//CLARA//
Beatrice was already in the carriage when I climbed in, her silk skirts taking up more than their fair share of the bench. She looked like a girl about to go to a ball, not a soot-stained warehouse in a neighborhood where polite society usually only went to collect rent.
"Do you think he'll be wearing that leather apron again, Miss Thorne?" she whispered, her cheeks a dusty rose. "The one with the ink stains? It's so… industrious."
"Industrious," I repeated, my mind miles away. "Sure, Miss Sterling. It's this century's version of a grey hoodie. Very hot."
"A what?"
"Nothing. Just… focus on the sketches, okay? If we're going to build a factory, we need to look like we know what a factory is."
