Chapter 8
At least half the room fell off their onions right there, the other half matched them in volume as questions and accusations flew back and forth.
“What in blazes do you mean she’s already a Castelian?!” Gimlet demanded, finger indignantly in the air. “That’s utter bull—spalt!”
In the background the Colonel and Captain argued and gestured about paperwork and regulations as Lynwood stuck her nose in the air.
“I mean that she doesn’t need you as family because she’s already got one. I told you that we were here as witnesses today,” she looked over at Irinia and shrugged. “I’d honestly thought that was why you were here today.”
“Really?” Irinia asked. “Why was that?”
Before Lynwood could answer, Captain Harkness broke in again.
“Look here now! You’re making lots of extrapolations. Yes, Lorus sounds like Loris, and you say you recognize her,” the Captain waved a dismissive hand, “But that was nearly a decade ago. There is no way to tell if it’s actually the girl! If this is a case of mistaken identity…well, it’s Forsythe for heaven’s sake.”
The Colonel nodded, “Indeed you are right. That is why I am here today as official custodian of the birth records and physical documents regarding Loris Forsythe. Obviously, many of the weights and measurements of her last medical exam will no longer be relevant, but there may be some distinguishing characteristics or marks that will help us decide.”
So then it became an impromptu medical exam as they compared records and features. On the one hand I did share the same brown eyes, pale complexion, and mousy brown-gray hair the file described. But there was a problem when it came to freckles, moles, or other telling marks.
“Certainly does have an amount of…irregularities on her,” the Captain muttered, remarking on the scars left over multiple beatings and burnings.
“Yes, strange for one who just ‘made up’ their stories of abuse, wouldn’t you say?” Nurse Jane remarked dryly.
The Captain stared back at her, “She might have deserved it.”
I thought Nurse Jane was going straight for the Captain’s throat. Honestly, if she had, I’m not sure who would’ve won. The Nurse was a very formidable woman, after all. Luckily, Irinia Crane chose that moment to insert herself into the conversation.
“There is a birthmark,” she said. “It would not have been recorded in the medical file.”
Inquiring eyes turned to her, but she merely said, “It was for family purposes only.”
“Well,” said Gimlet impatiently, “Where is this supposed birthmark? What? Is it a white on white fleck? A mole that just happens to disappear into her marked eyes unless you know it’s there? A shocking brand on a no-no place we’re not allowed to look, but you just happen to know is there?”
Irinia regarded him coldly from her chair then lifted her gloved hand and placed it on the nape of her neck.
“It will be right here. If you lift up her hair, you will see a bright patch of skin the size of a thumb mark, rather distinctly I should think. It will look like a bird flying away.”
The Captain took a step towards me, but Nurse Jane flexed her arms and stepped in between us. Gently, she turned me so my back faced the onlookers, then she lifted the hair from the nape of my neck. There was a collective intake of breath.
“Blimey!” Lynwood laughed. “How’d you know that was there?”
Irinia allowed herself a small smile.
“As you said, that's why I’m here today. Of course I should know it was there. I am Irinia Crane, Second to Ward Catalyn Forsythe. I am the one who brought Loris into this world.”
I think Gimlet knew there wasn’t anything to argue past that. So he didn’t. Captain Harkness, poor woman, put up more of a fight than him, probably feeling her credibility was on the line. Staring into Jack’s eyes too long will do that. Turn you stupid that is. I’m not sure how he does it, but it’s an incredible trick. I wish I could do it.
Before long they had the paperwork cleaned up, again, and I found myself bundled out of the school and actually carried by Nurse Jane as though she was afraid someone would again try to take her charge. At the edge of Purgatory near one of its entrances, the most amazing thing was waiting. I thought at first they were monstrous deer, maybe dire deer, though I hadn’t heard of such a thing.
“Come along, Loris,” Irinia clipped as she stepped up into an enormous, black box with windows and doors mounted into it. She paused, “This is an Elk carriage. The Forsythes normally use a single Elk hansom, but they wanted you to be comfortable on the drive home. Step up now!”
I think my hands may have shaken a bit as I stepped on a low rung just under the door, but Nurse Jane was there, her hand on my back as she steadily helped me into the carriage being pulled by four real-live elk. I looked out the window at Nurse Jane, her face absolutely radiant with happiness. I couldn’t figure out why.
“Lovely! Take care, Loris! Do write, and come by to see Raikan and myself any time you like! Oh you lovely duck! Bye bye!”
