Take Back the Skies (2 page)

As Catherine was about to leave Elizabeth to rest, her mother spoke again with unexpected force. ‘Don't let your father decide your future, Catherine! I let my father decide mine, and while I got a lovely daughter out of it …' She didn't need to finish her sentence. ‘Your heart is yours and yours only to give away, and one day, you will find the man you wish to have it, and he will give you his. That man does not have to be Marcus Gale.'

Was her mother telling her to defy her father? How could she? She was the sole heir to the Hunter fortune – she might as well burn herself from the family tree.

‘You are a brave girl, Catherine, and destined for greater things than becoming Marcus Gale's wife,' her mother said, her grey eyes clear for once. ‘Your father is … a difficult man. He doesn't always understand how his actions affect others. And he certainly doesn't expect a woman to have a mind of her own, especially his daughter. Stand up for yourself, sweetheart, and make your own way in the world. Perhaps a shock like that would teach him an important lesson.'

Catherine's own eyes sparkled with understanding and excitement.

‘But what about you?' she asked, drawing a faint smile to her mother's lips.

‘It is a parent's job to look after their child, not the other way around. Don't worry about me, dear.'

‘Mother, you do know how much I love you, don't you? More than anything,' Catherine told her firmly, leaning in
to press a gentle kiss to her mother's brow and swallowing back the lump in her throat.

‘And I love you, my dear one. But you're almost a young woman now, and you're beginning to need your mother less and less. Just … teach that father of yours that he's not lord of the storms, would you?' Elizabeth replied with a look of fierce determination, which Catherine matched, rendering the family resemblance astonishing.

‘Oh, trust me. He won't know what hit him.'

Catherine stayed with her mother until she fell asleep, then turned off the lamp and crept out. Knowing her father was in his office, she ran silently along the corridor and up the stairs to her room. She loved having the room at the very top of the house; if she imagined hard enough, she could pretend the rest of the house didn't exist.

‘Hello, Samuel,' she said, finding the mecha in her room, making her bed.

‘Good evening, Miss Catherine. Can I assist you in any way?' he asked tonelessly.

She wished she was good enough to program complex emotions into him, but despite all her tinkering down in the basement when her father was out, she wasn't yet anywhere near that level.

‘No, thank you, Sam. You can, however, swear not to tell my father what I'm doing.' Technically, Samuel was meant to obey her father over her, as he was head of the family, but as far as the mecha comprehended the feelings of like and dislike, he disliked Nathaniel. Like the few aristocrats who could afford a mecha, Catherine's father treated Sam as
nothing more than a lump of metal: useful, yet unimportant and unworthy of courtesy. Nathaniel owned a mecha merely as a mark of status, and would have preferred human servants if they weren't looked upon as the cheaper alternative. Catherine, though, had learned from her mother that even mechas deserved kindness and respect. Besides, having taken Sam apart and put him back together countless times, she knew there was a lot more to him than just gears and chains. Fuelled by tyrium, there was more technology involved in his design than in most full-sized skyships. That was half the reason mechas were so rare and expensive.

‘What is it that I must not tell Master Nathaniel?' Samuel asked her.

Opening her wardrobe she pulled out the biggest bag she owned. Then she balled up a shirt and breeches, along with some undergarments, and stuffed them in the bag. She rummaged through her bedside drawers for a pair of scissors and the little money she had stashed away and hid those under the clothing.

‘I'm running away,' she declared defiantly. ‘I refuse to be married off to that awful Gale boy. Tomorrow I'm going to the shipyard to stow away.'

‘Indeed, Miss Catherine. I shall endeavour to keep your secret.' Samuel sounded, though she knew it was impossible, somewhat forlorn.

‘Oh, Sam, I wish you could come with me!' she said, reaching up to run a finger over the ornate Erovan festival mask covering Sam's ‘brain'. She hated the mask, but her father thought that having so many gears visible was unsightly. ‘But I can't take you. The common people don't
have mecha servants so you'd be an obvious giveaway that I'm government-born. You do understand, don't you?'

