Transitions Read online

  “Greetings, Guild Master,” Ember said to Hanley, keeping her voice calm and steady. “Techsmith Guild on standby.”

  He replied, “Guardian Angels request permission for satellite connection.”

  “Captain, permission to connect to Guardian Angels?” she asked Skylar.

  “Permission granted.”

  “Lead One,” Ember said to the village woman by her side. “Commence connection.”

  Hannah tapped the blue hardwired screen and typed the password. “Connection opened.”

  “Thank you, Lead One.” The blue of the screens gave way to a video feed of the control room at N.E.T. and Ember leveled her gaze onto Hanley. A calculating smile lifted the corners of his mouth, widening when noting Skylar’s rigid form.

  The Son of Wind shifted on his feet and said in a forced tone, “Welcome, Commander. A pleasure, as usual.”

  “Captain, it’s been a few weeks. How is your family faring with the onset of Project Phase Two? Your mother still in a stupor?”

  Skylar tensed even more. “Morning comes swiftly and many have chores to attend to soon. How can we serve you, Commander?”

  Hanley smirked with Skylar’s deflection and said, “It’s time for the Comm Director to roll out the Education Plan as discussed in our previous meeting, before your father was arrested.” The owner leaned back in his chair and continued as if nothing was amiss. “The Guardian Angels will send Comm Lead Two a list of residents required to attend technology sessions after dinner hours. The list will feature rotations to split up the community into smaller learning groups. Craniums and supplies will arrive via courier service from the lab to your engineering team within the next couple of days. Any questions?”

  “Has The Aether been notified of the Education Plan?” Skylar asked.

  Hanley chuckled. “This is a command from HQ to the Guild. Appoint the Comm Director to meet with him.” Hanley looked at Ember and winked. “You know ways to be persuasive, if necessary.”

  Ember stilled as mortification burned across her face. She internally chanted to herself, “wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove,” until her thoughts cooled. She was ready to reply, but Skylar spoke first.

  “The Director and I both shall meet with His Majesty and inform him of HQ’s command.”

  “As you see fit, Captain,” Hanley said to Skylar, even though his eyes never left hers. “Any other questions?”

  “Techsmiths?” Skylar asked. When no one replied, he said, “Lead One, disconnect from Messenger Pigeon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Disconnect, Lead One.”

  “We are not finished. Sky—”

  Hanley’s voice faded into blue. Skylar drew in a breath, long and slow, then marched over to the computer towers and turned off the machines. The screens flashed to black. Their Guild Captain leaned on the metallic table, arms stiff, head down. Silence thickened the atmosphere in the small room, hot and crackling with foreboding.

  Heads shifted Ember’s direction, but she stared straight ahead, unmoving. Her heart was breaking for Skylar, though. Quietly, she removed her Cranium and slipped it into her pocket. The rustle of clothing told her others followed suit. Skylar peered over his shoulder with the sound.

  “You are free to return to your homes,” he half whispered. “Thank you for your service.” But no one dared move. “I wish to speak to our Director privately. I shall be in contact with each of you once supplies arrive and I have further instructions.”

  The Techsmiths reluctantly turned to leave, bowing to Leaf as they departed the underground chamber. Humiliation cloaked her husband in the shadows as his pride seemed to melt into the white-washed walls. Hanley had never made suggestive comments toward her before. Nor implied certain unladylike behavioral expectations. Normally her father––the other Guild Master––was in attendance, unlike tonight. His presence afforded her protection she had not considered necessary until this moment.

  After all had departed, she lowered her head in modesty and said, “I would never manipulate you, Your Majesty. Nor have I.”

  Leaf flicked his gaze to Skylar and back to her. “Did I accuse you, My Queen?” His voice was soft, gentle even, but she heard the uncertainty nonetheless. “I shall wait for you above ground.” The shame knotting in her stomach clenched and she grit her teeth to hold back the forming tears. He pushed off the wall and bowed before Skylar. “My Lord.” Attempting to appear physically stronger than he was, Leaf climbed the stairs, holding back a grimace of pain she knew he felt.

  She watched until her husband disappeared into the darkness, then said, “Worry not, I shall fare well.” Slowly she pulled her gaze from the opening to Skylar. “"You need not ask.”

