The Mask of White and Red - Part 9

Over the next few weeks Ilsa found herself following roughly the same schedule. In the mornings she woke and completed the chores assigned her by Shona's maid, then raced over to the market as quickly as possible to avoid running into Shona—always an unpleasant experience but made worse by Shona's foul morning temper.

Kerrie had been teaching her all she knew of sewing, and most often Ilsa found herself with the scissors, cutting out fabric by following the colored chalk markings Kerrie had drawn from her patterns, pretending she was making incisions, and that instead of bolts of cloth she was operating on a patient. Was this how Mother had felt as she helped Father in the surgery?

In the afternoons Ilsa read what was left of her father’s journal. The entries ranged from descriptions of medical techniques to his thoughts on local politics. Ilsa understood little of politics but many of the medical techniques he’d written about were familiar. As she held the scorched leather cover, the world became very small. With that book in hand, she was tethered to her father and no matter where he was or how the world tried to force them apart, with it she felt she could find him. That thought alone brought her comfort at night, as if just by having read his thoughts she was drawing closer to him. Wherever he was.

Kerrie began to pay a weekly wage out of the funds from Lady Desmonde’s commission—three gleaming silver crowns—which Ilsa dutifully paid back to her for room and board, keeping just one for herself. Despite her father’s warning, Ilsa could not keep everything that had happened to herself. She shared it with Kerrie, telling her of the old woman and of her fears for her father.

“We’ll find them both,” Kerrie said.

Together they would walk down the hill to the cafe to drink tea, and hopefully meet the old woman, but so far she had not reappeared. There was also no sign of Ilsa’s father, and not even Matron Tettle knew where he might be, but she suggested Ilsa check with Pastor Beckford as well. Talking to the pastor sounded easy in practice but so far Ilsa had not been able to force herself to do it.

Ilsa dragged her thoughts back to the present, letting out a small squeal of surprise as she nearly bumped into Kerrie. Kerrie had stopped just shy of the cafe where a team of armed men had cordoned off the street. The men stood in a line and were holding up polished wooden batons to discourage anyone from moving beyond them. She looked from face to face, none of them were familiar. Could they be the Sheriff’s men? But she knew most of them on sight from seeing them during their frequent patrols of the markets. They didn’t appear to be soldiers either. They wore no uniforms, but they had plenty of weapons. They wore pistols at their hips, and each had a matching short sword. They were dusty and scarred. Ilsa had never seen anything so fierce.

Behind them the tops of tall masts rose like pillars above the roofline of the waterfront shops. Usually only one or two ships were in harbor, resting idly at anchor in the deep water just beyond the cafe, or cleverly tied up at the dock. Today, the masts were so great in number it appeared as if the harbor had been replaced by a forest of leafless trees. When she wasn't on the lookout for her father or the old woman, Ilsa would often watch the porters and the sailors as they roamed across the ships like insects on the carcass of some great water beast.

“Oh my,” said Kerrie. She was looking along the line of men. “I think we should leave.”

The closest man lowered his baton. “Apologies, madam, for the inconvenience.” He raised his fingers to his brow in a salute and smiled, revealing gold fillings and a jagged line of yellow teeth.

“I don’t like this at all,” Kerrie murmured.

The rumble of thousands of footfalls on the cobblestone quickly ruled out further conversation. A ragged line of what appeared to be beggars staggered into view, accompanied by more of the baton-wielding guards.

Ilsa’s breath caught at the sight. They lurched and wove, driven along by the baton-wielding men. Some staggered and were helped by those beside them. Others marched alone, eyes vacant. The look on their faces was one Ilsa had seen before. She’d seen it in the eyes of beaten dogs, and on the face of a woman beaten by her husband so badly she’d lost the use of her eye. These men carried a similar expression, as if caring were a luxury they could ill afford.

“What is this?” asked Ilsa.

“This?” said the nearest guard. “This is his Lordship’s army.” One of the others sniggered.

The abused men were not soldiers. Anyone could have seen that. They had no weapons, and many were struggling to stay upright, looking like they’d been beaten with cudgels.

“These, me lady,” said the guard, waving an arm expansively toward the oncoming men, “are His Lordship Epcot’s secret weapon—the men who will build his steam engine line, and—how did he put it, Gordo?”

The other man leaned towards them. “Restore his line to greatness was what he said.” He made it clear by his tone what he thought of that. “As long as I’m paid I could give a rat’s cock.”

Ilsa felt Kerrie’s hand on her shoulder, the grip echoed the clenching feeling Ilsa felt in the pit of her stomach. “Come, poppet,” said Kerrie, “This is no place for us. They’ll be marching through town for an hour yet. We may as well go back to the market.”

A small crowd had gathered behind them. Ilsa recognized a few of the ladies who frequented the cafe as well as some local shopkeepers. Two of the women were wearing gowns that looked suspiciously similar to the one Kerrie had modified for Lady Desmonde. Looking more closely the dresses were less formal but the beading around the bust was clearly inspired by Kerrie’s creation. Ilsa pulled at Kerrie’s sleeve. “Look at that. They’re wearing your dress.”

Kerrie’s nose was wrinkled, her expression thoughtful. “So it seems.” She sighed. -"I’m not sure what to make of that.”

“These aren’t yours?”

“No. I only did the one for our Lady Desmonde. I have no idea who made these.”

The dresses were just different enough to draw the eye. Kerrie really had worked wonders with that old gown. “If you didn’t make them, someone is awfully good at copying.”

“Hmm.”

She couldn’t tell whether Kerrie was concerned that someone had used her dress design and had been busy making copies or not, but she knew how much work had gone into the design.

Kerrie put her hand over her mouth and it took a few seconds for Ilsa to realize that she was laughing.

“Kerrie? Are you okay?”

“I’m just…I suppose I’m chuffed. No one important had ever worn one of my creations until our Lady and now there are three.” This set off another peal of laughter. “Come on,” Kerrie said, finally. “Let’s go get that tea.”

Giving the scene a final look, Ilsa paused, watching the line of workers. For an instant she thought she’d seen her father, but the line kept moving and the place she thought she’d seen him was deep in the column, further down the hill. When she tried to find him again she had no luck. There were too many dirty faces.

“If he’s there, we’ll find out,” said Kerrie. “And we’ll get him out.”

Ilsa stopped, staring at Kerrie. “How…”

Kerrie laughed. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. And besides, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t know what you were thinking?”

---

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

---

---

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed Part 9 of The Mask of White and Red. Things are starting to heat up now, so I do hope you will stick with me as we begin the race towards the climax.

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 linked there as well as some of my other stories.

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

---

---