Mr. Stitch Read Online Free
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 really had to say about it, but, as the smell of food wafted up to her nostrils, found more important things to occupy her mind. Her belly rumbled, and she set to the meal with gusto.
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.”
Rent , Skinner thought immediately. She wants this month’s rent. How far am I behind? Only three days…she can hold out until the end of the week, at least, certainly—
“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
Peter left before Skinner could thank him. She was half-tempted to try and follow him with her clairaudience, to see what his father really had to say about it, but, as the smell of food wafted up to her nostrils, found more important things to occupy her mind. Her belly rumbled, and she set to the meal with gusto.
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.”
Rent , Skinner thought immediately. She wants this month’s rent. How far am I behind? Only three days…she can hold out until the end of the week, at least, certainly—
“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
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