than Gabrielle Bassett or that Speel girl, or even Hero. Senta was a good friend of Mayor Korlann too. It had to be the mayor’s daughter Mrs. Dechantagne. The woman had hardly spoken to Senta in five years, and then only a few terse words.   This was all the more strange since they had been quite friendly before. Senta didn’t know precisely what the problem was; only that it had something to do with Mrs. Dechantagne’s husband Terrence, who had been killed in a lizzie attack. Occupied with such thoughts, Senta realized that she had lost track of the ceremony, when the priest began asking the bride and groom if they would each take the other.

The entire congregation seemed to hold their breath when Mayor Korlann was asked if he took “this woman”. It was not as if he had bolted from the alter on some previous occasion, but the wedding had been postponed at least twice, and at more than eight years, this was one of the longer engagements. The tall grey-haired gentleman pulled through however with a hearty “I will,” and as the string quartet began the Ode to Celebration, the couple moved quickly down the aisle and out of the church. Forty or fifty pairs of old shoes were tossed into the aisle as they passed for good luck. The congregation all stood, cheering and applauding.

Senta stood too, though she didn’t rush to follow the newlyweds out, as did much of the congregation. She gazed around at the splendor of the new religious center of the colony. It was her first time visiting. It was even larger than the Great Church of the Holy Savior in Brech. Others were looking at the ornately carved trim, the stained-glass windows, and the marble statuary too, but far more were observing Senta. At six feet tall, she was literally head and shoulders above every other woman there and many of the men. Her long blond hair framed an oval face with distinctive cheekbones, large expressive eyes, a broad mouth with voluptuous lips, and a strong chin. She would never have been called pretty; rather she was beautiful in the classical sense of the word, like the women that artists created to portray personifications of freedom or grace or nobility.

Hero bounced toward her. Though the two of them had been nearly the same height when they were twelve years old, Hero had stopped growing six inches before Senta had. With incredibly thick, naturally curly, long black hair and doe eyes, Hero had more than her fair share of admirers. She was so popular in fact that several young men sidled up to her even here. As Senta noticed them, they took a step back in unison.

“Wasn’t that a lovely ceremony?” asked Hero.

“It seemed very nice from down here.”

“Don’t be cross. Benny and Shemar both invited us to ride in their steam carriages to the reception. Who do you want to go with?”

Senta rolled her eyes. “Quite frankly I’d rather take the trolley.”

“Are you sure? Benny’s car is brand new and candy apple red.”

Senta looked over Hero’s shoulder at Benny Markham, who was puffing himself up with pride. She liked Benny, Shemar too for that matter, but she wasn’t too fond of steam carriages.

“Do as you wish. I’m taking the trolley.”

Augie Dechantagne came running through the parlor and like a freight train. “Mama! Mama! I shot a velociraptor!” He dived toward the couch, landing not on his mother, but instead in the lap of Cissy who sat next to her.

“You did what?”

“I shot a velociraptor!”

Yuah’s eyes shot daggers at the boy’s uncle, who followed him into the room, and who was in turn followed by a lizzie burdened with at least six assorted rifles and another with several large canvas bags slung over his shoulder. “He’s not even three years old.”

“Don’t get yourself worked up,” said Radley Staff. “I didn’t give him the weapon. I simply let him look through the sights and pull the trigger while I held it.”

“Quite appropriate,” said Iolanthe from her seat across the room, her eyes glued to the paper in her hand. “A Dechantagne man must be proficient in firearms.”

“You should have seen the blood shoot out!” continued the boy. “How many did we get again, Uncle?”

“Only four,” said Staff, who then turned to the lizzies. “Put the gear away in my den.”

“I hope you at least made sure the guns were unloaded in the house,” said Yuah.

“I certainly hope you didn’t.” Iolanthe at last looked away from her paper. “What’s the point in having rifles if they aren’t ready to be used?”

“Yuah is right,” said Staff. “Safety first. But the best way to be safe is to ensure the children have a good working knowledge of firearms and know when and when not to touch them.”

“Ready for a nap?” Cissy asked the boy. “Sister is already asleep.”

“I’m hungry,” said the boy. “Can I get a biscuit?”

“Go get one from the kitchen,” ordered his mother. Then she stood up. “I certainly can use a nap. I shall see you all at tea.”

Making her way up the long sweeping staircase, Yuah snapped her fingers at Narsa, who followed her into her bedroom and helped her remove her day dress and then unfasten her corset. Waving for the lizzie to go, she unfastened her own hip bag and draped it over the chair, before stretching out on the bed.

“What are you still doing here?” she called, seeing the lizzie out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, it’s you again.”

It wasn’t Narsa hovering just outside Yuah’s bedroom door, but Cissy. She seemed to be making a habit of hovering outside doors.

“What do you want? I’m not doing anything.”

“I whatch you,” said Cissy.

“Yes, yes,” replied Yuah. “Go ahead and ‘whatch’ me.”

* * * * *

Baxter stared down at Odval’s grave. He had carried her body all the way back across the island to bury her in the little meadow just above the rocky shore where he had first found her. He hadn’t gone to so much effort when his own mother had died. He had only known the Enclepian woman for a few weeks, but her death hurt him more than any other, of the many deaths that had touched him in his life. He knew in his head that he was pained less for her loss than the selfish realization that he would now be all alone on the island, but his heart hurt just the same. He hadn’t loved her. He had barely known her. But he was going to miss her.

