Save yourself.
“Bethina,” I said. “Did my father or Conrad ever mention anything about a book? A specific book, or perhaps a ledger?” I swallowed a lump “The … a … ‘witch’s alphabet’?”
Dean’s head came up, as if he wanted to interject, but he kept quiet.
Bethina frowned. “No, miss. I never heard them mention no witches. They seemed upright men, the both.”
The fire sighed in the draft, and that was the end of Bethina’s story.
While Cal escorted Bethina to her garret, Dean walked me back to the room where I’d recovered from the shoggoth bite. He shivered outside my door, and I didn’t think it was entirely from the winter air against his bare arms.
“Are you all right, Dean?” I hoped the question wouldn’t wound his pride too much.
Dean’s mouth quirked down. “I suppose, but I gotta say it—this is Weirdsville, kid. Your old man’s a spooky cat.”
Privately, I was beginning to agree with Dean. Aloud I said, “I expect you want to get back to Lovecraft and the Rustworks. Your life.” I reached for the roll of bills I’d secreted in the top of my stocking. “How much do I owe you for being our guide?”
Dean sucked his teeth. “This job’s a complicated bargain, true enough. More to it than blood or money.”
“What else is there?” I rolled my stocking back over my thigh and watched Dean’s fingers curl as they followed the movement.
“You’re a pistol, Miss Aoife. You sure you don’t belong with us down in the Rustworks instead of at that stuffy School?”
“Oh, keep your remarks to yourself,” I said, but only half cross. He returned my small smile.
“I figure that I brought heat on myself during that little airship adventure. Proctors might have my mug now, maybe even my name. Maybe I need some country air, until things cool off and I don’t end up down Catacombs way.” He shrugged. “Figured you might need a few more dragons slain before we settle up, princess.”
“There are no dragons,” I said, although a part of me felt immense relief that he wasn’t leaving yet. “And no princesses.”
Dean rolled his pack of Luckies free of his sleeve and tapped one out. “Not in this dusty old pile of bones, that’s for sure. But there’s you and there’s me, Miss Aoife. I’m calling that good enough.”
He tucked a strand of wild hair behind my ear with his long fingers. Dean Harrison smelled of cigarettes and embers, and I breathed him in like he was all the air there was. No, Dean couldn’t leave yet. I’d never had this reaction to anyone in my life. He couldn’t go. I was beginning to realize I needed him.
“Aoife.” Cal appeared from the direction of the landing. “Is he bothering you?”
I took a large, guilty step in one direction and Dean backpedaled in another.
“Not in the least. We were discussing his fee,” I said. My heartbeat was louder than thunder at the thought Cal might have been standing there for longer than a few seconds. “For being the guide.”
“Well, I sure hope it wasn’t for his wit and charm,” Cal said. “Listen, I’m going to sack out and you should, too. We need an early start if we’re going to make the city tomorrow.”
I felt my mouth take on its stubborn set, which usually heralded a detention or an extra essay on something like etiquette. “I’m not going back, Cal. Conrad needs me.”
“Aoife …,” he sighed. “We’ve decided this.”
“No.” I jabbed my finger at Cal. “You decided. My brother is kidnapped, and I’m going to help him. If you don’t want to help save your friend, then by all means, go beg the Proctors to forgive you.”
Dean touched the back of my hand, light as a kiss. “I’m out of this conversation. Sweet dreams, kids.”
“Please, Cal,” I said after Dean disappeared into another bedchamber. “Just sleep on it. If you still want to leave in the morning, then go, but I’ve made up my mind.” I reached for him, but he backed away. “I could use my best friend,” I whispered.
“Aoife, you’re not being rational,” Cal said. “Conrad’s gone Builder knows where. You need to go home before your whole future is slag, and mine too. If you cared you’d listen to me.”
“Why?” I demanded. I’d been holding my tongue all day, playing at politeness, and my frustration boiled over like a crucible left too long on a burner. “Because you’re the boy and so I must be hysterical to disagree with you? Because I’m going mad? Or”—I drew close to Cal, realizing for the first time how tall he’d become in the summer between last year and this one—“is it because you’re scared?” I demanded. “That’s it, isn’t it—you’re scared that we might find Conrad and he really will be everything they say he is in Lovecraft. That the perfect, clever Cal Daulton made a mistake in befriending him.”
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.
13
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.