First was Marshal P., whose name had been made with his pedirail locomotor. With his inventions and the lines of credit their success in the last war had opened up, he had everything he needed to carve out a domain of his own anywhere in the witchwoods. He chose the settlement of Rueford, situated on the river and with oil deposits belowground, and his machines set to work scything down the forest to make way for grain, grazing, and oil pumps.

Marshal P. had always been one to take matters into the hands of his personal locomotor, and that took him beyond the expanding walls of the town of Rueford for long periods. In those absences, Guildmaster T. rose to his title. He remains the head of the Clockmaker's Guild, his clockwork devices and meticulous management outcompeting other guilds in their own domains, expanding the scope of the clockwork patent he had been afforded beyond what anyone had foreseen. By the time Marshal P. had noticed, the Guildmaster was impossible to remove without tearing out most of the city's economy in the process. He remains the city's largest source of employment, injuries, and prosthetic replacements to compensate for those injuries.

The most recent arrival is Dottoressa F. and her salon. With the growth of Rueford's economy, the toiling classes aspire to more. Supervisors study manners and follow fashions in pursuit of good marriages, and those trends are set by the Dottoressa's circles. For those whom nature has not gifted with the figure of the month or the appropriate temperament for the season, she can offer tamed fauna from her menagerie that can be discreetly bonded or ingested. The most common merely siphon off excess blood and boost one's verve with their glandular secretions, but there are rumors that those shared with her inner circle are capable of much more. Unusually for the Lettered, the Dottoressa's creatures can be bred and raised by their hosts to pass on and found circles of their own, but doing so elevates their appetites beyond what a salon mistress may be able to sustain should her station fall again.

And it is upon this recent arrival that the host of an underground prosthetics clinic sets her sights - for in the process of shaping her Spark to work at her command, and not its own mere whims, she has rendered it ill-suited to working from the barest nothing, and if she is to develop the necessary treatments to regrow limbs...these will do nicely for inspiration.

Mademoiselle Ophelia Mondegreen is in fact the proprietress of quite a few of the local sources of entertainment, much appreciating the finer things in life herself - though it's said that she is never seen to drink more than the sip that courtesy requires of her wines, and she abhors cigars, so it's curiously unclear from whence this rumor comes.

She's been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long, long while.  To unseat the Guildmaster, but not his works, would be to create a newer and worse horror - but now, she has the hope of an alternative, if she is quick enough.  And that is the first step in her plan to steal Rueford out from under the smog that chokes it.

She's been doing what she can to ease the burdens upon its people - "unauthorized meddling with technology under a letter patent", it's considered, in Rueford's jurisdiction, though the surgeries never occur within its civil bounds - but this is an opportunity far grander.

Regrowing limbs is as yet not a capability that any of the Dottoressa's menagerie have demonstrated. The closest of the public strains would be the Repilatory Louse, an uncomfortable but undeniably effective baldness cure, and the Sanguinary Leech that is generally advertised as enabling one to maintain a perfect sang-froid or sang-chaud as the situation requires, but can also stimulate the replenishment of blood in a pinch.

Of the more speculative varieties, one of the Dottoressa's closest confidants fell beneath a pedirail. He now moves with a boneless fluidity and wears gloves at all times. The members of another prominent salon have all shed the pox-scars of childhood illness, but they avoid the topic of their cure and diligently vet prospective invitees.

How very interesting, this.

Perhaps an employee of her own pubs, one of the more genteel sorts - it would hardly do to spook them - shall approach the ladies and gentlemen of the salon, discreetly - for dear Sylvia, while a rugged survivor of the highest degree, has hardly come away from her travails unmarked.  The pox in childhood, and scars upon her hands, heroically sustained in a boiler accident?  Goodness.  That is far too many scars to keep for overlong.

She'll do her best for the Lady, she's sure - but surely the Lady is aware that she is hardly well-spoken of the sort they'd need?

Nonsense, darling, we'll have you quite well-trained by the time you're needed, if you're willing.

If the Lady commands --

No.  Not by her command.  By Sylvia's consent.  This is important.

The Lady does not ask more than her people are willing to give.  Is Sylvia truly willing to give even her body to the Lady's keeping, and bear experiments, as this task will require of her?  Does Sylvia trust that the Lady will be doing her best to keep her partners safe, and that no order shall be given without reason?  Does Sylvia believe that if she has concerns, the Lady will listen to them?

If not, then the Lady would like her to have this for her time.

...And if she does?

Then she shall learn the proper ways of speaking, memorize this history, and meet a certain salon's clientele when she's ready.

The good Doctor's skill in mesmerism is quite useful for such practices, as it happens.

And so, soon enough, Patrice Clairemont shall make an appearance at a certain salon; she brought baked goods she made herself!