  “But I do, Your Highness.” Skylar studied her, his mouth set in a thin line. “I am—”

  “Please, My Lord.” Ember placed her finger to his lips and Skylar’s rigid posture deflated. Regret, fear, and grief stared back at her. Awareness buzzed in the forefront of her mind and she graced him with an understanding smile. “You are not to blame.”

  “No.” He angled away and ran a finger along the screen’s black surface and murmured, “But I must pay all the same, and you with me.”

  “You believe this is Hanley’s punishment?”

  “You do not?”

  Ember placed her hand on his forearm. “Skylar Kane, your brother above shall defend you until his dying breath. Do not allow Hanley to divide you and Leaf.”

  “My father—”

  “Yes, and Hanley’s son loves Willow, and Leaf approves. You do your friend a discredit. Fear shall make enemies of us all.” Skylar stared at her long and hard before issuing a tight nod, albeit reluctantly. She softened her voice, knowing the Son of Wind needed direction just as much as he needed a friend this moment. “All will be well, My Lord. You shall see.” Her hand slipped from his arm and gripped the ladder rung. The buzzing sensations in her head grew more persistent as she stepped up toward the surface, saying, “I have a hunch.”

  Thursday, December 3, 2054

  A soft head nudged her arm as she bent over to grasp the bucket’s rope handles. Warm milk sloshed over the sides of the bucket and dribbled to the straw-strewn soil. Ember repositioned herself on her stool and used a rag to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “You are a naughty goat,” she cooed to the Anglo-Nubian with a giggle. The sun always warmed the Mediterranean dome to uncomfortable temperatures by afternoon. Perfect for the agriculture and livestock but, alas, not for her.

  “Step aside, Neesa,” she said to the goat, who continued to nudge her leg as she walked to the cart. Arms and hands heavy with fatigue, she pressed a piece of waxed linen over the bucket. When finished, she scratched the goat’s head and sighed. “Now, go find your friends. Shoo!” Ember pushed the goat away, then pulled the cart out of the pen, locking the gate behind her. With a soft grunt, she began walking down the service path, sweat trickling down the side of her face.

  A village boy ran up and asked, “Your Highness, shall I pull the cart to the kitchen for you?”

  “Yes, thank you, young sir.” She smiled kindly.

  “Gregory, come!” A woman called from the orange grove, just beyond the flagstone wall. The boy lowered the cart with an apologetic frown and ran to his mother. Her voice was hushed, urgent, but Ember heard every word. “Do not gaze into her eyes, have I not told you so?” The boy looked over his shoulder and the mother yanked him back to face her. “Here, this basket of oranges is needed in the kitchens. Hurry along, now.”

  Heat flamed Ember’s cheeks and she pretended to wipe the sweat from her face once more. With a steadying breath, she began her walk to the Great Hall, dragging the cart slowly behind her. The splintered handles rubbed against her forming blisters and she winced, breathing slowly through her teeth. Gregory lifted the reed basket and wobbled by Ember in a half-run. She could have offered to carry his load, but did not wish to further upset his mother.

  The air cooled considerably once she passed through th
e East Cave and into the main biodome. A breeze caressed her neck with a lover’s touch and fingered through the strands swaying back and forth down her back. Most of her hair was contained in a head scarf, much to her relief. The crisp autumn air smelled richly of earth, a far contrast to the sweet hay and musky animal odors. Pieces of straw stuck to the edge of her skirt and milk soured on her apron. The unpleasant scent wafted upward with the breeze and she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

  Ember lowered the cart by the back door to the Great Hall and stretched her back before knocking. Her fingers ached from milking all day. Normally she had more assistants to ease the workload, but two milk maids had fallen ill. A few other families had mentioned similar ailments afflicting their homes as well.

  She did not have long to dwell on this concerning news, however. Boisterous voices and the sounds of clanking pans tumbled through the opening doorway. A young woman, no more older than she, appeared while singing a verse to a favorite tune among the kitchen staff. Her voice ended in a laugh as she spoke to another over her shoulder, eventually turning toward Ember with a ready smile and raised eyebrows.

  “Greetings, Your Highness,” Killie said, stepping down to the grass. The kitchen maid peeked into the cart and grinned. “Oh, look at this bounty. Cook will be pleased. The Cheesemakers were just hounding her about the milk cart delivery.”

