Gaslight Trials | The Wattys2023 Shortlister ✔️

4 | A Tinkering in a Workshop

When you are born working class, you run to save yourself from pain.

In Fumedge, every chase is as potentially lethal as it gets. You know you must escape at any cost. You focus. You think. You deal with the trauma later. Or don't. Survival always comes with a price. But you pay this price, because you have to.

So I run to save myself from pain.

I jolt up, brush past the Puncher and Mariposa, and stumble into the winding hallway. Pausing to take off the shitty boots, I clasp them in my trembling hand and face the indecipherable maze of corridors.

A palm lands on my shoulder.

"Oi!" I growl.

"Your bedchamber is this way," says Sophie.

I am grateful for her help, so I shut up and follow.

Upstairs, in the room, she leaves me alone.

I toss the murderous boots into the furthest corner and stare at the blisters they had caused me. Slicing the bodice with a pocket knife from my leather breeches, I run to the bathroom. I touch the cold porcelain toilet bowl with my warm forehead and vomit all the breakfast courses, one after another.

Lighthaven does not agree with me.

I fall onto the bed in my silky thing, not even bothering to undress. The sheets are made of soft fabric. A thick fluffy pillow gives me a new sense of warmth, and I press my face into it.

"No. Dontcha dare cry, Veda Igglesden. No, dammit." I fist the stupid tears out of my eyes.

Guess I wasn't gonna make it fer a spot of lunch. But Mar sure popped in fer breakfast, huh? The heck are the two of them doing here? Is Puncher one of the chosen Champions? Is she?How could she not tell me? Am I supposed to fight my best friend in the Gaslight Trials? Harm her?

Bollocks.

Thoughts wrestle in me mind until they wear me down .

⚙️🕰🗝️🎩⚙

Seconds, minutes, or hours could have passed. I wouldn't know, and I couldn't care rat's shite. Bright, strong sunlight is leaking through the plush curtains when a rap rouses me. 

Sophie steps into my bedroom, her eye clock showing me it's three in the afternoon. She lays out a new outfit for me.

Eager to get rid of this ridiculous dress, I don the tawny breeches, a flaxen shirt, a sturdy brown belt and a thin-hooded mustard-yellow jacket that falls to my thighs. My favorite part is the boots: these are made of soft leather and have a narrow, flexible rubber sole with treads. Perfect for running.

Sophie's mechanical arms extend with a 'zzzzap,' and pry the wooden door apart. Two other identically clad maids step in, pushing two enormous platters of food on the trolley. My tortured tummy rumbles.

Eggs and bacon? Haven't eaten that stuff in years. And not one—two piles of fries!

Next to them, a tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. There's an elegant, tall glass of orange juice.

"So we're not havin' lunch together? Ooh, la-di-da, the majestic Duke mus' be sick to the back teeth with my oddball behavior. Am I right?" I cannot help but snicker at the thought.

"Madam Igglesden, you'd do well to please the Grand Duke Lucius Sextus from this moment on. It is for your own good." Sophie's voice is stern. "You are expected to finish your meal in solitude. Then, I am to escort you to your carriage shortly. The Tinkering in the Commons Pit begins in half an hour." Her mouth is a thin line.