“Of course they will.” She kicks a chunk of crumbled stone off the trail before it can snag a wagon wheel or trip an unwary traveler. “You’ll have a replica of Rowansmark’s device to offer them. They’d have to be pretty stupid to turn that down.”
The Rowansmark tech is easy to use, but hard to duplicate. The internal wiring is a braided copper wire, sixteen gauge. The mechanisms that make up the levers are obviously handcrafted out of paper-thin silver. I don’t have anything in our salvage wagon, or in the bag of tech supplies I recovered from the abandoned armory in Lower Market where I’d stashed a few backup plans, that’s comparable to either the braided wire or the silver. And everything else I’ve tried has failed. Without the ability to duplicate the device, and with the worry that it will somehow malfunction when I need it most, I’ve settled for increasing the power in the booster I built for it, even though it now uses all but two of my remaining batteries. I may not be able to replicate Rowansmark’s tech yet, but I can improve it.
All of which does nothing to help me broker an alliance with Lankenshire, because I have no intention of handing over the only working model.
“I still have some issues with the Rowansmark design,” I say as we pass an evergreen whose top half has snapped off and balances haphazardly on the thin arms of the tree beside it. Placing my hand on the small of Rachel’s back, I guide us both away from the tree and shout a warning back to the others as well. In wind like this, we don’t want to take any chances.
“What about the device you’re building to find the Commander?” she asks, and it’s clear from the impatience in her voice that this is the only invention she truly cares about.
“It’s coming along.” Something else gleams beneath the thick greenery of the Wasteland. Something just off the path, about fifteen yards ahead of us.
“How can you be sure it works? Don’t you need his individual wristmark signature? Not that we couldn’t just search for the bright red Carrington uniforms, I guess.”
“I have his signature.” I quicken my pace as I see rusted metal poles, laced with vines, stabbing the ground like twin legs braced several yards apart. “I traded six fully functioning cloaking devices once to get it because I thought I might need it someday.”
“And you just happened to have stashed it with your extra tech at the armory?”
I turn to face her as we reach the metal poles. Something large is bolted to the rods, about halfway up, but the vines obscure it.
“Memorized it.” I tap my temple with my finger. “I didn’t want to write it down and get caught with it in case the Commander ever had cause to search my house. Plus, I couldn’t risk misplacing something so important.”
She smiles, but her eyes are fierce. “I love that you always think five steps ahead.”
“I seem to recall you once comparing my plans to an overly cautious grandmother crossing Central Square.”
“Well, I was still mad at you for everything when I said that.”
“And by ‘everything’ you mean my clumsy use of logic and reason to turn you down when you told me you loved me on your fifteenth birthday?”
She winces. “Don’t remind me. It’s still humiliating.”
I frown. “Why? You did nothing wrong.”
A pink glow suffuses her cheeks. “I embarrassed myself. Throwing myself at my father’s apprentice because I was so sure you felt the same. What an idiot.” She refuses to look at me.
I wrap my arm around her waist and lean down until my lips are right beside her ear. Quietly, I say, “I used to feel like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room whenever you came near me. I would sit at your father’s dinner table, eating his food and discussing my job requirements, and I would have to force myself not to study the way the lamplight turned your hair into flames.” My voice lowers. “You reminded me of fire—brilliant, warm, and strong. And every time you brushed against me, I felt like I’d swallowed some of that fire, and that if your father looked at me then he’d know it.”
“Really?” Her voice is low and breathless.
“Really.”
“You told me you didn’t love me,” she says, and there’s a tiny note of hurt in her voice.
“I told you the truth. I didn’t love you, then.” My arm tightens around her waist. “But being near you was like waving my hand through a lit torch, hoping I might get burned just a little. I thought that was just the way a boy feels when he’s near a girl. I didn’t realize the feeling was specific to you.”
She laughs and leans into me. “You also told me I’d get over you.”
“I’ve been known to be wrong,” I say, and kiss her before she can say anything else. She rolls her eyes, but kisses me back until Ian whistles appreciatively behind us.
Laughing, I step back from Rachel and turn to the vine-clad rectangle that looms above us. Grabbing a handful of thick, rubbery kudzu, I tug sharply and the entire curtain of vegetation begins slowly sliding to the left. Rachel wraps a few more vines around her hands and helps. In a few seconds, we can see most of the sign. White letters against a faded blue background say Best Races in Town. Just above the words, a brown horse with a rider on its back is pictured running like his life depends on it.
“This is it!” Jeremiah comes up beside us, his bent fingers clamped on his head to keep his hat securely in place. “This is the sign. The clearing is just past those trees.” He points north, where the road beneath us wraps around a thick copse of black cherry trees whose white blossoms flutter in the wind.
“We’ll stop there for lunch and sparring practice,” I say as I let go of the kudzu and join Rachel in leading the group toward the clearing. We round the curve and find a large metal wheel, mounted upright as if trying to spin into the sky, resting near the center of a field of wildflowers, spring grass, and scrubby bushes with tiny berries clustered against their leaves. Kudzu climbs the wheel, wraps around its spindles and gears, and then plunges down the other side in a curtain of green.
I’ve never seen anything so strange and beautiful.
“What is that?” I ask.
“It’s a Ferris wheel,” Jeremiah says. “Folks used to ride them.”
“Ride them where?” I look around the field for the rest of what must have been an enormous vehicle.
Jeremiah laughs a little. “It doesn’t go anywhere. It spins. You’d sit in one of the seats”—he points to large buckets in sun-faded colors that dangle from the inner edge of the circle—“and take a ride, round and round, until the ride operator stopped your cart at the top. Felt like you could see the whole world.”
“Seems like a waste of time,” Rachel says.
“Seems like a technological marvel.” I walk closer to the wheel, skirting a thorny bush before it snags my cloak. Behind us, the wagons reach the field and Nola supervises the task of setting up for lunch.
“It was just something fun we did whenever a carnival came to town,” Jeremiah says.
“What’s a carnival?” Rachel asks.
“Well, now, used to be we’d have sort of a community holiday once a year.” He twists his hat in his hands. “The folks that ran the carnival would bring rides, like the Ferris wheel, and cook kettle corn and funnel cakes and pies—celebratory food like we’d have on Claiming Day.”
“Where did the Claimings take place?” I ask as I glance around the field, looking for a fancy stage.
Jeremiah coughs. “No marriages at the carnival. No Claimings, period. Not in the old civilization. Men and women asked the person they loved to marry them, and then picked a date and a fancy location, and did it themselves. Claiming is something the Commander came up with.”
Before I can reply to him, a shout goes up behind me. I spin on my heel and nearly get knocked flat on my back as Adam and Ian crash against me. Adam’s face is flushed with rage, and he throws a punch straight for Ian’s nose.