Steelhands - Jaida Jones [31]
The construct itself was a less exact science than the dragons had been, chiefly because the dragons were created as their own separate entities whereas these hands had had to be made specifically to tailor to the rest of my body—a part of me that was at once integral yet utterly unnatural.
One day, I’d been told, or at least “ideally,” they would be able to fit a panel onto the back and cover things up once and for all, leaving me with smooth metal skin and, I supposed, the freedom to wear more delicate gloves again. But that final piece of the puzzle couldn’t be put into place until after years of fine-tuning, and the magician couldn’t make adjustments without turning me loose in the world to see what problems I ran up against. “Trial and error,” I believe was the term, and I was growing rather weary of it. Especially when my right hand stopped working completely during my very first postwar bath—at least, the first I was allowed to take on my own, without nurses and healers watching over me.
Still, I had no right to feel ungrateful. I’d lost my hands, but I’d kept my life, and that was more than so many of my fellows could say. Without any further delay, I tugged my gloves on—extra thick to keep the chill from getting into the metal, which in turn made my wrists ache—did up the buttons of my coat, and left.
After the end of the war, once the Esar’s plans for me had become apparent, I’d thought it prudent to rent my own quarters in the city rather than returning to my parents’ estates. It made for a much shorter commute between home and the bastion every day, and I had a very lovely view of the Basquiat from my window. In fact, I lived close enough that I could take the Whitstone Road to cut across the Rue and be in upper Charlotte—and therefore, the Crescents—before the sun set.
The days were growing so short in winter and the early dark played havoc with my moods.
It would have been more convenient for me if the magician tending to my follow-up appointments had been operating out of the Basquiat instead of her own home, but the Esar had his own way of doing things, keeping magicians and politicians separate. If the rumors I’d heard were true—as much as I hated listening to idle gossip, more often than not there was truth to be found in it—then he didn’t trust the magicians at the Basquiat as much as he once had.
That was a tense area that could’ve used a little diplomatic intervention, I thought, and it made me wonder why we were bothering so with the Arlemagne when there were matters within Volstov that needed tending to, but I was no ruler. It wasn’t my place to suggest these things. The problem would be resolved in its own time, and certainly without any help from someone like me.
There had always been a struggle between members of the bastion, the Esar’s handpicked favorites, and the Basquiat, whom magic herself had picked. And the Esar, I suspected, did not like being reminded of forces more powerful than he. Since he was no magician, it was all something of a sore spot.
The air was bitter and still as I made my way down the road, thankful for the absence of the sharp winds that had attempted to flay the skin from my bones earlier. If I kept to this path I would eventually come to the ’Versity Stretch—as I already had, more than once—where Adamo had long since finished giving his lectures for the day. I had no idea at all where he was currently staying—whether he had a place in the city, too, or if he was taking advantage of the professors’ quarters, now that he was one. It didn’t seem like information I should want to know, and yet I’d spent a good portion of my life knowing every small detail about men I now seemed to go out of my way to avoid. Even though we hadn’t liked each other, we had lived with each other. I knew when each of them liked to take their showers, when they slept—when they did not sleep—and what kind of woman each one preferred.