The Pipes of Columbia by Jay Barnson — Read

The dawn hour was my favorite time of day during the World's Fair. The sun broke over Lake Michigan, silhouetting the great airships moored over the harbor, glinting off the colossal steel and wood structure of the Ferris wheel on the Midway Plaisance, and breathing life into the White City occupying Jackson Park. Of course, for the fairground's night watchmen like me, the dawn held special significance. It meant our shift was nearly over, and soon it would be time to get breakfast and some sleep.

As the sun rose higher, I finished my rounds for the shift and reported into the office. Making my way toward the exit from Jackson Park, the woman caught my attention. She stood just inside the northwest gate, ahead of the morning crowds, scanning the nearly-empty paths converging on the exit, shielding her eyes from the morning sun with her black-gloved hand. Her somber blue dress was meticulously hand-made to be practical as well as showy, a balance modern seamstresses rarely got right, but it was about fifteen years out of style for 1893. Her blonde hair gleamed gold in the morning sunlight under her straw and silk bonnet. While she didn't seem much older than thirty, she eschewed the younger generation's trend and wore her corset beneath the modest dress, giving the illusion–or at least I tried to convince myself it was an illusion–of a goddess wrapped in fabric.