Chapter 1: City of Steam

Whistles blow all over town, a cacophony of sound indicating that it's 4 o'clock in Dorset. The work day is done, and for those who came to work today, they leave their stations in the factories, collect their wages from the foremen, and spill into the dusty streets. Those who didn't come to work today either wandered the streets visiting the shops, stayed at home, went for a swim, or built gadgets in their own workshops. They can collect their wages on Monday, there's no hurry.

The wide streets swell with humanity, like a river of humans flowing between its banks of wooden buildings. Shops, saloons, apothecaries, general stores, glassblowers, smithies, general stores, warehouses, the variety seems endless. People step over the occasional piles left by passing horses. People make way for the steam-powered wagons slowly rumbling by, some filled with product from the factories, some personal transports built by tinkerers. They are slow, they are loud, but they are oh-so-stylish. And where there is steam, there is smoke. Lots of smoke. The newer buildings look like fresh-cut pine, but the older buildings have been blackened by years of soot.

The sooty, blackened background stands in stark contrast to the people passing by, so many of them trimmed in bright, polished metal finery. Brass-rimmed goggles and monocles, brass strips sewn into the seams of clothing, like some metallic skeleton. Shoulder-mounted contraptions. Hats and helmets of all varieties, some useful (?), some nothing more than a hindrance, all in the name of fashion.

In the distance at either end of town, you can see the long blocks of flats where the workers live -- your homes. The communal cooking fires have already been started, and between sooty gulps of city smoke, you catch the occasional waft of spiced meats. Fortunately for everyone, the slaughterhouse was built downwind on the southeast side of town.

Wilhundt walks aimlessly through the streets, I am distracted, and not really aware of what's going on around me. My thoughts drift back to the boar this morning. It should have been a perfect shot, I had done everything right. Range, acounted for. Wind, acounted for. Powder, dry and fresh. Breathing, steady and relaxed. It's in my sites, a perfect shot to the heart like I've done a hundred times before. I move my finger !*POP*! to the trigger. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as the boar ran off, it looked upon me as if mocking the premature firing of my load.

I shake my head as if to clear my thoughts. Best not to dwell on such things, besides, no one else was around. The reputation of my prowess is still fully intact. A maiden smiles at me from behind a cart, enticing me to come sample her wares. I give her a nod and enter. My hand inadvertently brushes the barrel of my holstered gun and my thoughts again turn to the morning's impotent shot. I quickly purchase a meat pie, exit, and walk towards home with nothing on my mind now except the need to clean and polish my gun before bed.

Wilhundt's boar had run to the hills, into the rolling farmland, out of sight of Dorset. Funneled between two fences, it ran headlong away from the hunter to safety. It never saw the steam-cleaver usually reserved for sheep, set up along the fence. With a loud *WHUNK*, a punctuated squeal and a brief hiss of steam, the boar had met its sudden and bloody end. Farmer Addington stepped outside, wondering what had triggered his contraption, when he spots the two halves of recently-deceased boar. "Fresh pork today, that'll save us a sheep or two...", he notes with some satisfaction, and steps back inside to fetch his butchering apron.
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Wilhundt steps back into the street with the meat pie. The crowd in the street begins to grow. Friendly nods and smiles are the order of the day. A young gentleman in a white shirt and brown leather vest passes Wilhundt. "Missed you at the old sweat shop today!" he laughs, knowing full well that neither he nor anyone else had broken a sweat. The young man hustles away, dodging a steam cart as he does so. The cart's stack chugs a blast of smoke, a man walking behind it, holding its tiller. People seem to give the cart a wide berth, probably to avoid accidentally pressing against its boiler.

Looking further up the street, Wilhundt can see where most of the people are coming from. Covered in soot, the Milford Shirt Factory appears to have been shut down for the day, and a few stragglers continue to emerge from the large and mostly blackened building. Downstream, as it were, the people are flowing either out of town to their flats, are stopping at streetside cafes, or milling about various shops and street vendors. Silver changes hands, people speak in animated tones, and Dorset is full of life.

Dr. H. H. Holmes walks slowly towards home. Dressed in his typical attire. Brown slacks, white shirt, green bow tie, brown leather boots, trench coat and top hat. His coat is adorned with lots of unneeded straps and buckles but has many pockets on the inside to secure his items. His top hat has a belt at the base of it to hold many small bottles filled with various medicinal tinctures with a pocket near the top of the hat that holds one larger potion flask with a decorative chain securing the flask in case it falls out. He is carrying his brown leather, fold out, medical bag, which if the day went well is slightly lighter from selling the tincture bottles that were stored within it. He leans a little bit more on his brass topped walking cane as he is tired from a day of walking to the various general supply stores and other shops attempting to sell his wares. He is distracted a bit by a lovely young woman in a blue dress and long, curly blonde hair, walking several feet in front of him. He is debating with himself whether to follow her further or head for home and a hot meal.

Doctor Holmes congratulates himself on his good fortune -- it's been a fine day. His medical bag is indeed lighter, and his pockets are most certainly heavier. He does not know why Milford's foreman bought tinctures today, nor does he care. He does not know why Miss Wickham at the museum had a need for such tinctures, nor does he care. His feet are tired, there is silver in his pocket, and .......isn't that Miss Ellsworth in the blue dress walking ahead of him? Isn't she ..........'s daughter? Holmes struggles for the name, but can't come up with it. No matter, he's sure her father is of some importance.

