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Act 1: In which we meet our protagonist.

With a groan, the bronze and steel machine came to a halt. The screech of brakes and the hiss of steam filled the air, pulling Walter from his reading. A brief glance around revealed that the train had pulled into a station, the sign posts declaring it to be Southern Salvil. The young man pulled an almanac from the pocket of his black jacket and flipped through the pages. After a minute or so, he found what he was looking for. Southern Salvil, the book read, 222 km from Rutro.

Walter placed the book back in his pocket and sighed. It would be a long time before he arrived at his destination then, if that was anything to go by. Deciding he might as well do something to pass the time, the young man gazed out the window and into the dark morning gloom. By the lights of the electric lanterns, he could see a few men and women stepping from the train, though not many. It made sense, he thought. After all, why would one waste so much money just to travel to a nothing little village? People who climbed aboard the Clockwork Railways usually had only one goal: to travel to London, heart of the British Imperium. But perhaps they were soldiers, returning from the distant western battlelines after arriving on the coast? The trains let them ride at discounted prices, and the women did carry themselves with a degree of discipline that most other folk did not have. The men did as well, but Walter was much more interested in watching the women—their tight behinds and toned forearms much more attractive than the men.

At least, Walter imagined that they carried themselves with discipline. He had never actually seen a soldier, save for Old O’Reily, because Heaven forbid the son of a noble family attend any sort of gathering with those uncouth military types. Never mind that his was only a very minor noble family, second son of a wildcount from a couple hundred years ago, and that most noble families made a name for themselves in the wars of old: the War of the Roses or something like that, though Walter could not quite remember.

But no, watching military maneuvers was no place for him, on the few occasions that such events were occurring in nearby towns. Or, his mother did not think so, leastwise. She did not think so much of the military, having come from a much more peaceable and learned family. To this day, Walter was unsure of why his parents had married. Their views differed on much. On life, on philosophy, on social issues, on economic ones. His mother considered intellect to be the path to success, and so endeavoured to teach Walter the truth of the world, or at least how to find the truth.

And while his father was no savage, the man had always preferred physical prowess. Not of the military kind; both his parents were in agreement that the military was an undignified place, but rather of the more childish variation. Walter supposed that some of that had to do with how his father still acted like a youngster so much of the time. Truly, the man was still as much of a child at heart as he was a scatterbrain. And he was very much so a scatterbrain.

So under his mother’s view, his place was sitting inside and reading the books that his mother’s father had given them before he died. But his father was of the opinion that that was no place for a young lad to spend his days, so it was off to the town square to kick a ball around with the other children or peek at girls changing, or steal his mother’s women friends undergarments from clotheslines. Wait a moment though, his mother would say. Playing in the dirt was no place for an upstanding citizen such as himself, and thus it was back to books, after a good spanking for being such naughty boy. And then to the forests to climb amongst their highest branches, after his father found him lounging in a sunbeam with a book. The Collected and Illustrated Book On Clockwork Mechanics, if he remembered that particular instance correctly. And, if his memory continued to hold true, their maidservant Jane had tried to climb to get him down, and ended up dangling by her knickers, her dress high above caught on a branch that had broken.

“Brother? Hey, brother!” A voice shook the teen from his less than pure thoughts and he glanced to his side. A young woman of eighteen years and six months sat beside him, poking him repeatedly in his side with one finger, the other finger playing with her long, curly blonde locks. She wore a periwinkle blue summer dress that fluttered slightly, courtesy of the opened window, and hugged her slim form. The collar was low cut enough that one could tell that she wore nothing else over her breast. “What were ya thinkin’ ‘bout, brother?”