The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance

THE
UNRAVELING

Volume One

of

The Luminated Threads

Laurel Wanrow

Sprouting Star Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, institutions, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads Copyright © 2015 by Laurel Wanrow.

Copy Edit by Joyce Lamb

Cover Artwork ©2015 Craig Shields

Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews. Please purchase only authorized editions.

First Edition: June 2015

ISBN 978-10943469-01-7

The Unraveling is the first of three volumes in a serialized novel, The Luminated Threads.

In 1868 England, the competition to control agriculture is fierce…

    …and nobody says no to Derby’s industrial magnate.

Except Annmar Masterson. The nineteen-year-old rejects his improper advances and instead takes an advertising position on a farm. She discovers the isolated valley is home to gifted species—including animal and plant shifters—who hide their lives from the rest of England. The blue threads only she sees on their clockwork machinery prove her heritage is rooted with theirs, but their world is so different that Annmar doesn't know if she'll ever belong.

Shapeshifter Daeryn Darkcoat blames himself for the death of his mate and swears he won't be responsible for another pack. But when the farm he loves falls victim to an endless run of strange pests eating the crops, he joins the hunt, taking charge of an unruly team of predator shifters. In the midst of the battle, Annmar stirs feelings he can’t resist.

As Annmar becomes entangled in the fight against the pests, and with Daeryn, she discovers her magic might help…if she can learn to use it properly. If not, she’ll be forced to leave the people she has come to care for and become what she fears most: nothing more than another cog in the magnate’s gears.

To be notified of the releases of Volume 2 & 3 in the fall of 2015 & winter of 2016, sign up for
Laurel's Newsletter
.

* * *

Dedication

To my husband, Bill: Your faith in me as a writer and support of my goal never waivered, and now you are allowed to read the book.

And to my children:

Em: Though you sometimes despair being placed in the role, your brainstorming help during my writing process and this publication was always invaluable.

Theo: I tried to leave out the boring parts. I hope you agree.

I love you all!

Chapter one

Derby, England

September 1868

A volley of curses
rang out, adding to the noise of sputtering steam engines and the clanking from the open windows in the towering factory walls. Giving a side-glance to the drivers of two mechanized carts that had nearly collided, Annmar Masterson walked on. Best to ignore them. Besides, she had precious few minutes to ensure she had her lines right. “While I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Shearing,” she recited, “I cannot accept your offer of a drafting shop.”

She must get the words out before he fumbled her tongue with another improper proposal. “How does that sound?” Annmar asked Polly. However, her friend stood steps behind, craning her neck to see the ruckus in Derby’s industrial district. As Annmar whirled back, several workmen turned in their direction.

Oh, heavens. Polly’s blond hair and brighter, candy-striped clothes for her work in the sweet shop stood out far more on this grimy street than Annmar’s brown hair, somber blouse and black walking skirt. Shielding their faces with the rolled illustration she carried, Annmar linked arms with Polly, and the two nineteen-year-olds wove a path among the carts blocking Full Street.

“My word,” Polly muttered, “I haven’t heard language such as that since leaving the countryside. Your employer has some gall sending you to see a client here.”

“Mrs. Rennet’s decisions are greased by gold.” At the lift of Polly’s brows, Annmar intoned, “Make decisions to make the customer happy,” words the illustrators working for Rennet’s Renditions heard a dozen times a day. “I do appreciate you accompanying me when the other illustrator couldn’t. The client’s building is there.” She lifted her chin toward the three-story machinery factory ahead.

“I wish to see this Mr. Shearing for myself, especially after a girl I work with said his blue eyes are the fairest south of the Peak District.”

Annmar frowned. “Blue eyes have nothing to do with anything.”

“Then make him believe it,” she said. “Go on now. Say that last version again.” Annmar did, and Polly groaned. “Too ladylike.” She stopped Annmar. “Look me in the eye and say only the ending line as firmly as you did last night. Like you mean it.”

Annmar closed her eyes briefly. When Derby’s most successful tradesman first urged her to pursue her own business, his encouragement fueled her dream of the shop she and Mother planned to open before Mother died. With her own shop, Annmar could turn a profit instead of funneling the proceeds of her illustrations to Mrs. Rennet, or whichever business-savvy art dealer offered money for materials and the largest cut. Except, over the months, Mr. Shearing’s offer of sponsorship became less about the shop and more about…him.

Remembering her disappointment made it easier to lower her voice and say, “I cannot accept your offer of a drafting shop.”

“It’ll do, with that edge to your voice, but I still say you should be blunt.” Polly shook her head, sending yellow curls over the high collar of her blouse. “Tell Mr. Shearing outright what he can do with his indecent suggestion. Offering you rooms above the shop, indeed. He’s after another mistress, and he’s picked you.”

