Elsa raised her voice. “That’s it, take a swing. But make sure you look at me first, because hitting me would be the worst mistake of your life.”
The miner glanced at the gathered crowd, uncertain.
“No use searching for your friends,” Elsa said. “None of them are going to help you. I recognise their faces. I know they come to my uncle for junk. I know he treats them fairly and I doubt they’re willing to give that up, just so you can have your fun.”
Murmurs travelled through the gathering. The tight pack of people began to loosen. The crowd dispersed, like a deep breath released, and the foot traffic flowed once more. The lone miner scowled as her allies deserted her. She jerked her wrist from Elsa’s grasp.
“Darkness take you!” She cursed and spun on her tattered shoes. She stomped towards Quarry Lane clutching her feathered prize.
Elsa sighed and turned her attention back to the redhead.
“Are you okay?” Elsa asked.
She got no reply.
“Come on. Let me help you up.”
Elsa held out her hand. Sienna stared through it.
“You just need to stand,” Elsa said. “That’s the first step and it’s an easy one. You can do that, can’t you?”
Elsa kept talking until the girl placed a tentative hand in hers. She helped her to her feet.
“See. Simple.”
The girl took a ragged breath.
“It’s Sienna, right?” Elsa asked.
The girl nodded.
“I’m Elsa.”
“I know,” Sienna said. “You work the junk stall.”
For a moment, Elsa was lost for words. She cleared her throat. “Let’s go get your father.”
They crossed the street towards the saloon and Elsa felt her anxieties rise. She reached the balcony edge and hesitated. Simple, she’d said to Sienna, and yet stepping forward became anything but. Elsa had a view of Marcella’s ageless, elegant profile, and she suddenly dreaded the moment the woman would turn her blonde head and notice her.
A hint of Marcella’s vanilla perfume reached Elsa’s nose. The revolting scent brought back a memory of shampoo suds on her fingers and steam on her face. Her feet froze and she fought the urge to run in the opposite direction.
Marcella, oblivious to Elsa’s internal struggle, continued to listen to Donald’s tale. She tucked a stray white hair into her neat bun and said, “It’s disgraceful this happened to you.”
Marcella clicked her fingers twice and the young water carrier Elsa had seen earlier pushed through the rose printed cloth hanging from the saloon’s doorway. The girl had changed into a demure gown and apron and now had a tea tray balanced in her hands. Under her mistress’ watchful eye, the girl poured Donald a cup. He accepted the tea and the neat curtsey accompanying it.
“I don’t understand it,” he said after taking a sip. “I’ve always done right by the Keeper. I sent my eldest child to the Farm. I paid my guild tariffs each month, worked to my hours and never asked for more than my allocation of resources. Why was I forsaken?”
Marcella caught the tea girl’s hand before she could retreat to the saloon and pulled her closer to fix the two clips in her hair. Elsa’s scalp crawled, as if Marcella stood behind her, running cold fingers through her own brown locks. The saloon owner looked over the girl with a critical eye, then she sent her away.
“Now is not the time to dwell on your suffering,” Marcella said.
“But they called me a traitor and a subversive,” Donald said. “People I’ve known for decades stood against me. My own wife. I need to know why.”
Marcella placed a marble white hand on Donald’s shoulder. “What you need is a warm fire and a good meal. That much I can provide.”
“You will?”
“Of course, you’re welcome to share our light.”
Tears welled in Donald’s eyes. “That’s so kind of you.”
“We look after our own here,” Marcella said. “Smoker or Bad Seed, in the Darkzone we are all equal. I’ll ready a spare room for tonight. We can talk about payment later, when you’ve had time to rest and reflect.”
Donald shook her hand. “Thank you. I won’t forget this generosity.”
His words snapped Elsa from her paralysis. She stepped beneath the balcony. “They don’t need your help, Marcella.”
The saloon owner turned to Elsa and scowled. “This is none of your concern, junk girl.”
Donald waved to his daughter. “Sienna, there you are, come meet Marcella. She runs this saloon. She’s offering us a place to sleep for the night and said she may even have work for you.”
“Work?” Elsa scoffed. “Open your eyes, Donald.”
Elsa gestured to the woman who had just appeared in the doorway of the Lonely Flame. She was slight, blonde and wore the mark of a Bad Seed on her wrist. The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she invited miners and plantation workers inside the building.
