Now, she sat in a small djang house that ought to have been structurally incapable of housing as many people as it clearly did. Their voices blurred together into a constant noise, a pulsing ocean of a conversation. The warmth from their bodies and the heat lamps on the walls made the air stifling. Heat and sweat made her itch under her corset, and under the silver plate across her eyes.
She quietly sipped at her djang, relishing the bitter tang of it on her tongue, and considered what she ought to do with her last six crowns.
“Miss Skinner.” Peter Wall had pushed his way through the crowd of customers in the shop. His father owned the djang house-had, in fact, been one of the early advocates for the medicinal, social, and culinary benefits of djang when it had been introduced from Corsay-and Peter had worked there since he was old enough to carry a plate.
“This is yours,” Peter said, clattering a plate down in front of her. Skinner heard him set a fork down, carefully placing it by her left hand.
She quickly tried to calculate how much of her dwindling funds this might represent. A penny for a cup of djang she could afford, but she needed to be a little stingy with her food. “I can’t- ”
“On the house, miss, you know.” Peter told her. “Da don’t like to see anyone hungry, if he can help it. Gives him a sour belly all day, and then mam’s got to feed him bread pudding for dinner…well, it’s a right mess, if you take my meaning.”
Peter left before Skinner could thank him. She was half-tempted to try and follow him with her clairaudience, to see what his father
It was not hearty, the way traditional Trowth fare was, but the concoction of sweetly-pickled apples and pears, minced nuts and dates, and liberal application of white pepper was more than enough to quell her appetite. In the short-term, at least. There was still the matter of living on six crowns in a city that was legally forbidden from giving her work.
Most of the women that had been employed during the war had still lived at home; sometimes with fathers or grandfathers, too old or too respectable to be pressed into service, but just as often with mothers and sisters. They could easily, though sometimes uncomfortably, return to those households and wait patiently for a husband or gradually retire into spinsterhood, as they saw fit. Skinner did not consider either future especially appealing, and, moreover, had neither the interest nor the ability to return to her family’s home.
The situation left her with a feeling of inevitability, a sense of impending doom that she couldn’t shake off. There was no work. There was no way home. No matter how she looked at it, she was stuck with a handful of coins to her name-a need that exceeded her means, and no ready solution.
Skinner finished off her food and sipped at the djang, taking the opportunity to soak up as much warmth as she could before she had to go back into the cold. She stayed at the djang house until about mid-day. The city, still freezing, was at its warmest then. It would turn into an icy nightmare when the sun went down, and since she’d have to walk…well, people still died from Second Winter in Trowth, and not just the indigent and destitute. Skinner decided to walk home shortly before tea.
Bundled in a thick coat, with heavy mittens and a fur hood, Skinner took the short, ice-slick path back to her boarding-house. It was in Chapel Height, a modest, clean little neighborhood near New Bank, and a fully-entrenched Crabtree-Daior outpost in the Architecture War. Skinner had always supposed that this meant low buildings with flowery downspouts and baroque styling, but had never seen it herself. She preferred the Crabtree-Daior style because of its sturdy walls and moderately-wide hallways, which were much easier to navigate sightlessly.
Skinner lived on the first floor of the boarding-house, which had been established only a few years earlier precisely to give young ladies a place to live-peacefully, and without the threat of scandalous assignations with rambunctious young men-while they worked the jobs of the absent soldiers. It was managed by Mrs. Crewell, a gentle woman who took great care of her charges-perhaps as a way of spiting fate for her name, or perhaps because she simply enjoyed the irony of it. Mrs. Crewell was a particular sort of stout, gruff, middle-aged woman so numerous in the city that they might as well have been their own species and had, by fair means and foul, acquired a significant number of grandchildren. She made particular use of their youthful energy and agility in maintaining the boarding-house.
“Miss Skinner,” Mrs. Crewell called, when the ex-coroner arrived. Skinner could hear the woman bustling about in the living room, waging her lifelong crusade against grime. “Miss Skinner, if I could have a word.”
“I…there was a visitor, today,” the woman said. “From the Committee. They’re…well, they’re to encourage women to be going back to their families, and all that. So…” Skinner could hear the soft brush as Mrs. Crewell wrung her hands. “So, I’ve to close the house down. By the end of the month, they say. Now, don’t you worry about the money; I’ve plenty by me, and Word knows there’s little more you can do. But you’ll need to find a place for yourself, and soon as can be.”
“I…” Skinner’s stomach flipflopped, and her hand went involuntarily to her mouth.
“Course, course,” Mrs. Crewell said, softly. “Oh! Someone’s left a letter for you. Fancy paper, looks like. Have you got a gentlemen, Miss Skinner?”
“No,” Skinner said, firmly. It was probably a bill from the Committee, asking for her salary back.
“Shall I read it for you?”
“No. Not…I’d just like to sit down for a minute, Mrs. Crewell.”
“Oh dearie, of course,” the housekeeper replied. “You go on up to your room, I’ll send Roger in to you in a few minutes.” Roger was one of Mrs. Crewell’s innumerable grandchildren. He was only ten, and just learning how to read, so Mrs. Crewell employed him as Skinner’s reader. The arrangement actually worked out fairly well; while ten-year-olds are not notable for their ability to keep secrets, Roger was just young and incurious enough that he hardly understood a word of the messages that he relayed to the knocker.
She sat in her small chair, and held her cane between her hands, wondering what she should do. She had little in the way of personal items or clothes, so packing them up should be no great trial. Except that she had nowhere to take them, nothing to do with them. If she went down to Red Lanes, maybe, or into Riverside. The indige had different ideas about their women, one that the Empire tended to tolerate. Maybe they’d let her rent a room there? Six crowns would buy her a little more than a month, if she set something aside for food. That would take her to the end of Second Winter, at least. She’d never afford movers, though, or a coach, so she could bring only what she could carry. A few dresses, and she’d have to be diligent about laundering them herself. The guitar was light, but would not hold up well in the freezing cold air, even in the short time it took to get across the city. She’d have to wrap it up in her smallclothes. And then what? Once she got there, once she was living in Riverside, then what?
“Mum?” Roger rapped on her door. “Mum, I’ve got your letter, mum.”
“Come in, Roger,” Skinner told him, and suddenly realized that her room was freezing. She’d left the heat on low when she went out. “Go ahead and put on a light, and turn the heat up a little, would you darling?” She heard the faint screech of the lamp-switch, and felt the warmth from the heater. “Good lad.”
“Gram says I’m to read this. All right?”
“Yes, please.”
“Uhm.” The sound of paper rustling, as the boy opened it. “Oh! There’s a fancy crest on it, looks like. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be…”
“It’s all right, Roger, just read the letter.”
“Uhm. To. Miss Elizabeth Skinner. It has come to my at…attent…”
