#which idk is kind of weird given she thinks of herself morally superior to Arthur but they are fairly similar

[thepulta]

Westlie was not a stranger to rage. It enveloped her as she walked down the hallway, measuring her footsteps. When she focused on it, she could imagine holding it inside her clenched fist, feeling every muscle tense and loosen. The center burned deep in her chest like a flame, feeding off of the injustice of the day. Which was why she was here, now, after all. To be angry and to keep being angry; she was here to win on her terms. Westlie took a deep breath, stopping in the middle of the hallway to center herself again because it was important. This was easy. She could do this.

She could stand strong this time. Even her younger self wasn’t a stranger to rage, it was just her father’s rage. Arthur was often angry. If she searched far back to one of her first memories, he was hovering over a tutor while she tried to scratch out her letters. After some time she got to ‘p’ and wrote it backward. Was it a ‘p’? It could have been any letter really; but she wrote it backwards. She just remembered the sharp “Wrong!” barked over her head and the paper ripped out of her grasp. She pulled back from the desk, startled. Arthur crumpled it in his giant hands, scowling at her with sullen umber eyes. “Do it again.”

She could keenly remember the first seed of real fear planted in her heart as she shakily grabbed another page offered by the tutor and tried again. (And again, and again, and again while each time her hand got shakier.) After the fifth time she burst into tears and Arthur scoffed and walked away. The test was over. She failed.

That was important because she was still scared. Westlie closed her eyes and tried to ground herself, pushing down the immediate burn of anger at the memory.

She could remember when she was ten. (Stars, she’d been a such a small, terrified child by that point.) When Arthur instructed his secretary to give her a pair of breeches or some other non-skirt. (“I don’t care where you get them! Sew a pair yourself if you have to. She won’t set foot in that place without pants.”) She ended up with a pair of cast-off breeches that reeked of mushrooms. The secretary took her to the shop the next morning, nudging open the unfamiliar back door and handing her two fist-thick ledgers off a nearby shelf.

“Millie is out sick and Arthur wants you to do these.” The woman had the self-respect to give her a somewhat pitying look. “You can stay here in the back, or do them out front. The receipts are on the side wall. No- not-” She rolled her eyes. “Look. Side wall, by the crystal lilies. They’re alphabetized by date, but the more important customers come first, so you might have to check.”

Westlie remembered the room to the detail since she’d spent too much time there. Several small mail-like boxes of miscellaneous materials, crystal lilies near the receipts on the bottom, with some small preserved jars of blemmigans on top with a jar of eyeballs on the top right. The back was an assortment of supplies from mushrooms to coffee, giving the room a deep, heady scent that gave you migraines and nightmares if you stayed for more than 8 hours, and to the right of the back entrance, a storage room of engine parts. She learned later there was a fake shelf within the storage room that held several hours in case of unsavory events. There was a desk to the front covered with paperwork. There was a small chime connecting through the wall over the desk, then another door to the right of the desk that opened into the shop front.

Westlie remembered absorbing it all for the first time, struggling under the weight of the ledgers with a slightly horrified heart at the jar of preserved eyeballs floating and staring lucidly at her to the left. “Should- should I organize the receipts by date as I finish..?” There was the click of the door and she spun around, a pit in her stomach opening up. She was alone. There was vague chatter from the front room but it faded out to a murmur, only picking up as the door opened or closed five minutes later.

She'd done practice ledgers once, but never allowed to see the real thing 'because she wasn't good enough'. The weight of her situation - an injustice, because it was an injustice when she'd never done them before, wasn’t it? - landed on her shoulders and in her stomach and Westlie bit her lip, chest aching. She didn’t have the words for it, but Older-Westlie could feel the ice of fear crackle over her soul in the memory - that Arthur would come and tell her it was wrong, all wrong, that the tutor would drop in and switch her; that she wasn’t alone, just waiting for the mistakes to be hung over her head. There had to be some mistake. They wouldn’t just leave her here, would they? Memory after memory of similar situations with bad endings piled up in her mind and Westlie remembered choking in that moment, horrified in the room with the pair of eyeballs because they would. They just did. And there was that grave, grave injustice within all of it.

Westlie remembered climbing up on the desk stool and shoving the ledgers on the table, her shoulders shaking. It took a few minutes, a few candles flickering in the silence before the pit in her stomach and her throat broke, letting out a silent, terrified cry of pain as the tears started to drip down her cheeks. After a few minutes of gasping she buried her face in her arms. The secretaries were occasionally nice but this one didn’t care. Nobody cared. Nobody in the world cared. The heady, unfamiliar scent curled around her, making her cry harder in deep hypoxiating gulps. It might have been ten minutes or two hours later when her tears slowly dried up, she stopped hiccuping, and she slowly raised her head, opening the ledgers to their last entry. The pages turned with a thick lethargy. It was some captain selling a load of hours. She slid off the stool and grabbed the pile of receipts, sliding them off the nail they’d been impaled on and laying them slowly out on the table.

