RATCHETMARE: Chapter 5: Brass Row (Patreon)

Author’s note: Hi guys.

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So I've been thinking about it . . . and I haven't found a clear answer. That's why I'm starting to lean towards the idea of continuing with two stories into February. Anyway, on Sunday, along with chapter 308 of Lament of the Slave, I will release a poll and probably a little more information on stories and stuff.

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Anyway, I want to remind you that there will be no chapters next week. As I announced before the end of last year, I want to have the last week of each month as - let's call it administrative week for now. Just so I can breathe, think things through more and not under pressure. I'm not saying it will be a permanent thing - I'll see how it goes - how it suits me.

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Now, without further ado enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 5: Brass Row - Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/97232887

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Chapter 5: Brass Row

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While the previous agony-filled night had seemed endless, this one passed in the blink of an eye. It felt as if I had barely fallen asleep and dawn had already broken with the sun’s rays peeking through the windows. But sadly, that was the way things were. The waiting for what one looked forward to, like the end of suffering, dragged on while the unpleasant things seemed to come right away. That was the price of my recovery, though.

Being healthy again, scars aside, felt incredible, of course. The idea of me working for an alchemist, not so much. It terrified me. The overall reputation of the alchemists, and the few bad experiences I have had in the past with them, were getting to me. The fact that Faulkner was someone I’d never heard of before didn’t help much either. Nurse Hargrave swore he was an honorable man, and he might as well have been. In that brief meeting with him, he appeared to be, but it could very well have been an act - a ruse to lure me into a trap.

Be that as it may, it was too late to back out now. The noose was already wrapped tightly around my throat, and worse, I had tied it myself.

“All right, sweetie, time to get ready,” Nurse Hargrave snapped me out of my morning brooding.

“Time?” I gasped, glancing anxiously at the clock above the front door. From the moment I woke up, the hands on it seemed to be moving far too fast. But even though time seemed to fly by, no matter how I looked at the clock, I still had an hour left. So what was the nurse babbling about? Why the rush? It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes from the hospital to Brass Row.

“Well, yes. You’re due at Mr. Faulkner’s at ten, aren’t you?”

“Um . . . yeah, I am.”

“Oh, sweetie,” the nurse stopped, a smile on her lips, a little blush on her cheeks. “Did you plan to go to him like that?”

“Well,” I wasn’t so dumb as not to get what she meant, “I was hoping that you - I mean the hospital - could at least give me a gown. Of course I’d pay for it - once I can.”

“That won’t do, sweetie. We had to throw your clothes away, but Mr. Faulkner has already paid for new ones for you.”

“Wait, I signed no such thing.”

“You didn’t have to. He just wants his atelier assistant to look presentable. Come on, get out of bed. I’ll show you the showers.”

“Showers? He paid for that too?” Of course, I was no stranger to showers. It’s just that the water wasn’t free either. That’s why I usually resorted to washing only once a week, sometimes I waited even longer than that. There was no point in doing so if you were covered in black dust and sweat within minutes of returning to the mine the next morning.

“Oh, sweetie. You really need it.”

Did I? I sniffed my armpits, but it wasn’t too bad. I could do without showers for a few more days. At least as far as working in the mines was concerned. Mines! A realization that did a number on my stomach. No longer was I to work in that black, deadly hot pit; from now on I was going to work on Brass Row. A place much more classy than what I was used to. And so, knowing that if I didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb, I had to agree with Nurse Hargrave. Whether I liked it or not, I needed a shower.

Covered in nothing but my hands, I made my way through the women’s wing to the washrooms. A surprisingly well-kept place - functional, too. I was prepared for ice-cold water, but enjoyed a nice lukewarm rinse instead. Nurse Hargrave even gave me a bar of soap. Needless to say, I may have spent more time there than necessary.

