The Mask of White and Red - Part 11

thinknzombie (59)in #fiction • 6 years ago (edited)

Ilsa was beginning to worry that Kerrie wouldn’t have all the dresses ready in time. There was still so much preparation to do before the ball and barely enough hours in the day.
After the morning’s entertainment, they decided to forego their usual tea break and push through as much of the work as they could.

As she sewed, Ilsa found her mind wandering. What had happened to the old woman? Every time she’d gone to the cafe looking for her, she’d been nowhere to be seen. Had the woman even been real? Ilsa still had the tiny box and scroll the old woman had given her. They were safely tucked into a little pouch and kept tied about her waist. The woman was real enough. So where was she?

The needle found flesh as Ilsa accidentally stabbed her finger. She sucked the blood away, wincing at the bitter taste. What she’d give to find that crone again. She’d wring her silly old neck until she helped find Father. He’d made it sound as if the old woman could rescue him--although Ilsa didn’t know how that was possible. The woman seemed so frail. Still, maybe she would know where he’d been sent.

The old woman had said she wanted a response. An idea began to form, slowly coalescing into a horrible thought. What if the woman hadn't wanted to know what Ilsa's father said but instead to know where he was? Those men came right after Ilsa delivered the message. Could the woman have been involved? Had it been a set up?

“You’ll bleed all over that if you’re not careful.”

Ilsa looked up to see Kerrie frowning at her. She shot Kerrie an apologetic look. “Sorry. Needle.”

Kerrie sighed. “I’m working you too hard. I’m sorry poppet. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I thought we’d have some fun together. Instead, I’ve turned into a foreman.” Kerrie collapsed into her chair with a sigh. “I don’t know how we’re ever going to be ready in time. Take a little break. It will be good for you. And I need to go check on our silk. We’re running low. Maybe you could run over to Cunningham’s for me?”

Ilsa considered for a moment, looking at the mountain of stitching still to do. Still, a short break would help refresh her and maybe a glimpse or two of the ocean. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time, Poppet.”

The market was buzzing with discussions about who might or might not be on the guest list for the ball. The butchers were celebrating the fact that most of the district’s meat supplies had been purchased on contract. Those who’d won the best deals could be easily spotted by the width of their grins. The rest of the merchants all seemed happy as well. The bakers, cheesemakers, wine merchants and brewers were all strutting about town in their best clothes, as if ready to attend a wedding or a wake. The cheer was contagious, and Ilsa found herself smiling and humming as she made her way through the crowds. The market had not been like this for some time. Although there were few foreign faces to be seen, the bustle nearly made up for the lack of diversity.

After so much darkness--the influx of soldiers, the disappearances, the murders and the boatloads of slave labor arriving month after month--a ball seemed like just the tonic the city needed to recover. They were in celebration mode and gearing up for more.

Word had it that Lord Epcot’s steam engine line was coming along well and would be crossing the Serren River and snaking its way along its banks towards Farrowton in just a few short months. How they would ever get it done? The banks of the Serren were steep and the hills that ringed the Serren Valley were more stone than earth. But the market gossips were adamant that all was on schedule and they hadn’t been wrong yet.

She averted her eyes from the gallows they’d constructed outside the market. Once she’d made the mistake of looking. She could still picture the horrible scene when she closed her eyes. The swinging, lifeless bodies with their black lolling tongues and bulging eyes--not a one of them local, all of them foreigners--imprinted on her memory. Now she avoided the main entrance as much as she could. The gossips said they were hanging people there every week.

A tiny thought grew like a weed from the depths of her mind, pushing its way up through her consciousness. What if her father had met the same fate? She felt reasonably certain he’d been taken for one of the chain gang work crews, possibly destined to work on part of the steam engine line, but what if they’d seen his injuries and he’d ended up like those poor people? She shuddered and kept her head down, doing her best to drive the thoughts from her mind.

After a short walk down the hill she approached the front window of Cunningham’s Haberdashery. From here she could see the corner of the Cafe. It would be just a short detour to see if the old woman was there. She pressed her lips together into a line. Not today. Today she would focus on what Kerrie needed.

With a grunt, she pulled open the wrought iron door and entered the shop. The shop seemed as old as Farrowton, with wood panelled walls aged as dark as roast beef and a wall of notions so high it took a ladder to reach the top. The place smelled of fabric and wood and dust. The scents brought back memories of Kerrie’s first sewing lessons, of threading needles and sorting through bolts and remnants of cloth. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

“You’re early.” John Cunningham lay back in an old chair, feet up on a crate. Despite the clutter and the dust, the countertop in front of him was polished to a mirror sheen. The wood was so smooth she could barely even see the grain.

“We’ve run out of silk. Kerrie said we’ll need that shipment soon.”

Cunningham tilted his head and nodded. “You’re doing well, that’s for sure, and I can’t say the business hasn’t been helping me out. What with all the competition on sailcloth these days, there was a time I thought I might have to close the old girl’s doors. Pa would have been rolling in his grave.” He stood, picked up a polishing cloth and began rubbing at the gleaming countertop. After a few passes he stopped and fixed her with a gaze. “You can have what’s in stock, just like I told Kerrie last time we spoke, but I don’t know when the next shipment is coming. It’s already delayed. It might arrive within the next few days, or not at all.”

“What do you mean?” Thoughts blew through her mind like wind-swept hailstones. She’d thought that somehow they would be able to pull everything together, against all the odds. Even though she knew it was foolish, she’d nurtured the thought that they might achieve the impossible. Now the fragility of that fantasy was laid bare. The shipment might not arrive at all? Without the additional silk they could never complete the dresses Lady Desmonde had ordered.

“You haven’t heard then?”

“Heard what?” She’d heard all kinds of things. Practically living in a marketplace tended to make that easier, but all the merchants were talking about was the upcoming ball and how much it was helping their coffers.

(Both the story and the image are my original works.)

Author's Note:

Oh how wrong I was! Did I say we were heading towards the climax? Silly, foolish writer! It seems I was fooling myself and inadvertently fooling you as well. There's more to this story yet. Much more. So hang on to your hats.

If you are joining mid-way, please do check it out on my Steemshelf at Steemshelves http://www.steemshelves.com/thinknzombie/. You can see each Steemit post in the series linked there as well as some of my other stories.

Here's what it looks like, and the image will take you to the shelves:

As ever, this story would not have been possible without the crew from the The Writers' Block on Discord (https://discord.gg/vjVavr). Big thanks to everyone who helped edit this. You are superstars, every one, and I give thanks on a daily basis for stumbling across you.

If you are a writer or would like to be, I urge you to visit us at The Writer's Block. Who knows, you might even decide to become part of the family too.

-- @thinknzombie