When Aurora awoke the next day, it took her a few moments to make sense of her new surroundings.
First she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, focusing her eyes and letting the scent of an unfamiliar room wash over her.
The dreamlike sequence had not been a dream. She really was in the village of Rueborn, and today she would meet the lady whose happiness and entertainment was to become her new purpose in life.
Strange... it was the first time she had ever felt like she had a purpose.
She was startled when she glanced up at the odd-looking, brassy clock with all its exposed gears, and discovered it was already noon. Clumsily, Aurora began to dress herself. The style of gown was also unfamiliar to her - tightly fitted around the waist, wrists and neck, leaving her feeling slightly exposed by virtue of how much it revealed. It was what women wore on the "outside", however. The loose, flowing fashion of Thornmere belonged to their grandmothers and great-grandmothers.
Elda and June were waiting patiently in the living room, having opted to let her sleep.
There were sausages leftover from breakfast, and Aurora watched in alarm as they were prepared. Dials were twisted, fires were sparked without a tinderbox in sight, and the white bread that disappeared into a box sprang out golden brown. The sausages were piping hot and well seasoned, but Aurora barely tasted anything.
"You must have been exhausted," Elda said sympathetically when she estimated that her young ward must have been asleep for fourteen hours.
Aurora averted her eyes. This new world was like magic - it frightened her and excited her. She had laid awake for hours listening to the house grinding, humming and gurgling.
In Thornmere, on particularly windy nights, the wind would whistle in the hallways just like the adults did when telling ghost stories at Christmas. Aurora felt primal fear on those nights, as she tugged her bedsheets over her head, fully convinced a ghost was stalking the corridor just outside of her room.
The previous night had been just like those times. She was convinced there were intruders in the cottage. It was the only way she could explain all the noise and movement.
"I slept through the night," she assured them, with a weak smile.
All while harnessing a secret hope that her new home wouldn't move so much.
Half an hour later she had been escorted to an automobile that had appeared outside without ceremony. Aurora, whose hair was untamable without the assistance of a maid what at least glad she could blame her unkempt appearance on the wind.
It roared in her ears as they made their way east, towards the seaside. They appeared to be building along the coastline, but the steam billowing from the automobile made it difficult to discern much as it poured out behind them. She wanted to ask Elda what was going on, as the older woman was sat knitting beside her, but it was virtually impossible to hold a conversation without straining one's vocal cords.
It transpired that the manor was a reasonable walking distance away from the cottage, but her heart sunk when she saw it.
Oh, it was certainly grand - the kind of house you could get lost in, but instead of brick and stone the exterior seemed to be made up of iron panels stacked on top of one another. The iron frames of the windows had flourishes like ornate calligraphy, but the juxtaposition was practically a taunt. Exposed pipes and turning wheels were visible from every angle, creeping up not two, not three, but five storeys to a chimney billowing out vapor.
This house was visibly moving in front of her. She was sure the inside would be a hellscape of moving parts - a grinding lullaby that would drive her mad in no time at all.
"Elda," she began fearfully as the older woman helped her out of the automobile.
"I know dear, I know."
"It's moving."
"Don't be so silly. It's not moving, this is just how modern houses look - everything is very convenient and comfortable inside, admittedly at the expense of aesthetics... But it's how people would rather live!"
Aurora faltered but allowed herself to be guided to the entrance. She didn't think she had ever seen anything so grandiose and yet so ugly in her life. Even the tufts of green grass at her feet seemed to shrivel in the shadow of the house.
"Trust me, my dear, you'll get used to everything in no time at all."
Elda reached out and touched something near the frame of the door. There was a ringing sound discernible behind it.
Penny had mentioned to her in passing once that people on the "outside" generally didn't have domestic servants. In fact, even those whose wealth surpassed that of the general population by quite a margin were self-sufficient.
"Do you think I'm incapable of self-sufficiency?" Aurora had asked, appalled by the insinuation.
"Well, no, miss," Penny had said, averting her gaze with a slight smile. "You see... the houses are smaller so people tend to do things by themselves"
At the time, Aurora had scowled, assuming that Penny was making excuses to cover up the fact she had indirectly insulted her employer, but she was beginning to realize her words were at least partially true.
Of course, the manor she was staring up at now was a veritable beast compared to even those at Thornmere. Logically speaking, new technology was bound to make tasks easier to complete, but Aurora couldn't imagine a world where these tasks were eradicated completely. Therefore, it was of no surprise and yet great relief to Aurora when a plainly dressed woman opened the door holding a rag.