They approached the factory’s steps. Annmar pressed a hand to her corseted middle to quell her twisting stomach. She would not be Mr. Shearing’s mistress. Even her lifelong dream was not worth losing her dignity. Nonetheless, she must stay employed with Rennet’s. “Not before this drawing is approved.” Annmar waved the rolled paper she carried. “Mrs. Rennet fired a fellow last week for leaving a smudge on the corner of his illustration. I can’t hinder an advertisement’s progress.”

Steam hung in the crisp September air around Shearing Enterprises, muting the office’s glossy green door. Over the brick archway, tall, gold lettering proclaimed the business pledge across a signboard: The Latest in Agricultural Technology, Backed by the Best Craftsmanship in Derbyshire. Decorative gears and rods at the base formed a trademark as strong as the businessman they represented.

Oh, why did Mr. Shearing’s eye have to fall to her? Going against the industrial magnate would be difficult, and under Polly’s tutelage it seemed likely Annmar would create some reason for Mr. Shearing to have her fired from Rennet’s Renditions before the morning was over.

Polly patted her arm. “Do you want to practice your refusal again?”

Giving a shake of her head, Annmar raised the brass door knocker and rapped it.

The secretary left them in the outer office with the bookkeepers busy at their desks and went into the factory in search of Mr. Shearing.

Polly looked around the richly paneled room and sniffed. “It’s true then: Mr. Shearing’s fancy trims are worthy of any business on The Strand.” She lifted a dubious brow. “Mrs. Shearing won’t stop him from taking on another mistress. The paper says they’ve money enough to set up his interests and her fancy men.”

Annmar raised her brow in turn. “Which paper? Your favorite, the one printing fantastical serials of wolf-men seducing farmers’ daughters in the Peaks? That’s not real news.”

Making a little huffing noise, Polly turned and peered at the framed engravings of Mr. Shearing’s machinery, all from the advertisement illustrations Annmar had rendered. Several were missing, the ones submitted to the New Works Competition. He’d embarrassed Annmar by sending only hers and not any from other illustrators at Rennet’s. His farm machines would make it into the next round—or not—based on her drawings.

Eyes wide, Polly clasped Annmar’s arm. “Oh, my Lord. I have no interest at all in machines, yet these feel…I don’t know, like a bull poised to charge, but by way of some sort of magical workings.” She gestured to the printed initials—AM—at the edge of a reaper illustration. “How can you draw a machine that seems so real? Alive, even?”

Annmar shrugged. She had no idea what made her drawings different, but she explained it off like she always did: “It’s just the flow of the lines, as Mother taught me.”

Polly shook her head and dropped her voice even more. “No wonder he’s plotting to secure your skills exclusively for his business. You must insist you don’t want the shop before the competition announcement.”

A wave of foreboding coursed through Annmar. Polly might have discovered the reason for Mr. Shearing’s recent persistence. If he won, the additional business meant funds to advance more inventions, and their advertisement. The demonstrations of the finalists’ machines were tonight, the announcement of the competition winners two nights from now, time enough to make the newspapers. The real ones.

She had to say no, and say it firmly and businesslike—not ladylike—before her choices were no longer her own.

The door to the factory opened, admitting a brief racket and Mr. Shearing. Broad-shouldered and fit, save for the slight paunch visible when he removed his custom-tailored, dark green coat, he stood a head taller than her five and a half feet. The businessman kept his waves of dark hair neatly trimmed and his strong jaw clean-shaven. Though not a dandy, he dressed well, in the appearance of Derby’s prosperous merchants, down to the black gloves he was tugging into place. One covered a hideous scar she’d once caught sight of and hadn’t forgotten, yet she’d never dared to ask its origin.

He greeted them with a pleased smile.

Dismissing her knotted stomach, Annmar extended her gloved hand in a practiced motion. “Good morning, Mr. Shearing.”

He clasped her hand, and his gaze dropped briefly, as it always did, to her bosom.

His unseemly glances no longer made her twitch. But given his unwanted attention, she still wore unfashionable, high-necked mourning blouses in maroon with dark skirts, though it had been a full year since her mother’s death.

“Good day to you, Miss Masterson.” Mr. Shearing tipped his head to Annmar and turned to assess Polly. “And to your companion, Miss…”

“Porter,” they answered in unison.

“We’re on our way to work,” Annmar added. “I’ve brought the changes to your latest illustration. Mrs. Rennet wishes to send it to the engravers this morning to meet the Mercury’s deadline.”

“Timely, our Mrs. Rennet. Please come in, and we’ll take a look.” He led them into his private domain with its large walnut desk, sturdy chair and piles of orders and invoices. With Polly along this time, the door stayed open.

