"SHIFT CHANGE!"

Dorothea woke with a start, imagining herself back on board the ship, but she found herself alone, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. Her hand immediately went to her throat and was relieved to feel the familiar purse around her neck. A flock of birds flew past the bedside window. Looking out, she saw a spacious town square paved in grey cobble slate, surrounded by a collection of two-story townhouses with wilting trails of smoke rising from their chimneys. The morning sun peeked out from behind them.

At the chained-off centre of the square stood a tower that rose above the town. Several loudspeaker horns, pointed in every direction, were nested at its zenith. A tram rolled through the plaza, carrying men with sooty faces in its many long, windowed carriages. Looking around, Dorothea tried to recall what had happened.

She remembered a gunfight on board the ship she'd been held prisoner on and her desperate attempt to escape her captors. She remembered an explosion and then being tossed over the side of the vessel by the force of the blast and the feel of the cold water as it engulfed her, sucking the warmth from her body. She had survived somehow. But where was she now?

Pulling back the bed covers, Dorothea set her bare feet on the cold floor and, with a gasp, drew them back. She spied her shoes at the bottom of the bed. She slipped them on. They were damp. Her eyes scanned the narrow, sharply peaked room of wood and stone. Beside the bed, there was a dark lacquer table with a small oil lamp seated atop of it. Every available space on the walls was filled with picturesque vistas captured in paint and celluloid, windows to distant lands, absent of men or artifice, nature at its purest, as of yet undefiled. Perched on a small chest of drawers was a delicate model boat, impeccably detailed and flawlessly painted. It was obvious that a lot of time and effort had gone into its making.

Dorothea crept towards the door and cracked it open. Delectable odours floated upwards, making her stomach growl terribly. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. She stepped cautiously down the two flights of stairs, pausing to note a bedroom and bathroom halfway down, both of which were empty. She peered into a warm, well-lit kitchen. An ample-bosomed woman in a blue dress covered by a long white apron stood before a black iron stove, stirring a large pot with a long-handled spoon. Bowls of chopped vegetables sat in the centre of a trestle table and across the wall stretched a great oak dresser laden with gaudily decorated plates.

In the next room, a brawny gentleman sat eating at a table covered with machine parts. He wore a plaid shirt under blue overalls and was examining a partially assembled mechanism in one hand while chewing on a piece of toast. The stairs creaked beneath Dorothea's foot and she winced. He looked up, surprised, and then beamed at her.

"Ah! Awake at last. Penelope," he bellowed, "Turner's mermaid has found her land legs!"

Setting aside his meal and partial mechanism, the man walked over to a large wooden rig covered with black dials and copper tubing that appeared to be built into the wall. After turning several knobs fixed between twin escutcheons of a pick and hammer, the man wound a hefty crank in its side and lifted a long-necked microphone from its wooden cradle.

"Turner, boy!" he bellowed into it. " Your girl's awake. Come on back home."

Dorothea recognized the voice as the one from the loudspeakers that had woken her.

The woman set down her spoon and emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She had full cheeks and a kind face framed by curls of grey and white hair. "You terrorise that boy something fierce, Travis Hullin."

The man chuckled. He pulled a fine white clay pipe from his overalls and packed a wad of tobacco into it.

"Just having a little fun with the lad."

"How are you feeling, dear?" Penelope asked.

"Where am I?" Dorothea asked. "How did I get here?"

"Our son found you unconscious on the beach last night. You're in Yarnsford, hen. My name is Penelope Hullin. This is my husband, Travis."

"Pleasure to meet ya," Travis Hullin said, lighting his pipe from the flame of a long match.

"I hope you're feeling better, dear." Penelope swept a pile of gears from one corner of the table and motioned for her to sit down. "Come over to the table. I'll fix you something to eat. You must be hungry."

Dorothea's stomach replied before she could. She blushed.

"Ah, that's what that was," Travis mused. "Thought there was a bleeding tiger prowling the neighbourhood."

"Enough, Travis! Really, a sledgehammer has more tact than your fool tongue." She smiled at Dorothea. "Eat while the food's still hot. We've plenty of porridge and toast. Juice, too."

Dorothea looked at each of them. They certainly seemed harmless. And the smell of the food was irresistible. She had to eat something. She felt faint simply standing there. Too shy yet to speak her appreciation but giving Penelope a grateful smile, Dorothea pulled out a chair and took a seat amongst the clutter.

******

Turner jogged home, covered in grime from the iron mill. He was clad in his standard work attire, a chocolate-brown work shirt with simple epaulets adorning the shoulders, a dark pair of trousers, and a brown earflap cap with goggles strapped to the top, which rarely ever left his head.

"Ah, Turner, you're back." Penelope set another log on the dwindling fire as he paused to shed his dirty shoes at the door. At the table sat a girl in front of a huge plate of food. She turned and gave Turner a tentative smile. In the light of day, awake and in good health, she was a far cry from the wan, drenched creature he'd brought home. She had eyes of pale violet, and long, light blond hair pulled back off her face in a braided ponytail. He stood there staring at her. His father chuckled and Penelope swatted him.

"Dorothea Dovetail," the girl said, introducing herself. "You must be Turner. Thank you for rescuing me."

"It was... it was nothing," Turner stuttered.

"Turner, get outta those clothes," Penelope ordered, breaking his trance. "I'll fix you something to eat."

"That'd be great, Ma," he said, his eyes still fixed on Dorothea.

Minutes later, his face and hands hastily scrubbed, and having changed into a light blue button-down shirt, brown waistcoat, and matching trousers, his goggled cap still perched on his head, Turner galloped down the stairs and pulled out the chair next to his father, opposite Dorothea.

