Mr. Stitch

you in a minute. Still, how’m I supposed to believe that two young people like that are all hot and bothered for each other, but don’t never do nothing about it? They don’t even say something like, ‘Oh, I want to put it to you somethin’ fierce, but we can’t…’ now, nevermind how I says it, I’m not a writer or such, but you know what I mean?”

“You didn’t believe it.”

“That’s it. That’s right, right there. Didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe a word of it. Like the fella-who wrote it, what’s-his-name?”

“Bertram Sitwell.”

“Sitwell, right, he’s just writin’ about how he thinks people should be. But they ain’t that way, if you know what I mean, and maybe if he weren’t a writer, and maybe got himself around a little bit, got down to the Riverside once or twice,” he coughed again. “Er. Excuse me, miss. I do go on sometimes. Not a fit subject of conversation for a lady.”

I’ve personally killed six men, and participated in the execution of over a hundred. There’s not a lot you can talk about that’s going to upset me. “Of course,” she said, but she did not pursue the topic, and the driver had little else to say.

A long silence that sounded to Skinner like a constellation of tiny sounds, and then they had arrived at the Royal. The driver politely lead her inside, past a noisy, chattering crowd, and upstairs to the Family boxes.

Emilia Vie-Gorgon was waiting for her, along with another young lady. Neither said anything until the coachman had left-his departure a bold violation of the ordinance that all women were to be accompanied by chaperones while in public. Skinner gingerly found a seat for herself to occupy, while the other two women sat in silence.

“Miss Skinner,” said Emilia Vie-Gorgon, abruptly. The youth of her voice was surprising, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been; famous as she was, Skinner realized, upon a certain amount of reflection, that Emilia couldn’t have been more than twenty. “I would like you to meet Nora Feathersmith. Nora, Elizabeth Skinner, formerly of the royal coroners.”

This was an event nearly as intriguing as the invitation itself. Nora Feathersmith was the youngest daughter of Ephraim Feathersmith, patriarch of one of the most peculiar families in Trowth. Like all major families in the Empire, the Feathersmiths had their own special area of business-Ephraim continued a long tradition of excellence and control over engineering and manufactury. Feathersmith factories built everything in Trowth that had more than two moving parts-from revolvers to typewriters to train engines. And yet, unlike the Crabtrees or the Daiors or the Ennerings, the Feathersmiths had never received, nor, to anyone’s knowledge, even sought Estimation by the crown.

That is, the Feathersmiths were a family, but not a Family. They were highly-esteemed by both the public and their colleagues in industry, but never Esteemed. In many ways, this served as quite an extraordinary advantage against many of their competitors: by never finding favor with an emperor placed on the throne by one Family, they never found themselves in disfavor when a new Family secured control of it. This permitted the Feathermiths to remain at the top of their industry since its earliest incarnation as weaponeers during the reign of Agon Diethes, to weather crises of interregnum, revolution, and the exposure of certain of its members as heretics. Peculiarly, by shunning the power that Estimation brought with it, Ephraim Feathersmith’s antecedents had found themselves a broader freedom.

“Miss Feathersmith.”

“Nora, please,” the young lady responded, lazily. She took a long drag on a cigarette or cigar that smelled of tobacco and dreamsnake venom.

“And you must call me Emilia,” said Emilia Vie-Gorgon. “We are, I think, going to be great friends. You know my cousin, don’t you?”

“Valentine.” Skinner replied.

“Oh, he’s a charmer,” Nora put in. “And such lovely hair…”

“Generally,” Skinner replied, a little stiffly, “I find him to be rather irritating. Is he..is that…why…how you know me, I mean?”

Nora chuckled faintly, and Emilia was silent. That silence was profound in a way that Skinner had never heard from another person before. Ordinarily, she could make out the character of a silence-a thoughtful hesitation, an embarrassed lack of a response. From Emilia, she gleaned nothing: it was as though the young woman had vanished off of the face of the earth, hid herself deep in the aethyr while she contemplated a correct response.

“No,” when her voice came, after that strange, total silence, it was softly shocking. “We have another friend in common, actually, one who thinks very highly of your abilities.”

“Hm. Perhaps you should have him talk to the Emperor.”

“Yes. Perhaps.” Emilia replied. Was that the hint of a smile behind her voice? A barb? There was no getting past the wall of smooth confidence that sheltered her private feelings. Emilia Vie-Gorgon was the kind of woman that could lie to her mother with the calm, casual certainty that ordinary people used to remark on the color of the sky. “Ah, the show begins!”

If it was a tradition to be silent during a play, it was apparently a privilege of box seats to offer commentary. Emilia and Nora snickered furiously from the opening-a simpering detonation of music from Corimander’s last symphony-through each and every scene.

“Oh, this is lovely. Can she walk? Maybe they should get someone to carry her onstage.”

“That’s it, love. Say the words louder. That’ll improve them.”

“Oh, he can’t help it, Emmy-he’s sad. Sad people say things LOUDLY.”

“Yes, and so do ANGRY PEOPLE. And so do HAPPY PEOPLE.”

The commentary greatly improved on the play-Alas, My Love-which was, in Skinner’s estimation, utter tripe. A new play by the now thoroughly-defamed Bertram Sitwell, Alas, My Love was modeled after the old pastoral-royal comedies of the 17^thcentury, where every shepherd turned out to be a king in disguise. They were all an oblique reference to the ascendance of Owen I Gorgon as the first Emperor of Trowth after the interregnum, and meant to legitimize the Gorgon-Vies’ claim to the imperial line. The Gorgon-Vies spent a great deal of time attempting to legitimize their claims to the imperial line, and usually in as thoroughly a ham-handed fashion.

“Oh, he’s gone up on his lines.”

“Well, can you blame him? I’ve only had to hear it once, and I’m already trying to forget it.”

“There’s the cue card boy. Oh, look, he’s lovely! They should just have him play the role.”

“Certainly, he couldn’t be worse, unless he turns out to be a deaf-mute.”

“Not at all; I should think not having to hear the script would be a categorical improvement. Miss Skinner?”

Skinner had been sitting, quietly amused, though not comfortable enough to participate. She perked up when Emilia addressed her. “Elizabeth, please. And, yes, I imagine there are innumerable ailments that might be alleviated with a precipitously silenced performance.”

Nora Feathersmith giggled enthusiastically, and Emilia certainly sounded like she could be smiling.

“We shannot be,” the lead actor proclaimed during the pause, “together this day. Fate shall keep us all away, as does the winter stray the mourning dove, we are alone, alas, my love.”

And then, mercifully, it was intermission. The intermission revealed another privilege of the box seats, which was complimentary, catered dinner. Quiet, discreet gentlemen-Skinner pegged them as typical theater ushers, conscripted perhaps, or else rewarded, with the task-brought in trays of warm food: spiced meats, soft bread, deliciously sweet fruits. Someone left a decanter of wine on a small tray at Skinner’s side, and she carefully located a glass.

The wine was superb, rich in flavor, but smooth as water. It was like drinking spring sunshine on her face. She sipped at it carefully, though. Intoxication was more than a little dangerous to a knocker, who required great focus to keep their senses under control.

“I take it, Elizabeth, that you aren’t enjoying the play,” Emilia said, after they’d had a few moments to set to their meal.

Skinner swallowed a bit of lusciously soft bread. “I am quite enjoying the experience, certainly. I will admit that I’ve heard better work from Mr. Sitwell.”

There was another one of those vacant, absolute silences from Emilia. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “He