Muse (Muse #1) - Brittany Cavallaro Page 0,1

up a piece of good British paper and shrugged up his cuffs and dipped his quill.

Dear Sirs, he wrote, and then he stopped, his nib dribbling onto the page.

It was, he had to admit, a hell of an idea.

Map

Prologue

When George Washington is crowned sovereign of the First American Kingdom, he decrees that his country be separated into provinces, each led by a Governor selected from his most trusted lieutenants. As new territories are claimed for the Kingdom throughout the nineteenth century, King Washington—and his heirs, the King Washingtons that follow—draw new borders and appoint new white men to lead.

To the west, Alta California and Willamette; to the south, Nuevo México and the tiny duchies of West and East Florida. Livingston-Monroe, named for the men who purchase the territory from France, make up the country’s heartland. St. Cloud stretches down the Mississippi River, while the seat of the King, New Columbia, extends along the eastern seaboard.

Once Washington is declared King, elections cease altogether.

In the years that follow, Governors pass on their territories to their sons, who become Governors in turn. Hungry men, these new Governors: eager for glory, eager for progress and for action.

These Governors are skeptical of what they call “foreigners.”

These Governors are determined to keep power however they can.

All except for Remy Duchamp, the youngest Governor in the American Kingdom. He is interested in intellect, invention, innovation; he is less interested in maintaining the armed borders of his province, St. Cloud. Now, in 1893, he looks to put on a great Fair the likes of which the world has never seen.

But the great Fair is months late, and St. Cloud has grown restless. There are rumors of trouble on the western border. Rumors of war.

And in St. Cloud’s largest city, Monticello-by-the-Lake, a girl holds the nation’s future in her hands.

One

APRIL 1893

It was death to stop at the corner of Augustine and Dearborn in the city of Monticello-by-the-Lake at the end of a working day.

Claire Emerson knew that, standing beside her best friend, Beatrix, in the crowded road. Even now, as she stood on her toes to look up at the posters pasted onto the brick wall of the Campbells’ building, she had her elbows drawn in to her sides. Not to clear a path for the horse-drawn carriages; not to make way for the electric trolley squealing up the street, its cables throwing off indifferent sparks; not as a courtesy for the people streaming past—the working girls off to the dressmakers’, the men with their hats and coats and grim, sun-scrubbed faces, the newsboys waving their rags, the scientists smelling like ambition and smoke, the soldiers like last night’s liquor. Not to make way even for the lumber cart rattling along down the road, its long, bristling logs threatening to break free and roll like the thunder of God himself straight down Augustine Street to the glistening lake beyond, flattening every last thing in their way. It had happened last week, killing two horses, three steelworkers, and a seven-year-old orphan. It would happen again whether or not Claire cleared a path.

She was folded up onto herself on this street corner because, while she wanted to see the new posters pasted to the Campbells’ building brick, she didn’t want anyone to steal the package in her arms. She didn’t have a lot of control over her own life, but she could control whether tonight her father slapped her full across the face again.

“But then,” she said to Beatrix beside her, “if he notices that I’m missing one of the socket wrenches he paid for, he might do it anyway.”

“Hush. He won’t notice, you know he won’t even look through the bag until the morning. And besides, you know I’m good for it.” Beatrix craned her neck, trying to get a better look at the poster. “I’m never going to get this engine working if I have to rely on my own coin for the materials. Let’s consider it a donation.”

Claire smiled, despite herself. “Is it a donation if you’ve forced me to do it?”

“I’m not forcing you. I’m forcing Jeremiah Emerson. And we hate him.” She said it like it was fact.

Claire supposed it was. She shifted the knobby bundle to her other arm. “I still can’t see what it says. We can come back tonight, after the day’s died down.”

“Your father won’t be home yet, you don’t need to rush. And anyway, it’ll be about the Fair.”

“Of course it’s about the Fair. It always is. It’ll still be about