Chadwick dug in his heels and held on as Rowen lugged him forward.
Rowen was a bull preparing to charge, shoulders hunched, a mean gleam lighting his eyes. All he saw was the man before him.
“Rowen, Rowennnn,” Chadwick warned.
“Then I demand satisfaction.” Rowen ground out the words, his nose nearly pressed to the other man’s.
The stranger scoffed. “So you received no such satisfaction from Jordan Astraea?” He laughed.
Chadwick shook his head. There was a fine line between bold action and stupidity. And this man enjoyed bouncing straight across it.
The man retorted, “You must be the only one she didn’t satisfy from what I’ve heard—”
And then Chadwick was flying forward, unable to keep Rowen’s arm back, and the man tumbled to the ground again, legs flying out from beneath him with the impact. “I demand satisfaction,” Rowen growled.
The man’s nose streamed blood. “A duel?” He coughed, spraying Rowen’s shirt with red.
“Yes,” Rowen agreed. “A duel.”
Kenneth wedged his way between the two, trying to catch Rowen’s eye—and force some small scrap of sense into him again. “Illegal, Rowen—duels were outlawed…”
Rowen looked at him just long enough that Kenneth stepped back, clasping his hands behind him and rocking on his feet. “Jordan Astraea is innocent of witchery.”
The other snorted. “I am Lord Edward and I will give you your duel,” he growled.
“To first blood,” Rowen said.
“Oh no,” Lord Edward stated. “Á l’outrance. To the death. I will put the ending date on your tombstone, you great ass.”
Rowen snarled, “Commenting on how great my ass is will not make me spare you—I have heard it before from far prettier mouths. I will see you on the morrow at Watkin’s Glen. Be prepared, for I will be!”
En Route to Holgate
Jordan was sore from the bounce of constant travel along the roads unwinding like a tangle of yarn from Philadelphia’s careful grid work of streets. That night there was no tavern or inn and they rested as well as they could, curling atop each other in an awkward, shifting, and snoring mass of humanity. Rain clouds dampened the skies and a sad drizzle filled the air, soaking anyone too near the wagon’s edges. Clothing grew wet and stained with rust from the bars. A light came on in the carriage and the Tester appeared, snarling at the squish of mud beneath his boots.
“Who is responsible for this?” he demanded. “Which one of you brought a storm without permission? Do you not understand the consequences of such things? Our country thrives due to a uniquely maintained balance. Crops have the correct amount of water and all have the proper ratio of sun.” He peered into the cage, watching the prisoners shift as the light stung their eyes. “There is a way we do things. A way we maintain a proper balance. Now. Speak up. Who is magicking this rain?”
They were silent—cowed with fear.
He dragged the lantern across the bars, making a rhythmic clanging as he paced the area, watching them. Silent, they watched him in turn with frightened eyes. “Fine,” he finally said. “The truth will out. I will know the culprit tomorrow and I will need no Test—nor further questions to find my answer. That is my magick,” he muttered as he disappeared once more into the carriage.
Chapter Ten
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of birdsong at morning and starshine at night.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Holgate
“And here we are,” Maude whispered, taking Meg’s hand. She reached up and knocked on the Maker’s door. “Tonight, and from now on, you will sleep in your papá’s chambers and be the proper daughter of the Maker.”
Meg looked up at her with wide and worshipful eyes.
Maude pulled something out of the pocket hidden in her skirts and held it before Meg, shaking the soft body of a stuffed doll. Meg’s eyes shot rounder and she grabbed the doll with both hands before squeezing it to her chest. Holding it straight out before her, she examined it with a cocked head. “Who … what is it?” she asked, looking at its long flopping ears and obvious arms and legs.
Maude bent down and gave it a little shake. “Well, what does it look like?”
Shiny horn buttons made its eyes and nose glint big and black. Its mouth was stitched into a permanent smile. But stitching also designated fingers and toes—five on each hand and foot.
“Like someone … and a bunny. Oh!” Meg gave a little hop. “Somebunny,” she dubbed it.
“Excellent well,” Maude said, taking it back for a moment. “Here,” she instructed, “give its hand a wee squeeze.”
Meg nodded and obeyed.
There was a whirring noise and its legs shuffled, its arms rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked walking. A voice forced through its frozen expression, fuzzily saying, “A place for all.”
Meg stared at it, her tiny rosebud of a mouth hanging agape. “It is lovely!”
“See, it has a clockwork within it,” Maude explained.
“Where is the key to wind it?” Meg asked, turning the doll around.
“There’s no key, silly bear,” Maude said with a giggle. “It’s powered by crystal.”
“Stormpowered? Like the automatons that guard the Council?”
“Well, not nearly so impressive as all that, but similar.”
“It is wonderful.”
“I got it for you through an amazing trader I know—”
“And just how well do you know this amazing trader?” Bran asked. The door stood open. Neither of the girls knew how long he’d stood there, watching and listening.
“Well enough to warrant a fair price on goods.”
“So he provides goods.” He gently picked up the toy to better view it. “And you—provide services?”
“Ha!” She laughed before remembering herself and straightening. She smoothed her skirts and tugged at her hair. “No. I most certainly do not.”
He nodded, watching her face the whole time. “It is a remarkable dolly.”
Maude cleared her throat and led Meg around her father and to the side room just off his sleeping chamber. It was not much to speak of, but not much was still plenty if you came from nothing. Maude had placed a small bed in it and a trunk for clothing. “Not far to go from bed to clothes,” she said with a smile. “And it is a large space for a tiny sprite.”
Meg climbed onto the bed, smiling, before her gaze returned to the doll Somebunny. “That’s my little lady.” Maude shuffled backward out of the doorway and looked at Bran. “Good Maker, sir, it is time for our evening ritual.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Dear little Miss Meggie is ready to slip into her evening clothes and be told a story.”
“Oh. Then do go right ahead.” He motioned her toward the child.
“No, sir. Well, not entirely no, but I am only going to change her and wash her face and hands and then the story is for you to tell.”
“I…” Bran looked from the one to the other of them.
Maude smiled. “Give us a few minutes?”
Bran nodded, moving as quickly away as he could, busying himself straightening the odds and ends scattered throughout his room.
In only a few minutes Maude called him back. Meg was seated on the edge of her bed in a linen chemise that served as a nightgown, her hair loose and glossy from being freshly brushed. Tiny hands were folded in her lap.
“Good sir Maker, please seat yourself on the bed’s edge and regale your daughter with a delightful tale.”