Then we were off. It wasn’t until further down the road that I realized I’d been clutching the navy blanket I’d stolen from the hospital the whole time. Irinia saw me lift it up and sniffed.
“Yes, well, that will need some cleaning. Although…” her eyes ticked critically from my head down to my toes then back up again. They did not like what they saw. “As sterile as Nurse Jane keeps her hospital and her patients, their amenities are a touch Spartan.” She sighed, “And bedraggled is only a fashion if you’re some dandy Wardensan on Walkabout or self-imposed Hermitage, neither of which are appropriate looks for you at this point.”
I looked at the blanket in my hands, giving it a small squeeze. My mind flailed about, struggled, drowned. I hadn’t chosen this path either.
“I-Irinia-“
“Miss Crane, if you please,” Irinia Crane wagged a finger at me. “You only refer to a Second by their first name if you employ them or you yourself are a Second.”
I swallowed, getting a bad feeling, “Miss Crane, who are the Forsythes? Who is Lorus-“
“Who am I, if you please,” she frowned. “That baby talk has got to stop immediately. The only notable part of your interview was when you frankly stated you did not belong anywhere.”
I tried again, “I, uh, Miss Crane, then where does I come from? Do you really know me?”
Miss Crane looked out the window.
“The Forsythes are the descendants of Willafred Forsythe, first ally to Jonathan Halvman, keepers and collectors of the Retrochronofantic collections, both Library and Vault. They also host Congress in their ward, Ward One when it is in session. They are very prominent and important, if unhappily small, but then all Warden families usually are.”
I blinked uncomfortably then also turned to look at the window.
“You…”Miss Crane paused, musing over the word, “…you are Loris Constantine Austin Forsythe. For all intents and purposes, the three-year-old daughter who wandered off one day during play time and vanished without a trace. Do I know you? Hmm, do I know you indeed?”
For all intents and purposes? What was that supposed to mean? Out of the corner of my eye I caught Miss Crane looking at me again.
“I believe you will be Little Princess Loris-The Found Wardensan,” her finger tapped her lips as she considered it then gave her head a nod. “Yes, I think that story will fit you to a tee!”
She gestured back to the window, “I believe you’ll want to see this.”
I looked back out the window, then gaped and stuck my whole top half out despite Miss Crane’s hiss of annoyance. The wind from the amount of speed we traveled with was cold and delicious, just the thing to clear my clammy head. A shape I had only seen at a blurry distance rose before us. We were coming up on the entrance to the city.
Purgatory had wooden walls and a maze of buildings itself built, so I was informed, to make it a buffer zone between the wilds and New Castle. Should any trouble start in the quarantine camp, the turrets of New Castle, equipped with all sorts of ballista, trebuchets, and other complicated sounding devices, were prepared to rain down fiery punishment on the offenders. None of the gates or entrances to Purgatory provided a straight shot to the doors of New Castle. In fact, our carriage had to thread up and down several walled roads and a maze of gates before we found ourselves waiting in line at the east entrance of New Castle. Regulars, these in smart green and brown trimmed uniforms, were amicably stopping each entering group to check for papers and passes. This gave me time to look at the doors themselves. I will say one thing for Castelians; they understand the importance of first impressions.
The walls, while already taller than three wagons stacked end to end, were also apparently built in stages. The bottom was a dirty gray and brown mottled stone, as though every available rock had been plied out of the fields to build it. On top of this was a rough, but more shapely red stone with flecks of pale blue and silver. The final top row was glistening white stone that caught the afternoon sun and really did make the city look like a crown. The jewel in it was obviously the door.
Broad enough that two elk carriages could drive into it side by side, this pair were crafted from bronze covered wood. As we got closer, I realized that what I thought were artistic designs were actually thousands of wheels, cogs Miss Crane called them, all interlocked. These cogs all contributed to the operation of the door, but their burnished gleam certainly made them lovely to look at as well. I could have stared all day, trying to figure out what gear did what and connected where, but it only took a gesture from Miss Crane, and with a crack of the driver’s whip, we were through.
I could see why Gimlet described cities as just another kind of wilderness. As wide and open as the door and gate were, there were so many stalls and tents, barrels stacked in mountains, and opened crates displaying their wares while hawkers shouted, it felt like the walls were crushing in on me. And the noise! I pulled my head back inside the carriage and put my hands over my ears. From fish to fabrics to vendors swearing they sold authentic grancestor clothing and accessories, everyone had something to yell about. Even if they weren’t pushing a sale, men and women here talked with their mouths all the way open, flashing teeth, what were left, and punctuating everything with that noise, laughter. I couldn’t understand what civil conversation had to take place at such volumes. I wrapped my borrowed blanket tighter around my head.
