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

brow at her. “You recognize the machine? It’s among the latest in farm improvements.”
    “I, uh…” Annmar stared at the churning apparatus. She could leave Mr. Shearing out of this. “The shop I worked at produced its advertisements.” Ones she had drawn.
    “Ah. Yes. Shall we?” Mistress Gere gestured to the wide wooden stair leading to the second floor.
    They ascended and the platform kept pace, its crates filled with squash and tomatoes. The clinking chain made conversation impossible. By the time they reached the top, the idling windlass hissed quietly. The gray-haired man held the platform steady while men and a few girls grabbed the crates and swung them into the space beyond. One of the young men sported a rather unruly haircut. While his dark brown hair lay short around his ears, most on the top swept long across his brow, something never seen on the streets of Derby. He turned and met her gaze.
    Annmar caught her breath. His brown eyes were like none she’d seen, wide and slanted, the rich chocolate color making a strong focus in his paler brown-sugar skin. Face on, his rounded ears were prominent, nearly animal-like, and cute.
    Oh, to capture this strange, no, exotic look… Her finger slid along the side of the sketchbook and found the pencil splitting its pages.
    He grinned, the smile open, friendly and playful all at once.
    Before realizing she’d done it, Annmar smiled back. He was gorgeous. And her age. Much more suitable than Mr. Shearing would ever…oh, my! Her chest and neck heated.
    Something hit her foot and clattered away with a familiar sound. She ducked toward the windlass to pick up her pencil. Straightening, her gaze caught the gold-edged, green lettering emblazoned across the machine’s water tank: Shearing Enterprises.
    The flutter of excitement died. So there would be reminders, even here.
    Mistress Gere gripped her elbow and guided her inside. “I’ll introduce everyone at dinner,” she said, “after you’ve seen your room and had a chance to freshen up.”
    The workers ferried the crates past overstuffed chairs circling a wood-burning stove and piled them on one side of an open room. Swings, ladders and ropes led upward to more ladders set in mazes with crisscrossed beams in the second-story rafters. The height had Annmar swaying. Who would risk their necks up there?
    Mistress Gere murmured, “A gathering place in poor weather.”
    Behind her, someone called, “All clear!” and a hiss erupted.
    “Come into the preservation kitchen,” Mistress Gere shouted above the chain’s clinking, and led the way through swinging doors that swished closed, blocking the noise. An herbal-scented moisture hung in the empty kitchen, one far larger than any Annmar had known. Large gas cookstoves stood between washing sinks and high preparation tables, half of them cluttered with glass jars, canning kettles and cooling preserves. Wellspring continued to use glass jars, not the more popular tin canisters or cans as they’d become known, because Mistress Gere felt her customers should see their food.
    They had just agreed on the size of a label that would still allow this when the door opened again, and in walked the fascinating young man, wiping his palms down heavy brown trousers held by worn leather braces.
    He was big. Much bigger than she’d realized from across the platform, he had the firm muscle of a broad, well-defined body. His rolled sleeves revealed fine, dark hair that covered the lovely brown arms he loosely swung. He planted his feet before them.
    “This is the artist from the city?” His deep voice nearly purred.
    “Yes.” Mistress Gere crossed her arms, but couldn’t keep a smile from curling her lips. “I should have known you’d be in here as fast as you could manage, my boy. Annmar, may I introduce Daeryn Darkcoat, perhaps the most gregarious individual among our farm family. Daeryn, Annmar Masterson, who, as you noted, is a city girl and not at all used to our