Holmes continues walking, lost in the throng. Distracted by the blue dress, he is nearly trampled at the sudden appearance of a horse, dark brown with black mane, a rider in finery astride its back. The rider flips up his metallic goggles, a gloved hand with bronze scales as a snake holding the lenses in place. "A thousand pardons, Doctor! Are you all right?" he queries apologetically.

I send a courteous chuckle and a wave in Percival's direction. "Whatch...! ahh, lucky dodge there boy. I deftly step aside, barely adjusting my gait as the steam cart huffs past. I nod to the operator and not for the first time, marvel that people still walk behind them. It would be a simple matter to extend the cart to the rear just long enough for a seating platform to operate the tiller from. I set to work mentally designing a complicated cantilevered and counter-weighted platform in my head. Yes, the cart can rumble down the roughest of roads and the farmer not feel a thing from a perch like this.

"Quite alright good sir. A bit weary from a long day and not paying attention as much as I should. Though it seems the streets are growing more and more dangerous for pedestrians these days. But no harm no foul." Dr. Holmes pats the horse on the neck a few times and continues on his way. He looks around to catch sight of his quarry. "Ahh there she is, just ahead in the crowd" He hurries a bit to catch back up but wants her not to notice she is being pursued.

The doctor's quarry heads down the western end of Dorset's largest street, and seems to pause as if she's forgotten something. She nearly turns around, but seems to think better of it, and continues on her way. There is still a fair crowd, but only 10 yards or so separate the doctor and the woman in the blue dress.
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Wilhundt, having stopped for a bit of window-shopping at Carlson's Powder & Shrapnel, turns in time to see a lovely young lady in a blue dress. Roughly 10-12 yards behind her he spies his acquaintance, Dr. Henry Holmes. He seems a nice enough chap, always seems interested in selling him tinctures or potions or whatever he calls them. As he steps off the porch of Carlson's store, it strikes him that the good doctor appears to be following someone, keeping his eyes fixed forward, and.....is it the girl? In the dress?

Wilhundt's curiosity is piqued. Under pretense of needing a refill of calming tincture he hails his aquaintence, while observing carefully the Dr.'s body language. "HOY! HENRY! So good to see you! Do you care to join me for a drink tonight to discuss a recent malady that I hope can be relieved by one of your splendid tinctures?"

Seeing his quarry pause Dr. Holmes begins to panic that his attentions have been noticed. But she moves on once more. Just as he is about to do the same he hears a familiar voice call out his name. With a bit of annoyance he turns to regard the caller. "Ahh. Wilhundt! So good to see you! I would be pleased to join you and hear about what ails you."

"Another time my dear. Another time."

Mrs. Samar Wynne hears the 4 o’clock whistles, the ones that usually wake her, but she is already seated at her vanity. She has already changed dresses a few times – from the ruby, to the emerald, and now to the sapphire. She has already applied and adjusted and smoothed her makeup. Mrs. Wynne contemplates her reflection, calmly yet wryly. Not critically, but she cannot quite bring herself to laugh, or even smile at herself.

She had expected Death. Perhaps the clandestine Moon or the regal Empress. Instead, Miss Tamarind Leicester had crowned her a Fool.

“Of course, I was the one who shuffled the cards.” Then, as much as Miss Leicester had tried to explain, Mrs. Wynne had stopped listening at the sight of the Fool – the jester. The clown.

Without smiling or frowning, Mrs. Wynne got up and set off to work. Miss Leicester would be relieved to have her break on time for once. And then, after covering the inn counter or serving drinks as need be, Mrs. Wynne would resume her role as the dealer of cards, dispensing and depriving fools of fortunes with impartial grace. Mrs. Wynne’s poker face was a friendly nonchalance. Its strength was in the security that the poker players were the fools – for they could only rely on their dash of luck for so long.

But Miss Leicester’s mystical deck had dubbed her the Fool. “Me.”

Mrs. Wynne waded into the crowds, among the gentlemen, and among the ladies in red and green and blue dresses. She went unseen to the Hangry Haven (Inn & Tavern). She entered and saw her flatmate Miss Leicester, welcoming a family of travelers and arranging their accommodations. She stepped behind the counter and said, “Good evening, Miss Leicester,” greeting her newfound sister and helping her with the guests.

Mrs. Wynne still did not laugh or smile. Her eye did not twinkle.

But Mrs. Wynne was humming. She was humming with the resolution that she did not know who the fools were and who the fools were not. "I may be a Fool…." But Mrs. Wynne was such a determined Fool that she forgot her definition or identification of foolishness altogether.

Fritz Weigel enters the same bar after staying longer at his shift at the Milford shirt factory. What or Who he was doing he shall never divulge. Though he enjoys getting lost in her roundness, which is easy, since his height is below average. Fritz is a short gentl’man, None can claim otherwise, even after lifting their belongings from pockets and purses. It’s the littl’ pleasures in life. He’ll stop for a quick nip or two to stave of the chill of night, whilst he’ll burgle the home he’s been casing for weeks. The owners are gone, but the butler and staff are still there, but they’ll be busy. The “enjoy” each other when their master’s away.