‘I do, Miss Catherine. I believe the correct response would be to wish you good fortune in your escape.' Smiling, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to the cold porcelain cheek.

‘I'll come back for you, one day. When things are different. I shan't forget you, Samuel,' she declared, letting her gaze slide to the hand-drawn map pinned to her bedroom wall. The only reason she was allowed it was because her father wanted her to be aware of each and every bit of land Anglya ruled over; the land that seemed to be decreasing with every passing month. Once upon a time, Anglya had ruled the whole lot peacefully: each country had its own royal family and government, as they still did, but Anglya's royal family had been at the very head of things. That all changed when Mericus tried to claim Erova for itself. That had been the breaking point; since then, it seemed every country had decided to fight to break free of Anglyan rule. Catherine had been born in the midst of the war, and had no knowledge of what life was like before, but she at least remembered a time when the monarchy was in place. Before her father had been running things, when Collection hadn't even been an option.

Dashing over to the large glass half-dome that was the window of her bedroom, she hauled herself up on to the small window seat, pressing her nose to the glass and staring out over the city. She could see almost all of it from her room. The sun was setting, bathing everything in a purple-gold glow through the rain. Lamps twinkled from atop high posts in the city centre, lighting the way for those still going
about their business. Excitement bubbled at the thought that tomorrow
she
would be part of the real world for good. Maybe she could catch a skyship to Siberene, or even Dalivia. Anywhere that wasn't Anglya.

Outside the government district the city was a sorry-looking place, dirty and rusting, and Catherine knew it was full of painfully thin children and parents scraping by to survive. She'd heard the countryside wasn't much better. All the food grown there was taken by the government and rationed, the excess sold at prices most people couldn't afford. Aside from the farmers, many country folk worked long hours in the mines, gathering tyrium for the government to sell.

It made Catherine sick to think of her privileged place in this world. Merely by being born a Hunter, she had secured a life of relative comfort, a high-born life for which most of the population must surely hate her. Ever since the monarchs disappeared and the government took over rule of the country, a deep loathing had grown in the hearts of the commoners for anyone born to aristocracy, regardless of how much influence they had in government. They understood that the government was doing its best to end the war quickly, but aristocrats were exempt from Collection, and for most people that alone was enough to breed hate. It must be heartbreaking, Catherine supposed, having every child bar your eldest taken from you soon after they turned thirteen. On Collection days with low numbers, even the eldest child was taken from some of the poorer families, and the government wasn't above ignoring birth records to take children who were younger. Some families tried to avoid the trauma of Collection by only having one child. But
storms help you, if you were an orphan, or a street rat; you stood no chance of escape.

‘No more,' she muttered to herself, her gaze steeling in determination as she looked at the shipyard. ‘I won't sit back and let things happen any more.'

As she spoke a government skyship rose into the air, wings outstretched and tilted to catch the wind, pale violet smoke billowing from the engine pipes, the stern propeller unfolding to give it a boost away from the landing deck, into the nearest updraught. The Anglyan flag waved proudly from the secondary mast. No doubt it was heading to Erova, to fill the front lines with more unfortunate young souls destined to die.

The shipyard was huge. It had to be, given the size of some of the ships – and to allow enough space for each ship to unfurl its wings without tangling with its neighbours. With some larger trade ships standing twice the size of her house, which was one of the biggest houses in Breningarth, the shipyard was practically a city in itself.

‘Miss Catherine, you should retire, it is past sunset,' Samuel said, interrupting her thoughts. She pulled away from the window, hopping back down to the floor. As Samuel went to get the lights, she changed into her nightgown and crawled under the thick blankets.

‘Goodnight, Sam,' she murmured as he extinguished the last lamp, pitching the room into darkness but for the glow of light behind his eye lenses.

‘Have a pleasant resting period, Miss Catherine.' As Sam left her room, she turned over and buried her head in the pillow, letting out a long breath. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep tonight.