As well as a simple resonance transceiver, built in to the decorative layers of the tray she bears them on.

Such a tragedy, life in the city can be so hard at times. What kind of employment has this Patrice been able to find for herself, following that dreadful accident? Was it a long fall from grace, did she have prospects before? Has the Clairemont - is that her maiden name - family been able to offer any support?

They are scrupulously polite in feeling out what Patrice Clairemont might have to offer the salon in return, and in avoiding anything more than hints that such a transaction might be an option. The baked goods are a good start; the ladies and gentlemen alike seem to have hearty appetites.

Her family died to the pox that marked her; they'd had her surprisingly late, and were vulnerable to it, while she was young and strong; teenage vitality saved her.

She works at the same patisserie they once operated, actually, beneath safety equipment, but hers is a long-dimmed star; sadly, she simply cannot get recognition for her works because her ex-poxedness "would scare the customers", her boss says!  Oh, if only she could...but there are no miracles, not for her.

Patrice, or someone else listening in through the tray transceiver, may be astute enough to notice that her tale seems to divide the room.

One set of salon guests are full of praise for her impeccable manners and comportment, and the industry and care she has applied to her trade. Some of them discuss in passing their own charitable contributions to the worthy poor of Rueford.

Another group appears to disapprove of the idea of working a trade, no matter how diligently. Of course they aren't rude enough to say so, but when the topic of making the pastries they're enjoying comes up, they will break off into their own conversations about loftier matters, a subtle shunning.

Then there is the third fraction of the attendees, saying little, more or less indifferent to Patrice's claimed background, but watching closely for any direct evidence of her character. Does she seem inclined to eavesdrop, should a mildly scandalous affair be whispered about in her vicinity? How does she react when the conversation shifts away from her misfortune and what might be done about it? Will she respond to any mild slights in kind?

(The mistress of the salon, a bibliophile dowager who leads the poetry readings, is among this latter group.)

Well.  She might perhaps drop an eave or two, should someone be seeming to bring such a matter to her attention by repeatedly whispering about it in her vicinity - though her reaction is to whisper back that "really, I feel that the story of Mister Delacourt's affair being the talk of the town is quite unkind to his poor wife; she had nothing to do with it, and yet to have it be the talk of every gossip in the town surely hurts she as much as he; do have a care!"

She seems entirely impassive to the conversation's shift away from her misfortune and what could be done about it; it was something she expected.

As for slights, well, it depends upon their manner!

"That was a private conversation," one of the gossips harrumphs, his affronted flush perhaps the work of a Sanguinary Leech. Some women of the salon give Patrice approving nods, however.

One of those slights comes from that flushed gossip, a Farrier Serjeant Wolsley Croft (ret.), who Patrice will have gathered once served with the Marshal's forces before retiring to enjoy the proceeds of the cattle ranch his service earned. It's said his unblemished neck was mostly scar tissue before joining this salon, though his voice remains gruff and he doesn't turn his head much. 

"Doesn't hold a candle to a Tommikins' teacake," he mumbles through one of her baked goods.

Another woman offers some unsolicited advice on where to find a young servant that knows how to work a needle. "Judging by the state of your attire, that injury must prevent you from doing any of that yourself."

The waspish milliner's tone makes it clear that the insult is intentional.

"I shall have to try one, sometime, if they're as good as you say," she returns to the veteran.  "A friend of mine says that things can always be better, and it is up to us to find out how."

Ss for the waspish milliner...

"Hm.  Perhaps.  Though if your tailor is as bad as mine, then clearly we both need a new one."

F. Ser. Croft accepts her diplomatic reply in good grace, offering no more hostility. "My hearing's not what it used to be. When's the Dottoressa going to dig out an earwig that can fix that?"

Her other opponent is less tactful. "I hadn't realized your boiler accident ruined your sight as well as your hands," she says, before knocking over a teacup to spill towards Patrice's lap.

"Deirdre, enough." The dowager's voice cuts through the chatter, and the milliner bites back her anger with one last scowl at the salon's latest guest. "It's time for the last reading of the evening, any volunteers?"

Once the reading is finished, Patrice will be thanked for her attendance, and encouraged to check her post regularly in case she receives another invitation.

In the meantime, certain members of the salon will make their own enquiries into this persona. Will they find people who can confirm her story? Are any people of status willing to name themselves friends, patrons, supporters of hers?

And will the resonance transceiver be left behind at the salon?

"Goodness, I haven't a clue; I'm sure if I find out I'll let you know."

The teacup is, impressively, steadied before the tea spills.

