Steelhands - Jaida Jones [131]
“I rather like it, actually,” I admitted, drawing aside the shades to let in the faint morning light. The sun glinted off my hands, and I realized once again that I hadn’t put on my gloves. It hadn’t occurred to me, because I’d thought it was Adamo at the door, and he’d already seen me at my worst—not just lately, but also during my time at the Airman. He didn’t question it, and for that reason alone I’d allowed myself to let down my guard a little. “Doesn’t it give you a little satisfaction to be finished with work just as some people are beginning their day?”
“Why, Balfour, that’s positively vindictive of you,” Troius said, leaning in his chair so that it tipped back onto two legs. It creaked dangerously, one of the old pieces I’d taken from the Airman before it was cleaned out; it was the chair Ivory used to sit in at the piano, but it had seen better days. “Though to answer your question, I have no room for satisfaction once the talks start dragging on well past the point of lunch. Bastion, your hands are a sight, aren’t they?”
I clenched them into fists, fighting the urge to slide them into my sleeves. Such behavior was very childish, and—as I’d insisted to my mother when she’d begged me to come home after the war—I was no longer a child, now twenty years of age and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. There came a point in a man’s life where he was forced to confront his anxieties head-on, so I held up my hands, spreading my fingers wide.
“I suppose you haven’t seen them since I’ve had them repaired,” I said, flexing them for show. “They’re a much neater job now; at least, I think so. There wasn’t any paneling over the back before at all, if you remember that mess of cogs and gears, and little pieces of dust and lint were always getting caught up in the works. They look a great deal more finished now, not to mention far more serviceable.”
Troius stared, even dragging his chair across the floor to peer at them more closely. I found myself wishing however irrationally for my old room in the Airman—equipped with a chute in the floor for a quick escape. Perhaps I’d have one installed here, but I’d have to get to know my downstairs neighbors much better before I started dropping into their apartment unexpectedly whenever some awkward situation arose.
“Not stiff like your old ones, are they?” Troius asked, thankfully not trying to touch them. That was still beyond my zone of comfort. “I remember you complaining about that. Well, not complaining, because it’s you, but the equivalent.”
“They haven’t been, thus far,” I said. It was the smallest of details, perhaps, but the one I was most grateful for. Even when my own body let me down or grew weak, as it had during the fever, my hands remained in perfect working condition. The stark silver outline of them was almost a comfort, something I could focus on, and I stared at them so I wouldn’t have to think about Troius’s scrutiny.
“Sorry to catch you off guard,” Troius said, picking up on my discomfort too late for anyone’s benefit. “Funny, me talking about Auria’s big mouth when I’ve got my own to contend with. I didn’t mean anything by it, Balfour—just never seen anything like them before. Most people haven’t. You do know what they’re calling you down