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But saints, she was wrong. Anyone who spent five minutes with great-aunt Elmira soon became aware that she possessed the spirit of a much younger woman, with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Caz quickly became so enamored with her bold and brassy aunt that she wondered if she could write an article featuring the woman. How to be More Like Elmira: Speak Your Mind or Mind your Business, a Widow’s Tale, she mused over breakfast the next morning, then snorted into her cup of tea at the ludicrous idea.
The itch to come up with a story worthy of attention of the Times still stung her though, and even though she now realized her time in the country might be entertaining, her aim to be hired as a journalist was growing more distant by the day. How was a formerly shut-in girl supposed to find something newsworthy all the way out here?
At least she had her great aunt to distract her from her delayed dreams.
Yesterday, after her trunk arrived, Elmira had helped settle Caz into her second-floor suite, then took Caz on a tour of the estate, complete with commentary ranging from what she thought of the people in the village, stories from when Caz’s father visited as a boy, and Elmira’s favorite subject–the All Hallows Eve soiree she would be hosting at the end of the week.
When she showed her the empty pumpkin patch where Elmira had evidently harvested many of the gourds herself, her aunt nodded firmly and said, “We must go to Shore’s tomorrow for more pumpkins. I didn’t grow nearly enough. We had a spot of blight in the northeast corner of the garden. Lucky it didn’t get all of them. And besides, we’ll need more for the invitations.”
And so, as soon as Caz finished her breakfast tea, her aunt, draped in another burgundy and black gown, this one with little spider web designs in black embroidered across the bodice, guided her out the front door to where Grimlee stood waiting with the auto.
“What do you mean, for the invitations?” Caz inquired as they rumbled down the road. She groaned quietly as she glanced out the window at the cobblestones.
“I’d ask Grimlee to slow down, but that only makes it worse,” Elmira said, interpreting Caz’s discomfort. “Then you feel each and every bump. At least when we go fast, the bumps go by faster.”
Caz frowned. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Elmira guffawed and went on, “What I meant, speaking of the invitations, dear niece, is my accounting of the guest list was three short. I have only my own wits to blame. And so now I am three pumpkins short. But I certainly can’t detract from the ones we need for decorations. There’s barely enough as it is.”
“What...”
“Ah, of course. You wouldn’t know. It’s become something of a legend in Haversdale, if I do say so. Every year when I throw the soiree, I deliver a pumpkin to the doorstep as an invitation. Sometimes I’ll have Grimlee carve the time and date onto the pumpkin, or we’ll include a paper invitation, rolled up and stuffed right into the pumpkin itself. Everyone knows who it’s from.”
Caz stared at her in appreciation for a moment, then realized she was picturing her great-aunt sneaking around at night, placing pumpkins on unsuspecting doorsteps.
“Wow,” she said finally, thinking her aunt’s “soiree” was probably something that would rival the balls and parties thrown in Soldark, judging from what she had already seen of the preparations.
She wondered if perhaps the soiree would be newsworthy enough for her story. She had certainly seen plenty of stories about the annual Midsummer Masquerade ball a few months ago in not only the Soldark Times, but in the Sunbelt Chronicle and the Soldark Inquirer too.
As fun and well thought out as it may be, did she really want to report on a party?
She shook her head. No, and even if the Times took it and hired her, she’d get stuck reporting on all the parties and events. Though she enjoyed attending the occasional ball, when she had the energy, she would much rather report on something more interesting.
But what?
All her life she had ravenously poured through any reading material she could get her hands on, being shut up in the estate all the time. And though she liked novels, what she most looked forward to was the newspapers her parents would get at the newsstands. Reading about what was going on in the world outside her door had always fascinated her. As she got older, she tried writing her own stories, but never could quite manage something so long as a novel. But she hadn’t seriously considered writing her own news articles until recently, when the man who ran the newsstand by her house mentioned a friend of his was a journalist. And a fire had been lit. She went through stacks of empty journals, practicing her prose in her long hours at home.
Her first story had to be good, though. It had to be perfect. Something people would actually want to read, that would leave them wanting more. And that would mean more stories she could write.
She gazed out the window of the auto and spied a lone airship in the sky. It wasn’t too far away, so she could make out some details from the ground. It was nothing like the ones she had seen over Soldark, which had large enclosed gondolas for transporting lots of people. She didn’t think this one would hold more than one person. And it had strange metallic fins on top of the balloon and jutting out from the sides of the gondola. It sailed through the pink morning clouds with a faint hum that reached her ears when the auto came to an abrupt halt outside a farm stand.
Caz distractedly watched the unusual airship as she stepped out of the auto and followed her aunt to a mound of pumpkins. Elmira began to instruct the farmer and Grimlee to load up what looked like a dozen or more of the orange gourds.
And that’s when the nose of the airship dropped.
She paused with her hand on the farm cart as her aunt paid the farmer, Caz’s breath coming fast. The airship was still diving. Was this normal? The airships over Soldark never behaved like this, not even when her father brought her to watch them land at the nearby airfield.
“Oh no,” her aunt said from right beside her, a pumpkin under each arm, her mouth agape.
Grimlee tsked, his arms full of pumpkins. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“What?” Caz demanded, confusion etching her face. “What is it?”
Just then, the airship leveled out, sailing upward again in a sharp curve. It continued to sail across the pink morning sky as if it hadn’t almost just crashed.
“The airshow,” Elmira said in disgust, placing the pumpkins into the back of the auto with a thunk.
“Oh,” Caz said, still thoroughly confused, but glad she hadn’t witnessed an airship crash.
“They started it last year,” Elmira explained as they got back into the auto a minute later. “It was quite popular. Ran all week. Popular enough that people left my soiree to watch the finale. I had hoped they wouldn’t return this year. Or, at least, not during the week of All Hallows.”
For a moment, Caz blinked at her aunt, at the uncharacteristic disappointment coursing through Elmira’s features. But with Elmira’s devotion to her party planning–saints, even planting and harvesting pumpkins herself–it was obvious that this event meant a lot to her. And it was coming to mean something to Caz, too.
“I’m sorry,” Caz said as the auto bumped over the cobblestones. She glanced out the back window, sure they would have lost some pumpkins. But no, Grimlee had covered them with a black canvas tarpaulin. “How about you tell me what you’re doing with the invitations this year?”
Elmira gleamed and leaned forward, launching into a description of how she planned to carve out the inside of the pumpkins and put a candle in each one.
By the time they reached Daguerre, her aunt seemed her usual self, but as they unloaded the pumpkins onto the front steps, the sounds of another airship reached their ears. Elmira looked up at the sky with such animosity that Caz took a step back, glad her aunt had never pierced her with that look before—and hoped she never would.