It still took a moment for Donald to understand, but when he did his soft skin turned a ruddy red. “I didn’t realise…Thank you, but I ah- that is, we don’t…it’s appreciated but—”
Marcella frowned and Donald’s stuttering broke off.
“Very well.” Marcella rose from her chair and inclined her head. “My offer stands, if you should change your mind.”
“He won’t,” Elsa said.
Marcella ignored her. “Don’t wait too long, Donald. Life is hard in the Darkzone and I’ll have no use for her once her bloom is gone.”
***
Sienna and her father stuck to Elsa’s heels, close enough that she felt she might trip if she wasn’t paying attention. With every step into the marketplace, with every unfamiliar sound and unsettling sight, they seemed to shrink further in on themselves.
She tried not to blame them for their weakness and fear. Elsa knew how this place must look. She still remembered her own introduction to the Alley: the ingrained dirt and the squalor, so different from Haven’s pristine walkways and buildings; the huddled shops, little more than rusted tin and rotting wood wrapped in fraying rope; and the dust and smoke that dirtied the air. The scent of unwashed bodies had made Elsa feel ill. And the people had terrified her—Smokers had coughed and wheezed with unshakable ailments, while others had waited in the shadows for the smallest opportunity.
A lane branched off the Alley and the sharp smell of urine and excrement wafted over them. Donald peered into the thin passageway and gagged. “What in all light is that stench?”
He was unused to the darkness and couldn’t make out the scene. Elsa tugged his sleeve to get him moving again. “It’s a communal bathroom.”
Donald recoiled and rushed to place a handkerchief over his nose. The crisp white cloth muffled his words. “I don’t know how people can live like this.”
“It’s not by choice,” Elsa said.
“That’s not what the Keeper tells us.”
Elsa lowered her voice. “Well, the Keeper’s wrong.”
Donald started shaking his head.
“Think about it,” Elsa said. “In the Darkzone you have second, even third generation Smokers. Their parents fled the surface, hoping to find sanctuary underground and found the gates of Haven closed to them. They stayed here, in the Darkzone, hoping to win a place at least for their children…and then it was too late to go back to the surface. The Keeper changed the rules—no one gets in or out of the mountain without her permission.”
“I doubt the Keeper could stop them if they were really determined,” Donald said.
“A decade ago, they did try. There was an uprising. The Smokers attempted to fight their way to the surface and escape. In response, the Keeper ordered the collapse of all but the main exit to the above and sent the Black Guardsmen into the Darkzone. The rebellion didn’t last against their guns. They’re stuck here, just like you and me.”
Donald returned his handkerchief to his sleeve. “But, surely they can buy a permit to live in the city. If they worked really hard, they could change their circumstances.”
Elsa snorted. “There are no council stores here. No allocation of resources. We pay for everything—food, fuel, clothing, light. There’s not much left to put into the savings box after that, I can assure you.”
Donald’s plump face fell. “Then this is a death sentence!”
“It can be,” Elsa said, “if you let it. If, however, you want to survive here, you must remember there’s a hierarchy, just like in Haven. And just like Haven, it’s all about the services and products you can provide.”
Donald sniffed as he took in the crude buildings crowding the path. “I find it hard to believe there could be any rhyme or reason to this place.”
“Of course there is,” Elsa said. “At the top, there’s people like Marcella and Rusty. They have what everyone else needs and wants. You get in the good graces of one of them and you don’t cross the others.”
Elsa waited for Donald to nod in understanding.
“Then there’s the Smokers. You’ve got those with secure jobs, people who work in Haven doing menial work, for example. Below them are the traders of the Alley and those who work in the plantation caves and mines.”
“And beneath them?” Donald asked.
“The most desperate Smokers, the broken ones without work or a chance of it.”
“Where do we fit in?”
“Right at the bottom.” Elsa said.
Donald gave her a look of disbelief. “We’re below the unemployable ones?”
“Yes.”
Donald swallowed hard and shook his head. “What have we done to deserve this?”
“You can’t think like that anymore,” Elsa said, her patience fading. “You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. You can’t rely on anyone else—if you’d taken Marcella’s offer, you would have seen that soon enough. Her generosity is tied to a hundred invisible strings.”
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Donald flushed. “We were desperate.”
“And chances are, you’ll be desperate again.” Elsa said. “Be ready to fight, that’s my advice. The Smokers will test you and if you’re not strong enough, they’ll take everything you own.”
“You’re saying they’ll target us?” Donald asked.