Comfort aside, I needed to check every nook and cranny of my body to see . . . the damage. The potion did an amazing job. There was no discomfort in my movements, no pain, no tightness, no itching. Only fresh pink scars remained from the cracks caused by that fucking ancient coolant. However, there were so many of them. Only my back was spared, of course, and the upper part of my body, which I covered with the basket in time. There was no scar on my small but broad nose. My thin lips were chapped from lack of moisture, and my palm-sized girls were fine, too. The same could not be said for the rest of my body. From my chest down, including my fingers except for my thumbs, my skin was covered with a network of scars that resembled cracked stone. They crept down my stomach to the tips of my toes.

What’s more, where the goo touched my skin, I didn’t have a single strand of hair. A rather strange sight . . . and feeling. The front half of my legs were as bare as a plucked chicken, and so was my lap. Would my hair grow back and cover some of the scars? Or was my only option the alchemist’s potions and ointments?

Actually, it didn’t matter. After all, the contract had been signed, and removing the scars was part of it.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Nurse Hargrave said as she brought a pile of clothes into the shower room. “I hope they’re your size.”

“Wait, this is all for me?” I asked as I turned off the water.

“Mr. Faulkner requested that I buy you something nice. You’ll be dealing with his clients, so you need to look the part,” the nurse smiled and tossed me a towel. “Speaking of which, you better hurry.”

“What time is it?”

“Past nine thirty.”

“Shit!” Did I really stay in the shower that long? Damn it! The lukewarm water made me lose track of time. No excuse, just the truth. In a hurry, I wiped down my body in record time. Only my hair remained wet. Counting on it to dry on the way, I threw myself on a pile of clothes. No cheap stuff like I was used to. And that included underwear.

“Mr. Faulkner spared no coin,” the nurse explained when I shot her a questioning look. Frankly, it puzzled me that she didn’t want to be his assistant when she already did so much for him. Or was it the Alchemist who didn’t want her? Was she too old for him? What if Faulkner lusted after a young body . . . a thought I banished. Even if it were true, what could I do? If I avoided working for him, I’d end up in the hands of the Caps, in jail, and much worse.

Anyway, I got a nice white shirt, a red vest with gold trim, black pants, sturdy but comfortable leather boots, and . . . “Skirt?”

“Just for appearance. To fit in better. It’s light. You can wear it over your pants.”

Sister Hargrave wasn’t lying. The red skirt, woven with a gold pattern that matched the vest, was indeed light, and it was truly something that women, a lot, especially upper-class women, wore. Still, it was a piece of cloth that I remembered last wearing when I was a little girl. Thankfully, some things one never forgets.

“Oh my, look at you. Mr. Faulkner will be pleased.”

That sounded an awful lot like she was selling me as a bride to the Alchemist, but I kept the snide remark to myself. There was no time to argue with her. Instead, I took one last look in the mirror on the wall, straightened my still damp hair a little, and took a deep breath. It was time to take a step into my new life.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hargrave. I mean it.” Though she might not have done it out of the kindness of her heart - yeah, I still doubted anyone could be that caring to a stranger - I was grateful for everything she had done for me.

Her eyes lit up, and a smile appeared on her face. “I did nothing special, sweetie. You did the most; you didn’t give up.”

Did I? It seemed to me just the opposite, that I yielded to the pain and put myself in the hands of the Alchemist.

“Oh dear, look at the time,” Nurse Hargrave gasped, checking her watch. “You’d better hurry or you’ll be late.”

Without another word, she literally pushed me out of the bathroom and eventually out of the hospital. Not so surprisingly, no forms, no signatures, no coins were required for my discharge. After all, alchemists had a privileged position in society, and everyone tried to suck up to them. The hospital was no exception. Usually, they made sure, through some kind of promissory note, that you would eventually pay them all the costs associated with your treatment, with nice interest, before they let you go.

Oddly enough, I found myself wishing that they would do that, that they would delay me enough to miss my appointed time with the alchemist. Not that it would have spared me any service to him. It would only delay the inevitable - and make things worse. Still . . .