The neatly piled earth looked like a new grave, but there was something missing. The naval officer spent the day looking for just the right stone to serve as a marker, carefully placing it just above the edge of the mound. He didn’t write on it though. It was too much effort to carve, and for that matter, he didn’t know enough about her to know what to say. He skirted the edge of the meadow, along the rocky ridge, and found several dozen small white flowers, which he picked and placed in a pile next to the stone. Nodding in approval, he turned and walked back toward his home by the little lake. He wondered just how long it would be his home.

Hysteria clomped along slowly down the snow-covered road for some time. The orphan was so quiet that for a while I thought he must have fallen asleep. But at last he stirred and shifted a bit in his seat, which is to say upon Hysteria’s flank. I myself had been quiet as I remembered the events of that horrible night.

“What are you thinking about?” asked the orphan.

“I’m thinking about that horrible night,” I replied.

“Did you never find your family?”

“No, though I searched for weeks. My mother was to make me a blueberry pie that night, and I not only have never seen my mother since, I did not get to eat that pie either.”

“I’m sorry I brought up such a painful memory,” he said, and then paused. “Do you suppose that the purple drops on the floor could have been from your blueberry pie?”

“Fiends!” said I. “To rob a man of his mother and his pie in the same night!”

“Perhaps it were best that we think on something else,” said he.

“Perhaps,” I agreed.

“If you are really such a great storyteller…”

“The greatest in the world.”

“And if the story of the Queen of Aerithraine is a great story…”

“Wonderful. Exciting. True. Profound.”

“Well, maybe you could tell me the story.”

“I get half a crown for that story in Illustria,” said I.

“I have a shiny penny,” said he.

“The story begins in Aerithraine, far to the west, along the coast of the great ocean sea. From storied Illustria, its capital, to Cor Cottage just outside Dewberry Hills in River County, Aerithraine has been a great and powerful country for some seven hundred years more or less. By more or less, I mean that it has been more or less seven hundred years that Aerithraine has been a country and that it has been more or less great and more or less powerful during those seven hundred years. But about fifty years ago, it was less. That was when the old king died, and as is the way of kings, a new one was crowned. He was King Julian the Rectifier.

“He was called Julian the Rectifier because he was chiefly interested in rectifying. He spent most of his time rectifying. He rectified all over the place. And he was good at it. He rectified like nobody else.”

“It means setting things to right,” said the orphan.

“Of course it does and that is just what he did. Under his reign, the kingdom was prosperous and wealthy. And, as he wasn’t so interested in warring as in rectifying, there was peace throughout the land. King Julian had only one son, and he passed to that son the strongest and wealthiest kingdom in all of Duaron, and if it had only remained so, Elleena would have become nothing more than a minor princess perhaps.”

“Which would not have made a half-crown story,” pointed out the orphan.

“That is so.”

“Carry on then.”

“King Justin was the son of Julian. I hear tell that he was once called Justin the Good and Justin the Wise, though now when storytellers refer to him, they usually call him Justin the Weak or Justin the Unready.”

“What do you call him?”

“I just call him King Justin,” said I. “Though I truly believe he may deserve the title Justin the Brave, it is not what the listeners want to hear.”

“Go on.”

“King Justin married a princess from the faraway land of Goth. The Arch-Dukes of Goth, which is to say the rulers of that land, have for generations, maintained power through a tightly woven web of treaties with its mighty neighbors. Their chief barter in this endeavor is the marriage of the many female members of the family. I hear the current Arch-Duke has but four daughters at least as of yet, but his father who was Arch-Duke before him had seventeen, and his father, which is to say the grandfather of the current Arch-Duke had nineteen.”

“That hurts just thinking about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“It must have been quite a coup of diplomacy for the Arch-Duke of Goth to make a match with the King of Aerithraine, but he did, marrying to the King his daughter Beatrix. And though I hear that the women of that country wear too much make-up, she was never the less accounted a great beauty. She had pale white skin, raven hair, smoldering eyes, and a gold ring in her nose, as is the fashion in the east.

“King Justin and Queen Beatrix had four strong sons, the eldest of whom was Prince Jared. He was particularly beloved of the people. I saw him once when I was a child of four or five, sitting on my poor old father’s shoulders as the Dragon Knights passed on their tall white steeds. That is to say, I was seated on my father’s shoulders and the Prince was not. Neither were the Dragon Knights nor their steeds. I don’t remember why the Prince and the knights were in River County. It was too long ago. He would have grown to be King upon his father’s death if it was not for…”

“Goblins!”

“Yes, that’s right. You didn’t say you had heard the story before, though I’ll warrant it wasn’t told as well…”

“No!” screamed the orphan. “Goblins! Right there!”

He pointed straight ahead, and sure enough, stepping out of the shadows and into the moonlight were a half dozen creepy little man-things. They were no more than three feet tall, their over-sized round heads, glowing eyes, and gaping maws giving away their identity. As they came closer those mouths widened into grins filled with jagged little teeth, looking far too much like the teeth on the blade of a cross-cut saw for my taste. They brandished what weapons they had, mostly things they had picked up from the ground—a stick, a length of cord with a knot in it. But a couple of them carried old, discarded straight razors.