Elsa clasped her left sleeve. “You were Citizens. You had it all, sunlight, warmth, food and security. You had what everyone here is striving for and you lost it. They won’t ever let you forget that.”
***
Two carved reliefs marked the entrance to Junker Lane: one showed a horse drawn cart, the second a needle and thread.
“Down here,” Elsa said.
The passage led to a modest cave far enough from the Alley to muffle its sound. Water dripped from speared rocks and tiny stone straws to collect in a deep pool in the middle of the floor. A well-worn path reached the water’s edge and forked. To the right, it ended at two steel doors. A thick chain and padlock linked them together, and a white sign above displayed her uncle’s name and profession, Junker Amos Jefferson, in thick black writing.
“That’s my uncle’s business,” Elsa said to fill the silence. “I’ve been his apprentice for the last ten years. We deal in junk and can get you any piece from the surface at a very reasonable price.”
“Is this where we’re staying?” Donald asked.
Elsa shook her head. “My uncle doesn’t like strangers in his workshop. I’ve got another place in mind for you.”
They took the left path. It finished at an orange door built into a gap several feet up the cave wall. Elsa handed Sienna her lantern and climbed the stairs. She knocked. After several heartbeats without an answer, she knocked again. The door flew open.
A grey-haired woman scanned the top step, her eyes the colour of dark wood. Her nut-brown forearms and green gown were covered in shavings of material and tiny pieces of thread.
“Oh!” Rama’s frown disappeared. “It’s you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” Elsa asked.
“No, I thought you were another nagging Smoker. Is your uncle back? Actually, no, I’ve not got time for chit-chat. I’ve got a massive order to fill before Market Day. Can you come back later?”
“I need to talk to you now.” Elsa stepped to the side, revealing Sienna and her hopeful father at the bottom of the stairs.
The seamstress’ eyebrows raised and she shook her head. “Oh no. No newcomers, no Bad Seeds, no way.”
Rama slammed the door shut.
Elsa knocked again. “Come on, Rama, hear me out.”
“Is there a problem?” Donald asked behind her.
“No,” Elsa said. “Just give me a moment.”
The door sprung open again and Rama waved at Elsa. “Can I talk to you please? In here.”
Elsa gave Sienna and her father a smile of reassurance and stepped over the raised threshold into Rama’s workshop. Every space was filled with hanging or folded material. There were theatre costumes, curtains, rugs, towels, and quilts. Between towering piles of cloth were decorative pieces of junk: plastic flowers, festival decorations and dozens of jars full of odd beads and buttons. Rama kept two clear areas only. One was near the fire, where she’d set up her worktable, mannequin and sewing machine. The other was by the entrance, where she conducted business and hung her finished outfits.
Rama shut the door. “Are you crazy?”
“They needed help.”
“So?” Rama said. “Everyone in the Darkzone needs help, that’s why we’re here and not in Haven city. Have you learnt nothing the past few years?” She stormed over to her workstation.
Elsa followed. She ducked beneath a hanging mobile of birds and butterflies, edged between two piles of cloth and caught a basket of coloured feathers before it could topple.
Rama picked up a gold sash from the workbench and waved it at her. “What have I always told you? Charity gets you killed. People are like parasites. They suck and suck until there’s nothing left. And you bring me two of them!”
Rama searched under several different scraps of material until she found her scissors.
“You want me to take these people into my house? Feed them from my store of food? Let them soak up the light and heat from my hard-won fire? Nah-uh, no way, not going to happen. This is their punishment, not mine!”
Elsa ignored the older woman’s scowl and crossed to her workstation.
“They need help, but so do you. Your workshop’s a mess. Are you telling me you couldn’t use some help getting it under control?”
Rama snatched the feather basket from Elsa’s hands and dropped it onto a nearby pile of clothing.
“I have a system,” she said. “You just don’t understand it.”
“Well,” Elsa said, “you’re always telling me how much work you have. Surely you could use another person to help with sewing?”
Rama scoffed. “And what would those fine white hands know about creating city fashion?”
Elsa gestured at her own clothing. “A lot more than a girl who’s spent the majority of her life in the Darkzone, yet you let me help.”
“You have your moments.” Rama studied Elsa with a critical eye and touched her grey tunic, pinching the hardy material between her fingertips and twisting her face as if she were in pain. “Today, however, is not one of them. You know I hate that shirt. Grey sucks away the soul and that’s all I will say on the matter.”
