Book 3: Chapter 6 – Undertown [Part 1]
Book 3: Chapter 6 - Undertown [Part 1]
Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.
- Theodore Roosevelt.
With a change of horses at every major town, Seraphina and her men made excellent time crossing the Kingdom and returning to the Sariens Duchy. Now reunited with her maid, Seraphina no longer had to concern herself with the lesser details of daily life. She issued commands, and they were carried out, for the most part, without question. In a way, having Miriam was like possessing a magic lamp—one that, while limited in scope and power, never actively resisted her wishes. She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, it wasn’t half bad. The young girl also had Miriam write a short missive to the dwarves in her father’s duchy, telling them that they would be coming soon to visit to see how they were settling in.
Also, she had her maid draft a letter to Rashana, providing material for a newspaper article and including instructions to embellish the tale with grand statements about the mysterious and gallant figure who had defended Meridian’s skies. With luck, Rashana would lack the imagination to suspect that Seraphina herself had played a part in the city’s defense. And yet, a small part of the young noblewoman secretly hoped her childhood friend would catch on. Eventually, Seraphina intended to leave such editorial choices entirely to her, but for the time being, she considered this something of a training phase.
After all, the role hadn’t existed in this world until now. Seraphina took pride in her ability to avoid micromanagement, trusting her servants and staff to meet her needs without constant oversight. But as she gazed out the carriage window, she recognized the flaw in that thinking. Rashana was not a servant. The levers Seraphina held over her were perhaps not as strong as she had assumed. Yes, the half Al-Lazarian had shown interest, but the young noblewoman lacked anything that could compel her to act, aside from the entanglement involving her family’s bank.
That, she decided, would need some more work.
***
Passing through the bustling castle-town of Sariens, Seraphina saw prosperity everywhere she looked. Stalls overflowed with gleaming trinkets and clever contraptions, each one etched with the unmistakable angular runes of dwarven craft. Smoke curled from a forest of new chimneys, carrying the metallic tang of fresh-forged iron as immigrant smiths turned raw ore into wonders. Even the town guard boasted polished spears whose heads glimmered with softly glowing characters—living proof that Sariens now beat with a dwarven heart as well as a human one.
Where trade flourished, children followed. Energetic urchins wove between carts like darting minnows, their shrill laughter echoing off rose-pink sandstone. Seraphina watched them with a mix of fondness and unease. In her old world, too much carefree mingling had kindled unrest; nations had shattered themselves pursuing a naïve dream of perfect equality. She resolved to ask her father—or perhaps pragmatic Mayor Bouchard—to draft ordinances that kept each folk to well-defined quarters, equal but distinct. Better to build sound walls now than mend broken trust later.
Beyond the market, the bridge arched over the river like a drawn bow, leading her carriage to Castle Sariens proper. Crimson banners snapped overhead, greeting the heiress in a fanfare of silk. Servants hurried forward to unload her “meagre” luggage—only a few chests filled with dozens of new gowns, purchased strictly for cultural research, of course. At the doors waited Desmond, the silver-haired butler whose back was straighter than a parade pike.
“My lady,” he intoned with a respectful cough, “His Grace and Her Ladyship have removed to the Southwood hunting lodge for the week. Her Ladyship bade me deliver… a note.”
The envelope smelled of lavender. Bracing herself, Seraphina cracked the crimson wax seal.
To my darling daughter,
I will be busy with your father, do not under any circumstances disturb us as I will be most vexed. We plan to return in a few days. In that time, you are to make sure that the Duchy does not fall into ruin and to see to the little stunties that you invited into our Duchy. I understand why you did it, but think carefully of the enemy you intend to make. Even I can not help against their tricks.
Your loving mother,
Anaselena.
Seraphina exhaled through her nose. Racist to the marrow, as ever. The older generation wore their prejudice like embroidered finery, mistaking ignorance for elegance.
Very well, she thought, folding the letter with care. I’ll drag them kicking and screaming if need be into a kinder, wiser, more modern and enlightened age if I have to.
But such enlightenment could wait until later. For now, she longed for a steaming bath to scrub away road dust and the familiar comfort of Catalina’s hearth-baked bread. No banquet on the trade road, no matter how lavish, ever matched the matronly cook’s rosemary-roasted chicken or the way the kitchen smelled—nutmeg, yeast, and something that felt like coming home.
***
Sleeping alone—even with Cornelia, her docile white-scaled serpent, looped warmly around her neck and chest—Seraphina still felt a hollow hush in the bed-chamber. The crackling hearth could not imitate the gentle counter-rhythm of Eloise’s soft snores. Honestly, when did I grow so maudlin? she scolded herself. Sentimentality is for old people, not for me. Yet the quiet persisted, pressing against her ribs like winter air.
With an impatient sigh she flung aside the brocade coverlet, its crimson damask sliding to the tiled floor in a sigh of silk. Dawn’s rosy fingered light peeked through mullioned windows, gilding Cornelia’s scales in molten gold as all three heads of the serpent yawned and resettled languidly.
She rang a bell and a valet soon arrived bearing a modest breakfast: four slices of hearth-baked toast still shimmering with butter, a ramekin of tangy forest-berry jam, and a pot of chicory steeped to near-black. Spartan by ducal standards—but more than enough to fuel the day's activities.
After a brisk splash of rose-scented water, she considered her wardrobe. She chose an austere gown of sable wool with coffee-brown panels, high-collared and unembellished save for discreet piping the color of wet granite. Over it she draped a fox-silver stole, the subtle luxury meant to whisper disciplined refinement rather than trumpet opulence. Fashion, Seraphina believed, was a kind of armor: each thread a parry, each hue a carefully angled shield.
“Eloise—the gold-and-ruby hair clip, if you will?” she called, then winced: her lady-in-waiting was miles away at her family’s estate. A flicker of irritation flared, but she quelled it—self-reliance builds resilience. She smoothed her short blonde hair, swept the fringe neatly aside, and fastened it with the slender gold clip crowned by a teardrop ruby. The gem caught the dawn light and smouldered like a captive ember.
Outside, hoofbeats and men’s voices filtered up from the courtyard; she was doubtless keeping her escort waiting. Still, first impressions mattered, even if the dwarves she sought to impress would not notice every wrinkle and wayward strand. Once satisfied, she stroked Cornelia’s smooth heads and left the room. She beckoned to Miriam, who hovered at the threshold, clutching a ledger.
“Come, Miriam. Time to greet our vertically challenged guests.”