"Beatrice Pankhurst - housekeeper," was the curt introduction.
"I'm Elda Hughes, the maternal aunt of Mr. Clarke," Elda responded.
She did not curtsey. Like men, the two women shook hands.
"And of course," Elda continued, "this is Aurora Carnall, who will henceforth be acting as companion to Mrs. Clarke."
Aurora was busy taking in the sight of Beatrice. She was a pleasant looking, buxom women of between forty and fifty years old. There were very few lines on her face, but strands of silver were visible in her dark hair when the light from outside hit it. The shocking thing was that she was wearing breeches and there were smudges of dirt on her white blouse and face that indicated they had interrupted her while cleaning. She clearly wasn't too bothered that she had greeted guests in such a state.
Out of habit, Aurora lowered her head to curtsy.
The floorboards beneath her feet were a very deep and dark shade of red - perhaps mahogany, but it was difficult to see. There were very stark, vibrant patches of daylight illuminating floating dust by the windows, but as it tried to encroach further into the house, it was promptly vanquished by the combination of dark wallpaper, floorboards and furniture. Almost everything was shrouded in gloom.
"Well," Beatrice murmured tucking the rag into the pocket of her breeches, "it's just me and another girl here - Mrs. Clarke's maid. We're very grateful you've come - we can focus on getting things done around here while you can focus on Mrs. Clarke."
Aurora supposed the mysterious woman must have quite a demanding personality if the housekeeper was unable to focus on completing housework and swallowed.
"What's she like?"
Beatrice seemed faintly surprised. "Well... she was a bit of a firecracker before her accident but that hardly matters now."
Aurora and Elda glanced at one another.
"Before her accident?" the latter echoed.
The automobile driver had finished bringing in Aurora's belongings. They had been stacked so precariously that they almost resembled the house itself.
"Why, didn't Mr. Clarke tell you?" Beatrice asked, her eyes widening. "Mrs. Clarke won't wake up."
---
Marcia Clarke was a rare kind of beauty - perhaps the most beautiful women Aurora had ever seen. With her long lashes resting against rosy cheeks and straight flaxen hair brushed over her shoulders, she appeared more like a doll than a person. Only the steady rise and fall of her breast clued anyone in to the fact that she, like everyone else, was made up of flesh and bones.
Aurora had never heard her name before, but it had practically been a permanent fixture in the papers once. Her likeness had been used in some of the most celebrated artworks of the last several years.
Seated at the foot of the bed was a woman, also clad in breeches, with chin-length black hair. She stood when they entered, the book she was reading from still clutched in her hands. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion the moment she spotted Aurora.
"Zoey," Beatrice began kindly, "this is Miss Aurora Carnall. As I explained to you last week, she has come to keep Mrs. Clarke company and will be staying with us for the foreseeable future."
The girl was visibly upset by this and slammed the book shut. "I see," she said curtly.
The sleeping woman and her maid were framed by what, at first glance, appeared to be a cenotaph of bronze, but Aurora quickly realised when she saw a light flicker green on the front of it that this was where the loud humming in the room was emanating from. Without asking, she knew that this machine was keeping the woman alive somehow, and began noticing numerous wires leading to different smaller machines around the room.
There was a question she couldn't help but vocalize, however.
"What happened?"
Elda too seemed curious, and looked to Beatrice with a troubled expression. "My nephew made no mention of this. I hope you do not think too poorly of us for asking, but I have brought this young lady far from her home to be of service to Mrs. Clarke - I believe she deserves answers."
Beatrice nodded, understanding, and smiled weakly.
"Please don't fret, Mrs. Hughes - it is not a contractable disease, nor has it been caused by living in this house. Your ward is quite safe. The truth of the matter is, Mrs. Clarke was hosting a party at this house six months ago and fell from the balcony on the fourth floor. We believe it was a case of misadventure-"
"She was pushed," the lady's maid said monotonously.
"Now Zoey, you know that isn't true. It doesn't matter how it happened at present anyway - what matters is that she hadn't opened her eyes since, although her bones have since healed and the bruises have faded."
Aurora felt oddly tearful. This ugly house had seen tragedy of an ugly kind - a vibrant flame, snuffed out in an instant.
"...my poor nephew," Elda breathed. "They must have only been married a few months at that point."
Zoey's face seemed to distort for a moment, but she seemed to think better of saying anything in the presence of the aunt and looked away sheepishly.
