The steam-clocks hissed, the bells chiming a dreary tune that clung to every floating particle of mist and rung out across the stoic faces of the houses. The night shift of the factories stumbled out in masses, their cheeks and hands smeared with grime and soot, their expressions grim. The morning shift trickled in to replace them.
Across the river, in the nicer houses, the shopkeepers’ wives readied themselves for the day’s work: sweeping floors, preparing meals, maintaining a steady supply of whatever good it was that kept them out of the miserable slums and factories. Their children walked to school, giggling and scrambling along curbs and garden walls with nary a care in the world while the men smoked in the parlors and talked. A starving stray dog pursued a shrieking child down the street. A shrill whistle cut through the thick morning air as a locomotive pulled into the station.
Further away, up in the hills, the wealthy sat down to breakfast. The wife of a baron slipped a few drops of laudanum into her husband’s tea, enough to knock him out and give her some peace for just a day. A young man from midtown embraced another gentleman in his backyard, pressing a gentle kiss to his head and whispering their plans to flee to Dodge in his ear. A lady screamed at her servant for accidentally dropping a plate, and forced the poor woman to pick up the shards with her bare hands.
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In a palace atop the hills, higher than any of the manors were allowed to climb, a woman in silk gloves overlooked her kingdom. She had a glass of wine in one hand and a pipe in the other, an unladylike habit, but who would complain about the highest power in the land? Well, her land, at least.
Tongues of flame leapt from the mouth of one of the factories’ funnels. The windows lit up, briefly, in orange. The Margrave raised the pipe to her lips. She expected she’d be reading about that explosion in the paper, a footnote beneath layers and layers of gossip and scandal. She estimated, oh, maybe about twenty dead this time; bigger than normal, but not the largest she’d seen in her life. At least the building hadn’t collapsed; that would save some time and money once they finished picking what was left of the workers out of the machinery.
The Margrave straightened her back and blew a bubble of smoke from pursed lips. It coiled in the air, writhing like a serpent and billowing like a sail; beautiful, in a cursed way. She tipped the ashes over the balcony railing and marched back inside, polished shoes tapping on the marble floors.
The city of Harbinger’s Well reigned another day.
