Steelhands - Jaida Jones [86]
“It seems it also comes with elephants,” Luvander said at last. He pulled a white box from behind his back, tied up with string. “Invite the elephants down. I brought you some breakfast.”
“You did?” I asked.
“I can see you just woke up,” Luvander replied. “Perhaps I’ll step into the hallway and we’ll try doing this again.”
“That won’t be necessary. I just—Why?”
“Why did I bring you breakfast?” Luvander asked. I nodded, and he pulled out a pocketknife, cutting into the string. “Well, I’ve finally had enough to hire a shop assistant, first of all. And I assumed, with your hands the way they were, you might have trouble cooking. I’m a bleeding heart, what can I say, and our little talk the other day made me realize how much I missed having company from the good old days. You remember those, don’t you, Balfour?”
“All too clearly,” I said with a mixture of relief and longing.
“So that’s them, then?” Luvander asked, nodding toward my hands.
I realized in that moment that I hadn’t thought to put on gloves before I’d answered the door, and now they were on grand display. There’d be no hiding them behind my back—Luvander would see through to my embarrassment, and he’d never let me live it down—and so I was trapped, forced to let him look at them until his curiosity was satisfied.
Fortunately, I told myself, they were in working order, polished and new, gleaming when sunlight from my window hit them. I cleared my throat, trying to read Luvander’s expression, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, as always. For a man with such an expressive face, he rarely—if ever—showed any real emotion. At least, nothing you could tease him with.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to one of them.
I swallowed, looking away. “Go ahead,” I said, refusing to add what I wished: If you must. It stood to reason he’d be curious, and he had come all this way. No doubt, if I did protest, he’d tell me there was nothing at all to be ashamed of—recite a few of the verses from “Balfour Steelhands”—and then I’d be further ashamed of having protested in the first place.
The best way to deal with this was to get it over with. I clenched my jaw, bracing myself for whatever came next.
He came forward slowly, as though he knew I wanted to run away, and delicately took my arm by the sleeve. I was forced to look back at him, searching his face warily for his impressions, as he turned my hand over, inspecting every detail, down to my pinky finger. I could feel his touch, but it was so careful that it was only the faintest ghost of pressure, moving from the metal to the flesh.
“Now, isn’t that something,” he said at last, shaking his head and puffing out a whistle. “Looks as good as new, too.”
“I just had them fixed,” I admitted. “They’re working very well today.”
“Bet they get cold,” Luvander added.
“They do,” I said.
He took the other one, comparing them, noting all the places where screws approximated joints, then he sighed heavily, letting go of me completely. “You remind me of someone,” he said, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
It took me a moment to figure out it was meant to be a joke about Yesfir, because it lacked his usual good cheer. “Yes,” I agreed, pressing the metal palms together. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“It’s no wonder you wear those gloves all the time,” Luvander added. “You probably don’t want to depress us. Or yourself.”
“And yet I manage that anyway, somehow,” I said quietly.
“You should send a note to Adamo,” Luvander said. “Nothing too fancy, just to let him know you got yourself fixed up so he doesn’t beat down the Provost’s door and demand a search party for that other Margrave of yours. He would do that, you know. He’s always looked out for you. And besides, a man like that misses having a cause to throw his considerable weight behind, mark my words.