"He had been called to the Foundry for work. She was a very social creature and it had become her habit, when he was absent, to plan and host lavish parties here. The first few months they were relegated to the garden, but of course it was winter at that time, and so she brought it inside. It goes without saying that she was intoxicated - she took very little wine in the evenings, but drank heartily when her friends were here. I fear he feels immense guilt for leaving her that day."
Elda nodded emphatically and clutched her chest.
Beatrice then turned to face Aurora.
"We would be grateful if you could read to her for an hour each day - something stimulating. We have been told it may help."
Aurora blinked in surprise. "I suppose I can do that."
"She is fond of contemporary poetry," Zoey muttered.
"The other task that requires attention is the household finances - I hate to ask, but if you could manage that in her stead, it would be an immense help. We will focus on maintaining cleanliness and the cook will provide three meals a day, so the rest of the time is yours for leisure."
Aurora nodded.
"I've cleaned out one of the downstairs sitting rooms to be used as an your personal study - I thought it best to keep Mrs. Clarke's as she left it. If you would please step this way."
Leaving the sulking maid in the second-floor room, the three women silently made their way down the creaking stairs.
Aurora was in one of her more reticent moods. Her circumstances had changed so dramatically that she hadn't been feeling much like herself at all. It was very hard to envision herself in the gloomy study that she was ushered into.
"I suppose you will have to learn to use a typewriter," Elda murmured.
There were very few pieces of furniture in the room and the shelves were empty, so it was the hulking machine on the writing table that first drew attention.
"Miss Carnall, you can use this space however you see fit. I have placed all the invoices in need of your attention in the top drawer of the writing table, and I will ensure that the mail reaches you here every morning."
Aurora nodded, and tested the chair. It was very uncomfortable sitting in a gown so tight-fitting - she felt as if she were being squeezed every time she inhaled.
And what a strange machine... the letters seemed to have been arranged arbitrarily. Perhaps in the "outside", the alphabet was in a completely different order.
Suddenly, Beatrice coughed. She had been busily adjusting a curtain in a vain attempt to fill the room with more light, but had now turned to them, appearing troubled.
"...Mrs. Hughes, Miss Carnall - if I could have your attention for a moment. We received a very alarming telegram this morning. To preempt any anxiety, of course, it seems the most immediate danger has passed but..."
"Does it relate to my nephew?" Elda asked, paling and turning her whole body away from the typewriter to face the housekeeper.
"Regrettably, yes... it appears he was shot."
"Shot?" Elda repeated in disbelief.
This room needs another chair, Aurora found herself thinking. Elda certainly looked like she needed to be seated for the news.
"You said the most immediate danger has passed - does that mean he is recovering?"
"He is lucid, but being kept on the ward for the time being. He was most aggrieved that he was unable to welcome you to Rueborn, Mrs. Hughes."
Elda nodded, pressing her hand to her chest and taking shallow gulps of air. Of course, Mr. Clarke was her only living relative - she must have been feeling a great deal of panic in that moment.
"...Is Mr. Clarke a soldier?" Aurora asked.
Beatrice shook her head. "He is a detective," she explained. "From what I can gather, yesterday was an enormous success for his team. They have been tracking an organization active in the Foundry for a couple of years now, which means he is often away from home."
Aurora was mindlessly pushing the typewriter keys. It was probably a good thing he was away from home a lot. She imagined he would probably spend a lot of time moping around if the woman he loved was in Mrs. Clarke's condition. The house was morbid enough already.
"I have one more question, if you don't mind."
Beatrice nodded and smiled gently. "Miss Clarke, please feel free to ask me anything. You are doing us a great service."
"It's probably terribly impertinent."
"Ah, then I can probably guess what it relates to. Go ahead, my dear."
Aurora swallowed. "...Will Mrs. Clarke wake up?"
The question neither startled nor upset the housekeeper, who averted her gaze with a tender smile.
"Mr. Clarke has ensured that Mrs. Clarke is receiving the best care that money can afford - it is keeping her alive. However, the doctors and nurses assigned to her care cannot predict the eventual outcome."
Elda swallowed audibly. "My poor nephew..." she whispered one again, "he must feel such immense guilt."
"Of course, I hear you both come from a place where medical advances such as this are unthinkable. It gives me hope that there are things even we, who are used to such advancements, will find unthinkable. I'm sure one day, Miss Carnall, I will enter the drawing room and find you laughing and drinking tea with Mrs. Clarke."
Aurora nodded numbly.
