Read Online Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I by L. Jagi Lamplighter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. Jagi Lamplighter
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Today’s tall looming skyscrapers rose over firm dry streets, clean except for occasional mud or litter. And the color! Ancient cities were bright on festival days, but flags and banners soon faded. Not so the brilliant signs and eye-boggling billboards of this modern age. The difference between the stinking towns of old and the glorious metallic expanses of today staggers the mind! I would never have believed men could produce such magic if I had not lived to see it with my own eyes.
And to think that none of it would have been possible without Father and Prospero, Inc.!
I ARRIVED at our Chicago office just after ten. My next hour was swallowed by company business. I commandeered the Branch Director’s office and dealt with problems that had arisen since the morning. Many of our business concerns were unusually busy due to the Christmas season, and half our branches claimed to have emergencies only the CEO could resolve. Finally, I gave instructions to have all mundane troubles dealt with by the appropriate vice president and to forward to me only issues involving the five Priority Accounts.
Our company offices had been in a fashionable district when we opened them in 1910, but times change. Now, the area was so dilapidated, I hesitatedto walk the eight blocks to the hotel; however, I felt a sudden intuition that I should walk the distance. After arranging for our bags to be sent ahead, Mab and I set out on foot.
We strolled through the windy streets of downtown Chicago, past delicatessens and small stores selling jewelry or cameras. Winter was nearly upon us, and the weather here was true to the season. Mab pulled up the collar of his gray trench coat and lowered the brim of his black fedora, hoping to protect the back of his neck from the icy cold. I wondered how much protection an Aerie Spirit or, in particular, the carnal manifestation of the Nor’easterlies, actually needed from the wind.
The cold was not particularly disturbing to me either. Among the many charms woven into the emerald satin of my enchanted tea gown was a protection against the chill brought by any wind. However, a high-necked Edwardian gown tended to draw odd looks these days, especially if worn unadorned in frigid weather. So, I had added a white trench coat and a matching fedora, which fit snuggly over the Grecian twist into which I had pinned my silver-blond hair. Catching our reflections in a plate glass window as we walked along in our trench coats and hats, I thought Mab and I made a jaunty pair.
The morning rush hour had ended. A few well-dressed citizens bustled past, but the majority of our fellow pedestrians were unkempt and shivering. Almost every unattended alley or doorway had an occupant sleeping in it, huddled beneath newspaper or an old blanket. Across the road, a man in a bright fez and a brown overcoat stood in an archway. His placid face could have belonged to anyone—a short-order cook, an accountant, a department-store clerk, or a stock broker—except that one eye was significantly smaller than the other. As he met my gaze, something about his expression reminded me of the past, of many people I had met over the long years: people who worked for me, both aerie and human; people I had known in my childhood and long forgotten. Disturbed, I averted my gaze and pressed on.
Others, more adventurous, dared the cold to panhandle for their dinner. A lone woman with a red kerchief over her head and earrings the size of my palm sang beside a radio. An open cardboard box on the ground before her held a scattering of coins. Her voice was eerie and lilting. Mab tossed a bill into her box and another into the instrument case of a slim figure in a blue poncho and a sombrero, who sat on an old tomato crate, playing the lute.
As we approached the door of the hotel, the lute player began a new tune, singing in a high tenor:
“The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Lov’d Mall, Meg and
Today’s tall looming skyscrapers rose over firm dry streets, clean except for occasional mud or litter. And the color! Ancient cities were bright on festival days, but flags and banners soon faded. Not so the brilliant signs and eye-boggling billboards of this modern age. The difference between the stinking towns of old and the glorious metallic expanses of today staggers the mind! I would never have believed men could produce such magic if I had not lived to see it with my own eyes.
And to think that none of it would have been possible without Father and Prospero, Inc.!
I ARRIVED at our Chicago office just after ten. My next hour was swallowed by company business. I commandeered the Branch Director’s office and dealt with problems that had arisen since the morning. Many of our business concerns were unusually busy due to the Christmas season, and half our branches claimed to have emergencies only the CEO could resolve. Finally, I gave instructions to have all mundane troubles dealt with by the appropriate vice president and to forward to me only issues involving the five Priority Accounts.
Our company offices had been in a fashionable district when we opened them in 1910, but times change. Now, the area was so dilapidated, I hesitatedto walk the eight blocks to the hotel; however, I felt a sudden intuition that I should walk the distance. After arranging for our bags to be sent ahead, Mab and I set out on foot.
We strolled through the windy streets of downtown Chicago, past delicatessens and small stores selling jewelry or cameras. Winter was nearly upon us, and the weather here was true to the season. Mab pulled up the collar of his gray trench coat and lowered the brim of his black fedora, hoping to protect the back of his neck from the icy cold. I wondered how much protection an Aerie Spirit or, in particular, the carnal manifestation of the Nor’easterlies, actually needed from the wind.
The cold was not particularly disturbing to me either. Among the many charms woven into the emerald satin of my enchanted tea gown was a protection against the chill brought by any wind. However, a high-necked Edwardian gown tended to draw odd looks these days, especially if worn unadorned in frigid weather. So, I had added a white trench coat and a matching fedora, which fit snuggly over the Grecian twist into which I had pinned my silver-blond hair. Catching our reflections in a plate glass window as we walked along in our trench coats and hats, I thought Mab and I made a jaunty pair.
The morning rush hour had ended. A few well-dressed citizens bustled past, but the majority of our fellow pedestrians were unkempt and shivering. Almost every unattended alley or doorway had an occupant sleeping in it, huddled beneath newspaper or an old blanket. Across the road, a man in a bright fez and a brown overcoat stood in an archway. His placid face could have belonged to anyone—a short-order cook, an accountant, a department-store clerk, or a stock broker—except that one eye was significantly smaller than the other. As he met my gaze, something about his expression reminded me of the past, of many people I had met over the long years: people who worked for me, both aerie and human; people I had known in my childhood and long forgotten. Disturbed, I averted my gaze and pressed on.
Others, more adventurous, dared the cold to panhandle for their dinner. A lone woman with a red kerchief over her head and earrings the size of my palm sang beside a radio. An open cardboard box on the ground before her held a scattering of coins. Her voice was eerie and lilting. Mab tossed a bill into her box and another into the instrument case of a slim figure in a blue poncho and a sombrero, who sat on an old tomato crate, playing the lute.
As we approached the door of the hotel, the lute player began a new tune, singing in a high tenor:
“The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
The gunner and his mate
Lov’d Mall, Meg and
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