His clodhoppers, which give him an extra three inches, clank on the damp barfloor. The annoying clopping of his risers are drowned out by the cacophony of merry wishers and drunkards. He sees familiar faces and conquests from the factory, slapping dominoes, shuffling cards, laughing, and rattling dice calls to him. He wants to mix it up, make his fortune on the thrill of the gamble. He strikes a match on the bar, lighting his pipe. His quarry tonight is a larger haul, than the meager earnings of these drones. “OY! Give us snort, would’ya?!?”

“We ain’t serving no sprites, go on,” says the bar maid.

“I’m firty free, ya wagtail. Get me the snort or I’ll wallop ya.”

“You’re awfully short to be ‘firty free’” she mocks his speech, “Oh, my look at them heels ye wearing. You’re even shorter.”

“I’ve got what matters. Fill-up me flask and I’ll be on my way.”

She snatches the flask from his hand and carefully pours in the liquor. Fritz admires her bubbies whilst she’s at er task. He’d like to get lost in her, for sure. She returns the flask. He takes a nip and turns, puffing on his pipe. He reads the room as he finishes his pipe, before his big score. He checks his secret pockets for his various implements and tools. He smiles enjoying the smoke and the booze, buzzing his head.

Wilhundt looks around, sees that the other patrons are just as appreciative of the auto-feeding appetizer platters, as they stuff their faces. He listens for the puff of steam in the next room, always the tell-tale hiss from a hidden boiler releasing pressure.

In spite of the downward pressure on meat prices, he's always had enough to pay his rent. He always has firewood, food, drink, and enough for anything he cares to buy. All in all, it may not be all he wants, but it's certainly all he needs.
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Samar Wynne watches the patrons roll in, and before long, her evening has become quite busy. She notices Dr. Holmes and....what's that other gentleman's name? Wilhelm? Milwoot? No matter, she needs to get some drinks out, then she can stop by the table. Besides, Miss Leicester had mentioned she needed a tincture for a spot of malaise, maybe she can pick up something while she's getting their drink orders...

She spies Fritz out of the corner of her eye, and wonders for a moment what that rapscallion is up to. Milford must pay pretty well -- Fritz always seems to have plenty of silver on hand, and that's never bad for business.
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Fritz Weigel looks around the Hangry Haven, pleased with what he sees -- lots of people preparing for an evening's inebriation -- when he catches sight of Wilhundt in the corner. Today was factory payday, and it wasn't unusual for Weigel to pocket an extra fistful of silver on the way out. He religiously marks it down in the ledger, and pays the people as he sees them that evening. Wilhundt has some wages coming to him, so Fritz makes a mental note to stop by at some point. But priorities come first, specifically, harassing the bar maid.

To Wilhundt,"I will never turn down a free drink nor a good tale. But let me see the offending digit while you do." Dr. Holmes takes Wilhundt's wrist in one hand and feels for his pulse and begins to examine the finger with his other hand. As Wilhundt tells his tale Dr. Holmes pays attention to the pulse for any irregularities and pinches, prods and pulls on the finger in question. He squeezes the wrist in just the right spot and with careful pressure so when the blood rushes back into the hand it will cause it to shake just slightly."Have you sustained any injuries to the the hand or finger? All seems in order. Hold out you hand for me. See that slight shake? Perhaps a simple calming draught is all you need." Once Wilhundt's tale is told Dr. Holmes fishes in his bag for an elixir. "let's see here. Nope not the green vial. Don't want to knock him out. I want to save that for.....perhaps the blue? That should do the trick, but how much? Well, guess we'll find out" He pulls out a clear bottle with a blue liquid inside. "Next time you hunt take a small sip of this when you first set out. It should calm your nerves and steady your hand just a bit."

Wilhundt notes the pressure on the soft spot in his wrist, and the effect the release has upon his normally rock steady hand but the knowledge that the good Dr. is padding the diagnosis changes nothing, the tincture was a sure sell already, the selling price of Wilhundt's own ruse, which he now regrets, recalling how his own eyes also had lingered longer than socially acceptable upon the girl in blue. He purchases the vial, places it within one of many vest pockets, and conversation drifts to pleasantries and inconsequential topics such as would not be recalled later.

Mrs. Wynne’s evening at the Hangry Haven had followed its usual course. She had relieved Miss Leicester and remained at the inn counter welcoming guests until dark, at which time travelers arrived with less frequency. The matron Eliza then relieved her to join Miss Leicester in the tavern, tending to the guests as they took their repast after the day’s labors.

Some workers returned to their homes after their meals, while some stayed for entertainment, joined by other merrymakers off the street who sought diversion, festivity, and the company – or acquaintance – of strangers. “Or the acquaintance of their silver.” That is why she was there, after all.

“If you can get away from Mr. Weigel, I have left it for you to consult with Dr. Holmes. He could use another drink, I surmise.” So it was Mrs. Wynne advised Miss Leicester.

“I doubt Mr. Weigel would suffer me to show much affection elsewhere,” was Miss Leicester’s response.

“I doubt Mr. Weigel would accost the good Doctor, but I will leave you to your own measures.”