She felt as if she should have been feeling a stronger sense of kinship with the sleeping woman. After all, hadn't she herself had her life turned upside down at a party recently, too? Now they were together in this empty, gloomy house - two women who could have continued their life unaffected if the party had never taken place.
Of course, Aurora had made a few decisions before that party which had shaped her future. She was not unmarriageable in polite society for no good reason.
There was no misadventure on her part. Just desperate longing for a man she couldn't have.
---
Whitman had a vague idea of what to expect when he opened the door - the sight that met him more or less matched those expectations. Lachlan Clarke, in a show of defiance, was dressed as if he were going to be discharged any moment, slumped in an armchair, in complete darkness.
"You could at least open the curtains," he mumbled, as he entered the hospital room.
There were two armchairs, clearly meant for visitors, parted by an end table towards the side of the hospital bed. Lachlan threw down a box and seated himself next to his superior, who looked at him with bleary eyes.
"Who's interviewing the suspects? Have they been properly briefed on the situation?"
"Yes, it is very nice of me to come visit you. And I should bloody hope so - they're members of our team."
"And the weapon - has it been taken in for inspection?"
"Yes, we're not incompetent, for god's sake."
Characteristically, Lachlan did not acknowledge that statement and continued. "What have they found?" he asked.
"Nothing yet - they're reverse engineering brand spanking new technology. Give them room to breathe. Look, I brought you a present."
"What is it?"
"Biscuits."
"Biscuits?"
"Look at how cute they are, they're shaped like little cogs. You probably get less biscuit for your buck on account of the holes and funky edges, but you have to admire ingenuity. They're from that new bakery on main street."
Lachlan's response was a steely glare.
"...I'm guessing you would have preferred flowers, then," Whitman mumbled.
"What I would prefer," Lachlan said sardonically, "is to be discharged immediately so I can get back to work."
"Right. Thing is, mate... you just got shot."
"I'm fine. I just happen to be the first person that we know of who has survived being shot with a bulletless gun, so they're treating me like I'm some kind of medical mystery who needs to be observed."
"I think it's standard practice for anyone who has been shot. Here, let me help you into bed."
"I'm not getting back in that bed. I'm going back to the station."
"Am I right in thinking," Whitman began with a wry smile, "that you're going to be as difficult and antisocial as humanly possible until they discharge you from here?"
"Correct."
Whitman sighed and rubbed his temples.
He had known Lachlan Clarke for eight years now and he was nothing if not consistent. He had been fixated on every case they had been assigned together since day one, and had a habit of putting his own health and wellbeing second in his search for answers. Four years ago when they had been partnered on a murder case, Whitman witnessed firsthand how easily Clarke would forego sleep for several days. It was hardly a surprise that he'd be willing to ignore pain and physical discomfort for the chance to keep going when things theoretically looked most optimistic.
"You're obsessed with that stupid gun," Whitman muttered, defeated.
"I just want to know how it works."
"Well obviously it's ferruxite."
"Yes," Lachlan responded, gritting his teeth. "Obviously it's ferruxite. The chemical element that powers the gun, but doesn't explain why I have an entry and exit wound in my abdomen from a bullet that does not exist."
There was silence in the room. Whitman didn't see the point of continuing the conversation anymore and sighed.
"You should open the curtains, at least."
"I don't want to."
Lachlan couldn't remember being brought to the hospital; just waking up and feeling grateful that he had survived. He was still groggy from surgery when a handful of men from his unit were allowed to visit, and he immediately began grilling them about the case. No one was able to answer any of his questions, though - they had been at the hospital the entire time waiting for news of him. They couldn't even confirm that they others had made it back to the station with the suspects and their guns.
Whitman, he thought, might have given him something to chew on, but he was just as useless. Pushing a hand through his wild, dark hair, Lachlan sighed audibly.
"Get me out of here," he muttered. "I'm losing my mind."
"About that," Whitman began reluctantly. "This isn't just a friendly visit - I've been tasked with imparting some, err, information to you."
Lachlan eyed him in warning. "Well, what are you waiting for? Spit it out already."
"You've been put on indefinite leave. The higher-ups say you've been acting too recklessly and think you need to be at home with your wife- ugh!"
Whitman felt himself yanked forward by his cravat. Lachlan Clarke had it gripped so tight that his hand was turning white. So much for not shooting the messenger, he thought with an inward sign. You could always tell, when Clarke's icy stare turned to fire, that it was going to be an uphill battle.