Miss Crane said something about it being a “Market Day”, something like a miniature holiday for each week. Apparently, it was not an everyday occurrence that they allowed the main avenue to be crowded with so many tents and tables in such a way. She assured me that not all parts of the ward were as colorful or packed so full of noisy Cogs.
Sure enough, even though I thought the way we were on would take us right up into the heart of New castle, it suddenly ended in a split; one had to go either left or right. As wide as the roads were, there was no direct road through New Castle.
“Well, unless you count those,” Miss Crane sighed and pointed up.
As the noise had died down, I ventured to stick my head out the window again. The scenery had drastically changed. Instead of portable structures, the road was now lined with brown and red brick structures, row houses, Miss Crane called them. Apparently, these were the normal dwellings for the Cogs of New Castle. Between each row, however, there would occasionally span a beam no wider than a man that arched from one side of the road to another. Just as I was pondering what good that would do, I saw a young boy with a leather satchel slung across his shoulders leap off the cusp of one building, hop onto the metal beam and run across it to the other side of the road as though it were no more than running along the ground. I laughed out loud.
“It’s like squirrel-ways!”
Miss Crane nodded, “That was the post going by. They complained that the road ways took them too long for pressing deliveries, so the City Regulars approved them putting in overpasses so long as they got to use them as well. I’m fairly certain more than just letters and law moves along them nowadays, though. Getting caught earns you automatic time in the Garden, so don’t even think about letting me catch you up there.”
“What’s the Garden?” I asked, watching the boy scamper off over more rooftops.
Miss Crane wore a very prim expression, “It’s where individuals who forget the Law of Consequences and spurn the generosity of New Castle are sent. Everyone and everything has its place and its job. Ignore or disrupt that job or others, and you spend time under the watchful eye of the Regulars repaying your infraction and thinking to yourself in a small, modest cell about the consequences of your action.”
I nodded. It was the punishment place, much like the Ayfortees’ sweatbox. Miss Crane gave a tight smile.
“Rarely do Wardens or Wardensans spend time there, however.”
I pondered that.
“Specially treatment?”
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“Not harsh enough,” she nodded out the window as we passed a tall, gray structure, long black marks streaking down its side. “Warden families have a high honor and duty to carry out in New Castle. They must be held to a higher standard than its Cogs; therefore, each family has its individual ways of assuring its members stay in line. That’s the Sumequi House, Wardens of Ward 12, our foundry coordinator and inspectors. Most of the Thaumaturgic iron for tools and weapons comes out of there.”
She mused to herself as we drove on. “Even though they’re Wardens, many have their own pastimes and interests in other fields. It’s rumored the patron of the house built a machine that rips your fingernails out for particularly egregious behavior.”
I looked at my own hands. I’d had smashed fingers or toes more than once. It was never pretty once the nail fell off. I looked back out the window.
“The catch is,” Miss Crane continued, “the machine is self-operated. The punishee has to pull the lever to rip their own nails off as the whole family watches.”
I nodded. Message received. I did find it interesting how the concept of punishment did not change that much from this so-called advanced society. As far as I could see, the lower classes still suffered corporal punishment while the ones at the top, believing somehow their ego or their honor was more precious, suffered only humiliation. I think I must have smiled at that. So I was supposed to be one of these Wardensans? They wouldn’t be able to touch me. You cannot humiliate that which has no honor.
“Something amuses you, Miss Loris?”
I shook my head, “It seems everyone has a place and a job in New Castle, but this whole time I’ve been wondering what exactly Wardens and Wardensans do?”
“Do? Well, I would think a great many might mistakenly think the Wardens and Wardensans don’t do much at all. Look, we’re passing through Ward 8 now. These are the Jenkins who are in charge of overseeing fabrics and textiles. You’ll probably see a few of their children out front.”
Indeed, the street we were on seemed strangely familiar as we passed another structure that I suspected had been a squarish house at one time. There were so many flags, poles, and awnings built onto the house that it looked like the rainbow of vendors' tents at the gate had been rolled together on top of it.
“A ship! A ship!” Miss Crane laughed softly. A what? “Look there, yes, they’re out on the west mall playing cricket. Genviee is already sporting this winter’s colors. A red-gold harvest pallet? I feel like we just saw that one. Maybe they’ll change their minds.”