“I doubt Dr. Holmes has a draught for foolishness, but I will ask him for you.”

“I have grown quite accustomed to my condition since last night, I assure you.” Mrs. Wynne squeezed her friend’s hand affectionately. “By the by, who is the Doctor’s companion?”

Miss Leicester, having spent her life entire in Dorset, knew and respected Mr. Wilhundt Varyu. It were his craft had put many a meal on her family’s table, before she became estranged from said family. Miss Leicester shared Mr. Varyu’s name with Mrs. Wynne, but naught else. She wanted to be busy; there was time for tales back at the flat. She returned Mrs. Wynne’s squeeze and was off.  

For her own part, Mrs. Wynne strode across the room. As was her tradition, she went first to the dart throwing arena. She was proffered a dart from a skeptical patron (else she would have plucked it from him), and Mrs. Wynne promptly scored a bullseye – to mixed cheers and guffaws. She was tossed a silver but tossed it back.

Mrs. Wynne then opened her poker table and began shuffling the cards. Mr. Cairn Wallace, who had been relieved from tending the bar, found a neighboring corner and brandished his upright steam guitar, filling the hall with exotic incense and soulful music – sometimes bright and sometimes somber. Thus, the evening’s festivities were at hand.

A couple of game players joined Mrs. Wynne’s table: one a regular and one a traveler. She greeted them both and drew out a warm conversation. She would wait till at least a couple more guests joined the table to begin, so she continued shuffling, with grace if not practiced skill. Her eyes wandered from the eyes of one guest to the other, and her mind wandered as well. “Have you killed anyone? How did it make YOU feel?” She had replayed her memory countless times, but this time it was strangely visceral: She felt her spit splattering across the traitor’s face.

The cards she was shuffling burst into the air. One landed in the traveler’s drink. Mr. Wallace stopped playing and looked to her with concern.

It was then and only then that Mrs. Wynne laughed. She smiled at her guests with absolute charm, wordlessly shook her head, and began retrieving the cards – which she then discarded.

Mrs. Wynne brought out a fresh deck and began shuffling. She had enjoyed spitting on the traitor’s face. It felt good. “I should have ground his testicles with the heel of my boot.” Pity she had not thought to do it then.

Mrs. Wynne waved across the room and addressed the traveler: “I have ordered you a fresh drink, traveler.” The conversation resumed, with a tickled air about it. Mrs. Wynne wondered what her guests truly enjoyed, whether or not they would admit it.

The thoughts of hatred and anger passed rather quickly for Samar, somewhat more rapidly than she expected them to pass. Soon, she was smiling with the frivolity of the evening, and a mood she expected to linger seemed to bring instead....nothingness. Was she beginning to forgive? She wanted to hold on to her anger, but perhaps she had started to move past it. The feeling, or rather lack of feeling, catches her by surprise.

No matter, Miss Leicester had mentioned the doctor and his tinctures, or potions, or whatever they were. Samar looks back, and sees that Miss Leicester is still otherwise occupied by Weigel. Someone needs to get those tinctures, and if her friend was too busy...
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The two men at the corner table watch the activity as they talk, they watch the card games, they watch the people getting drunk, and they watch the waitress throw an uncanny bullseye as she casually moves across the floor.

"Harlot of the bar!" Fritz slurs, "I've finished the first and find myself still lacking the proper spirit to continue onto the matter at hand. I need to be peckered proper."

"Well, if it isn't the little sprite. I've got more important patrons. You wait."

"There's no one more important!"


The barmaid left with a drink for the table where Wilhund sits, but not before sliding a tumbler down to Fritz. Where he poured the contents into his flask, carefully, with agility of tipsy fool. Some ended up on the bar top. Fritz consumed the spilled portion, regardless of the gawkers. When finished he observes his fellow compatriot, Wilhund speaking with Mrs. Leicester and the doctor fellow. He jingles his secret stash of coin, removed from the coffers from the shirt factory. He could walk over to the table, with the intention of giving the money, and berate the barmaid. A new gambling table is open and needs more to sit. The coin jingles in a delicious way he could double his coin in a few hands, give what is owed to Wilhund, pocket the rest. The players look to be ripe for his skill.

Fritz mozies over to the table with the pretty lady. In his head he's mozying, but in reality his stumbling. From the back of her head she could be anyone. Armed with more hooch the night is young and ripe as the lady.

"Mrs. Wynne, 't is you. Deal me in. I have a few coin, let's make 'em multiply like cronies." Fritz winks at Mrs. Wynne, as he sits.

"Henry, do you ever get the feeling that we have at some point, been more to each other than just aquaintences?  Something, an almost formed thought, perhaps even a memory, has crept to the fore tonight as we have sat conversing. I almost said nothing, except that it also includes Ms Wynne, dealing at the table just there, and Mr Weigel there also.

Wlhundt pauses, wanting to say more, but what sounded crazy in his head, sounds even crazier voiced. Or is that the other feeling? The one urging him to forget about all of this forever.

"Indeed I too have had a similar sensation. Almost like Dejavu. About you. Ms Wynne dealing cards. When she threw that dart I knew she was going to hit the bullseye before she even took aim. Even that odd little Mr. Weigel at the card table who walks around like he owns the world. I know he wears special shoes to make himself taller and to watch my pockets when he walks by. But whence I came upon these insights I know not.