Mr. Shearing spread the illustration over a side table and bent to study the fine pencil lines. Properly apart from him, Annmar waited, stock-still, yet her weight was balanced on her toes in case she had to take a step back. She forced her gaze to the drawing, but movement caught her eye, as it always did.

Businesslike, she reminded herself, but nonetheless, vines rippled down from the waves of Mr. Shearing’s nearly black hair. Leaves burst forth, and the tendrils spun like miniature gears—

No, that isn’t right. Mr. Shearing did not sport twining plants, any more than vegetation sprouted gears. Annmar dashed her hand across her eyes to dispel the image.

Polly nudged her.

Annmar jerked her gaze to her friend. Polly saw nothing amiss with the man’s hair. No one ever saw what Annmar did on Mr. Shearing or, more commonly, in the wild places along the River Derwent. Her fanciful imagination seemed destined to get her in trouble.

Giving a nod to Mr. Shearing’s back, Polly tapped her temples and frowned. Clearly she was indicating his, which yes, were graying. The man had seen his fourth decade, after all. Eyes rising slightly, Polly mouthed, Old, and shook her head.

Oh, heavens. She never should have confided in Polly…but no, she needed someone to help her out of this fix.

“As of a week ago, this was correct,” said Mr. Shearing, a hint of remorse in his voice. “I’m afraid the mechanic made an adjustment to the shape of the seed hopper.” He pointed to a box on the front of the planter. “An angled base allows the last of the seed to fall evenly. Would you be able to correct the drawing now?”

“Of course.”

He smiled. “I have no doubt we will surpass William’s and Fairing’s attempts in mechanized production, especially with your help, Miss Masterson. Shearing Enterprises is getting the finest advertising in the whole of Derbyshire.”

“With Rennet’s Renditions’ help,” Annmar corrected and waved to the drawing.

His smile broadened. “For the present.” Lifting the illustration, he scanned it once more, then his gaze returned to her, lingering. “Looks splendid. Exactly as I desire.”

He was never this careless in front of Mrs. Rennet. Her face heating, Annmar pivoted and urged Polly out of the office.

Mr. Shearing followed with the illustration and held the factory door. The whir of saws and metallic raps from ball peen hammers added their rhythms to the throbbing chaos. Work bays lined both sides of the long building, and from them spilled metal sheeting, rods, cogs and other metal parts. Pools of gaslight fell over machines in varying stages of construction, attended by mechanics and their helpers. Annmar recognized each, whether it be a tiller, fertilizer spreader or reaper. She spotted the planter and went to study its new seed hopper.

In no time, Mr. Shearing set up drawing space on the adjacent bay’s workbench and gestured her next to him. She resisted raising an eyebrow at the barely proper distance between them and concentrated on erasing the original lines. Just how would she get into position to draw without touching him? She took the drawing pencils from her satchel and met Polly’s gaze with a plea.

Polly nodded. “I grew up in Duffield parish,” she said. “No one there had equipment as elaborate as this.”

Mr. Shearing straightened. “Ah, my dear Miss Porter, soon they will. In the last five years, Shearing Enterprises has transformed the business of agriculture all across southern Derbyshire, and we’re expanding northward.”

Annmar sighed to herself as Mr. Shearing launched into the same speech she’d heard numerous times. He smiled his winning smile that put everyone at ease. Even her, at first. With plenty of elbowroom, she lightly stroked in the correct pencil lines with a hard graphite.

“Here at Shearing Enterprises, we research every science related to efficient farming, from breeding hardier stock to hybridization. Our aim is to put the best on your table at the lowest cost to you and the farmer.” Mr. Shearing clapped his hands and called, “A demonstration for the lady.” The workmen jumped to do his bidding.

He offered his arm to Polly and escorted her from the bay. “The Midlands New Works Competition is boosting all of the entrants’ notoriety, and our success is flowing into the agricultural community we aim to help. Post a letter to your dear family in Duffield and ask for the news.”

He wouldn’t suggest that unless he knew the news would favor him and Polly could then repeat it. Already, the autumn farm reports promised bountiful harvests and steady employment for both agrarian workers and their industrial suppliers. But given how Annmar’s own situation had toppled after Mother’s death, she understood how unpredictable finances could be.

In the factory’s center aisle, the workers started up the planter. With Polly ensconced in the care of the lead mechanic, Mr. Shearing returned to Annmar’s side just as she picked up her softer, darker graphite and a straight edge to define the finished line. He peered down as if inspecting the drawing.

“Ah, perfect as usual, my dear Miss Masterson,” he murmured. Light fingers stroked across the small of her back.

Annmar flushed and stiffened, her eyes darting around. The man had made certain his attentions were out of sight of the crowd, all focused on the engine depositing a line of seed along the floorboards. Still, the touch was unsuitably forward.