The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [18]
“I’m aware of the variables,” I said. Lovecraft was a fortress against the necrovirus, and its citizens; at night, when the viral creatures were most active, the same citizens became prisoners within the city blocks.
Cal shook his head. “Math isn’t going to give us one lick of help this time, Aoife.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, a habit Mrs. Fortune deplored as unladylike. “ ‘Us’?” I said after a time, casting a sidelong glance at Cal to test his expression. He heaved a sigh too large for his skinny chest.
“If you think I’m letting you run off from school on the word of some madman on your own? Then you’re not mad, Aoife … you’re just nuts.”
As quickly as I’d slapped him before, I threw my arms around Cal. He let out a small grunt. “Thank you,” I whispered fiercely. He returned my grasp, tentative.
“All right, Miss Engineer … how are we hauling out of Lovecraft?”
“Well … I …” My reasoning hadn’t led me much beyond “help Conrad.” Cecelia, her sharp eyes and sharp words during the burning, came back to me. “The Nightfall Market.”
Cal let out a groan. “Great. We barely get clear of Dunwich Lane, and you want to go someplace twice as dangerous.”
“Oh, listen to you. You’re worse than an old woman. When have I ever lead you into danger?”
“Yesterday,” Cal said. “That bloodsucker in the alley.”
“And I got you back out again, didn’t I? Don’t go to supper,” I said, the plan forming and gaining momentum in my mind. I felt the same when I sketched new machines, things that could fly or burrow or glide under the river like fish. “That’ll be our chance.” Supper was the one time all of the students and heads of house gathered in one place. “Play sick if you have to. Meet me behind the autogarage once the dining bell rings.”
Cal nodded grimly. “Be careful, Aoife. I’d hate to see you … taken away. Before your time.” He squeezed my hand and went and joined the boys listening to the tubes.
Nightfall
RUNNING AWAY HAD never crossed my mind before. Certainly, I was an orphan for all intents and purposes, but I’d been accepted into the School and I had at least a journeywoman’s career ahead of me at the Engineworks. I wasn’t a cinder-girl from a storybook. A prince didn’t need to ride up on his clockwork steed and take me away.
When I was small, my mother told me that before the spread of the necrovirus and the madness it inflicted, before the Proctors had burned every book that even smacked of heresy, fairy tales had been different. They’d contained actual fairies, for one thing.
I didn’t take any memories of her when I packed my things, just a change of clothes, a toothbrush and hairbrush, all the money I’d received from the city when they auctioned Nerissa’s effects—a paltry fifty dollars—and my toolkit, the leather pouch of engineer’s equipment that every student was issued upon their acceptance into the School of Engines. I withheld one uniform shirt and unscrewed my last bottle of ink, splashing it down the front in a violent pattern.
As soon as everything was secreted in my satchel, I went to the first floor and knocked at Mrs. Fortune’s pin-neat room. She cracked the door and sighed at the sight of me. “I’m very busy, Aoife.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s a bit of an emergency,” I said, holding up the shirt. “I was drawing my schematic, and—” I had the lie planned to the last word, but Fortune cut me short.
“Oh, stars, Aoife.” She shook her head. “You’re clumsy as a fawn. It’ll be comportment classes next year if you don’t pull yourself together and learn how to be a lady.”
I chewed my lip in remorse and dropped my head. “I’m ever so sorry, ma’am. But if you could have the security officer let me out, I could run up Cornish Lane to the China Laundry before they shut,” I said. “I only have two shirts, as you know”—I moved my toe across the crack in the floor—“being a ward, and all.” People