Henry shakes his head a bit, as if to clear a fog from his mind. "Anywaya. I must say it's been a long day Wilhundt and my feet are weary. I think I'll sit a bit longer, finish this drink, and head for home."

Mrs. Wynne had resolved to erase the notion of foolishness from her mind, but as oft happens, her resolution was soon challenged.

Mrs. Wynne braced herself as Mr. Weigel approached her poker table. She had discredited him countless times before – as long she kept the drinks flowing, he was more bark than bite, or more sniff than lick…?

But as Mr. Weigel joined the table, he winked at her – and a flash of recognition overcame her. “I know you….”

Mr. Weigel did not seem to share the uncanny connection, so Mrs. Wynne searched the room for some outward confirmation. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the table of Dr. Holmes and Mr. Varyu – and again she felt a tug of. . .kinship? Interdependence?

Mrs. Wynne dealt out the poker round to govern her feelings. It had been an evening of heightened emotions – but she was confident that this new, strange sensation was more than a passing fancy. And then she overheard the doctor and Mr. Varyu discussing the sensation themselves! Albeit with some reticence from Dr. Holmes.

The poker round ended, with Mr. Weigel winning by default, as his competitors had overdrawn their hands on points. This was too much to bear for the regular at the table, who loathed padding Mr. Weigel’s pockets. As the regular took his leave, Mrs. Wynne leaned over to the neighboring table to address the gentlemen.

“Good evening, and pardon my intrusion on your leisure. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I FELT IT TOO, though I cannot identify its. . .identity? I cannot name it. I do not believe Mr. Weigel has felt it, though he is wrapped up in it as well. Then again, he is so sloshed that I would not be astonished if he did not feel sitting on a tack.

"I feel driven to act, but I cannot. . .conceptualize how, except to confer with you regarding this overwhelming, yet vague, impression.”

Doubts continue to creep in. You've lived full lives here in Dorset, you're integral parts of the community, with friends, aspirations, and responsibilities. Weigel doesn't seem to share your doubts, but then again, he's at least one sheet to the wind and rapidly heading for two. Even if he doesn't openly share these doubts, his presence nags at your consciousness.

A young gentleman, laughing and drinking at Samar's table, tugs at her sleeve as his leather top hat tumbles off his head along with his goggles. "Hey, are we going to play cards, or what?" he says, leaning over to retrieve his. His head bonks heavily on the underside of the table, demanding Samar's attention to set things aright.

As Samar and Fritz refocus on the game of cards Wilhundt begins to examine these feelings in earnest. He recognizes that tonight is not the first time that similar thoughts have come, he also begins to see a pattern of unnatural indifference where it comes to thoughts and discussions of family. He has associated with these people for years on different levels, yet he knows nothing of consequence about any of them.


"Why do I feel a sudden affinity for these people? What are they to me? Why do I have such an aversion, nay, more total disinterest when it comes to family? Mine or theirs?

Again, a wave of indifference, as if to say, this matters not, forget it, what is it to you?

Henry, there is a cemetery that I have seen in my hunting, West of town, about an hours hike at brisk pace. I know not why, but it nags at my mind. I only say this, because I want to remember that I want to remember that it may have some import on this. But that mystery may be for another day. Tonight, Henry, would you tell me about your f.. fam.. about your family?

Well certainly Wilhundt. My mother.....she.....well my father anyway came from....you see I grew up in......" Henry blushes a bit and looks a little embarrassed. "Well I think the drink has gone to my head a bit, and I'm afraid the subject wouldn't be all that exciting anyway. Perhaps another time."

As the young man tugged on Mrs. Wynne’s sleeve, she returned to her role as the affable poker dealer, as simply as she had changed dresses earlier in the evening. There was no trace of the previous conversation – she embodied her poker dealer costume completely.

The poker hand would have been another win for Mr. Weigel, except that he insulted the young traveler for playing so reservedly, rousing a challenge out of him, and the draw of the winning card.

As Mrs. Wynne beamed and said, “Congratulations!” to the traveler, sliding him his winnings – she heard the word “cemetery” uttered in her peripheral attention. The word startled her, like a stab in the gut: she jerked, knocking the traveler’s tankard over, its contents spilling over right onto his lap, along with the tankard itself.

The traveler was insulted, until Mr. Weigel echoed the, “Congratulations!” – and his booming and contagious laugh soaked into the traveler as the drink had. The traveler could not help but join Mr. Weigel in a hearty laugh.

Mrs. Wynne hurriedly addressed Dr. Holmes and Mr. Varyu: “I have walked in the cemetery, to get away from the bustle and steam of Dorset. The headstones are all singular: There are no families. No two names are alike. How can that be. . .possible?”

A thought comes to Wilhundt and he shares it, "Pretty sure that's normal." He's pretty sure that isn't what he actually wanted to share, but he also can't quite identify why he would think any different.

As Henry sits and contemplates the strange twists of the conversation this evening he looks up and spies his quary from earlier in the day. "perhaps the evening is looking up"

"Forgive me Wilhundt. As pleasant as your company is perhaps I can add to the scenery at our table. Excuse me a moment."Henry gets up and approaches the blonde woman in the blue dress from just earlier in the day. As he draws near the two women he tips his hat in their direction.