And of course Patrice Clairemont exists!  Why, old Georg at the pharmacy swears her strawberry tarts are the best he's ever had, and don't you know Mme. Mondegreen only orders from her shop - really, the poor dear is the engine of the thing, but that nasty Boris won't recognize her, barely acknowledges her existence - when she hosts her occasional soireés?

And perhaps the little serving-platter that happens to have such convenient properties for spies will be a bit forgotten in all the hubbub before the last reading, -

- but Patrice will be back tomorrow; oh dear, she can hardly imagine how but she seems to have forgotten her serving-platter!  Might she retrieve it, please and thankyou?

"I'm very sorry," the hostess of this week's salon says, "You'll have to do without it a little longer, the dowager noticed you'd left it behind and took it to return herself. You could knock at the door to her townhouse, but - between you and me - I'd expect another invitation before too long."

Some snippets of conversation that took place in the vicinity of the serving platter around the time of the salon:

"...hardly going to help with the money troubles, the Dottoressa wasn't impressed by our club's contribution to the last greenhouse gala."

"- skin of both hands? That goes beyond the norm..."

"Funny, this tastes just like that other bakery I know."

"- must've been raised well, the finishing school wouldn't have opened in time for her to attend."

"- came to blows again, it's only a matter of time before the springheels -"

"Everyone has their own misfortunes. The value of beauty is in its scarcity, we must not be profligate." (The voice of the dowager is distinctive.)

"- eyes like a cat! I feared for my life, but he only returned my purse."

"I daresay she deserves a chance, the Fall dance season is approaching..."

"...an imported plasma globe from that foreigner's workshop, fries the blasted mosquitos - sorry, ladies - they shrivel up and char like crumbs on a fire poker."

"Don't worry, when wealthy men fight, it's the lawyers like yourself who profit."

"- hope I'm there to see her face when -"

"...assuming nothing amiss is uncovered, yes, she has potential."

Will the Lady in the Shadows be able to locate the resonator and pick up more sounds from it after the dowager took it elsewhere?

Oh, yes, most definitely.  Not because it has anything so crude in it as a homing-beacon, but because she can recognize the sounds of motion, and make educated guesses as to how, where, and by-whom.

She's quite careful in how she utilizes that information, however.  It would not Do, to be caught out in listening.

And really, just like this other bakery?  Has someone been stealing old Boris's recipes again?  (Because the best lies have truth in them, and it's quite true that Boris exists and has old family recipes from a Clairemont!  Just not quite that there was a daughter of the family remaining.)

Then some more can be heard after the tray is taken to the dowager's townhouse and those sounds of motion stop. These are a little clearer without all the background chatter.

A door is unlocked, opened for a moment, then closed and locked again. While it is open, part of a conversation can be heard: "I almost hope she does welch, the terrarium is looking a little bare."

The door opens again. "I wish she just had a catalogue we could see the prices in, instead of all this hinting and reciprocal gifting," one male voice says. "The Dottoressa is nothing like those industrialists, she's a natural philosopher!" another man replies. He sounds smitten.

The scratch of pen on paper. "Could you send a message? Yes, regarding the latest candidate, I do think she will welcome the news." It's the dowager again.

A rattling doorhandle. A coarser accent. "Caught on the -" "Yes, the bloody sicklevine again, I don't know why I can't keep the slugs in the garden shed instead."

"Remind him not to miss the next one. Unpleasant though it may be, the alternative is worse, and the Dottoressa would not approve of any carelessness with her gifts." The dowager once more, raising her voice down a corridor.

As night falls, the house quietens. There are the heavy footsteps of a guard patrol every hour, coming into earshot at fifteen minutes past and coming back the same way twenty minutes later. With some more educated guesses, the Lady may deduce the patrol route as well.

In a couple of days, there will be another letter that invites Patrice Clairemont to the dowager's townhouse for another salon. In the dowager's genteel handwriting, it is suggested that she make arrangements for her travel home late in the evening or to bring a valise to stay the night in a guest room, and that she postpones any physical exertions or public appearances she may have scheduled for the following day.

She will, of course, be delighted to attend.

...so soon?  That is...not a positive sign, especially given the comments about the terrarium...

Still...

Perhaps a friend of Patrice's, a nurse, shall be her arrangements for a ride to, and hopefully from, the dowager's.

She doesn't suppose the message-runners that took messages from the dowager lately were hers, incidentally?  If the dowager wasn't sending by telegraph.

(If it was by telegraph, well, there's a couple linemen who owed her favors enough to tap the central line with, and the Spark is quite good at finding secrets.)

The message-runner is a familiar face: Oskar, a pageboy in the dowager's service. The bowl cut part of the uniform doesn't suit the shape of his face and he shows signs of not getting enough sleep, but he's now filling out the livery thanks to the proper meals he's getting, and he carries himself with more confidence.

