Corset Wings was originally published in SFF e’zine, which is unfortunately no longer with us đŚ Anyway I thought it a shame my story died in that way, so have resurrected it for you to read. It’s from the steampunk issue 5. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. RIP SFF e’zine… (Original artwork for this story by talented artist Kiri Moth and SFF e’zine by Peter Saga)
Itâs not the sort of dream that can be made inside a brothel.
âCome back here you thieving Dollymop!â
I run towards Fleet Street, in the clothes of the bloke who beat me. Old men his age canât run fast and Iâm guessing itâll take him a while to make himself decent enough for the streets. I wasnât planning on running tonight, but Mrs. Harding told me if ever I needed her, I was to come in disguise.
Sheâs one of those new age American types, with too much money and a curiosity that could get her thrown in the slammer if she didnât own half of New England. Her Daddy was some big industrialist in the North East, built Zeppelins and submarines, but I didnât care for her stories, to begin with, so long as she paid me.
Iâve had my share of female clients, but she mostly wanted to talk. Rambled on about womenâs liberation before she bedded me.
The old man wasnât so pleasant. Fell asleep after a few rounds of treating me like a bruiser, so I left him laying there, thinking heâd be out for a few hours. I misjudged him, can hear him bellow from across town, âStop that roller!â
I hear pig whistles, duck down a side alley, as the rozzers run past. Itâs funny how quiet they were when the old man was beating the shit out of me. Double standards, still I know these streets better than any of them, and Mrs. Hardingâs house is only a few roads away. I disappear into the back yards of Kirby Street, and slip by, guised like a proper gentleman. Iâll fit in with the toffs around here, no problem. Although rich folks probably donât hide in church yards, like Iâm planning, unless theyâre students from St Bartâs, robbing the dead of their rest.
The whistles have stopped, but I hop over the fence. I like my man drag, itâs better for scaling fences than any skirts Iâm used to. âAinât so bad, Moll, eh!â I hit the grass, still in my bare feet. âWell almost!â I wish my feet were as big as the old manâs so I could have stolen his shoes as well. âCanât have everything we want, girl!â
I laugh to myself as I sneak into St Etheldreda’s churchyard. Sway along the stone path onto the grass. My feet donât thank me for the battering theyâve taken along the alleyways, but itâs dark here and thatâs what matters.
I slip into the trees at the back of the graveyard, take out the note Mrs. Harding wrote, just to check I wasnât imagining her invitation. âMy dear, Margaret.â I stop. She wouldnât call me Molly, said it offended her appreciation of the English language.
âBloody Yank!â
I roll my eyes and read on. âMy dear, Margaret. You strike me as an open-minded but somewhat restricted young woman.â I duck low as the pig whistles get near again. Hold the note like those Catholic beads my old Mum used to pray on, before she was taken by consumption.
The pigs shout, âOi, come here!â The whistles get louder and nearer as more rozzers take to the streets. Thatâs a hell of a lot of whistles for one Ladybird like me. I hear the sounds of other men, a gang of toolers. Theyâve been pick pocketing toffs. I relax. Those whistles arenât for me.
I wait for the feet to run past the streets behind, and then open the note again. It reads. âI have great capacity to see past the confines of this very limiting society, into somewhere more advanced. Somewhere liberating. If you want to know more, come visit me.â She wrote nothing else apart from her address and name.
I fold the note back into my pocket; look at the graves, at the sky, from what I can see of it, through the trees. Itâs beginning to rain. I donât feel safe slipping back to my flat, dressed like a man. People around Whitechapel talk. The East Endâs not as big as it seems when youâve lived there all your life.
I walk quickly to the back of the churchyard, where thereâs a break in the fence, which hasnât been repaired yet. I curse, âBleeding feet!â and head towards Fleet Street, down a maze of tiny courtyards and passages, easing my escape.
Mrs. Hardingâs street is full of grand old buildings, but hers is particularly handsome. I stop outside, check the address. Thereâs a sign outside, as if itâs some place important. Typical for a woman with a high opinion of herself. It says, âDr. Samuel Johnson lived here.â And then some dates from last century. Mrs. Harding lives here now, but thereâs no plaque to say so. I feel my stomach rise into my throat and then knock. âMrs. Harding?â
The sound of footsteps makes me nervous, heavy and mechanical. She must have one of those protocol butlers the paper sellers have been shouting about. The door opens. Iâm right, as a creepy looking seven-foot man-shaped thing stares at me through the steam, which powers its motors. It hisses, âCome in, Margaret,â as if it was expecting me. Its mouth is full of smoke, which warms the hallway.