I leaned out the window again, fascinated by all the billowing fabric and curious as to what they could want with the small, black bugs. Out on the grassy space around their house a group of about twenty were strolling about, some with large mallets slung over their shoulder, other chatting together, expertly balancing cups and saucers on one hand while their other hand, spangled in light-catching metal and gems, danced like a butterfly to emphasize their point. Small children shrieked and ran in and out between the legs of their elders, engaged in their own game. They were a truly splendid parade!
The men wore dark charcoal pants and dark knee-length coats, but their vests were splashes of crimson, like red-bird berries against the snow. Some wore hats, others had hair that was so twisted full of bright metal it nearly stood on end. Most of them sported some pair of goggles on their head rimmed in brass, or if not goggles, then tiny lensed, multi-colored glasses that just barely perched on their noses above immaculately trimmed mustaches.
The women, certainly not to be out done, looked like bejeweled lockboxes. Their tiny waists and ample bosoms were accentuated by leather corsets with so many buckles and latches I was positive it had taken them most of the day to get into them. Surely, they were just now emerging from their dressing chambers as the evening sun touched the horizon.
Just as their menfolk sported somber colors accented with splashes of color, the women also wore muted tones of gray, brown, or black, but their fishnet stockings had metallic threads, and the lining of their grand trains, some sweeping behind them like exotic fishtails, even though the front was gathered in swoops a good distance above their knees, were lined with vibrant jewel tones, mostly red but some evening blues and pine greens swam through the bunch.
As dashing as the men were in their hats, the women’s version was stunning. Many also favored top hats, but theirs were tiny, dainty things bedecked with feathers, lace, and netting. Some even had gears or green and gold squares that Miss Crane said were genuine grancestor circuit boards clipped into their locks. One young lady’s hair was so entwined with wires of all different colors, blue, red, yellow, black, white, and green, it actually made it fan out like a partridge tail behind her. She had shaped it into various waves and gravity defying coils, but looking at it, I wasn’t entirely sure whether there was any hair left under it at all.
“They’re butterflies!” I gasped remembering one magical spring with the Plainsmen, “Do they-do they always dress like this? There’s no ceremony?”
“No ceremony. They’re actually dressed down today, must be a building week for them. Maybe they’re expecting a return expedition? Yondering Crews sometimes bring new treasures. Mmmm?”
Miss Crane returned a wave to a much more subdued woman who seemed to be hovering about all the human butterflies. I realized there were many more of these quiet people dressed in blacks and grays and browns expertly dodging wide flung arms and gesticulating hands in order to keep cups filled and dishes tidied.
Then there was the boy in white. He probably wasn’t actually a boy, gauging by his height, but he was dressed head to toe in white: white top hat, white military coat, white shirt, white knee breeches, white riding boots, even a white cane with a miniature spy glass mounted to it for the handle. He even wore a white bird mask, its beak ridiculously elongated to a silver point. The mask covered up half of his face, so I only caught a glimpse of his mouth smirking from under it above. The only color in his entire get-up was a shockingly jay blue neck scarf.
“Trochi’s at it again,” Miss Crane sighed. “White will never take off: it’s just too much for a Cog to take care of on a daily basis. The cravat, however…I wonder if that’s a new shade? I don’t think I’ve seen just that tone before. Ambrosia will want to know.”
Suddenly, she produced a notepad from her ridiculous array of dangles along with a stub of a pencil and began scribbling notes to herself before nodding and putting it all away again. Just before our carriage turned out of sight, I thought I saw bird boy’s head turn towards our carriage. It might have been my imagination, but I thought perhaps he lifted his cane in a sort of salute. If he did, I’m sure it was for Miss Crane. As we rolled up and down the streets, I noticed more and more people nodding at her or tipping a hat.
“So, what did you think of the Jenkins?” Miss Crane asked.
I hesitated. What was I supposed to think of them? Were all Wardensans as flamboyantly arrayed as they were? Would I be expected to dress like that? My stomach hurt at the memory of the lockdown of corsets and waisters. It would be a lot harder to eat my fill wearing contraptions like that.
“Um, very pretty…not a lot of practical for work or hunting though. Lorus isn’t-I’m not sure how they can even work with those hammers in all of that.”