Each name had to be read slowly, carefully, corrected. Westlie bit her lip, concentrating on writing each letter cleanly and checking her sums. After an hour there was a thick heat in her head as question after question went unanswered. Where did this name go? How were ‘favorite captains’ ordered? Whose favorite captains were these? Should she give a sum after each item or only after the whole sale? She flipped back and forth through the thick pages, finding examples and teaching herself. After three painful hours, the ten-year-old was gritting her teeth and grasping a broken quill, stabbing the page with every lesson she had to recall and put to use. After four, she was somewhat faster at the sums with a new quill and her face matched her shade of hair. Her head and her heart burned.

Older-Westlie could remember the wordless, mindless, unintelligible chant of hatred that built through her younger’s mind, slowly feeding on every ounce of fear she stored of Arthur, of her tutor, of the ledger, of the eyeballs on the shelf, trying to digest the fact she didn’t matter, they didn’t care - nobody would ever care about her. It continued, growing, feeding, burning like fire until she saw red, ready to cry again but shoving away the tears. She couldn’t cry. She had to do this; needed to do this. Each sum got harder and harder to do until finally Westlie bit down on her arm with enough force to draw blood and let loose a muffled scream into her sleeve. Five seconds. Ten seconds. It hurt and she couldn’t breathe. It all hurt so, so much. And she remembered straightening up and sitting at the desk, panting, slightly less overcome but exhausted from that nameless emotion at the injustice and the cruelty and the pain of the sums. Her sleeve might have shown a few drops of blood; there was definitely a bruise. The memory tended to blank after that. It was fuzzy if she smashed the already broken quill against the desk until it splintered or she just doubled down on the notes until the secretary came to fetch her, but the emotion she didn’t have a name for yet was there and it burned a hole in her heart.

By the next day she’d calmed down; it no longer felt like the anger would consume her, but the spark was there, along with the feeling of power that it gave her to still hand over the ledgers at the end of the day - for them to be neat and finished and for Arthur’s approval to be grunt of acknowledgement. (Although that fanned the anger too. How dare that be all he gave her, she remembered thinking, after her fear and horror and aching left arm.) But Westlie remembered the satisfaction of conquering injustice and swearing she would again. The anger could fuel her.

Older-Westlie knew, after another fifteen or so years of experience, that anger wasn’t only fuel, but her very best friend. Closer than enigmatic Morgan and more powerful than sadness. With anger, she could wrap reigns around it and harness it to her bidding. She could defend against enemies and wrap it around her like a shield to endure.

And she had endured. But no more.

No more silence, no more pleasing, no more struggling, no more nights in the shop with burned out candles, no more crying to sleep over one of his calloused stupid decisions; no more rejection, no more refusals, no more begging to fly, no more begging to get out of the shop, no more sneers, no more pain. Respect would never appear; there would be no approval, no kindness, no reward. It didn’t have to be this way. No more suffering. 

With a second deep breath, Westlie stepped forward again, hardened her gaze, and reached the end of the hallway. She threw open the door so hard it bounced against the wall, paperwork in hand; teeth clenched, anger flaming. She willed its tendrils to extend beyond her five foot-five heighth and fill the room. She willed it, with all her power, to reach and throttle the neck of the man in front of her.

“How dare you.”

Arthur Faire looked nonchalantly up from his paperwork over his pince-nez spectacles. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just put a dent in the wall for the fourth time.”

“Fuck your dent. I told you I wouldn’t do your dirty work!”

“You don’t tell people shit.” Arthur snapped. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as if the very explanation pained him. “Westlie,” he began, as if talking to a very small child. “There are, occasionally, things that must go missing to raise your status in the world.”

“Fuck that, I said I won’t! I won’t do it, and you cannot force my hand! Pick someone else!”

Arthur slammed his fist on the table and stood up, leaning forward over his desk. “You will do what I say!”

"Fuck what you say! You're wrong and I refuse!"

Arthur scoffed, sneering at the paperwork she clenched in her fist. “What is that? A list of Captains who turned you down for your incompetence? You can’t even take orders from me.”

Westlie threw the stack at his face. It burst into several pages fluttering unspectacularly throughout the room, the more important pages luckily settling on his desk. “I gave you three chances. Three chances to recind. But since your cuntish ass couldn’t handle a bit of legality; I’ve packed my bags and I leave tonight. Sign on the dotted line, you fiend.”