"Good evening. Miss Ellsworth I believe? I am Dr. Holmes. Henry Holmes. I was just sitting over there with my friend Wilhundt and was thinking how much better the evening would be if we had some company at our table. And to my good fortune...I hope...I spied you and your lovely friend walk in. Miss...?" As he waits for the other's name. He gestures towards his table and waves at Wilhundt.

The other young lady holds her hand out in a dainty gesture. "Miss Lewiston, if you please", and with her other hand, waves back towards the corner of the room where Wilhundt is sitting. But it seems the wave was intercepted by a somewhat drunken and jovial Fritz Weigel, who waves the young ladies over.

"Ooh, there's Fritz!" exclaims Miss Ellsworth, and the two ladies depart rather abruptly from Dr. Holmes, leaving him to work his way back to his table.

In short order, chairs are pulled up to the card table, and the young ladies sit down near the somewhat sloshed Fritz Weigel. There is smiling and laughing, and a rather substantial interruption to the card game. More drinks are ordered, and the next table does get a bit raucous.

LADIES!!! Come set upon me lap. Give the old rub-a-dub good lick, LUCK!!

Fritz yells at the ladies. The brew's something in it. He stares trying to focus on the flask, as the ladies. Come to the table feigning scandal at his words. The Wynne lady looks strange

The realization that the good doctor was rejected seeps into his brain, as he sees the low hanging head of the fellow.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Never had the luck with ladies have. I maybe short in stature, but I be long in stamina.

Before the ladies have arrived at the table, Fritz finds himself pushing the last of his wealth. He knows the strange traveler has not got him beat. He awaits the next, which is not provided, until the two ladies surround the table in awe. They gasp, the gasp hushes the whole of the tavern.

You ain't gonna beat me, by God!

All eyes are on the table and on the strange short man. What Fritz doesn't realize is all his words come out in odd utterances. His words are slurred so fiercely his language is like that of ancient Neanderthal. They stand around awaiting the good travelers response.

Mrs. Wynne wants to interject, but the strange traveler shoves his coins in. Fritz tosses his cards he certainly does not have a winning hand.

The traveler shows one card at a time, to the uproar of the bar, with the traveler winning ALL of Fritz's coin.

Dr. Holmes heads back to his table. "Bested by a diminutive drunkard and he isn't even aware of it"
He sits down heavily in his chair. 'Well apologies Wilhundt. Apparently they were here meeting someone else already." He sits and watches the lovely Miss Ellsworth a bit. Thoughts running through his head. Before turning back to Wilhundt. Determined to get lost in his drink.

Fritz leaps from his chair in a fit of spoiled anger. The chair flies behind him from the momentum.

CHEAT!!

He yells at the traveler. HE stumbles and sloshes towards the traveler, but misses and land in the good hunter's lap, Wilhundt. He puts his hand on Wilhundt's face.

My good friend. He's cheated me out of your wages.

Fritz looks at the traveler.

Dr. Holmes sits and contemplates the evening. Surreptitiously keeping an eye on the lovely Miss Ellsworth. When he sees her begin to leave the establishment he bids goodnight to Wilhundt.
"Well I must say this has been a nice change of pace Wilhundt and I thank you for the drink. But now it is time for me to take my tired feet home. I bid you goodnight sir."
He makes his way to the door and searches for Miss Ellsworth once outside. As he spies her heading for home he takes to the shadows to see if he can learn where home may be.

The sound of the revelers behind him, Holmes makes his way into the night. Street lamps have been lit, but being relatively few and far between, they afford plenty of opportunity to hide one's face. At this time of the evening, some stragglers are still milling through the streets, but most have headed for home.

Miss Ellsworth heads west, straight toward the worker flats, but deviates to a well-worn path heading northwest. Individual homes come into view, certainly finer accommodations than the worker flats, and there's little doubt this is where the lady in the blue dress is headed.

Wilhundt is not sure why he has put up with Fritz all of these years.  He certainly takes no pleasure in drunkenness and rabble rousing, and Fritz is the biggest of this sort in Dorset. If it weren't for the, the... The thought almost forms and then is gone.  Well, perhaps it is time to sober him up.

With a single smooth and imperceptible motion a large revolver appears on the table in front of Wilhundt. He slowly begins polishing the brass details inlaid in the very oversized barrel.

Fritz... Fritz, How could HE have possibly cheated you out of MY wages? Gestures towards the travelor.

"The question dear Fritz, lays not in how he cheated, rather, in how you allowed my money to intermingle with your wagering."

Wilhundt site's down the barrel looking for missed spots, aiming towards the ceiling safely away from anyone, but in Fritz's general direction.

"No matter, I know you shall repay me in full. I could do no less for my" The proper word escapes him and he leaves it at that.

Fritz catches a glimpse of Wilhundt and his gun, the smile drops from his face in a moment of...recognition? Clarity? The moment is there, and it is gone.