Miss Crane nodded, “Those are mallets, made for whacking little wooden balls, not for driving nails. The clothes are for seeing and being seen, not working or hunting. Right now the Jenkins are trying out their latest collection of dyes and fabrics for the winter months. Their big Joie de Vie fete happens at the end of each year. The Cogs will want a new look for the Snow Holiday.”
I found myself staring out the window again.
“Yes, right now the little bits of tin absinthe green ribbons you see folk wearing is from the Field Holiday and Relay Day, held just a month ago for summer, but a good Warden is always a step ahead of his or her Cogs.”
“So, a Warden’s job is to make his or her Cogs happy?”
Suddenly, the cold forest and its isolation from the pressing throngs seemed very appealing.
“A Warden’s job is to take care of their Ward. They have inherited the duty of carrying on the pride and functionality of the Ward, even if their original talent becomes outdated or no longer useful,” Miss Crane gestured up ahead as we passed through yet another set of gates.
“Here we’re passing out of the outer Wards into the original seven inner wards. Our first is Ward Seven of the Lemonosov family, whose charge is the military. They make sure that all of our Regulars, in and out of the city, are coordinated and well-trained. Originally, their only concern was for the foot soldiers, but with recent developments in technology, they have begun having more to do with Ward Two and the Tower Thaumaturges. The new bicycle unit is a bit of an experiment in short range cavalry.”
“The what?”
“Bicycles,” Miss Crane made a wheeling gesture with her hands I didn’t quite understand. “I’m told they were the unit responsible for bringing you in.”
I shook my head.
“So there are thirteen Wards inside the city, and each family is responsible not only for keeping their Cogs happy but also for contributing something to the city?”
“I told you, it’s not about making the Cogs happy,” Miss Crane looked out the window again. “Several Wardens in the past have made decisions that made the Cogs very unhappy, which is why families like the Jenkins are so important. If Cogs keep the overall city running and the Called, those who pass the university exams to become an Alchemist, Thaumaturge, Regular, or Bench Dog, are springs, then a Warden must be the mechanic, constantly fine tuning, strengthening, and repairing wherever and whenever necessary.”
I huffed and pulled myself back into my blanket muttering, “Lorus doesn’t even know this city. How can you fix what you don’t even understand?”
For a while we drove on in silence. Occasionally, Miss Crane would give another nod or wave out the window, and out of curiosity I would look. There were always smiling faces that would pause in mid-wave and stare back. The further we went, turn by turn, gate by gate, the more it felt like I was plunging into the heart of a deep wilderness, twisting and winding until I’d lost track of which street led to which. Apparently, there are no straight roads to anything in New Castle.
“Ah, now there’s a sight for you, Miss Loris,” Miss Crane pointed out the window. “We’re going through Ward 4. This is where all of our carriage elk come from.” She paused and gave a small frown. “I wonder if the Byron’s know Giada is out with the stable hands or if she’s slipped out again. The White Queen won’t be amused.”
I looked. This ward had a whole park in the middle of the buildings and row houses devoted to green pasture with a circuit road running its periphery. As we passed, an elk, even larger than the ones pulling our carriage, strained and bucked at the end of four different tethers. It yanked the hands desperately clinging to the ends first one way then another as they tried to dodge his massive wrack of horns.
Into their midst walked a sun-bronzed woman, skin the color of teakwood. She had long, silver hair, plaited in two braids running down her back between very impressive shoulders. I was surprised to see such a young face staring with a burning intensity out of all that gray hair. She wore brown pants, suspenders, and riding boots, just like the men. Her hands kept low, I could see her lips moving but didn’t hear what was said. After a few more kicks and a toss of his head, the buck stilled, ears flipping forward as she gently reached forward and stroked his shoulder.
Her head turned suddenly looking towards me and the carriage. It felt like we stared at each other for a second. Then the elk bellowed, and his front hoofs lashed out, nearly catching the woman. She leapt back just in time, but lost her footing and landed hard on her posterior amid alarmed shouts of, “Miss Giada!”
“Don’t fuss with me, you fools! Keep your attention on the buck!” she snapped. “Keep your head and tighten that tether!”
I pulled my head back into the carriage. Miss Crane’s lips were thin.
“She really should leave that to the help. If the White Queen gets any more upset, Giada just may find herself stabled permanently.”
Miss Crane’s dark eyes probed mine.
“Not curious in the least who these people are?”
I shrugged. Unless they had an immediate influence on my life, I didn’t see why I should be.
“You used to play with Giada on occasion when the two of you were small. She’s only a few years older than you, despite her gray. You seemed to think it hilarious to try to swing on her braids.”
