Steelhands - Jaida Jones [129]
“Like I said, I don’t remember the name,” Hal said apologetically. “It’s possible he never turned in anything at all.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that,” I said.
“No? I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Hal said, sliding off the desk to get a bottle of ink, a pen, and some paper. “How do you spell his name?”
I dictated the letters for him, ashamed at the relief I felt washing over me now that I’d unloaded my difficulties on someone else. But not only had I survived the conversation, it seemed that something good might even come of it, as well. Surely, someone who’d once saved the lives of countless magicians would be an enormous aid to Laure and me in saving one rather large citizen of Borland.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes of this,” Hal said, waiting for the ink to dry. “And I’m glad you came to me, Toverre.”
He reached out to give me some comfort—his hand upon my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze—and I felt a combination of feelings, including elation and despair. He was smiling at me again, for encouragement, which clearly revealed the blue flecks in his eyes.
“So am I,” I mumbled, and I stood quickly from the chair, bolting out the door without further word.
BALFOUR
The fever broke early in the morning on the fourth day. I knew the exact time, because I woke with a start, feeling as though someone had been calling my name. But the apartment was ghostly still, not even the pounding of boots overhead or the faint sound of carriage wheels upon cobblestones from outside to indicate I was anything but alone in the world.
Then the clock on my bedside table chimed dully. It was five in the morning exactly, just before dawn, and I was so drenched in my own sweat that I was in dire need of a bath.
I could tell the fever was gone because I felt lucid—and completely in control of myself—for the first time in four days. The first emotion I experienced was acute embarrassment. Then, overwhelmed by my gratitude at being well again, I ignored those pettier feelings.
At least, at that hour, the hot water wouldn’t have been all used up by the other residents of the building. I ran myself a bath, sitting in the steam and reveling in the silence, broken only by the rushing of water through the pipes.
There was no voice. I waited, straining to hear it, surprised but tentatively relieved when nothing came. I had grown so used to the sound that to be without it now seemed surreal.
By the time I was finished with my bath, and the sun was rising, casting dim light through the room, I had begun to remember what it was like to live my life normally.
It was a good feeling.
I made myself breakfast, with time to spare before Adamo appeared for his daily appraisal of my condition. The stomping had begun upstairs as my neighbors stirred to start their day, but since that was a familiar pounding—and not the quickened rhythm of my heart laboring in my chest, or the sultry, metallic whisper of a voice just inside my ear—I felt less resentful that morning than on any others. Even my breakfast tasted delicious, and I finished it a little too quickly; it seemed my appetite had returned to me tenfold, and I hoped Luvander would bring some kind of snack with him when he visited me after work hours. He always did, despite my protests. Both he and Adamo felt the need to look after me—and, in light of my recent behavior, I supposed they were right to worry. I had been worrying myself, after all, and I knew I would have done the same for them if they’d been in my shoes.
My hands, in contrast to the rest of me, remained nimble and dexterous—I’d half expected them to slip back into stiffness as quickly as they had after prior appointments, but they were operating as good as new, if not somehow better than ever. The more I worked with them, the better attuned to my thoughts they became, until they almost felt like real hands, despite their appearances. I even caught myself in a moment of surprise when I glanced down at the sink and