Chapter Fourteen #3
She stepped into a large foyer with three corridors, turned left, then followed the signs until she reached the door that marked the Treasurer’s Office. Inside, a middle-aged woman was sitting behind a small desk.
“Good morning.” Vesper held up the envelope. “I’m here to drop this off from the Globe.”
The receptionist offered her a bright smile. “I can take that off your hands, thank you.”
Vesper handed her the envelope, then stopped. “Would you mind answering a quick question?”
The receptionist blinked. “Of course.”
“If I wanted to file a patent, where would I do that?”
“Oh!” The receptionist brightened again. “It’s a fairly straightforward process, I believe. You’d just fill out a form and send it to the Department of Trademark. Head back to the main entrance, then go down the hallway on the right until you see a set of stairs. Trademark’s on the second floor.”
Vesper nodded in thanks, then headed back the way she’d come.
Up the stairs the receptionist had indicated, she found a landing with several doors, one of which bore a Department of Trademark sign.
It was open, and just beyond it sat a gray-haired man behind a desk.
A nameplate at its front read: HAROLD DEAKINS.
“Good afternoon,” she began. “My name’s Vesper Evans, and I’m here to—”
“Take a number.”
The man hadn’t even looked up at her; he just pointed to the ancient ticket dispenser sitting on the corner of his desk.
No one else was there, but he was still ignoring her.
She pulled a number from the dispenser, then took a seat at one of the chairs by the door. After a few minutes, the man looked up.
“Number eighty-seven!”
Vesper was on her feet in an instant. “My name is Vesper Evans. I—”
The man sneezed, then threw her an accusing look. “Do you have a cat?”
“No,” said Vesper. “But I do occasionally feed strays.”
“I’m allergic,” he said flatly. “Some space, if you please?”
Vesper took exactly one step back, then tried for a third time. “I’m a reporter for The Basalton Globe, and I—”
“They’re letting women work in newspapers now?” The corners of Mr. Deakins’s lips turned down at once. “In my day, a woman’s place was at home, with her husband and children.”
Vesper clenched her teeth and hoped it passed for a smile. “Yes, well, I don’t have either of those things. As I was saying, I’m working on a project for the Globe, and need access to the city’s patent archive.”
Mr. Deakins narrowed his eyes. “You’ll need to complete a request form.”
“All right,” said Vesper. “Where’s the form?”
He pulled a paper out from his desk and handed it to her. “Processing times take four to six weeks, so don’t expect an answer before then.”
Four to six weeks? Vesper swallowed. “Perhaps you might consider making an exception to allow me into the archive so I can—”
“No.” There was nothing subtle about it now.
Mr. Deakins’s expression showed open disdain.
“I am aware that times have changed, and that some women have all sorts of wild ideas about what they believe they’re entitled to.
” He looked her up and down. “But I am still of the opinion that the traditional roles of a man and woman are the right ones. So you tell The Basalton Globe that the next time they want something from my department, they should send a man to do a man’s job. ”
For a few seconds, Vesper was speechless. She’d dealt with misogynists before in her line of work, but rarely had she met any who were this brazen in their prejudice. She gathered herself quickly and stood taller.
“Sir.” Her tone was polite, but firm. “I am a tax-paying citizen of the city of Basalton, entitled to all rights and privileges afforded as such. If you deny me of my legal rights, I will be forced to lodge a formal complaint against you and submit it to your supervisor and the city.”
Mr. Deakins folded his hands and cocked his head.
“But I’m not denying you your rights,” he said pleasantly.
“As I previously said, to see the patent archive, you’ll need to complete a request form.
” He leaned in, his eyes glittering with malice.
“I think you’ll find it quite difficult to prove I’ve done anything wrong, no matter how hysterical you become, girl. No one will believe you.”
Vesper opened her mouth, then promptly closed it.
He was right. She was a young, ambitious woman in a world that didn’t like young, ambitious women.
She could lodge a complaint against Mr. Deakins, but there was no promise that she wouldn’t simply be dismissed as some meddling woman.
Mr. Deakins knew that. She gave him one final withering look before turning around and heading out of the office.
Some part of her wanted to cry, but Vesper found she didn’t even have the energy for that.
She was physically and mentally exhausted.
It felt as though she’d been walking through a maze like the one back at the Museum of Art for the last five days, hitting nothing but dead ends and disappointments.
Usually, in moments like this, she could rally and find a new path forward, but for the first time Vesper felt the beginning of defeat.
It was Thursday the tenth; she had exactly three weeks left to come up with the money the Globe needed, and she had no way to get it, no viable plan of action.
For the second time she wished Maximilian was here to offer some kind of humor, or even comfort.
She headed for the stairs, tears blurring her eyes.
She reached the bottom, and found a middle-aged, tan-skinned man holding a mop, looking startled.
“Oh!” She wiped her eyes quickly. “Please, excuse me, I—” She’d been about to apologize, but her eyes caught on something. On the right breast pocket of his gray shirt, the custodian wore a small circular silver pin with three bold inscribed letters: B.L.U.
“Sir,” she said. “I see you’re part of the Basalton Laborers’ Union. Are all the custodians here members?”
The custodian immediately stood straighter and smiled. “Yes, miss. Every one of us.” He scratched his head, looking confused. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” Vesper gave him a small smile. “I was just curious, thank you.”
The man tipped his head and headed up the stairs. Vesper watched him go, still smiling. She may not have been able to access the patent archive, but she thought she might know someone who could.