Steelhands - Jaida Jones [85]
Once, I’d spent the night in the bathroom—the only room I’d found with a door that locked.
I leaned my head back in the chair, allowing my eyes to slip shut as Margrave Germaine rolled her chair away from her workstation. The last thing I saw were those shimmering vials, like miniature stars in the palm of her hand, and I thought for a moment I might even have heard voices. A consulting physician, maybe?
But I would never know the answer, as I allowed sleep to overtake me.
I awoke to a furious thumping sound, so loud that my heart began to hammer. It took me a moment to realize I was back in my own apartment, laid out in my own bed, and the sound was nothing more than my upstairs neighbors returning home. The entire building shook with the force of their steps, and I wondered to myself if they made a habit of wearing solid stone boots.
My head was pounding, and I lifted my hand without thinking to rub at the temple.
Quick, polished fingers—in perfect working order—obeyed my command. The metal was cold against my skin, but it soothed my pulse, and I started into a sitting position at once, holding both hands out in front of me.
They even had back plates, I realized. They were smooth and complete, and when I wanted to make a fist, I could. I did so far more than was necessary out of sheer relief, flexing and curling my fingers, then attempting one of the more difficult tasks I faced daily: undoing one of my buttons. It slid from the loop easily, then back into it, and I could almost feel the press of the metal button against my metal fingertips. It was an incredible sensation.
A small shaft of sunlight was spilling through the window onto my lap, and I found it suddenly impossible to remember any of my present troubles. The job Germaine had done was beautiful; she was truly an expert in her field.
A small, sudden pang of guilt ran through me, as though Ginette would somehow hear me comparing her unfavorably with someone else, but I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind, allowing myself—for the first time in a very long while—to savor the pleasure of a good mood.
Also, for the first time in a very long while, I intended to make myself breakfast.
I had the skillet ready and was preparing myself for the delicate—yet now somehow manageable—prospect of cracking eggs, when a knock at the door broke into my reverie.
“Coming,” I called, hurrying over and opening it. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I did hope it wasn’t one of the Esar’s men, come to take me back for another consultation. I couldn’t complain about the Esar taking special interest in my situation, either—not after all he had done for me—but I wanted to enjoy the moment uninterrupted. I also wanted to formulate my thanks so that they would show how much I truly appreciated the interference.
However, I was shocked to see as I pulled the door open, a familiar face I wouldn’t have expected, not in a thousand years.
“Luvander,” I said, forgetting my manners and staring openly at him.
“Balfour,” he replied, staring back at me. I realized he was making fun of my expression, mouth hanging open like a dead fish’s, and I colored, closing my mouth at once.
“What are you doing here?” I managed finally—not at all the “do come in” that would have been more welcoming.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Luvander admitted, surveying my humble lodgings from over my shoulder. “What sort of place is this for a hero of war, I wonder? Such wealth! Such riches! Such personality.”
“It’s close to the bastion,” I explained. “Anything more extravagant, and centrally located, would be far out of my price range.”
“Ah, Balfour,” Luvander said. “Dreaming big, as always. We flew once, remember?”
It wasn’t enough to bring me crashing down from my good mood, but it almost managed. I stepped aside, beckoning for him to come in. “It has a nice kitchen,” I added, “and a pretty view.”
At that moment, the upstairs neighbors chose to travel from one room to another, and