Elsa pointed to the door. “Do me a favour, go out there and talk to them.
For a moment, Elsa thought the seamstress would refuse.
“Please, Rama.”
Her friend sighed. “Two minutes, that’s it.” She put down the sash and scissors. “You can time with that fancy pocket watch of yours.”
Elsa and Rama wove their way back through the piles of fabric to the door. Rama tugged it open, crossed her arms and swept both the newcomers with her dark gaze. She pointed to Sienna. “Come here.”
Donald also stepped forward.
“Not you!” Rama snapped.
When Sienna was on the doorstep in front of her, Rama said, “Your former guild?”
“Pardon?” Sienna asked.
Rama sighed. “I want to know the guild you were in before the council threw you out. Quickly now, we’ve got two lanterns burning.”
“Science,” Sienna said. “I was an apprentice in the Science Guild.”
Rama glanced at Donald. “Your father doesn’t have the look of a researcher.”
“He is… was Commerce,” Sienna said. “My mother is Science.”
“Your mother stayed in Haven then?”
Sienna nodded. “She managed to avoid whatever taint touched my father.”
“She let them take you, though, isn’t that strange?”
“Not really,” Sienna said. “My mother’s well known in Haven for doing whatever benefits her.”
Rama tilted her head, weighing the answers given. “I make dresses for the ladies of Haven. I do it because Madame Selma, the so-called Mistress of Sewing, wouldn’t know the sharp end of a needle if she sat on it. Madame Selma pays me well to make her look good, but she also works me damn hard. I want to make sure you and your father are assets, not burdens. Can either of you sew?”
Sienna mumbled her answer.
“Speak up!”
“Yes,” Sienna said, raising her voice. “I know how to use a needle and thread. Anything else, we can learn as we go. We’re up to the task.”
“That confident, are you?”
Sienna raised her chin. “I am.”
Rama looked between Sienna, Donald and Elsa. She threw up her hands. “Fine, I’ll help them.”
Elsa smiled. “Thank you.”
“But they have to work to my hours without complaint and nothing comes free. I also want first look at the new junk when your uncle returns.”
“Okay.”
“And, I want a discount,” Rama added. “At least on the material.”
Elsa thought about it and nodded.
“Well, come on in then,” Rama said to the newcomers, “we’ve got dresses to make.”
***
Smokers crammed the path along the Chimney. In line, Elsa shuffled her way up the narrow, corkscrewing ledges. As she passed the ventilation system, she watched an old woman chuck a bucket full of ash at the silent copper giant. Elsa climbed higher and higher. The crush dwindled as tired men and women retreated into their nooks for a few hours of respite. Less than a dozen Smokers remained within the windy tunnel by the time Elsa reached her level.
The landing outside her door smelt of woody kenafi smoke. Elsa held up her lantern to see a thick white column pouring from the hole in the wall and spiralling up into the Chimney’s high reaches. The gaps around the doorframe breathed light.
Elsa took out her key and entered. An unexpected fire crackled in the hearth and brightened the room. Her mother dozed in a chair before the flames.
Fire was normally a kind light, but Helena Jefferson looked worn and old in its orange glow. Her hair, once the same rich brown as Elsa’s, showed thick strands of grey. The material of her homemade dress fell in such a way that it showed her thin overworked body. The hands resting on the arms of her chair were all callouses, bony knuckles and cuts, though Elsa knew of a time when they were graceful and soft: the hands of a writer and artist.
Elsa extinguished her lantern and shut the door. Her mother jolted at the click of the latch. The older woman rubbed her eyes and blinked.
“I’m back,” Elsa said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Helena frowned, and Elsa waited for her mother to comment on the waste of oil or the dust she’d collected on her boots and trousers.
“Melker was here,” Helena said, instead.
Elsa stored her lantern on the shelf above the hearth. “And what did the captain of the Black Guards want?”
“Does that matter?” Helena asked. “He waited some time for you to return.”
Elsa took off her coat and hung it on the peg between the fireplace and the door. She skirted around her mother to sneak the two new jars of oil back onto their shelf. Elsa glanced over her shoulder to see if her mother had noticed.
“Well?” Helena demanded, oblivious to Elsa’s actions.
She closed the cupboard. “I was helping Rama. I’m sorry it took longer than expected.”
“Helping her with what? Her sewing?”
Elsa nodded and waited for the sting of her mother’s disapproval.
Helena sighed. “You know I hate it when you give labour away for free.”
