Lady Ironheart

Chapter One

"Breathe, Sophie." My mother presses a hand to my chest. "Ladies don't perspire."

I shake my head. "Mother, I'm afraid that-" here, I lower my voice- "my energy for the evening is winding down." My light blue dress is nearly soaked with rain and perspiration, and my hair is clumped together and entirely fallen from the distinguished bun that my maid tied it up in this very evening.

My mother takes stock of the situation in a bare second. Whereas I am a damp mess from a walk in the garden with my friend, she is the picture of elegance. Her auburn hair is in a perfect chignon, and her coppery-brown gown is as pressed and clean as it was when Adeline ironed it this morning. "I'll make our excuses to Lady Rubeon. Go get into the carriage- we haven't much time."

I nod, then lift my skirts demurely in front and begin as much of a run as I am allowed towards the exit of the enormous Rubeon house. Our carriage driver, Marius, sees me and spurs the horses forward.

"In a hurry, Lady Alderice?" Marius rarely speaks, but his voice is deep and rough. I nod and don't wait for a footman- just grab the carriage door and clamber in myself. I count off every second on my fingers, my breathing labored.

The door is jerked open, and my mother sits down beside me. Her skirt takes up the most room in the carriage, and she leans out the window to Marius. "I'll give you a crown when we reach the estate, if you can get there in half an hour."

I don't know if I'll be able to make it that long, but my mother squeezes my hand. Her jasper signet rings, nearly glowing in the faint streetlights, press into my palm. The slight pain is almost comforting, in a way. It keeps me from slipping into a haze, reminds me that reality is still here and very, very real.

I gaze out the window of the carriage, letting the cool night air wash over my face. The streetlamps blur in my vision, their flaming glow one long streak of orange-gold. There are a few men stumbling home at late hours, but other than that, the main street is mostly empty. I don't know if the darkness in the corners of my eyes is caused by my heartbeat slowing or by the depth of the night's blackness.

"Almost there," my mother whispers into my ear. "Only a very few moments, Sophie, love, and then you may breathe once more."

The city buildings slowly shrink in number, and I begin to see familiar landmarks. My heart is beating at a sluggish pace now, as though it's trying to move through pitch. As I see Grammercy Park and the Evanston Road sign, spots appear before my eyes, and my fingernails dig into the velvet of the carriage seat.

"We're up the drive now, darling, near to the carriage house, I can see it in the very distance. I'll carry you inside, you don't have to walk."

I try to ask what the staff will think of me being incapable of walking into the house for the third time in as many months, but my tongue won't form the words and my lips are too dry to even think about moving. There are sparks popping before me now, and they're the only thing I can really see.

The carriage grinds to a halt, and my mother flexes her fingers, then lifts me into her arms with ease. I close my eyes, trying to keep myself from having to see the pyrotechnics that are a private show for me. We're moving up stairs, I can feel it in my blood, and the chill of night that cuts through the crepe of my gown is replaced by warmth and light that burns through my eyelids.

A door opens, and I am set down upon a soft thing that must be the mattress in my bedroom. I cannot hear any longer, cannot see or smell or taste or feel. There's a moment of terrifying clarity in which my heart truly stops, but then there is a grinding of gears and a grunt from my mother, and I can suddenly feel things once more.

I'm lying upon my bed in my room, in a terrible state. My hair is still damp from the rain outside, and my face is covered in sweat. The gown that I was so proud of, and had sewn myself so well that no one knew it was mine, is in tatters. The bodice has been ripped, right down the middle, and layers of sky blue crepe and foamy lace are spilling out across my chest. There is a long streak of what appears to be rust on my torso.

My mother sits beside my bed in an elegantly carved chair that almost perfectly matches her unflappable appearance. Her hair is still perfectly coiffed, but there's a large black stain on her lovely dress. She's cleaning off an oil-stained key on a cloth that I know was freshly laundered this morning. She doesn't speak until the key is clean, then she sets the cloth down on my desk and turns to me with pursed lips.

"Well, that was tiresome, wasn't it?"