Jordan threw her hands into the air. “I am Grounded! There must have been another Witch there.”
“He would have needed to be touching you or your dress or chain.”
“He or…” Jordan’s eyes widened and she turned slowly to the little girl still standing between them both. The little girl with big, soft eyes who wanted nothing more than for Jordan to go free and for her papá to be blameless—who wanted nothing more than for everyone to be happy. And the word tumbled out to damn and doom them all in far different ways. “… she.” And then Jordan felt it—a pain so sharp it had to be heartbreak.
Meggie gasped, hands flying up to clap over her mouth, her tiny heart-shaped face stretched and stunned. Her eyes went from Jordan to her papá and then to the board with its thick restraining belts and buckles and finally her gaze fell upon the array of her papá’s sharp tools that she cleaned daily—tools she never asked about, never dared to wonder aloud about what he used them for or why they always came to her sticky and covered with a red so dark it was brown …
He caught the child—his child—as she fell, weeping. The water nearly poured from her then, a deluge from her eyes and ten tiny rivulets running from her fingertips. Clouds moved in above her and liquid crept out of the very stones and crawled across the floor to pool at her feet and await her command.
“Oh. Oh no,” he whispered, “Meggie…”
“Papá,” she whispered, eyes wide as she stared at her fingertips and the liquid that leaked from them. “Papá … what is happening to me? I have no control…”
He shuddered but forced himself to take her tiny hands in his own. “You’re…”
“An aba—abom—abomination?” she asked, raising her eyes to ensnare his before they darted away to hide under trembling and thick eyelashes.
He dropped her hands to place a finger under her quivering chin and tip it up, again raising her eyes to his. “No. No, darling girl,” he said, fighting the tears stinging at his eyes. “You are still my bright and pretty daisy, Meggie—my dear little dove…”
Jordan fell to her knees then, her stomach rioting as realization struck. This sweet child, this tiny innocent had been damned by her own doing … Jordan bent, her broken heart racing, her stomach rebelling as she imagined every cruel thing that had been done to her being done to a child, by her father. She vomited until nothing remained in her stomach and her body shook with dry heaves, her head aching as everything came into awful focus and the pain of all the torture, and the torture of all the exhaustion of the uncertainty, took over, wrapped round her like the whip from before, and tugged her into the darkest place her mind had ever been.
Above them the cloud cover tripled, pulling in like a shroud to cover Jordan and protect its Conductor. Lightning danced from one black and roiling mass of clouds and reached out to embrace another.
The Maker gasped, cradling his child in his arms and trying to wipe away the tears that flowed from her and seemed to be never-ending. “You cannot,” he said to Jordan. “You are—”
“No,” she insisted, seeing what he saw high above. “No. I am Grounded,” she whimpered before collapsing.
He watched one set of clouds, Jordan’s clouds, whisk away to nothing and he simply knelt with Meggie, rocking back and forth as he stroked her face and said the only soothing words he knew. “It will be all right,” he promised again and again like a mantra. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.
Jordan Astraea could not be a Witch. It was a scientific impossibility based on her heritage and Bran’s knowledge. Impossible. And yet, the storm had come when she realized Meggie was a Weather Witch … If Jordan Astraea had, against all scientific reason, been Made a Weather Witch out of sorrow …
His work, his proud tradition, the idea that the little dove quivering in his grasp would not be discovered and that only those of a certain taint in their bloodline could be Made … He shook as hard as Meggie then, knowing the truth of it. That anyone—if taken far enough into the darkness—could be turned and Made.
And if anyone could be a Witch …
Then all of society’s structure was at risk. The New World would not be saved through his effort, but ruined. And that was how Bran Marshall would forever be remembered.
Unless he could regain control. Somehow.
The airship was the easiest solution to most of his problems and Bran called down to the kitchens for Maude, wiped the last of the tears and mucus from Meggie’s face, and set her in Maude’s welcoming arms with the instruction, “Take her, pack two days’ clothes and meet me with the bags in the library. I will not be long—I just need to clean up a bit of a mess.”
Maude only nodded. Carefully she began the descent down the stairs and Bran waited until he could only see a bit of her before he closed the door and made his next call.
It was not long before the Wardens emerged from the doorway to lift the dead weight of the unconscious Astraea girl and carry her downstairs, across the street, and up the steps of the Western Tower, Bran following behind and watching her the whole time. She only began to rouse when they reached the top landing and stood by the broad doorway that led onto the balcony and to the ship beyond.
So close, they could hear the great airship groan as it shifted and pulled against its cables. It flexed within its own odd netted exoskeleton, the ribbed and articulated sail-like wings stitched in Fell’s Point tucked up along the basket manufactured in Boston’s glass- and metal-crafting shops and outfitted with Philadelphia’s finest lumber. Bran paused on the balcony, wondering just where inside the airship’s gut the Conductor completed training. He spent less time wondering how.
The captain stepped out, dressed in a fine woolen suit adorned with big brass buttons that were as polished as his glistening black boots. “Welcome, Maker, to the Artemesia,” he said, extending his hand for a friendly shake. “Is this the new Conductor?” he asked, his eyes wary.
“Yes,” Bran assured. “She is quite capable and freshly Made—full of vim and vigor.”
“Better than being full of piss and vinegar,” the captain joked. Touching Jordan’s cheek, he turned her face back and forth, examining her. “She looks as if she has yet to receive Lightning’s Kiss.”
“True enough, but I do not doubt it will come.”
“Are you sure she is quite ready? She looks a bit out of sorts…”
“Her breakfast disagreed with her. And she was so suddenly ill it is possible her memory of the morning’s events may even be tainted. If she says strange things, just disregard them. She will train up quite nicely. Of that I am certain.”
“Excellent well,” the captain said. “As long as she’s not who the newest rabble-rousers predict is coming like a storm to change our pleasant way of life, I’ll take her. Take her aboard,” he commanded the Wardens. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Maker.”
“It is my pleasure to serve such fine individuals as yourself,” he returned. Bran stayed and watched as the captain turned back to his ship and Jordan was carried out of the dim tower and onto the edge of the balcony.
The light hit her dress and dazzled everyone, the sun sparkling across every stitch of fabric. In a dress like that it was no surprise she always got quite a bit of attention.
Rowen, Silver, and Ransom burst forth underneath the open portcullis, flying past the watchmen, and came to a stop only when the dazzling sight of Jordan’s dress showed up in the edge of Rowen’s vision. The horse’s hooves sparked on the cobblestones and Silver slid into a watchman as Rowen stared, transfixed for a moment. They were loading her onto an airship and—his gaze tracked the only imaginable path to her—across the square and up …