What's left of the evening passes without incident, people leave with their dignity more-or-less intact, and everyone walks (stumbles?) home, just a few on horseback. Steam contraptions are nowhere to be seen, as their clattering and hissing has a way of angering the early sleepers, and there's work in the morning. Holmes and Wilhundt return to their respective flats, Weigel bumbles his way northwest, Wynne still has a little work to do before getting to her flat on the east end of town.

Dorset readies itself for slumber, and the new day at sunrise.

The day dawns bright and clear, and Dorset slowly grinds to life. Smokes from thousands of chimneys rise into the sky, tens of thousands of breakfasts being prepared over cooking fires. Before long, a stream of workers begins to trickle into town, growing to a river.

And with a new day come the new gadgets. Ellis Bollinger can be seen down an alley on the northern side of town. He's still tweaking his steam cannon, built just for launching hedge apples. Along the southern side of Main Street, a side street leads to the the Museum of Oddities, its steam calliope on the front porch whistling to life, beckoning passers-by.

And further down Main Street, hunched over the other buildings is the Milford Shirt Factory. This morning, its normally-shut barn door is wide open. A newer building next door, equally large, but lacking the years of black soot, stands with its barn door open. Other workers stand, curious what this is all about.

Today's wind has shifted somewhat, and some of the pungent aromas drift over the eastern end of Dorset, the smell less than pleasant. Workers seem eager to get into the factory for a slightly more pleasant assault on the senses. They laugh and kid each other about it. "Ah, life in Dorset I suppose, eh?"

Fritz Weigel walks down the street towards work, with head down and away from the sun. The glints of light pierce his eyes, as he works the lock picking puzzle one handed in his pocket. He does these things when he has something on his mind.

On his mind is the night before replaying itself over and over again in his mind with every tumbler he tumbles in his puzzle. Last night something, that barrel, the smell of gun oil, losing to the stranger. It's as if me tricks ain't working.

Fritz pulls out a playing card, working slight of hand, as he walks through the throngs, picking his lock and flashing a card from no where.

He drops the card when he realizes. Wilhundt works at the shirt factory. He has to devise a plan of entry, one in which avoids Wilhundt AND through out the day. He ponders this thought as walks, picking his puzzle.

Fritz follows his plan accordingly and tries to sneak in to the factory...

Dr. Holmes slowly walks his way to the shirt factory. Another day of degrading menial labor. For God's sake, I'm a doctor, not a seamstress! And that damn Fritz. Showed me up and doesn't even know it! Usually when a girl hears the Doctor in front of my name that does the trick. No matter. I found out where she lives. Perhaps she'll be my next.....patient. That'll show her. That'll show them both. It was kind of nice talking with Wilhundt however. Not a bad chap. Perhaps in time I could even call him a friend?

Wilhundt walks towards the factory for his shift. His mind on the events of the night before, puzzled slightly that he cannot recall the full nights events. He had not drunk THAT much. In fact, he feels very refreshed. He stops to buy a pastry with fresh egg and ham from Farmer Addington's stall at the market, a treat today as he is usually serving lamb. The lightness of his purse reminds him of the one thing he does not forget. Fritz Weigel had gambled away a weeks worth of his earnings. Wilhundt quickens his pace and ducks down an alley, approaching the factory complex from behind instead of going around the block to go in the front like usual.  The stop for breakfast had taken longer than usual today as the farmer recounted how he had driven the boar into his trap. Wilhundt exits the alley and notices two things. 1) the crowd of factory workers milling around outside when they should be inside working. And 2) Fritz just ducking into a side door.


Fritz is acting odd this morning, for him to skip a chance to greet everyone in that crowd with a bump or a hug and a mock insult he must be out of sorts. I hope it's not because of my stunt last night. He had it coming, playing with someone elses money, but perhaps I took it to far. I really should catch up to him. Let him know that I know he will find a way to repay me, and I am not living above me means. I can be patient with him on the matter.

Wilhundt hurrys towards the door he observed Fritz enter. Hoping to catch him before getting the days work assignment.

As Dr. Holmes enters the factory he expects to spend his morning mindlessly ironing shirts before his mind wanders back to several of the medical experiments he wants to try. "if I can transplant an eye from a person that can see, into someone who is blind, would they be able to see? Would this work with other body parts? Can i graft a leg from one person to the other? If they are blind from a trauma of some kind, how is that different from someone who was born that way? Have I come across any blind people?" Such are the typical thoughts Dr. Holmes occupies himself with or he would surely go mad at this accursed factory.

Upon entering the factory through the large barn door at the front, the thought of mindless shirt-making left Henry's head. Nearly all the workstations had been moved overnight to make room for....something. Towards the back, two huge, iron curved plinths rest, apparently in preparation for something large and cylindrical to be placed on top.

In a world of steam, everyone knows what this means. Boiler. A big one.

Leading to one end on a low ramp is a set of iron railroad tracks, but much of the tracks are yet to be laid. It's going to be a very heavy day of work, indeed. Lots of iron, lots of wooden ties. It does break up the monotony, though, and the other workers are all smiles at the prospect of doing something different for a change. Today, everybody is a railroad man.

