Manifest


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Map
 Contents
 One
 Two
 Three
 Four
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Ten
 Eleven
 Twelve
 Thirteen
 Fourteen
 Fifteen
 Sixteen
 Seventeen
 Eighteen
 Nineteen
 Twenty
 Twenty-One
 Twenty-Two
 Twenty-Three
 Twenty-Four
 Twenty-Five
 Twenty-Six
 Twenty-Seven
 Twenty-Eight
 Epilogue
 Author’s Note
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Brittany Cavallaro
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 Guide
 
 Cover
 Contents
 One
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 For Andrew, today and every day
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Epigraph
 
 
 Why do gentlemen’s voices carry so clearly, when women’s are so easily stifled?
 —Sarah Waters, Affinity
 
 We are defined by the lines we choose to cross or be confined by.
 —A. S. Byatt, Possession
 
 
 
 
 
 Map
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 One
 
 From her window, Claire Emerson watched the carriage as it wound up toward Wardenclyffe Tower.
 
 It moved slowly, more slowly even than the others she’d seen make this approach. To those visitors it must have looked like
 magic: the tower in the distance, cables and wires spiraling up its sides into the sky. And below it, light, like the constellations
 had all fallen to earth. A thousand light bulbs pushed into the black ground and burning bright.
 
 
 If you plucked one, held it in your hand, you’d find there was no cord to feed it. The earth itself was crackling with power.
 
 What better place from which to rule?
 
 “Ten minutes, then,” Claire was saying over her shoulder. “Five to see them the rest of the way here, and then five to have
 them cool their heels in the parlor. It’s long enough for me to finish my meeting.”
 
 
 “But Mrs. Duchamp . . .” Helplessly the young maid held up Claire’s slippers again. “And your hair—there’s to be a photographer, and pardon my saying, ma’am, but you look fit for the stables—” 
 
 Claire smiled as kindly as her patience allowed. “Georgiana, you’re doing a lovely job, this being your first day, but if
 I want to be a horse, I’ll be a horse. I need you to find me Margarete, and then you can see if they need any help . . .”
 What on earth do maids do, and why do I have one again? “Polishing furniture.”
 
 
 Georgiana hesitated. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but this is the only room with nice furniture. Well, other than the Governor’s sickroom, but everywhere else in this place is still all concrete and awful
 laboratories filled with God knows what—machines with wires running everywhere, making black magic, and I—”
 
 
 “No polishing, then,” Claire said. She eased the slippers from the girl’s hands. “Why don’t you, ah . . . go help in the kitchen?
 Go peel some leeks. Just find me Margarete first?”
 
 
 “No need,” Margarete said, stepping into the stateroom as Georgiana rushed out past her. “Oh no. Are you terrorizing the help
 again?”
 
 
 Two weeks ago those words would’ve been as barbed as a fishing lure. But quite a bit had changed since then. Margarete wasn’t the urchin that Jeremiah Emerson plucked from an orphanage and brought home to wash his floors for free. Now she was the private secretary to the lady wife of the Governor of St. Cloud, and Claire saw to it personally that Margarete was paid a small fortune. 
 
 “Tell me where we’re at with provisioning for the dinner tonight,” Claire said, taking a seat at her desk. She put her feet
 into the