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Jorge Millen does not remember his homeland.
Bracing against the frigid wind, he wonders if the land of his birth is as cold as Andoran. Tucking his gloved hands under his armpits for warmth Jorge squints against the wind-driven flurries for any sign on an approaching carriage while waiting atop a frozen snowbank on the side of the street. There are scant few other people on the street now that the sun is setting, save for the young lamplighters running from lamp post to lamp post ensuring that the gas flames are bright before sunset.
Jorge grew up believing Andoran was his home. It was not until he turned thirteen that he was told the truth: that his family fled from another country to avoid persecution. But even then, his mother would not spare any more details. It had all come out as an accident over something as mundane as morning tea. Jorge, as a newborn, was smuggled out of his homeland to Andoran along with his mother and older sister. The revelation never came as a shock, though to this day Jorge isn't sure why. It's as if something inside him, a little voice, had always said as much. He'd just never listened.
The noise of an autocarriage whirring down the street stirs Jorge from his ruminations. He steps down off of the snowbank, boots scuffing in the ice, before flagging down the vehicle with one rapidly waving hand. The autocarriage stops a few short feet away with a series of rapid clicks, and the automaton driver tips a copper hat at Jorge in greeting.
"High Aeries," Jorge says, slipping a sliver coin in the pay-slot beside the automaton. "Fletcher Row, lower court." He adds before ducking into the carriage. As soon as the door is shut the carriage takes off with a whirr of gears, leaving Jorge to slouch down against the richly upholstered bench seat.
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City of Almas
Andoran
Neth 3
4734 AR
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In the privacy of the carriage, Jorge retrieves a paper bag from inside his jacket and feels the weight of something within. Its presence draws a smile to his lips, even if the white noise of the carriage gives him pause to let his mind wander further. Jorge puts the bag back in his pocket and looks out the window, watching the snowy streets whip by. Gaslights are coming on like twinkling stars across the city as the creeping chill of night descends across the land.
The carriage's wooden wall do nothing to keep out the cold, just the worst of the wind. Jorge cups his hands in front of his mouth and breathes into them, then shuts the curtain on the window. He's seen enough snow for multiple lifetimes.
Within the hour the autocarriage comes to a slow stop high in the Upper Aeries. When Jorge steps out of the carriage he is provided with a familiar view of Almas, lit like a sea of twinkling stars below the lofty hills of the High Aeries. The view of the north side of the city is obfuscated by rows of leafless trees and tall terraced houses, each of which belches out woodsmoke from orderly rows of chimneys.
Jorge is quick to make for the stoop of one of the terrace houses, pushing his way through the front door without even so much as a knock. Dry warmth encircles him like a loving embrace the moment he is within, surrounded by the elegant wealth and comfort he has grown accustomed to in life. This is home, not some far-off and imagined city in a country he will never know.
"Mother!" Jorge calls out as he sheds his jacket, mindful to retrieve his little paper bag first. The clicking footfalls of a domestic automaton greets Jorge instead, followed by a cheerful (if tinny) voice.
"A pleasant day, young master." The automaton greets, "May I take your coat?"
Jorge shoves his coat into the waiting automaton's copper arms, then brushes past it. "Where is mother?"
"The Lady of the house has retired to the drawing room." The automaton replies cheerfully. A clump of snow melts on the jacket, sloughing off and running down the automaton's cold hands. Jorge does not further acknowledge it, heading immediately across the hall.
His mother, Auressa, sits in a high-backed armchair in front of a stoked hearth. Her gaunt features are accentuated by the stark contrast of the firelight and the overall gloom of the drawing room. The weathered lines of age have cut deep furrows into her features and her once dark hair has gone as white as the snow outside.
Jorge lingers in the doorway, paper bag in one hand. In his hesitation he sees his mother rolling a battered gold ring between her fingers. Her hands are deeply scarred, they always have been for as long as Jorge has known, and how she came to possess such gruesome scars is not a topic she has ever entertained. Her secrets ae kept behind tired eyes, and tightly pursed lips.
"Mother?" Jorge says with a croak in his voice, crinkling the paper bag as he does. Auressa's attention shifts from the firelight to her youngest son and the ghost of a smile threatens to make itself known on her lips. "Happy birthday," he adds with a hesitant smile as he approaches her.
Auressa looks momentarily surprised, then merely fatigued. "You're remarkably thoughtful," she says, her smile taking on a more earnest and yet still bittersweet cast. "But you didn't need to get me anything."
"I know," Jorge admits with a small shrug, "but I still like to." His heartfelt compassion elicits a wider smile, and now Auressa's curious eyes track to the paper bag in her son's hands.
"What've you got there?" She asks with a coy smile.
Jorge quickly upends the bag and shakes out a brass pocket watch on a shiny chain. Auressa's eyes follow her son's hands as he passes it over to her. "It's fine work, in'nit?" He says with a smile, and Auressa gives him a briefly chiding look. "Isn't it?" He corrects himself.
"It is," Auressa agrees, reaching up to gently squeeze Jorge's arm. With a light touch of her thumb, she opens the pocket watch and looks at the tiny, delicate arms moving in perfect harmony. An inscription on the inside of the pocket watch reads, In Our Time And No Sooner. "Where did you have it commissioned?"
"The Golden Hour, down on Furrow's Street." Jorge answers, coming to stoop beside his mother to look at the watch with her. "When you lost yours down that storm drain I thought—what better gift than replacing something loved, lost, right?"
Auressa nods, closing the watch. "Is there a specific craftsman I can send my thanks to?"
"I think so, but I didn't catch his name." Jorge explains, grimacing a little. "The uh, the clerk up front did mention his surname though! Called back to him to make sure it was the right order. It was uh..."
As Jorge tries to remember the name, Auressa lifts the watch up by the chain and inspects it in the firelight.
"Ponte something. Ponte..."
She freezes
"Pontecorvo!"
and drops the watch.
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