Steelhands - Jaida Jones [180]
It dinged only once, its tone hollow and tinny. But to us, it actually meant something.
“Let me just turn down the stove,” Luvander said, putting a lid on his bubbling creation. “If all goes well, perhaps we’ll get a chance to eat it. If not …”
“If not, it’ll soon be able to run the hat shop for you,” Laure promised. “Now let’s go get the Chief Sergeant.”
THIRTEEN
TOVERRE
I’d always known my Laure had a rousing speech or two in her though I’d never dreamed she’d be commanding her own private army.
Even with my incredibly active imagination—not to mention the amount of time I devoted to dreaming up adventures such as this one—I had never dared to imagine something quite at this level of intrigue and excitement.
For me, it was too much. I was well aware that my flights of fancy were just that, and I did not particularly believe I had the constitution for adventure. Yet there I was, with one suddenly dumped unceremoniously into my lap, and the potential consequences of our actions all too real. I could only hope that we weren’t all arrested and executed for treason—but no one seemed to be in the mood to contemplate our darkest possible fate just yet, and I couldn’t exactly blame them. If we’d thought about it with any depth of foresight, we’d never have left the hat shop at all—a last attempt of our instincts to achieve self-preservation.
Outside, it was dark, the moon obscured by thick clouds, and it was snowing heavily enough that it had discouraged most of the usual foot traffic at this hour. Everyone with a brain in their skull was indoors, not sloshing about through the streets getting slush in their boots. Now and then we passed by an open window, and I could see families within, sitting down to dinner; a young man reading a book; an older woman petting a kitten. They were so caught up in their sensible, everyday routines that no one looked out the window and caught sight of us—if they had, I didn’t know that they’d be able to recognize those in our party, wrapped up with scarves and hats and winter coats as we were.
There was simply no telling how fast the rumor would travel once someone realized the airmen were together again, traveling in a group with a single purpose like they hadn’t done since the war.
It was bound to cause a scene, and despite my own love of dramatic scenarios, even I understood the need to forgo it, just this once, in favor of keeping to the shadows.
With all the snow, Miranda had fallen hushed and still. Bright windows were illuminated in all the houses, and every now and then a smattering of laughter would spill out from a nearby café or restaurant, but for the most part, the city felt like ours alone. Fat white flakes spiraled down from the clouds, the strong wind blowing them sideways, and I had to very nearly close my eyes entirely to keep from being blinded by them. Ghislain, Royston, and Laure had taken the lead, and I found myself scurrying along in their wake, doing my best to step in the footprints Ghislain had left behind, which were deep and very wide, so as not to become too tired slogging through the snow.
I didn’t have the constitution an airman did. And why should I? It wasn’t as though I’d been given the same training. Almost from the start, my feet were freezing—I’d have worn thicker socks if I’d known we were going to be tramping through a veritable blizzard—but I kept my hands shoved into my pockets and my head tilted down. We were all going to have fevers come morning—if we even saw morning at all.
But I was hardly the worst off of all of us, even though Raphael had claimed to be in the peak of health. He looked more like a ghost resuscitated after months spent in the grave than anyone seemed willing to acknowledge.
Surely his comrades—who’d known him longer—should