The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [63]
Cal’s jaw twitched, and I thrust my chin at him, daring him to yell or slap me or do anything except stand there like a boneless scarecrow.
“You need to rest, Aoife,” he said finally. “Clearly, the events of the day have gotten your head in a muddle. You’re saying things nice girls have no business talking about.”
“Oh, go strip your own gears!” I shouted. “I’m afraid too, Cal. I don’t want to think that Conrad is mad, but he might be! Or he might be dead, or consorting with real heretics, but I’m not turning tail!”
“Well, forgive me if I don’t want to toss away my entire life for a guy who may or may not be leading his naive sister on the road to ruin!” Cal growled. “And forgive me for watching out for my friend!”
“If you believe that Conrad would hurt me on purpose,” I said, matching his snarl, “then we are not friends.”
With that, I stepped into my room and slammed the door in Cal’s startled face. I curled up on the musty bed and lay wretched and sleepless until dawn.
The Sinister Clock
MY MOTHER USED to help us find shapes in the clouds while we lay in Von Braun Park, pointing out unicorns and knights and the unfurling, scaly hides of dragons.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned you could be burned for suggesting such things existed, independent of their creation from steel, gear and steam in the laboratories of engineers. The Bureau of Heresy in Washington would accept no fantasy, no magic. Nothing that did not spring from viral infection or pure science.
I tried to find the same shapes in the stained plaster of my bedroom ceiling while dawn light spread fingers through the blood-colored velvet drapes.
“Coffee.” Dean kicked open my door and backed in, holding a tray made of silver and stamped in roses. In his big, rough hands it was rather ridiculous. “Found some hidden in that rat hole your pop calls a pantry. Old as the hills but brewed up strong.”
I pulled the duvet up to my chin, as I’d taken off my filthy, destroyed uniform and not-slept in my petticoat and brassiere. “This is my room, Dean.” I didn’t want him to see me disheveled and sleep-tossed. Cal seeing me wouldn’t matter, but I had a notion it would be different with Dean.
“And I do apologize for barging in, but I figured you’d forgive me.” He stepped over the threshold and kicked the door again to shut it.
I felt under my pillow for my jumper and slipped it back on even though it stank to high heaven, and then rolled the coverlet down. I fluttered my hands uselessly at the tray. “Why did you bring me this … stuff?”
Dean stared hard at me. “You skittish over something, Miss Aoife? Bad dreams? Starchy sheets?”
“I …” I forced myself to look at Dean and not blush. “I’m not usually alone with a boy. Besides Cal. And just when we’re cramming for exams.”
Dean spit out a laugh. “Relax, princess. It’s just coffee.”
“I’m quite relaxed,” I said in a tone that was anything but, glancing at the lamp on the nightstand. It was a heavy Tiffany number, all glass and iron. I could bean someone with it if I had to. I didn’t think Dean would try anything, but nothing in this world was certain, and the plain truth was I barely knew him and he was close enough to embrace. “I’d hate to have to scream when you acted improperly,” I added.
“You wouldn’t scream.” Dean poured the coffee out of the silver service into a china cup, a small and frilly porcelain bird in his hand. “You’re thinking you’d hit me with that lamp you were just eyeballing and make tracks, because you don’t need any kind of rescuing.”
“I need it more than you could ever know.” The words slipped out and I didn’t stop them, wasn’t even aware until Dean paused, a little coffee splashing onto the leg of his dungarees.
“Dammit.” He sat down on the foot of my bed, his bulk bowing the ancient mattress.