  “The goats were more than generous this day,” Ember said, distracted. She watched Gregory and other village boys race toward The Orchard, their carefree laughter fairly floating on the gentle breeze.

  Killie tugged Ember by the sleeve with a nod toward the door. “Your tumbler of cider is ready. Shall I fetch it?”

  Ember looked down at her straw-and dirt-caked shoes. “If it is no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Your Highness.” Killie dipped into a curtsy and disappeared behind the door. In a few quick heartbeats she returned and placed the vessel in Ember’s hands. The cool earthen cup eased the pain in her fingers a little. “Enjoy your rest now. I shall ask a kitchen boy to return the cart.” The maid hollered for assistance before closing the door.

  Grabbing her wash bucket from the cart, Ember ambled over the wild grass toward the pump well. The mundane act of filling a bucket seemed never-ending as her palm and fingers throbbed with every push and pull. Air hissing through her teeth, she picked up the full bucket with one hand, holding the tumbler of cider in the other, and began her journey toward her apartment in preparations for the hour of rest. Villagers bowed and issued soft greetings as she trudged by—most villagers that is. A few still harbored suspicions and refused to look her in the eyes, heeding the escalating rumors. What could she say? After the Techsmith Guild’s coming announcement, she feared the rumors would only grow more aggressive.

  Back in her own apartment, she relished the quiet. The only sounds were of her footfalls, the clank of her wash bowl filling with water, and the iron handle tapping the hewn wood of her chamber door. She peeled away layer after layer of soiled garments and placed them in a pile. After scenting the water with cinnamon and clove, she washed, placing sprigs of lavender in her bindings before dressing in a freshly laundered dress. There was no time to wash her hair, so she plaited the tresses, weaving in ribbons for adornment.

  Still alone, Ember enjoyed the quietude outside on the grass below, turning her back to the apartments and watchful eyes. She dumped her wash bowl into the bushes, then busied with brushing the dirt clumps and straw from her work dress and shoes. Once finished, she returned inside to rub old sprigs of sage over the inside of the bodice, hanging it on a post for the morrow.

  The front door opened and she stilled, listening while Leaf’s familiar footsteps grew louder as he neared their bedchamber. “My Lady,” he spoke quietly as he entered. His limp seemed more pronounced than yesterday and a sharp pang seized her chest.

  They had spoken little since the Guild meeting. Space and privacy were requests he made without utterance of a single word. Often she knew his needs before he did. It was a dance, generous and graceful, and her heart soared with each step spent serving her husband.

  Encouraged by her thoughts, she said, “Cider, My Lord,” and removed the waxed linen cover before handing him the tumbler. He eased onto the cot with a heavy sigh and enjoyed a long sip. She contemplated taking his hand in hers, a gesture of comfort and support. Instead she said, “Allow me,” and knelt before him, avoiding the questions in his eyes. Wary of his injury, she unlaced his shoes until they pulled off with ease and stored them under their cot. Then she poured water from the bucket into his wash bowl, adding a few dashes of cedar and bergamot essential oils. Leaf pulled his work tunic over his head and tossed it into their laundry basket, blinking his eyes in that bashful way of his.

  “The courier arrived this afternoon,” he said into his tumbler, before imbibing another sip. “Jeff allowed Skylar use of The Chancery for storage until the morrow.”

  The knot in her stomach pulled tight and she wrapped a supportive arm around her waist. Skylar had not visited her with the news. Had he visited others from the Guild? “Thank you for sharing, My Lord,” she said in quiet reply.

  “Of course.”

  An awkward silence spanned between them and Ember clasped her hands at her waist, shoulders back, head lowered in a posture of elegance. Despite her apprehensions, she would hold herself with dignity. Leaf had worries enough and did not need to add her trepidations to the burdens he carried.

  “My Lady?”

  “Yes, My Lord?”

  “Thank you for your kind attentions.”

  She gifted him a faint smile. “You are a pillar of strength in our home and in our community. There is no greater honor than serving you, My Lord.” With a final curtsy, she retrieved the garment brush and his work tunic, saying, “Rest now,” before gracefully slipping out of their chamber.

  “Ember!” Laurel called out in a sing-song voice. “Do you like my crown of leaves?” She twirled slowly, her hands fluttering about in the air.