Arthur scoffed again, snatching the paper and staring at it. “Resignation? You’re resigning? You can’t resign. You’re my daughter.”

Westlie spit at his feet.

His face instinctively twitched with distaste and she relished the taste of the blood she’d drawn. Arthur sighed, and sat down again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs with the motion of hatred he generally used for Captains he didn’t like - and her. When he used it Westlie generally knew to back down patch things over with a form of compromise but not today. Never today. He was never going to agree and this was why she prepared. She gathered her anger and pulled it closer, guarding herself.

“And what if I don’t sign?”

“I’m leaving anyway. You can’t stop me.”

His lip curled. “I know every Captain in the Reach and every shop in London knows your temper. None of them will take you.”

Westlie’s lip curled up in a dry, menacing grin. “I’ve already signed with a Captain.”

“As what?” He scoffed, reaching down into his desk and pulling out a tumbler and crystal glass of whiskey. She’d really ticked him off now. He poured a single glass and sneered when he saw her glance. “Sorry, I don’t give angry children liquor.”

Westlie's anger flared and she bit her tongue before responding. “Dont bother. I only drink with friends. I’m First Mate.” Arthur scoffed into his glass in disbelief and it fogged up. “Now sign my resignation.”

He curled his lip as he swallowed and thumped the now-empty glass down on the desk, muttering something under his breath. He grabbed the nearest pen and jabbed it into the paper, scribbling something vaguely similar to Capt. Faire. He rang the bell next and Westlie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She’d have to escape wouldn’t she. She didn’t quite plan for an escape.

“Mary, please come escort Miss Faire to her room.”

Faster than she’d seen him move before, Arthur rose and stepped around his desk, grabbing Westlie’s arm before she could twist out of his grasp. He yanked her closer, gripping it so tight she felt her muscles quiver. “You will never escape me,” he hissed. The scent of whiskey cracked even her practiced shield of anger and Westlie felt a shiver run down her spine. “And I will make your life a living hell until you come crawling back.”

He shoved her away as a knock sounded at the door and he leaned back on his desk, a clear sneer on his face, arms crossed, papers scattering the floor. Westlie took a breath and straightened, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She gathered her anger. “Fuck you.”

To her credit, Mary didn’t even raise an eyebrow as she entered the room and assuming it was one of their regular monthly spats. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

Westlie flipped her father the middle finger behind her back as she went out.

-=-

Predictably, Mary locked the door as she left. Westlie scoffed to herself as she pulled the only cap she owned low over her curls. They didn’t know her. They thought locking her in a room trapped her - or Morgan for that matter - and Westlie gave a silent prayer of thanks to her sister for being an uncontrollable escape artist. She stopped for a full moment as fear pierced her heart.

Morgan. She hadn’t told Morgan.

She offered another prayer to her sister to be safe and stay as far away as possible. She was sorry- so sorry. Westlie pulled up the loose floorboard in her closet and rubbaged a bit, grabbing a long length of rope. She looped it around the bedpost and tied it off. The motion was easy, practiced. Westlie grabbed her carpetbag - her trunk was already at the dock - and hesitated.

Morgan.

Their last letter exchange a few days ago had been predictable. Morgan was off in < > and Westlie was in London. Westlie remembered ranting about work, per usual, something about that bloated Captain who kept making trips to sell seeds, and some asshole explorer who stocked up on supplies and tried to beg off paying every time. She hadn’t written to her about the... other job; the evil job. She hadn’t had a plan then, it was so fast. Anger was at the controls after Arthur was such an ass, and she’d blown through her preparations, packed her trunk the night before, chartered the engine at midnight. Should she know? And Westlie closed her eyes, trying to glimpse her sister’s soft face and lively eyes that only sharpened with excitement, not rage. Arthur didn’t care about her because she’d never have anything to do with the shop. She was carefree and it should stay that way. She didn’t know his evils. Our evils, Westlie thought somewhat sullenly. But Morgan. Westlie set down her bag and slipped over to her writing desk, grabbing a sheet of paper and fumbling open the ink.

           Dearest Morgan,

      They’ve tried to lock me up, but in a few minutes I’ll be down to the docks and boarding an engine away from everything. I can’t abide Father any longer. A pair of dreadnaughts couldn’t tie me to this house. I refuse to live in that monster’s shadow and I refuse to do whatever grotesque thing he imagines next. When I’m gone, he’ll hire another poor soul to fill my shoes and for their sake I hope they have less morals. Don’t worry about me. I’ve secured a position on a engine. (I won’t tell you with whom.) But he’s a good man and a good captain. You would be proud.