Hundreds of workers are herded (including Wilhundt, Fritz, and Henry), to the new building. Seeing it for the first time, a few things trigger your senses. First, it smells cleaner, without years of sweating employees toiling on the shop floor. Second, it's big -- a huge, nearly empty space. Third, as big as it seems, it's hardly empty. An immense iron cylinder rests on its own iron plinths, much like the ones on the normal factory floor. Rails lead to both ends of the plinths, and sitting on a pair of these rails is a mechanical monstrosity. It rests on the rails with six huge wheels, two in the front, four at the rear. It seems clear that this machine will be pushing the boiler from this building to the next, and someone needs to finish laying the tracks.

Before leaving work last night, you had wondered why troughs were being laid out behind the factory. Preparation for attachment to the water tower, no doubt. And someone needs to build those trestles to support them. Yes, it's going to be a heavy day.

The traveler had had quite the evening. Mr. Chelsea was his name, and like most young gamblers – what he had won from Mr. Weigel, he eventually lost to Mr. Liverpool and Mr. Arsenal: he did not know when to stop.

He tipped Mrs. Wynne all the same, and he even got up the nerve to ask her why she was called a “Mrs.,” on the point of his not seeing her husband around.

“I am called Mrs. Wynne because it were not me who murdered my husband,” Mrs. Wynne said conversationally.

Mr. Chelsea did not know what to say to that, so Mrs. Wynne said, “Hush – this is the last of the evening’s entertainment.”

Out stepped Miss Bianca Watford. (Everyone only called her ‘Bianca.’) Mr. Wallace began the song on his instrument, and Bianca’s crystalline, mellifluous voice shook the very atmosphere. It was the kind of performance that left everything so still afterwards, you had to remind yourself to breathe.

Still Mr. Chelsea hung around as Mrs. Wynne packed up the cards for the evening, so she offered to escort him to his room. He was much obliged, to be sure. Mrs. Wynne escorted him by way of the front desk, at which point she handed him off to the matron Eliza. “Mr. Chelsea would be much obliged if you escorted him to his room.”

“My pleasures,” matron Eliza said, eyeing the young, strapping fellow. What the matron had lost in age, she more than made up for in experience. “Wee lamb,” Mrs. Wynne thought to herself, as matron Eliza swept Mr. Chelsea away.


Mrs. Wynne minded the front desk while the matron Eliza was away, in case any guests had any respectable needs. Miss Leicester bid her a good evening, as did Mr. Wallace. He would see that she made it home safely, and respectfully. (He only had eyes for Miss T’Ree, the baker at the patisserie.) When matron Eliza returned, Mrs. Wynne went about her chores, practiced her darts, and took a nap until the morning chef arrived. She then began peeling and chopping and cutting vegetables for the inn’s guests’ breakfast – all with her preferred knife.

Mrs. Wynne arrived at home with a bundle of breakfast for she and Miss Leicester, who was at her vanity preparing for her day. Miss Leicester thought it cruel to leave the impression of the Fool with Mrs. Wynne, so Mrs. Wynne shuffled and drew another card: The Devil. “Why not?”

They shared breakfast, and Miss Leicester returned to work.


Normally after Mrs. Wynne returned home and had breakfast with Miss Leicester, she went to sleep – having been up most of the night cleaning and preparing breakfast. But Mrs. Wynne was instead feeling mischievous. Perhaps even Devilish.

She began by accidentally breaking a plate. She slowly moved it little by little, not giving it too much attention, to the edge of the table. And then the plate lost its balance and shattered on the floor -

That is when Mrs. Wynne remembered the cemetery. The names in the cemetery. No two names a like.

Mrs. Wynne secured her cloak and her knife. She advanced into town, to Churchill’s Stable, and rented a horse for the day. Then she rode out west, away from the slaughter house and its stench, to the cemetery.

Upon arrival, somewhat breathless, Mrs. Wynne tied the palomino horse in the shade of a wild apple tree. She gave the horse an apple.

She marched to the gate of the cemetery. She took out her knife and with her left hand, she cut a quick X into the skin of her right forearm. She wanted to remember the cemetery. She wanted to remember the names.

Mrs. Wynne bandaged her arm with a handkerchief and entered the cemetery, searching for clues – and a lasting clarity.

The purpose, the whole reason for coming out to the cemetery begins to fade. Samar soldiers on, both literally and figuratively, struggling not to succumb to the overwhelming indifference.

As she does so, she wanders among the headstones, curious but curiously uncaring, taking mental notes of what she sees.

There are no family plots, no husbands and wives sharing names, no children, no grandparents. Just names, names dissociated from a normal life full of relationships, love, and family. Just endless, random names. And Samar Wynne struggles to care.

Wilhundt works his way through the crowd of coworkers, trying to find Fritz in the crowd, He is finding the balance between trying not to be obvious, and successfully spotting someone shorter than average to be quite difficult. He finally spots him in a group slightly separated from the closely packed workers Wilhundt is currently making his way through.

Ah, Finally! And his back is to me, if I hurry across, just a little ways over, I can keep sight of his coat and still have view of me concealed should he turn this way. Just.. Have to... get, past.. this last... person!

Wilhundt catches a heel as he starts his move across the opening causing him to trip and flail right into the back of...

Wilhundt! one of the foremen bellows Where do you think you're headed? You just became my first volunteer! Report for Rail duty.

The foreman gestures and Wilhundt gets his first look at the massive 100 foot long steel beams that will form the track between the two buildings.