Author/Uploaded by Brittany Cavallaro
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...
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 iii v vi vii viii ix 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355 356 357 358 359 360 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 369 370 371 372 373 374 ii iv 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