  “Quite enchanting.” Ember softly laughed as Laurel danced across the floorboards in light, whimsical steps.

  Willow breezed into the apartment with a loud a huff. “I fear I shall be plucking wool fibers from my person for all of eternity.” Spotting the garment brush in Ember’s hands she reached out while saying, “May I? I shall brush Leaf’s tunic as well.”

  “Oaklee, do you find my leaf crown fetching?” Laurel skipped by Willow and spun to music only she could hear.

  “A beautiful autumn faerie you are, Frog.” Willow leaned forward and rubbed her nose with Laurel’s. “Please sprinkle your pixie dust over me and perhaps I shall no longer resemble a goat in need of shearing!” Their littlest sister covered her smile as she giggled, then wiggled her fingers. “Alas,” Willow began, gliding toward the entrance. “I must away to the forest clearing over yonder for the spell to work.” Willow shut the door, after sharing a playful grin with her little sister.

  Laurel fell onto a chair with a melodramatic sigh. “’Tis hard work being a faerie.” Fixing her dress, the youngest Watson darted a look down the shadowed hallway. “He is home?”

  “Yes, sweetling.”

  “Rona and I were strolling through the village today,” Laurel said with big eyes. “As we passed the construction station we heard the most dreadful news.”

  Ember placed the fire starter bowl upon the cupboard. “As women, our duty is to protect each other’s hearts and reputations.” The nub of a nearly finished candle plinked in the clay collection bowl for the Chandler and she placed a fresh tallow stick in the iron holder. Sparing a quick glance toward Laurel, she continued. “We should build up each other’s character rather than tear down the life of another.”

  “I am not about to gossip, I promise.”

  “Very well. What is this dreadful news?”

  Laurel’s eyes rounded and she whispered dramatically, “There is a witch in New Eden.” The hair on Ember’s arms prickled and rose. A grin broke
across her sister’s face before she sang out, “Leaf!” and leapt from the chair. “I have ever so much to tell— whatever is in your hair?”

  He scrubbed dirt-stained fingers through his dark curls and white dust poofed into the air. “I pulverized cob for reconstitution this day. Perhaps I should dunk my head in the wash bucket.” Laurel’s shoulders sagged a touch and her smile faltered. Leaf took note. “First, shall you tell me about your day?”

  Though the exhaustion pulled on his features, his face softened when Laurel beamed, her smile brighter than the noonday sun. Her amber eyes sparkled as she resumed her position in the chair, patting the empty chair next to her. Ever a songbird with tidings for the wind, their sister’s voice chirped and twittered, rising and falling with her many stories, mostly involving Rona and Blaze. Leaf listened with a kind smile, nodding his head and asking questions every so often.

  Family was her husband’s greatest pride. He doted upon each of them, and in unique, beautiful ways that demonstrated his devotion. Laurel needed his listening ear. Willow his patience and forgiving heart. And her? Ember blushed, smiling to herself. She relished his touch, each kiss, and losing herself to his intimate affections. Straightening her shoulders, she lit the end of a stick and focused on her tasks lest she forget entirely in her reverie.

  Warm light blanketed Leaf and Laurel’s conversation as Ember lit a single tallow near their chairs. The glow stretched to both hallways and chased away the dusk as she lit each candle. Shadows flickered across the walls and Ember tilted her head with wrinkled brows. Often she felt the presence of loved ones long lost. Homes contained the heartbeat of family, even those whose elements nourished the soil. Since childhood, her mother had walked among the shadows on the wall. Coal, though he believed her, did not share this sight. A sight Ember had drawn comfort from, until this night.

  Witch.

  The word echoed in her heart until it ached. Was she magical? Did not others possess intuition? Or see visions of their pulse dancing upon the walls? Her family was in her blood, in the very air she breathed, in the food she ate. Why was it an otherworldly phenomenon to see the very source of one’s existence? She wished to hide, to turn away, to follow the shadows into the hallway. But she was a queen. Elegance and strength were her scepter, judgment and grace her crown. She would not fear superstitions, nor cower before slanderous accusations. Nor would she argue foolish notions with those enslaved by fear. They would not listen if she did, anyway. Better to remain silent and allow others the ability to walk toward understanding on their own volition––including her husband.