Steelhands - Jaida Jones [121]
This topic, however, was merely a small ruse upon which the rest of my plan hinged. By writing to Gaeth’s mother explaining the situation with the gloves, I would surely be able to glean some information about Gaeth’s current health. If he had truly returned home, then my inquiries after his well-being would bring a certain manner of response—but if he was not with his family in the countryside, then all our suspicions of his disappearance would prove to be well founded. The question of where he was would still be unanswered, but we would know for certain whether or not there was something darker afoot.
Laure was always telling me not to become carried away by my own imagination. The trouble with this particular scenario was that I simply couldn’t imagine what was happening. I hadn’t been carried away at all.
Because of this, I would have to make my inquiries subtle. I did not wish to embroil myself in something too dangerous—it was possible Gaeth had been caught up in some seedy business deep in Molly and, having offended the wrong person, had been taken to task in a sudden, gruesome fashion. But truly, that did not seem like him—even though I did not know him well enough to quash all my sordid suspicions.
Writing to the mother was the best first step—and made easy because we had absconded with a letter he’d been ready to send to her, including proper postage, as well as her name and address. She was Jetta with no surname, and she lived in Borland. The place itself wasn’t even on any maps, and because of that I knew of it, as it was famous for being one of the smallest towns on the Volstovic side of Locque Nevers. Borland seemed an apt name for a place known throughout the countryside as being comprised of mud and cows. It was no wonder to me that Gaeth’s coat was so shabby and his writing so poor; and, more than ever, it seemed necessary for me to send these gloves to his mother, for who could tell what she was wearing without them? In all likelihood, she didn’t have anything.
And so I had written to her a very simple letter, inquiring after her son’s health and remarking upon his goodness in lending the items to me, then stating I was returning them to her, and I did hope she would offer her son my thanks since they had kept my hands very warm indeed.
I was in agony over waiting for a response, but I knew the post took ages in the backcountry. It was possible they wouldn’t be able to find Borland at all, and the package would be returned to me without any reply as thanks for all my cleverness.
Under normal circumstances, I would have Laure to complain to, but she seemed curiously elusive these days. I wondered if she hadn’t been taken with the fever again, since—much to my horror—it seemed to be making another sweep through the dormitories. Now more than ever, I considered myself lucky to have eluded the process altogether after the initial appointment. What sort of horror had I managed to dodge, precisely? I’d spotted both Thib and Laure’s lady friend wandering the hall at odd hours, and though I would normally have suspected some other kind of foul play, it was clear from their tousled hair and glassy looks they weren’t sneaking off just to be with one another, else they would have been better groomed. Had they no shame when it came to being so unkempt? More importantly, did they wish to spread their vile disease among as many fellow students as possible? It was clear I would never understand the motives of some people, nor their lack of concern for the well-being of others.
Yet another clue was that our lectures the past week had been half-full even at the best of times, and I could tell poor attendance was irritating some of our professors, all of whom were busily outlining the various helpful strategies for self-paced research. Laure would have said the lack of attendance was due to how boring these lectures were, but I’d noticed that even some of the students who spent the first