      Please don’t chase after me. Father’s ire is already riled and he’ll undoubtedly try to track me down on his own. I don’t want him angry at you. Just lay low. Be safe. Take another trip to < > if you have to to stay out of his path. I’ll see you someday.

         I love you. I will always love you.

         Your only and dearest sister,

                             Wes

Westlie folded it with a deft, practiced move and tapped her foot softly as she waited for the wax to melt. There were footsteps down the hall. Light ones, Mary; and heavier ones, Arthur. They passed her door and the handle jiggled. Westlie’s breath caught in her throat. She made a silent lunge for the rope, but it wasn’t necessary. Their footsteps continued down the hall after making sure it was locked and they faded out of hearing range.

Quickly now.

She poured the wax, stamped the letter, and scribbled the address on the back. Something-something express mail. She’d pay the freighter double. No time to think about it.

Westlie shoved it in her carpet bag and grabbed the rope. Sliding down the side of the two-story townhome was simple, especially at dusk. Usually it was with Morgan at the bottom hissing expletives in the dead of night - or climbing back up in the dark after some sort of drunken escapade, which was, obviously, four times harder. Westlie tied a rock to the bottom of the rope and threw it back into the room, resisting the temptation to break a window while she was at it.

They were already close to the docks. She hid as much of her hair under the cap as she could and then struck off at a brisk walk; running would be too obvious. The blood pounded in her ears to her gait, one step of freedom, two steps of freedom. The city pulsed around her, oblivious. There was a brisk scent in the air; several women walking past with tipped hats, murmuring together. A ragged man, looking as if he just got out of prison wandering aimlessly. He looked at her, tipped an invisible hat. Westlie nodded back. Several captains wandered by, examining a map, one holding a bottle of something purple? Something red, perhaps. He laughed uproarously. A fancy blemmigan hopped by. A wistful woman in large, somewhat old-fashioned skirts stood outside a building, handing out pamphlets.

Westlie took a deep breath and kept her eyes on the pavement.

She turned a corner, turned another corner; slipped through an alleyway. Had she always known this was the quickest way to the docks? It seemed familiar, but more light. There was no oppressive scent of mushrooms. Maybe a soft breeze had blown through today. Maybe she was just in a better mood.

Westlie scrutinized the dock as she got closer, looking for any evidence of Arthur Faire - but there was none. Unless he was on the ship itself, she had escaped. She was almost free.

She grit her teeth and pulled her anger around her one last time. One last run. One final step.

Westlie stepped into the open and briskly walked through the busy dock. Most of the people about were skyfarer crew, lounging, drinking on boxes. A few whistled and Westlie curled her lip in distaste. She slipped the letter and two sovereigns into the hand of a cargo ship’s First Mate. That could be me later, she realized, quietly, as hurried off to her ship for passage, the Tundra.

Westlie gave one final look around at the docks and the city as she stepped through the hatch. It was soft and dusky. She might miss that, but within herself she noted, quietly, she wouldn’t miss the city, she would miss her and Morgan in the city. No more rampage of terror, no more drunken songs, no more bar fights. No thefts, no vandalisms, no secrets. On board, there was also no angry man, no sullen look of disappointment either. Arthur Faire was not there. He hadn’t found this captain. She hadn’t been traced. Perhaps her father taught her one good thing: always pay a little extra.

The captain stepped down from the cab and tipped his hat. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes. Could I be shown to my quarters?”

“Absolutely. Would you please, Nancy?”

An unremarkable woman stepped forward and offered her hand for the bag. Westlie handed it to her gratefully as her shoulder started to ache. “When do you plan to depart, Captain? Can I encourage it to be as soon as possible?”

“In a hurry, Miss Faire?” She didn’t like his smile and resisted the urge to scowl. “We depart in ten minutes. Fear not.”

“I have urgent business.” Westlie said, making an attempt to keep the salt out of her voice.

Nancy took a small step into the hallway. “Ready, ma’am?”

“Yes- Yes please.”

They walked down the hallway into the crew’s quarters where a separate bed had been made up. Her trunk was placed at the side: a few books, her shop clothes, an extra travel skirt. She really hadn’t left anything had she. Westlie glanced inside her carpet bag. There was a portrait of all of them as a family. She couldn’t imagine why she brought that; Morgan was cute, perhaps. She’d have to rip off half the portait to get her father out; not worth the effort. A pair of silver earrings they’d stolen together. A bag of sovereigns.

That was really it, wasn’t it? There was nothing else she wanted to remember. Nothing other than stolen earrings and the clothes on her back. And Westlie felt free.