He owes his present employment to the Lady, he's one of hers. What does she want to know?

Here, a little extra for his trouble.  What did he see when he took the message that the dowager wanted sent to the Dottoressa?  What did she say to him?  Relay the tone she took.  (The Lady has a standing request that all mail to the Lettered that passes through her group's hands be given as full an analysis as possible, especially when it's from repeat senders, but she'd usually rather avoid raising suspicions.  She is quite good at putting a seal back together, but no-one and nothing is perfect; she risks this rarely.  She risks doing such tampering now; she must know much more of what's happening to properly weigh the risks of it, and she's on quite a short timetable to find out.)

That's right, the dowager gave him a message for the Dottoressa F., to be delivered to her scary secretary with all the eyeshadow and letter-openers and the living quill. He hasn't dared try to sneak a peak at the contents, but from the weight and the feel of it, it contains about a half-sheet of correspondence written by the dowager. Usually when she writes to the Lettered it's more of a production, gilt envelopes and thick pages full of pleasanteries, and that usually means doing some favor or donation to the Dottoressa and getting something from the menagerie shortly after. The last time he had to carry a short note was around the time that one of the guards went blind, but he doesn't know what that was about.

He sucks in a breath as the Lady opens the letter, expecting something to happen because of that transgression, but nothing does.

The short note is mostly taken up by a description of Patrice. It is primarily a physical description, including a detailed assessment of her scars that is well-observed but lacking the precision of medical terminology. The false identity has not been uncovered, and her prepared history is presented as fact. The dowager then adds that she intends to proceed, by default with the standard method unless she should be advised otherwise, and will keep the Dottoressa F. appraised of the outcome.

"When the dowager handed it off to me, she sounded... relieved? Hopeful, maybe? 'Good. Get that to the desk of F., run along now.' That's what she sounded like." Oskar's impressions need work.

In addition, he had some routine messages for orders of household supplies and collecting lists of the latest outputs from the Guildmaster's scrivenersmithy, and the typical set of invites for the main salon guests, confirming the dowager's townhouse for the next salon.

The Lady shall very carefully rejoin the wax to itself with the aid of a small device that can apply carefully controlled amounts of heat.

"Was the guard blind before, or after, the note, and does he remain so today?  And do tell me more of the secretary and her quill later.  Now, Oskar, remember your training and watch the pendant for me..."

And Oskar departs none the wiser of this particular encounter, save for a lingering desire to go down to the soup kitchen and tell Doctor Emm all about the scary secretary that he won't mention to anyone, and a particular attentiveness to details during that delivery.  (He was accosted by some toughs, but managed to evade them, if anyone's keeping track of his delivery times enough to notice the missing few minutes.)

"I don't know, he was gone after that, they said he retired or changed jobs."

The sun filters down through the perpetual smog surrounding Rueford.

Children run in the streets, splashing in the puddles from last night's rain in the rubber boots that the Marshal's latest factory is churning out. A cluster of schoolgirls poke at a dead pigeon with a stick and pretend to be an anatomy class.

A factory of the Guildmaster's workers are gifted with mass-produced pocketwatches 'to help them manage their time'; some wear them like badges, others gift them on, pawn them, or break the mechanisms at the first opportunity for a plausible accident on the assumption that they serve the boss' interests somehow.

Meals of meat and potatoes are cooked and consumed. Portraits are captured in paint or photosensitive plates, to hang on the walls of tenement and terrace houses. People drink, brawl, fall in love. Life in the city goes on as normal.

The salons are biweekly, so Patrice will be expected at the dowager's in twelve days.

The broken and regifted pocketwatches, especially, tend to find their way into the Lady's hands - which is good, because she needs the materials; she has secured a few of the Dottoressa's publicized products with which to tinker - ones whose effects she can imitate, with careful use of mesmerism.  She must tinker quite quickly to make sure Sylvia is not harmed by worse.

And, well, one can hardly go wrong with a good pocketwatch, when something simply must occur on time.  For example, examining the terrarium.

Things are procured, a valise (with a false bottom rigged as a mini-terrarium itself) packed - 

She prepares herself for war.

As Patrice and her friend the nurse arrive by carriage, they will be allowed in through the wrought-iron gates of the dowager's townhouse, past the high walls thick with bloodthirsty sicklevine.

The security this evening appears to be higher than normal, two liveried guards visibly patrolling along the known routes, their eyes glinting oddly when the light of the gaslamps catches them at the right angle.

The dowager maintains an orangery in the garden, and liveried servants will show the pair in through that interstitial space and into the subdued warmth and chatter of a salon that has yet to start in earnest. There seems to be more of a tension in the air than for the previous session.

Oh, what a lovely garden the madame dowager has!