Free The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance by Laurel Wanrow

“Annmar, Mrs. Betsy Campbell is in charge of the house kitchen.”
    Mrs. Betsy wore an apron and smelled of fresh bread. The older woman dipped her head, revealing sprinkles of white dust. She took Annmar’s proffered hand in her strong ones, her gaze as warm and welcoming. “All right, duck?”
    Duck . Annmar swallowed. She hadn’t heard the friendly endearment used by Peak District folks since Mother had died.
    “Mrs. Betsy and her staff serve three meals a day.” Mistress Gere paused and ran her gaze down Annmar again. “But if you need something in between, get her permission. She runs a tight ship. Mrs. Betsy, not only did this girl have a long trip from Outside’s Derby, but she had a bit of an adventure in the bunkhouse’s lower storage. Might we have something light for her in my office?”
    Annmar’s stomach sank. That was the bunkhouse? Yet the reference to Outside piqued her curiosity. Mr. Yates had also used the term. Apparently, these Blighted Basin people knew about the rest of England, but no one Outside knew about the crater valley, or the Gateway.
    They followed Mrs. Betsy down the hall bisecting the house. She turned left through an archway into a huge dining room. Mistress Gere gestured to the right of the old house’s enormous front door, to what would be the receiving parlor in most town houses. Shelves lined the walls, holding books but also an assortment of glass canning jars. In their thick syrups and tinted juices, the fruits and vegetables displayed vibrant colors, like a kaleidoscope in the afternoon sun. A delicate lady’s desk angled into a corner so someone sitting at it could see the hills out the side window.
    Mistress Gere pointed Annmar to a seat before the desk, while she took her chair and picked up a paper. “Mr. Fetcher gave you my letter explaining the terms of employment, but may we review?”
    Annmar took the letter from her satchel. Mistress Gere didn’t get far before a girl about Annmar’s age arrived with a tray. Under her kitchen apron she wore a blue flannel shirt and… A bib-and-brace?
    Trousers, like a man? Annmar stared. And on her feet, work boots. This farm girl’s feet wouldn’t hurt from walking on rough stones.
    The girl set a tea tray on the corner of the desk and straightened. Instead of leaving like a servant would, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Mary Clare Pemberton.”
    She had reddish-blond hair, and the brightest green eyes… Which started to disappear under her frowning brows.
    Annmar shook herself and jerked out her hand. “Oh. Pleased to meet you.” If Annmar painted this girl’s hair loose from the ribbon binding it back—it had to be curly with those puckering waves—she could draw twining flowers, or better yet, vines of some farm crop that would offset the bib-and-brace. What a contrast the feminine and masculine elements would make—
    “Are you well?” Mary Clare peered at her. “Miz Gere, I think you better put her to bed as soon as possible.”
    Drat, she’d drifted again. “No, I mean, yes, I’m fine, though a little tired perhaps. I apologize for staring.” The truth was probably her best explanation. “I was picturing your unusual eyes and hair in a painting.”
    Mary Clare burst out laughing. “Unusual? I shall introduce you to my sisters. The lot of us green-eyed, strawberry blondes, and any curious enough to sit for you to paint, I’m sure.” She headed to the door with a wave. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Annmar the Artist.”
    Annmar the Artist? Would her job separate her from the local people as much as coming from…the Outside? Annmar squeezed the sketchbook in her lap and darted a glance to the contemplative Mistress Gere.
    “Eat, please.” Mistress Gere returned to her papers. “The traveling expense money has been turned over, correct? Eight half sovereigns.”
    Annmar nodded and picked up a dainty cup.
    “Good. You have arrived to start a two-week trial and are therefore due those