Steelhands - Jaida Jones [15]
I smiled. “Trust me when I say that I have known men who made it their favorite pastime to ensure my discomfort,” I assured him. “Just knowing those aren’t your intentions is enough for me. Go ahead; ask away.”
Troius chewed his ham, casting around with the same hesitation that everyone used when they asked me how I was feeling. They were curious, a little repulsed; some managed the courage or the insensitivity to ask anyway because of their curiosity. And so few actually wished to touch me.
“I’ve just always wondered how you control them,” Troius said at last. “Bit of magic in it, isn’t there?”
“So I’m told,” I confirmed. I rubbed the back of one glove, metal finger pressed against the fabric, and felt absolutely nothing. “I … know they’re there, but of course, I can’t feel any part of them.”
“One might even say they work like one of the dragons did,” Troius added. There was a familiar light in his eye—the sort any man displayed when bringing up that topic.
I hid my wince as well as I could, pretending it was the spices that made my eyes unfocus rather than some distant loneliness. Anastasia had been my last tangible tie to my brother. What was more, she had been my only tie to a group of men with whom I’d practically lived my entire adult life. I could hardly call them friends, so in the absence of our shared employment, I had nothing to call them. “Yes, of course, one could say that,” I confirmed. “Although these hands aren’t a separate part of me at all, nor do they have a personality of their own. It was never really something I understood, mind you. Just something I trusted.”
“Must be strange,” Troius said, attempting to sound comprehending. I appreciated the effort despite how impossible the thing would be. “But you never have trouble with them at all?”
“They can be a little clumsy,” I admitted. I wished the conversation could have ended a few questions earlier, but it was good practice for my diplomacy. “But with time and practice, I’m told I’ll master it. Like real hands.”
“Like a natural part of you,” Troius said, shaking his head. “The things these magicians can do these days, you know? Incredible.”
“Almost like magic,” I agreed, with a touch of humor that was as much to comfort me as it was to make my companion laugh.
“Almost like magic, indeed,” Troius said. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, tossing it down neatly onto his plate. “Well, back to diplomacy, then, eh, Balfour?”
I folded my own napkin, tucking it gently under my plate. I’d lost my appetite some time ago, in any case. “Quite,” I agreed, and followed him out.
LAURE
There was a draft in Toverre’s room, so for the time being he was lingering in mine—which itself was smoky, some problem with the fireplace no one was coming to fix for us, so I was fixing it myself. In thanks, Toverre had started to unpack for me.
It wasn’t so bad, I thought. At least not as bad as Toverre was making it out to be.
“There’s something caught in the flue,” I said, even though I knew he wasn’t listening. It was more like explaining it out loud for my own sake. “Don’t know if this is a good idea or not, but I’m going to try for it anyway. Is there anything in here like a poker? Would you mind looking under the bed for me?”
I heard Toverre draw in a sharp breath. When I turned around he was toeing the bottom of my coverlet anxiously, but he sure as rain wasn’t on his hands and knees like I was.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll look for it. You just keep unpacking.”
“That was my plan,” Toverre replied, stepping away from the bed gratefully and tugging a handkerchief out of his front pocket to wipe his hands, “but I’m afraid I’ve found something very disturbing in your traveling bags.”
There was dust under the bed—enough to make me sneeze pretty loudly—but at least that gusted it all away. There was the poker, I realized, reaching out for it and brushing past something disturbingly sticky on my way. A ball of tape, I realized as I pulled it out, holding it up for Toverre