I ask, âWhereâs Mrs. Harding?â It motions for me to follow it into the house.
Iâve never seen so many books, as Iâm lead from the entrance, past a spiral staircase, through doors hidden in walls, rooms behind rooms and more staircases going downwards until I can feel the air getting thinner. The creature turns and points to another door and says, âMrs. Hardingâs through there.â It holds back, as if it isnât meant to go further than this room, but holds the door open; until I can hear more engines, feel a rush of cold air, like on the London underground. I can hear steam trains, echoing from somewhere in the distance, smell the grease and stale air.
I walk towards the door and ask. âSheâs got a train track in her house?â The steam man doesnât answer. He just hands me a book from one of the many shelves. Itâs entitled âCorset Wings, by Emilia Harding.â I open it up to the first page, a diagram of a strange looking flying machine is scrawled on it and underneath, written in her handwriting and inscribed to me, are a few words.
âDear, Margaret. I dream of turning corsets into wings, of building metal and brass around your bones, the skin of a new woman, released from something constricting.â I stop reading; feel a sudden urge to turn around, and run back out onto the streets, but the mechanical man pushes me through the door and slams it shut.
I feel a rush of cold air, as I pound on the closed side, âLet me back in!â Iâm in a tunnel, with oil lamplight; itâs a train platform, completely abandoned apart from me. I holler. âIâll call the police!â I claw at the edge of the door, to try and prise it open, but itâs jammed tight. I drop the book, as itâs no use to me, clamber down the embankment, figure the train track leads somewhere out into the London sewers. Better I return home covered in filth than a skin of metal and brass. I mumble. âLunatic!â
I donât need her stupid book or her creepy butler to find my way out of this place. I knew I shouldnât have come here. That mental cowâs probably turned her old Man into that robot, for all I know. I shiver and give the door one last glare, as the light behind it is switched off. I donât plan on getting on Mrs. Hardingâs train after reading her creepy plans for me.
I wish I had shoes as I scramble over the track, in the opposite direction to where I heard the train. Thereâs enough space at the sides for me to crawl behind if anything approaches. âNo rich lunaticâs turning me into an experiment!â My old Mum always told me I got my stubborn streak from my father, but neither of them are any use to me at the moment, so I concentrate on not tripping over the track. âYou are an idiot, Molly Baker.â Serves me right for stealing the old manâs clothes. I doubt theyâd find my body if it ended up down here permanently, not that theyâd look for it in the first place, being that Iâm not that significant in the world above.
âMargaret! What are you doing down there?â
I look up at a woman standing on the platform, peering down at me. Sheâs holding some gadgets in her hand, and blowing out cigar smoke as she reaches down to help me off the track. I step backwards. âMrs. Harding!â
She looks confused, from what I can make out through the gloom. âWell, yes! Who did you expect?â
I motion to the door her butler pushed me through as she sighs and realises Iâm not going to accept her gesture. âI have rights you know, same as you. Now let me out of here.â Sheâs a small-framed woman, and Iâm used to fighting men if I have to. I clench my fists. âIâll not ask you again!â
She glances towards the door, and walks, quite absently; as if she has no plans to turn me into a machine and picks up the book I left on the platform. She mutters, âYou dropped my book!â I begin walking further down the tracks, as she doesnât seem to have anything that can stop me.
