Читать онлайн «Mechanica»

Автор Betsy Cornwell

Contents

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Part I

Part II

Part III

Epilogue

About the Author

Clarion Books

215 Park Avenue South

New York, New York 10003

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

Hand-lettering by Leah Palmer Preiss

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Cornwell, Betsy.

Mechanica / Betsy Cornwell. pages cm

Summary: “A retelling of Cinderella about an indomitable inventor-mechanic who finds her prince but realizes she doesn’t want a fairy tale happy ending after all”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-547-92771-8 (hardback)

[1. Fairy tales. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Inventions—Fiction. ] I. Title.

PZ8. C8155Me 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2015001336

eISBN 978-0-547-92774-9 v1. 0815

For Elizabeth Wanning Harries: my teacher, Betsey

“Go and seek your fortune, darling. ”

—Angela Carter, “Ashputtle or The Mother’s Ghost: Three Versions of One Story”

Part i

Take the key from behind your grandmother’s portrait. I am certain your father still keeps it in the foyer—no one will have touched it in years, I hope. But you, darling, will be able to find the key.

Walk to the end of the hall and open the cellar door. It has no lock; do not fear closing it behind you. Go inside.

Be careful when you walk down the stairs; the wood is weak and treacherous. Bring a candle. The cellar is very dark.

At the bottom of the stairs, turn left.

An old writing desk lurks there in the shadows. Push it aside. No doubt you’ve grown up a good strong girl and won’t need help.

Look: there is a door in the wall.

You won’t see a keyhole, but run a finger over the place where one would be. I know no daughter of mine will mind the dust.

Twist the key into the keyhole. You might need to worry it a little.

There, darling. You’ve found it. Use it well.

✷

My mother was wrong about one thing: the cellar door did have a lock. Stepmother had locked me inside enough times for me to know.

She was right about everything else. I was plenty strong enough to push aside the writing desk; I only cursed myself for never having done so before.

Of course, I’d thought Mother’s workshop was long since destroyed. I’d seen the fire myself.

Besides, that desk had been my dearest friend. The first time Stepmother locked me in the cellar, a forgotten stack of brown and brittle paper in its top drawer and a cracked quill and green ink bottle underneath provided me with hours of amusement. I drew improbable flying machines and mechanized carriages; I drew scandalous, shoulder-baring gowns with so many flounces and so much lace that their creation would have exhausted a dozen of the Steps’ best seamstresses.

Not that Stepmother hired seamstresses anymore. I provided her with much cheaper, if less cheerful, labor. I sewed all of their dresses, though my fingers were not small or nimble enough for the microscopic stitching she and my stepsisters required. I took care not to show how much I preferred fetching water and chopping wood to sewing. Stepmother considered “hard labor” the most punishing of my chores, so she assigned it often.