“What are you waiting for, sweetie? Go! And good luck to you,” Nurse Hargrave wished me, standing in the crumbling doorway of the hospital. With everything I wanted to say already said, I simply nodded back at her and walked briskly toward Brass Row. The ringing of the clock tower bells at three-quarters was like hammers driving stakes into my heart. The dread of being late and being there on time clung to me like the stench of soot and despair this part of town reeked of to my new clothes. I quickened my pace, my brand new boots echoing against the patchy cobblestone streets, worn and battered by the relentless passage of time. The sun, hidden behind the dark fumes that hover over the city, barely penetrates the narrow streets, leaving them cloaked in shadows that stick to the crumbling brick facades.

Rushing through the tangled streets of Greymare, I passed hawkers peddling makeshift gadgets and dubious tonics to the downtrodden. But as a waft of grease and soot mixed with the scent of perfume reached my nose, I knew I had neared Brass Row. The cobblestones beneath my feet shifted from irregular patches to meticulously laid paths. The buildings grew taller, adorned with polished brass and intricate gears. A pathetic attempt to mimic Grand Workings, for the most part. Only a few of the machines sticking out of houses were actually real.

Speaking of sticking out, despite my new attire, I seemed to attract the attention of the locals for whatever reason. It may have been my quick stride, or it could have been the scent of poverty seared into my skin. Despite all the glitter, they just knew I wasn’t one of them. The same was true of the ladies who came in disguise to the poorer parts of town, looking for a little excitement. No matter what they dressed up in, no matter how dirty they talked, they couldn’t shake that rich, pampered ass feeling to them.

As I turned the last corner, terror gripped my heart. I was on Brass Row. The street was wider and livelier, but also darker as the buildings stood one story higher. Oblivious to most around me, my eyes fixed on the house numbers, I made my way through.

537

537

537 Brass Row

There!

The Alchemist’s shop stood unassumingly on the street, nestled between Bloom Floral Boutique and Crock & Key Kitchenwares. Its facade, adorned with a modest sign reading “Faulkner’s Atelier: Potions & Elixirs,” did little to attract attention amid the flashy buildings surrounding it.

Yet I couldn’t take my eyes off it, not caring about the other shops on the street. This was supposed to be my home for at least the next five years. Ground floor with shop, three floors above, possibly a basement, unbelievable. A house this big for one person?

Or . . . ?

My breath caught in my throat at the thought. That was just what I had assumed. The alchemist Faulkner might have been married and had kids. He just never mentioned it - and neither did Nurse Hargrave. But would he need an assistant? Be that as it may, nowhere in the contract did it say that I should also take care of his mistress and his brats.

Or had he made the terms of the contract so loose that I would have no choice but to comply? My hands trembled and I almost turned on my heel. If so, he could have forced me to do anything he wanted. Only Nurse Hargrave’s words stopped me from running. According to her, Faulkner was a man of his word.

*DING! DING!*

The sound of the ten o’clock bell rang through the street. My body went cold; fear had taken hold of my heart.

*DING!*

My knees almost buckled.

*DING!*

Only six bells to go.

*DING!*

With no other option, I swallowed the dread and wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt.

*DING!*

I took a step forward.

*DING!*

The entrance, a simple wooden door with a small brass bell that tinkled softly upon opening, revealed a world of potions, elixirs, ointments, and powders within. The building seemed large from the outside, but inside it felt cramped. Shelves lined with dusty bottles of various shapes and sizes filled the room, while the air carried the subtle scent of dried herbs, grease, and aged manuscripts.

*DING!*

Dim light filtered through the small, grimy windows, casting an amber glow on the worn, dirty wooden floors. A brass contraption in the corner hissed softly, distilling an aromatic essence that permeated the air. The shop seemed frozen in time, as if no one had been here in ages. Which, considering the alchemist had been looking for an assistant for over two months, might have been true.

*DING!*

My eyes fell on the man himself. Wearing the alchemist’s robes proudly, he stood tall behind the counter, a pocket watch in his hand.

*DING!*

Faulkner looked up with a polite nod, his dark eyes gleaming with a hint of satisfaction. “Not a minute early or late. I like your punctuality, Miss Ratchetmare.”