I shout. âThis is ridiculous! And my nameâs Molly!â
She replies, âWhere are you going?â
I answer, âAway from you!â
She waves the book at me. âBut I gave this to you!â I stop. She says. âYouâd better get off the track, youâll get squashed!â
I growl, âIâm not coming near you after that butler thing slammed the door on me and left me here!â
She frowns, and raises her eyes, gives the door a hefty yank until it opens. âThis door? Well, Iâve been meaning to get it fixed! And these butlers are not really designed for semantics, so Iâm afraid your cries for help wouldnât have been understood.â She motions towards the room, turns the light back on, and says, âI heard you screaming from my laboratory, thankfully!â
I clench my fists tighter, in case sheâs tricking me, but she nods to her house, as if she is inviting me to leave. âI thought you were more curious and perhaps a little more open minded than this, Molly, but donât let me stop you. Iâm sure you have other plans out on the streets tonight?â I clamber onto the track, seeing my opportunity to make an exit, push past her, smell the cigar smoke as she stubs it out on the wall and extinguishes it with her boot. She frowns, I follow her eyes as she looks down at my feet and says. âYou donât have any shoes!â
For such a clever woman she likes stating the obvious. I snatch the book from her and turn to the first page, read out her threats, so she knows Iâm not frightened of her. âSays here, you plan to turn my flesh into metal and brass!â
She puts on some reading glasses, and squints, a slight smile on her lips, as I put my foot in the door to stop it closing. âOh, thatâs so endearing and at the same time quite frustrating. Youâve taken my words literally. I can see now, why you look as if youâre ready to grind my head into the wall!â She grins, âIâm not keen on brutality, but I understand why a woman in your position resorts to that kind of behaviour. It wonât be necessary, Molly!â
She pats my shoulder as if this is all cleared up, and says. âYou can leave if you like, Iâll find someone else.â I stand in the open doorway, as Mrs. Harding walks away from me, as if sheâs forgotten Iâm here, but she turns and mutters. âIf you want some shoes I think I have a pair in my laboratory, you can use.â She disappears back into her laboratory, leaving the door to slowly creak closed, but not enough, for me to remain uncurious about whatâs behind it. I sigh, curse myself for being so nosey, and place the book in the door to the house, so it doesnât close on me if I need to make a run for it later. âItâs a wonder youâve reached twenty five, Molly!â
I peer into Mrs. Hardingâs laboratory. Iâve never seen one before, but Iâve read about them. This one looks cluttered, with bits of engine parts littering the floor, steam rising from half made contraptions, and Mrs. Harding running around frantically, looking for those shoes she promised me. She turns and trots over to me, quite thrilled that Iâve entered her workhouse and passes me some flat looking boots. âThese were my sisterâs, they should fit you!â
They look quite new. âShe doesnât need them?â
Her mind seems to wander, as if she doesnât want to think about my question too deeply and replies. âShe died.â I take the gift reluctantly, not quite sure how to accept a dead womanâs shoes, or reject the offer, but put them on, as my feet are raw.
I ask, âHow?â hoping it has nothing to do with her experiments.
She lights another cigar, and waves me into the workhouse. Says absently, âAccident at work, things go wrong, but without experimentation, no one gets anywhere.â She gives me a curious look, and touches my face, but not in the same way she did when she paid me. âYouâve been in a fight?â
I nod. âBad customer, thatâs all. Nothing new!â
She removes her hand and says nothing else, looks slightly angry, but then begins to walk across the room, as if she wants to show me something. âBefore you go, you may as well see what I was making for you, had you chosen to stay.â I step over bits of engine; all types of materials lay haphazardly across the floor and worktables. I can see a large wing stretching outwards, made of soft red cloth, and a second, attached to what looks like a corset. She points at it, her eyes not quite right, as if she is so absorbed and obsessed, sheâs forgotten the world around her. âThis is my new experiment!â Her eyes get crazier as she points up at the ceiling as if she can see things that I canât. âMen and women use Zeppelins and large flying machines to conquer the skies, but think about what would have happened if poor Icarus hadnât flown too close to the sun? Weâd be a world of bird people, free to fly unhampered by gravity and hopefully society. I deal in gravity as itâs much more predictable than the people who govern us.â She begins tightening something loose on one of the wings. âImagine how vibrant the skies would be if Leonardo Da Vinci had lived in this age!â She can see from my expression, I think sheâs obsessed, but instead of stopping, she lifts up the corset and says, âTry it on?â
The wings trail behind, like a bridal train, looking heavy in her arms. I must admit I spent last night wondering about Mrs. Hardingâs plans for me, in a bed full of bumps and broken springs. I look at the wings and admit, âThey do seem beautiful!â Strangely I begin removing the manâs jacket and shirt, âI suppose wearing it wonât hurt!â She smiles as I raise my arms up, for her to wrap the corset, watch as she ties the strings, feel the weight of the wings, and ask, âWhere would you fly something like this?â
She smiles, and nods towards the workhouse door, to where the sound of a steam train gets louder, âYou want to find out?â
I really do hate myself for not running away, but she hasnât turned me into what I thought, in fact this is the opposite of imprisonment. I admit. âIâm not going to fly this, you understand?â She looks hopeful, but nods, as the noise of an approaching steam train blocks out my voice. I look towards the door and peer back at the enormous wings, disabling my exit. Before I can ask her to remove them, Mrs. Harding rushes over to the doorway, turns a lever until the mechanisms unravel into a hatchway large enough for me to see out onto the platform as the train hisses and stops.