Pale sunlight woke Catherine the next morning, for sleep had come, eventually. Remembering her plans, she grinned widely and stared up at the ceiling. If all went well, that had been the last time she would sleep in this bed. Finally, she pulled herself out of the warm sheets, opened her wardrobe and found her best dress. It was a gaudy purple monstrosity consisting mostly of petticoats upon petticoats, with silver lace at the cuffs and collar, as well as the trim of the corset, and masses of elaborate embroidery. The bodice was too tight and the fabric uncomfortably itchy. She hated it. She took the dress into the bathroom, where Sam had already drawn her bath. Her mind on her plans for the day, Catherine slid into the hot water. The hardest part would be giving her father the slip …

Later, she gathered the skirt of her dress so she could make her way downstairs to the kitchen. That was one reason she disliked dresses with huge skirts; they were completely impractical for just about everything fun. You couldn't run, or climb, and you had to be constantly aware of where your skirt was and whether you were accidentally showing more skin than was deemed appropriate.
Trousers were far better, but, of course, ladies didn't wear trousers.

‘Good morning, Father.' She walked into the kitchen, every bit the perfect, dutiful daughter.

Dressed in an impeccable navy three-piece suit, his greying brown hair combed to the side and his sideburns neatly trimmed, her father was already eating porridge, and Catherine could see a generous bowl waiting on the table for her. If there was one thing the country had in abundance, despite the food rations, it was porridge.

‘Good morning, Catherine. Can you not do something with your hair? It looks like a bird's nest,' he snapped.

‘I had a bath and it's still drying. I'll sort it after breakfast.' He hummed in disapproval, but didn't say anything, looking back down at the newspaper spread over the table beside his bowl.

‘Anything in the news?' she asked politely.

‘Nothing unusual. Another battalion has fallen in Erova. There's going to be another Collection soon.'

Catherine felt a shiver go down her spine. She loathed Collection day. The screams and cries of parents could be heard for hours after the soldiers left.

‘Are there even any children left to be Collected?' she asked, trying to mask her horror. Every time she went into the lower city, there seemed to be fewer and fewer children about. She feared there would soon be none left at all.

‘Another twenty more have turned thirteen since the last Collection,' her father said dismissively. ‘It's low, but it's better than nothing. Besides, we shan't need many more – if
all goes well, the war should end before long. Now go and comb your hair. We're meeting Thomas at nine.'

Catherine hiked up her skirts and ran back up to her room, pondering her father's unexpected words. What had changed? Was the war truly coming to an end after all this time?

Swiftly she set about untangling the mess that was her long brown hair. The resulting plait was a little rough and uneven, and she knew her father would complain, but he would have to live with it.

‘Hurry up, Catherine!' Nathaniel called impatiently.

Catherine fastened her favourite silver-buckled boots, choosing comfort over fashion – her father wouldn't be looking too hard at her feet – then hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she rushed back down to meet her father in the entryway.

She watched his eyes trail over her less than perfect hair.

‘I suppose you'll have to do. Let's hope Thomas will forgive your appearance,' he muttered, lifting his satchel over his shoulder. Stomach churning anxiously, Catherine followed without a glance back at her home of nearly fifteen years, not wanting to question even for a second her decision to leave.

Catherine braced herself against a metal bar protruding from the floor of the carriage as the tram jerked to a noisy halt in the station at the heart of the city. Once sleek and near-soundless, years of neglect had made the trams rusty and unsteady. People tried to avoid using them if they could help it, but for some journeys there was no alternative.
Apparently, with the war going on, the government had better things to spend money on than maintaining public transport. Her father was mostly to blame; he was the one in charge of domestic issues.

Nathaniel herded her out on to the platform, where they were immediately assaulted with the sounds and smells of the city. The rain had stopped, but it was still cold enough for Catherine to feel a chill through the layers of her dress, and she found herself wishing she'd brought a coat.