I turned my head back towards the window.
“White Queen? Lorus thought New Castle didn’t have any royalty. That’s what Professor said anyways,” I finally offered.
Miss Crane nodded, “Correct. It does not. ‘White Queen’ is actually the nickname for Lucretia Cassius, Giada’s aunt and the current, childless Warden of Ward 5. They are in charge of currency and exchange. Lucretia’s own son and Giada’s older cousin went missing on their Walkabout two years ago. The only survivors of the party weren’t able to say just what happened except the party was attacked and split up. The Cassius boy never should have been let out of the city, let alone his Ward. Unless the boy miraculously reappears or another scion is found, then the new Warden will be Lucretia’s half-sister, Thesla’s daughter, Giada Byron. And if anything happens to Giada, then the line of Cassius is well and truly ended.”
I gawked. I was sure all that was supposed to mean something to me. I just wasn’t sure what.
“So, if this son is so important, why not go find him?” I pondered what the Ayfortees or Roadies would have done. “If enough metal was offered, any number of surrounding tribes or travelers could produce information, if not track the missing party itself.”
Miss Crane shook her head, “Wardens, once elevated, never leave their wards. The White Queen could not go looking for her son even if he was right outside the city gates. There is no doubt that exterior people would produce someone or something for the right reward, but all those who would recognize or identify the missing individuals are also under strict movement regulation.
It is unusual for Wardensans to travel to other Wards for anything less than family business. To…secure their safety, any traveling Wardensans must have express written permission from their Warden. Nothing less will do. Traveling outside the walls, except on holidays or city business, is strictly prohibited. Thus, I was the one sent to verify if you could possibly be the lost scion of the Forsythes.”
She gave a tight smile.
“It will be up to the family to affirm whether or not I was correct.”
Now the pieces were beginning to fall into place. At the realization, my hands tightened and began twisting the blanket again. Once more I found myself pinned between two sides of a vice. If Miss Crane was right about my identity, then this carriage ride from the outside would be my last. Important families could not afford to lose children, especially not the same one twice. On the other hand, if Miss Crane was somehow mistaken…
“What happens if you’re wrong? What if Lorus is not Loris?”
She didn’t seem to be listening any more though. It was then that I realized the carriage was slowing.
We turned in a gravel drive, the white chalk from the rocks throwing a cloud of dust behind us. Evening had finally set in, so the first glimpse I had of the Forsythe house across the twilight lawn was of a shimmering, angular beast compiled of every style of architecture or building ever conceived to man. There were pillars on a wraparound porch, turrets, bays, windows of every shape and size, five different colors and types of stone riveted to wood panels and shingles with bronze and steel sheets. There was a room off to the side constructed of nothing but glass with a wild jungle of flowers and trees inside it, and in the center of the house a spire, like a needle to the moon, shot up out of the various roof tops.
Lights had been put in every window, making it look like a hundred glowing eyes watched our approach. Apparently, they were expecting us. Two rows of house staff, all bedecked in starched whites and blacks lined the walkway up to the house, each holding their own candle.
The carriage stopped, and soon after the driver opened the door. Miss Crane stepped down then turned around expectantly. I couldn’t help but shrink back into the corner, much to her annoyance.
“Come along, Loris, your family is expecting you.”
I blinked and slowly inched towards the door. Everyone seemed to be staring as cautiously I extended one foot then another from the carriage.
“Is that her?! Is that you?! Loris?! Loris!!”
A woman in flowing golden robes suddenly burst from the house and flew up the walkway. I only had time to take one step back and bump into the already closed door of the carriage before she grabbed me and crushed me hard to her chest. I cried out and tried to push away, but it seemed like the golden woman was everywhere.
“Suffocating!” I squeaked.
With a sob the woman set me back down and let me take a breath, but she didn’t let go of my shoulders. That’s when I realized she had black streaks all around her oil-colored eyes as though someone had stuck their fingers in charcoal and smeared it across her face. Startled, I touched my own eyes. For some reason that made her smile and give a sort of hiccup.
From Miss Crane’s look and the expecting stares of everyone else, I felt there was something I should say. I just didn’t know what.
“L-Lorus is g-glad to meet you?”
The woman’s face crumpled, and she fell to sobbing on my shoulder and squeezing me again. My eyes shot to Miss Crane in panic. She sighed.
“Miss Loris, this is your mother, Lady Pilosa.” After a pause she turned towards the house.
“Welcome home, Miss Loris.”