“I know.”
“You should at least ask for something in return. I swear, that useless brother of mine has destroyed you.”
Elsa kept quiet. She learnt early on that defending her uncle Amos only fuelled her mother’s anger.
Elsa observed a half loaf of dense black bread, a generous chunk of cheese, two shrivelled apples and a few slices of ham on a piece of linen on the table. A feast. The apples looked like they came from the Sun Caves and alone would have cost a good two or three lumieres. Elsa’s stomach growled at the sight.
“Did Melker bring this?”
Her mother rose and went to the other side of the table. She picked up a knife and started carving a thin slice of bread.
“He’s such a generous man. He brought provisions, and a few kenafi logs for our fire. It’s quality leaf too. Just look how clean that smoke is.”
“I wish he wouldn’t,” Elsa said, removing her boots.
Her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval. “When your junking apprenticeship starts paying, I’ll start turning away free food and fuel. Until then, just accept the gift.”
Elsa touched her tattoo and looked at the identical image on her mother’s wrist with the number 272 at the oak’s heart. “It’s never a gift. There’s always a catch.”
She collected the hard soap and filled the wash bowl with water from a steel drum beneath the ledge on which her mother slept. Her mother put down the knife and followed her.
“Elsa, you must know Melker admires you.”
“Then that’s his real motive for giving us food, not kindness.”
Elsa untied the scarf at her head and ran her fingers along the scalp to loosen the pull from her bun. Her mother collected the blue material from her and stepped across the tiny room to shake it over the fire.
“Why must you criticise everything he does?” Helena asked, picking off the stubborn spider webs and dropping them into the flames. “You know the precarious position we are in and Melker’s been good to us during our time in the Darkzone.”
Elsa took her scarf back and shoved it into her pocket. “He’s a Citizen and the leader of the Black Guardsmen. Guards don’t mix with Smokers, especially disgraced ones. They punish them.”
Her mother crossed her arms and frowned. “The guards only punish Smokers who break the rules. They’re trying to protect the Citizens and the city. You’ll be grateful for this policy when we buy our pardons and move back.”
Elsa wanted her mother to understand. “It feels wrong. A Citizen doesn’t belong in the Darkzone.”
“The fact he’s a Citizen makes this even more important. Can’t you be nicer to him? Can’t you encourage his attentions?”
“Mother!” Elsa warned. She splashed cold water on her face and washed her hands and arms with soap. The smoky tallow residue stuck to her skin, even after she rinsed several times.
“Is it really that hard?” Helena asked, offering Elsa a rough cloth. “It would solve so many of our problems.”
“No, it would solve your problems. Mine would only be beginning.”
Elsa dried her face with slow, deliberate strokes. Her mother’s silence drew on and Elsa felt her displeasure like a cold chill on her back.
“You’re a selfish child,” Helena whispered.
Elsa’s guilt fed on her mother’s words. She gripped the edge of the wash bowl. “Don’t say that.”
“Ungrateful and shameful!” Her mother said, her voice rising. “The food we eat, the oil, the firelogs, they come from my income alone. You won’t consider working a shift in the plantations. Why am I the one who’s left to make sure we get by?”
Tears gathered in Elsa’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She clenched her hands until her nails cut into the skin.
“The two of us picking kenafi leaves won’t change a thing,” Elsa said. “We’ll both die old women before we’re even close to buying a single pardon. I will get you back to Haven. I swear it. My apprenticeship will save us.”
Her mother scoffed. “Your apprenticeship will get you killed and my sacrifice will be for nothing.”
“I won’t fail.”
Helena’s panicked gaze swept the room. “This is no life, living in a smoky rotting bolthole, rationing our logs and oil, always fearing someone will take what little we have.”
“I know.” Elsa came around the table to comfort her. “I know it’s hard.”
Helena pulled away.
“How could you possibly know? You don’t know Haven like I did. You were a child. That beautiful place was never yours, so how can you miss it?”
Elsa stepped back and pushed her palm into her chest until she felt the watch tick against her skin. “You’re right. Of course I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”
The apology appeased her mother in a way her explanations never could. Helena picked up the knife once more and sliced the rest of the bread.
Elsa sat down. “It looks good.”
Her mother portioned out the food with shaking hands and gave Elsa the more generous share. There was no chance to say thank you. Helena dragged her chair to face the fire, blocking her out, and Elsa ate her only meal for the day alone.