Yet.
Well. As it was only a matter of time before he died, he might as well make the most of his death by dying in the cause of rescuing Jordan. He had no other place to return to, no one else who might wish to see him now.
He was a most unwanted wanted man.
He looked at the bird, still merrily trilling away with no concern about his proximity. And the damned thing was right. He was no threat. Except to himself.
The bird let out a shriek and dove for the bushes as something larger rocketed through an opening in the canopy and landed right on the branch the little one had been seated on. The branch wobbled beneath its weight and Rowen looked up to see a hawk scanning the area around him.
He dragged out his sword and sketched in the dirt around him a moment before he thought better of it. He already needed a good whetstone to sharpen his blade; he’d best not dull it further.
He set down the sword and tugged off one of his boots, turning it upside down to empty it. A pebble bounced out of it. And a small stick. He needed his spatterdash gaiters to better protect his feet. He slipped his boot back on.
He needed his saddlebags. He needed his horse. He needed to be ready to get Jordan when they released her. He dragged himself back to his feet and the hawk took off.
He set out to find the horses and this time succeed with getting them back and on the way to Holgate.
Holgate
It was true that Jordan Astraea seemed to be an anomaly in the world of Weather Witches. No other Witch had held out as long as she had—no other Witch had continually insisted so vehemently that she was not what Bran knew her to be.
Perhaps he was losing his touch. Perhaps the appearance of his doe-eyed daughter had caused him to go soft. He shook his head and looked at the child once again seated not far from his feet. Yes, he was gentle around her, but was he too gentle at his job? Surely not.
So Bran found himself doing something he seldom did: he dusted off the dustiest of his books and began to do some more thorough research.
He traced all sides of her family tree, pored over each family members’ physical and mental descriptions. She was, as completely and truly as any child might be, the very definition of what should happen given the union of an Astraea and a Wallsingham. And if she was exactly as she should be … she should not be a Weather Witch. There were none in either of her family lines.
Witchery could be traced as clearly as the results of Darwin’s work aboard the HMS Beagle. It was very much like the split in the evolution of a species. There were clear connections. Lines connecting Witches like a spider’s web. Except in the case of Jordan Astraea. So much of her was directly from her father, from certain physical features to attitudes. Too much of her was him for Bran to dismiss her claims of innocence. And if she was his offspring, then there seemed no way she could be a Witch.
He sat back in his chair and scrubbed a hand across his face. No Weather Witches or magicking of any discernible type anywhere in her background and all signs pointing to her background being what she claimed.
He groaned and Meggie hopped up, asking, “Are you well, Papá?”
He smiled, assuring her that most indeed he was, though the truth of the matter was that the thought of doing what he did to Make Weather Witches—doing that to an innocent who was truly Grounded—his stomach clenched. The idea made him ill.
A siren sounded, blaring from the corners of the compound’s walls and making Meggie jump into his lap. “There, there, little princess,” he said, pressing his hands over her own smaller hands. “It simply means we have airships inbound.”
The noise stopped and Meggie twisted round in his lap to look him square in the face. “Can we see the airships, Pápa?”
He nodded. “Yes, yes, I think that’s a most excellent idea. We can watch them dock tomorrow before lunch, I expect.”
She clapped her little hands together and slipped off his lap. “That sounds wonderful!”
“Good. But now, let’s straighten things up and prepare for bed.”
Meggie returned the books to any shelves she could reach and patiently held out the ones she couldn’t reach for Bran to return himself. She straightened the papers on his desk and put things in their proper drawers and then waited for her father to say it was a job well done. Which he always did, even if he still fixed a few small things himself afterward. The library’s door closed behind them and they returned to their private chambers to find Maude already preparing for bed.
“You two are late,” Maude scolded, but it was a soft and joking tone she used. She grabbed Meggie and quickly helped her change, running the brush through her hair a dozen or more times so that her hair had a gloss that made it look remarkably like moonlight. Maude cleared her throat. “It is time for a bedtime tale,” she began.
“And this time, I shall be the tale-teller,” Bran said, stepping in.
Maude smiled and sat on the edge of the bed with Meggie, delighting in the story Bran told, which included a pantomime of dancing bears and assorted animal noises. At the story’s conclusion, both Maude and Meggie were laughing and clapping.
Bran took a bow.
Together the two adults tucked Meggie in and kissed her cheek and forehead.
It was then that Bran realized something was missing. “Where is your bed?” he asked Maude.
She wove her fingers together before her and looked out from beneath her eyelashes at him. “I did consider what Meggie had suggested regarding your far-too-large-for-one bed. And considering that I hear the snoring nightly all the way in here, I think I might somehow adjust to the noise being—a bit closer?”
Bran blinked at her. “Oh. Why, yes, of course.” He motioned to the bed and followed her, curious.
She closed the door between Meg’s room and Bran’s and turned off the remaining stormlight.
Bran stood there beside the bed and in the dark, both literally and figuratively. He heard the rustle of fabric and the sound of cloth hitting the floor. “If I asked you to leave here with me and Meggie, would you?”
The noise at his bedside ceased a moment. “What? Fly away with you on some airship on a grand adventure?” Her tone was hard to read and he wondered if she was mocking him.
But hearing another piece of clothing hit the floor he realized he didn’t care at the moment. She’d know he was serious soon enough. “Yes.”
“Then yes,” she replied. “I will go away with you, Bran Marshall. I will let you fly me straight to the heavens, if you like.”
She slipped beneath the covers.
As did he.
Maude rolled onto her side to face his side of the bed.
As he rolled onto his side to face hers.
They lay in the darkness together but apart until she stretched an arm out and rested her hand on his side. He snorted at the touch of her and she said, “Hush now. You stay on your side and I shall stay on mine.”
But neither of them obeyed the mandate and neither of them found reason to complain afterward, either.
En Route to Holgate
Rowen was so close to the horses he could hear the swish and slap of their tails on their hides as they defended themselves against the last flies of the season.
Ransom’s saddle had begun to slip to the side and Silver’s was obviously annoying him as he tried to rub it off against the nearest tree. Not wanting to startle them, Rowen began to sing a song, softly at first, but then he picked up volume until both of their ears pricked in his direction and then he stepped out and stretched his hand out before him as if he held a sweet. He had seen his father use a similar trick once before and remembered his words of advice: “Act as if you have something they want and they will be yours for the taking.”