"Boy, take a look at this, will you?" Travis said, holding out a pipe with a wheel attached to it. "Can't get this brass valve to fit." Turner wrenched his gaze from Dorothea to look at the piece in his father's hand. He reached for another part from the ensemble lying on the table in front of his father.

"You need the connector first, and then the valve goes on like this." With practiced ease, Turner put the pieces together like they were part of a jigsaw he'd solved many times before.

Dorothea's eyes lit up. "You're an inventor?"

Turner grinned. "Just a dab hand at fixing broke things, like my Pa."

"Does a better job of it than his father does," said Penelope, as she put a plate of eggs on toast and bacon rashers in front of Turner. "Quicker about it, too," she added, ignoring Travis's frown.

"I volunteer around the place, doing odd jobs," Turner explained, flushing slightly. "Help get things fixed, mostly up in the mill and the mines." He glanced at his father. "Speakin' of the mines, Pa, Freddy Warner said the lift in number nine is actin' up again."

Travis exhaled in exasperation.

"Blast the thing!" he said, his smoking pipe bobbing up and down in his mouth. "He's been overloading it again, I'll wager. I'll take a look at it this evening."

"I won't have you bringing any more junk into this house, Travis Hullin!" warned Penelope. "There's barely enough room on the table for breakfast."

"Never mind that. I want to hear about last night." Travis turned and looked at Dorothea. "Turner says you were dropped off on the beach last night. By a giant, no less," he guffawed.

Dorothea blinked. "A giant?"

"Made of water, he claims." Travis gave another burst of laughter. "Plopped you right down there on the sand, before it done come apart at the seams. Nothing left of it, apparently. Am I tellin' this right, boy?"

Turner nodded, munching on a piece of toast.

"I don't remember much," she confessed, "except that I was taken from my home and imprisoned on a ship."

"Taken?" Penelope leaned over and put her hand on Dorothea's. "Imprisoned? You poor dear! Do you know by who?"

"They said they were from some kind of commission."

Travis frowned. "The Commission? The Global Commission?"

Dorothea nodded. "That's right."

"Hmm. Why would the Commission go nabbing a child?"

"You know who they are?" Dorothea asked.

"You dun know about the Commission, lass?" Travis asked, banging the dottle out of his pipe against the table.

"My grandfather and I kept mostly to ourselves."

"Oh, Lord, your poor grand-da," Penelope exclaimed. "He must be frantic. What about your parents, hen?"

"They died when I was very young. It's only been my grandfather and me for as long as I can remember. He was... He died, not too long ago."

Penelope put a comforting arm around Dorothea's shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "I'm very sorry to hear that, dear."

Dorothea wiped her eyes, self-conciously. "Can you tell me more about these people? The Commission?"

Travis set about peeling an orange he'd been rolling about in his hands, tearing off sections and popping them into his mouth.

"I'm no expert on them, mind," he said, leaning back in his chair, "but I do know that, for about as long as people can remember, there have been wars, lots of wars – big wars waged for all sorts of reasons. There was the War of Zeroes, the War of the Nine Graces, the War of the Burning Seas, each one bigger and more brutal than the last. Then, about a century back, some bigwigs realised they needed to do something before there was nothing left of the world but dead and ash." Travis leaned back further, the chair's legs groaning under his muscled bulk. The last mouthful of orange muffled his words slightly.

"Just after the War of Loaves ended, most of the states signed a treaty promising not only to stop throwing punches at each other but help create an impartial force able to take on any state that thought of stirring up trouble. That's what the Commission is about, you see. They try to keep wars from happening and put a quick end to those that do."

Wiping his mouth, Travis laced his large hands together on the table and leaned towards Dorothea, frowning.

"Makes no sense they'd be chasing after a young innocent like you..." Travis looked at her intently. "Can you think of a reason?"

Dorothea shrugged. "If there is, they didn't tell me."

"How did you manage to escape, lass?"

"They bundled me onto a ship and were taking me somewhere – I don't know where – when we were attacked. The people who attacked us tried to lure me away, but I wasn't sure who was more dangerous. I remember gunfire, explosions, trying to run away, and then falling overboard. That's the last thing I remember until I woke up here."

"Any idea who those other people were?"

Dorothea shook her head.

"I only remember there was a man who said his name was Silver something." She thought hard. "Silverio, Silverio Herrera – that was it, I think."

"Herrera? Never heard of him. Must be a mad sort, to be risking his life trying to rob the likes of you out from under the Commission's noses. No offence love, I'm sure you're wonderful and all, but it doesn't make a lick of sense why these people would kill each other over you."

"I don't know either," Dorothea said, looking perplexed. "I don't understand it at all." She looked around the table at the three friendly faces. "You've all been so nice to me. You saved my life. But what if, just by being here, I'm putting you all in danger? I don't want that."

Penelope Hullin gave Dorothea a reassuring pat.

"Never you mind that, hen. Nobody knows you're here but us. We'll think of some way of helping you, I promise."

"Of course!" boomed Travis, slapping the table and giving her a broad smile. "We'll never let any folk lay a finger on you, Commission or otherwise. I promise you. Them treating you the way they have riles me something fierce. They dun have the right – nobody does! You have a place here with us until you've found a safe place of your own. A Hullin won't just stand by when a friend's in need. Ain't that right, boy?"

Turner nodded, gazing at Dorothea. He would risk his life to help her, if it came to that. He would not leave her side, no matter what, until she was safe.

There was a knock at the door. Everyone jumped and exchanged apprehensive glances. Travis looked at Penelope.

"We expecting company?"

"Not this early."

Penelope got to her feet and opened the shuttered peephole in the door. Glancing through, she took an involuntary step backwards.

"Who is it?" Travis hissed.

"Strangers," she said, swiftly closing the hole. "Men in grey suits."

"Grey suits?"

Dorothea's eyes widened in fear.

"It's them!"