Without turning back to look at me, she rushes towards the train, so I follow her, my feet a little warmer in her sisterâs shoes, the wings surprisingly light, as if the weight has been balanced by all the mechanisms attached. The platform fills with steam, like the sea when warm tides mix with cold. Before I wonder how Iâm going to fit on the train, Mrs. Harding unravels another door, until a gangway rolls down onto the platform, wide enough for me to step into the cabin.
The cabin is lit from inside, and there are other people, some dressed in modern clothes, others, like me, have strange contraptions fitted. Mrs. Harding hops on, buzzing, despite me saying I wonât fly her strange device, she says. âWeâve only got one stop, I want to show you a most liberating site, Molly!â
I canât imagine anywhere liberating in London, but I humour her. âThese trains go to the moon or something?â I look around at the people; some of them look like they belong in lands quite removed from London. Maybe the moon isnât such a wild guess. Mrs. Harding doesnât laugh with me; in fact she sits down and motions for me to hold onto the handrail above.
âBetter hold tight, this train goes fast!â I prepare myself for a bumpy ride, close my eyes as the train fires up, can smell the steam, hear the whistle from the chimney as the doors close. âWeâre here, Molly, itâs our stop!â
I open my eyes, onto daylight. I swear it was nighttime in London. Thereâs a cliff outside, and the seaside, I can hear seagulls and smell seaweed. Mrs. Harding gets out of her seat and takes my hand, as the door opens and leads me out. No one follows, as we step onto the new platform. I can hear ice cream sellers and the sound of fairground rides. Mrs. Harding grins and points up at the sky, to where I can see others like me, human flying machines. She says, âThis is New England. My father owned this beach and left it to me after he died. You can stay here on the ground and watch if you like?â She motions towards a beach hut, and passes me a key. âYou can store your wings in there?â
I study the beaches; hear the drawl of foreign accents, similar to hers, âIâm in New England?â
She nods. âI told you the train moved fast!â
Thereâs always a price, but she hasnât told me what it is, so I begin to unstrap my corset. âIâd better go home!â She doesnât stop me, as I protest. âThis was a bad idea.â A woman who uses Ladybirds for sex probably has ulterior motives. I accuse, âSo what do you get out of this?â
She looks confused again. âI told you. Possibility, a reason to live, a place to realise my passions. I want to share my inventions, Molly.â
She looks sincere, but distracted as a young man wanders past, eating ice cream, identical wings strapped to his own corset. He grins at Mrs. Harding and says in an American drawl, âHi, Emilia, you going to join us today, or go back to that stuffy laboratory of yours?â He glances at me, âNew recruit?â
She shrugs. âMaybe not!â
The man looks me up and down, attempting to remain neutral, but I can see he thinks Iâm a coward. âAh, the British are so conservative!â
I retort, âMrs. Harding find you in a brothel too?â
He frowns at me, as if he thinks Iâm crude. Mrs. Harding simply looks at the sky, admiring her work, as if she isnât part of the conversation. A normal woman would have gone an embarrassing scarlet, by now, but not her.
The young man offers his hand to me, despite seeming unhappy with my manner. âZachary Turner.â
I reply, âMolly Baker.â
He continues. âIâm not a prostitute, although some think lawyers are lower on the social order than hookers, which is probably why I spend most of my free time on this beach!â I return his gesture, growling at his undertone. I donât like being accused of cowardice, and as he lets go of my hand, I realise why I took the train, why I didnât return to the rain, the dark streets of London, crawl back to my filthy bug ridden bed, dressed like a Ladyboy.
I turn to Mrs. Harding. âIâll do it, Mrs. Harding!â
She looks a little shocked but pleased as I strap my corset back on. She helps me tighten it, and says. âCall me Emilia.â And adds, âWeâre equal here!â
I feel my arms tingling, the bones of a new woman, emerging from something restricting, a beautiful new creature, as the possibility of flight brightens up my dismal past life, and I leave the brothel far behind. âThank you, Emilia.â