Free Mr. Stitch by Chris Braak

themselves in dis favor when a new Family secured control of it. This permitted the Feathermiths to remain at the top of their industry since its earliest incarnation as weaponeers during the reign of Agon Diethes, to weather crises of interregnum, revolution, and the exposure of certain of its members as heretics. Peculiarly, by shunning the power that Estimation brought with it, Ephraim Feathersmith’s antecedents had found themselves a broader freedom.
    “Miss Feathersmith.”
    “Nora, please,” the young lady responded, lazily. She took a long drag on a cigarette or cigar that smelled of tobacco and dreamsnake venom.
    “And you must call me Emilia,” said Emilia Vie-Gorgon. “We are, I think, going to be great friends. You know my cousin, don’t you?”
    “Valentine.” Skinner replied.
    “Oh, he’s a charmer,” Nora put in. “And such lovely hair…”
    “Generally,” Skinner replied, a little stiffly, “I find him to be rather irritating. Is he..is that…why…how you know me, I mean?”
    Nora chuckled faintly, and Emilia was silent. That silence was profound in a way that Skinner had never heard from another person before. Ordinarily, she could make out the character of a silence—a thoughtful hesitation, an embarrassed lack of a response. From Emilia, she gleaned nothing: it was as though the young woman had vanished off of the face of the earth, hid herself deep in the aethyr while she contemplated a correct response.
    “No,” when her voice came, after that strange, total silence, it was softly shocking. “We have another friend in common, actually, one who thinks very highly of your abilities.”
    “Hm. Perhaps you should have him talk to the Emperor.”
    “Yes. Perhaps.” Emilia replied. Was that the hint of a smile behind her voice? A barb? There was no getting past the wall of smooth confidence that sheltered her private feelings. Emilia Vie-Gorgon was the kind of woman that could lie to her mother with the calm, casual certainty that ordinary people used to remark on the color of the sky. “Ah, the show begins!”
    If it was a tradition to be silent during a play, it was apparently a privilege of box seats to offer commentary. Emilia and Nora snickered furiously from the opening—a simpering detonation of music from Corimander’s last symphony—through each and every scene.
    “Oh, this is lovely. Can she walk? Maybe they should get someone to carry her onstage.”
    “That’s it, love. Say the words louder . That’ll improve them.”
    “Oh, he can’t help it, Emmy—he’s sad. Sad people say things LOUDLY.”
    “Yes, and so do ANGRY PEOPLE. And so do HAPPY PEOPLE.”
    The commentary greatly improved on the play— Alas, My Love— which was, in Skinner’s estimation, utter tripe. A new play by the now thoroughly-defamed Bertram Sitwell, Alas, My Love was modeled after the old pastoral-royal comedies of the 17 th century, where every shepherd turned out to be a king in disguise. They were all an oblique reference to the ascendance of Owen I Gorgon as the first Emperor of Trowth after the interregnum, and meant to legitimize the Gorgon-Vies’ claim to the imperial line. The Gorgon-Vies spent a great deal of time attempting to legitimize their claims to the imperial line, and usually in as thoroughly a ham-handed fashion.
    “Oh, he’s gone up on his lines.”
    “Well, can you blame him? I’ve only had to hear it once, and I’m already trying to forget it.”
    “There’s the cue card boy. Oh, look, he’s lovely! They should just have him play the role.”
    “Certainly, he couldn’t be worse, unless he turns out to be a deaf-mute.”
    “Not at all; I should think not having to hear the script would be a categorical improvement. Miss Skinner?”
    Skinner had been sitting, quietly amused, though not comfortable enough to participate. She perked up when Emilia addressed her. “Elizabeth, please. And, yes, I imagine there are innumerable ailments that might be alleviated