“H-hello, Mr. Faulkner,” I returned the polite nod. “Thank you for the clothes.”

“No need. As stated in the contract, my obligations include providing for your basic needs. Which includes clothing. Besides . . . I can’t let you run the shop naked, can I?”

The thought made the blood rush to my cheeks. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of his perverted fantasies. “Speaking of your appearance, I would prefer that you fix your hair. I’ll provide you with a sheet of acceptable hairstyles.”

“Oh, all right,” I stammered. Sure, my hair was a mess, but a required hairstyle? What else would he be so strict about?

“Excellent! Now let me officially welcome you to my atelier, Assistant Ratchetmare. As you can see, it requires a lot of attention.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Many of my customers have been complaining about the state of the shop lately, so I’ve made it a priority on your schedule here,” the Alchemist said, handing me a densely scribbled piece of paper."

[Wednesday

10:00-11:00 Welcome, tour of the building, introduction to duties.

11:00-11:30 Acclimation to new environment]

And so on until the evening, when I apparently had some free time after dinner.

“This is . . . ” Honestly, I was at a loss for words. Not because of the amount of work he expected me to do. It wasn’t that much different from working in the mine from dawn to dusk just to make a living. What struck me was how much thought he had put into my first day. “This is very detailed.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Ratchetmare. While I like punctuality, I don’t expect you to follow this schedule to the minute. First of all, it hardly covers all daily activities. Second, I can’t predict customer behavior. Some days, only one may come; other days, the doorbell rings constantly. Pretty annoying, if I do say so myself. Third, and most importantly, following schedules or recipes literally leaves no room for free thinking or improvisation.”

Words: “Oh, so you allow me to think freely?” almost slipped out of my mouth. Much to my annoyance and dismay, he didn’t miss my inner sarcasm.

“Trust me, Miss Ratchetmare,” he sneered. “If I could, I would handle all of this myself. Unfortunately, that would leave no room for my actual work.”

“I u-understand. I’ll do my best,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. After all, I did get him. He was too engrossed in his “important” work to be distracted by the problems of everyday life.

“Excellent. Sounds like we can get along. But before we proceed, let me put some rumors to rest.”

Straightening up, I prepared myself for him to refute the rumors about alchemists circulating among the townsfolk.

“Alchemy is a fascinating field of study. With the right knowledge, you can achieve all sorts of things. I can grow a bald man’s hair back, make the man you’re eyeing fall in love with you, cure your medical issues - speaking of which, how are you feeling, Miss Ratchetmare? Any discomfort?”

“No, sir. I haven’t noticed anything unusual.” In fact, after drinking his potion, even the stiffness in my right shoulder that had been bothering me for over a year disappeared.

“Good. Really good. Anyway, to what I was saying. Alchemy can do many things, but one should approach it with a reasonable mind. It can’t bring back the dead - like your parents, for example.”

Oh, he was trying to avoid me asking him to do things like that - the impossible things, the miracles. As much as the common folk disliked alchemists, they attributed all sorts of abilities to them. If you listened to some of the stories, you would think that they were actually hidden mechanics capable of bringing the Great Works back to life. But those days were long gone.

When I nodded, he continued. “I can summon rain to a limited extent, but I cannot end the drought. I can make copper flow like water or turn it hard like steel, but I can’t turn coal into gold. The same goes for the mana talent. Though many alchemists, including myself, are searching for a potion that would allow you to weave mana and thus make you a mechanist, you will not find such a potion in my workshop, Miss Ratchetmare.

“Weaving mana will not make you a mechanist.” A thoughtless remark that I immediately regretted. Yet, much to my relief, Faulkner, instead of being annoyed by my comment, smiled broadly. “Quite true. I must say, I am delighted with your perspective on the matter, Miss Ratchetmare. Just because you have hands doesn’t make you a violinist - such a simple concept, but one that many find hard to grasp. I had my doubts, and still do, but I do look forward to having you here.”

Without really trying, I seemed to make a decent first impression. And to be honest, Faulkner didn’t seem too bad either.

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Author’s note:

Thank you for reading :)

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