Page 3 of A Slipper in the Smoke
The Baroness’ apartment leered over the side, staring out on the grim, dark city. It fringed the outer ring, connected to the dirt and grime. Smoke still crawled through the windows, but it was the best they could afford when the finances started to flounder.
At least it still boasted an elevator, although it was frequently out of order. It saved Elena having to walk up ten flights of stairs, and gave her a moment to collect herself.
She stared at the blackness on her hands, the dirt and grease, the scars and burns. She remembered a time when they were small, soft and dainty. Even after she discovered inventing, her mother was there to doctor her slightest injury, to soothe her chafed hands with cream. They had still been the hands of a lady, a girl who liked festivals and parties and dancing into the night.
Elena stared at her reflection in the cracked elevator mirror. No one would ask her to dance now. She’d shorn her long brown locks some years back when they kept getting in the way, secretly selling them for a few coppers she’d added to her canister. Her hair now hung just above her shoulders in messy waves. Beneath the dirt was a face that had once been pretty, with brown sun-kissed skin and green-flecked eyes. Her cheeks were hollow now, although her shoulders were broad, her arms too muscular to fit in the dainty gowns of her youth.
She missed them. She missed the silk and gossamer, the girl she’d been, the one that might still exist, buried beneath all the grime and the other thing, the veneer of blackness she had no name for. Sometimes she thought she would do anything but trade her escape for one night of being that person again.
The elevator slowed to a stop, and she stepped out onto the floor.
The building might once have been grand, or wanted to be, before the factories drained it of life. The carpet looked like it had once been printed with a pattern of red and gold, but over the years had blackened into something more like browned blood. It stank of sweat and ale and grease, the kind that seeped into the chequered walls, the wood of the doors, the fake flowers in the chipped vase along the hallway. Elena had long since given up holding her nose as she trudged towards the Baroness’ apartment, paying no attention as her boots squelched along the carpet.
If she was lucky, the Baroness would have retired for the evening. She could sneak along to the main bathroom and draw herself a bath, maybe even chance her luck with the soap…
But luck had not favoured Elena in a long time.
The Baroness stood at the window when Elena entered, a dark silhouette against the gathering dusk. She was dressed for bed in a red silk ensemble, wine glass in hand, surveying the streets like a queen might survey her kingdom. The long, crimson nails on her free hand tapped against the ebony wood of the dresser, and her black hair was unbound around her back and shoulders.
Elena stilled, closing the door softly behind her, praying that she could still slide in unnoticed.
“You’re late,” said the Baroness coolly.
Elena stiffened. “There was a riot—”
“I do not care for your excuses,” said the Baroness, back towards her. She let out a slow, controlled sigh. “What am I going to do with you, Elena?”
Elena would like to have had some sharp comeback, but the words had dribbled away from her long ago. It never did to answer back, to remind the Baroness that she was her only source of income. The Baroness was Elena’s only source of food and shelter. Elena had nothing and no one to turn to. The Baroness had seen to that.
“Luckily, I have a way you can make it up to me,” the Baroness continued. “I have another job for you. Just a small one. Shouldn’t take too long. But my friend the Marchioness needs it finished by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow—” Elena started. It was already late. To go back to the garage now—
“Tomorrow morning,” said the Baroness, voice steely. “Like I said, it should only take you a couple of hours. A servant should be bringing the package to your workshop soon. I suggest you make haste to receive it.”
A couple of hours, plus the walk there and back. She wouldn’t be finished until past midnight, and that’s if the Baroness’ estimation was correct.
“Can’t I get up early tomorrow and—”
“And risk the project not being completed in time? Ruin our reputation to the Marchioness? Absurd. You should be grateful for the opportunity.”
Elena didn’t know how fixing some machine for the Marchioness was going to gain the Baroness any favours, but she did not argue. There was no point. One way or another, the Baroness would have her way.
Elena bowed her head. “Very well, Stepmother. I’ll just grab something to eat—”
“You will not,” snapped the Baroness. “You shall eat when you return and not a moment before.”
Elena stared at her, waiting for the words to change, to rearrange them into something more fair, something that madesense,something that didn’t mean she had to trudge all the way back to the workshop on an empty stomach.
“Well?” the Baroness arched a black brow. “Why are you standing there, wasting yet more time?”
“Of course,” said Elena, still feeling numb. “I will do as you bid.”For now. Only for now.
She turned on her heels, catching a flash of a narrow, pale face in one of the doors, one that looked like the Baroness’, only twenty years younger, not whittled down by age and grief and whatever else had squirmed its way into the Baroness’ features over the years.
It was Ivanka, her mouth thin and tightly set.
Elena didn’t stop to pay her any attention, exhaustion and hunger occupying her thoughts. Instead, she moved swiftly towards the door and back down the lift.
