Strange and Ever After (5 page)

I turned and dragged my feet to the door . . . then into the hall. And as I returned to my cabin, Oliver’s words shrieked in my mind, over and over again.

You will push everyone away. Just like he did, you will lose us all.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I was shaking by the time I reached my cabin. I had
lost my hard-earned balance, and though I squeezed the ivory fist in a death grip, it did not soothe me.

I didn’t
want
to push everyone away. I wanted to be alone, yes, but not forever.
It isn’t your fault,
I told myself.
It is Oliver who pushes your friends away.
Yet Joseph was still my friend—and Daniel had regained his regard for me once more.

Shoving the fist into my pocket, I marched from my room to the pilothouse. I would
prove
this was Oliver’s doing and not my own.

But I paused in the pilothouse doorway, blinded by the onslaught of light and squinting as I waited for my eyes to adjust. Daniel stood at the steering wheel, its multiple spokes reaching
up to his chest. At his right were two brass handles, waist high and fastened to some unseen mechanism below the floor. At his left were two more levers, and as my vision finally cleared, I watched him shift both levers forward and then spin the steering wheel sharply right.

The balloon swayed slightly and then shifted its course, heading south . . . and revealing the dark-blue waters of the Mediterranean.

For half a breath I simply stared—finally feeling a sense of wonder twine through me. I was seeing the Mediterranean. From above. I was
flying
.

“For every beauty,” I murmured beneath my breath, “there
is
an eye somewhere to see it.”

Daniel stiffened . . . and then turned very slowly toward me.
Clack, clack, clack
. He extended a worn, dented spyglass. Then
thwump!
He snapped it shut. “How are you?” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in hours.

“All right,” I lied. He nodded, but I could tell from the flick of his eyebrows that he didn’t believe me.

I moved fully into the room and craned my neck to examine the view outside. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Such blue waters and craggy cliffs. A few scrubby plants eked out an existence in the dry landscape, and though there were still farms, the patches of green were localized and small. Most of this Provençal world was one of dusty hills, dustier roads, and bleached-out houses—and no wonder, with such a hot, bright sun.

And it was doubly hot and bright in the pilothouse thanks to all the windows. A sheen of sweat covered Daniel’s forehead.

I shifted my gaze to the back of the room, to where charts and maps covered two low tables. Above, hanging on hooks, were white satchels with leather straps.

“What are those?” I asked, pointing at the packs.

Daniel made an apologetic smile. “It’s a bit late now—I should’ve told you about ’em before we left Paris, but then . . . you know. . . .” He trailed off, clearly wishing to avoid mention of Mama’s death.

That was fine by me. “What are they then?”

“Parachutes.” At my blank look, he explained, “They’re for safety. If for some reason we have to hightail it from the ship but we’re still in the air, then you put one of those on your back. When you yank that piece of fabric beside the strap”—he motioned to a dangling flap of canvas—“a parachute will come flyin’ out. It’ll fill with air and stop your fall.”

“Oh.” My forehead creased as I tried to imagine how a piece of fabric could possibly fight gravity.

“Like I said,” Daniel added, “it’s a bit late to tell you since we’ll reach Marseille in a few minutes.” He turned back to the wheel, fidgeting with the spyglass. Then messing with a chain around his neck—a monocle.

Anger tickled down my spine at the sight of it. “Why do you keep that, Daniel?” It was one of many opulent gifts from Madame Marineaux and the Marquis. They had heaped us with new gowns and suits and jewelry, and they’d distracted us from
les Morts
with parties and meetings and meals.

And it had all been a part of Marcus’s carefully laid plans to get information on the Black Pullet. Once we had realized that the Marquis was none other than Marcus’s uncle—when Joseph had seen a portrait of the Marquis’s sister and recognized her as Marcus’s mother—it had been too late to stop what was already in motion. Jie was gone; the Marquis was dead.

Daniel glanced at the monocle as if surprised. “I keep it because it’s useful. It lets me see all the small details on my work.”

“But it was from Madame Marineaux.”

“So is that shirt you’re wearing.” He frowned and flicked a finger at his thigh. “These pants are too. Besides, have
you
ever tried to turn a screw the size of a pinhead?”

I gave a soft “hmmm.” He had a point. . . .

Clack, clack, clack.
He was back to messing with the spyglass.

“Daniel.” I scooted closer to him.

His shoulders rose; his fidgeting quickened.

I moved even closer until Daniel’s fingers—and the spyglass—froze.

“Are you angry with me?” I asked quietly. “For earlier? With . . . Oliver?”

“No.” He closed the spyglass. “I’m just confused, I reckon. One minute you’re hard as nails and don’t need help from anyone. Then the next you’re . . .” He blushed. “Well, the next minute you’re
soft
.” His voice almost cracked on that word. “And it’s only then that you seem to want me around.”

“Soft?” I repeated in a squeaky tone. His blush brightened, and I could only assume he referred to our kiss from the night before. I had initiated it; he had responded—perhaps too much. We had fallen so deeply into the taste and feel of each other that we’d lost sight of the real world.

“Daniel,” I started, just as he said, “Empress.”

Our mouths clamped shut, and we stared at each other. “Y-you first,” I finally said.

“Are you . . .” He coughed lightly and pushed the spyglass into his pocket. “Don’t get mad, all right? But I gotta ask this.” His breath huffed out, and then he blurted, “Are you in love with him?”

I cocked my head, not understanding the question. “In love with whom?”

“Oliver.”

I reared back. “Why would you ask that? Or even think that?”

“It’s just. . . . That is. . . .” He moaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re so close to him.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” he insisted. But then he shook his head. “Well, maybe I am. I lost someone that way—to another man. So I want to know
now
if anyone’s out there with designs on your heart. I can’t handle all this back-and-forth between us, so I’d like a solid idea of where I stand.” He nodded as if satisfied with this declaration.

But I was not satisfied. In fact, my breath seemed to trap
itself in my lungs as the meaning of his words slithered through my brain.

And as three months of hurt came rising to the surface.

“A solid idea?” My voice trembled. “You have no
right
to ask that of me, Daniel! Nor do you deserve any declaration of feelings from me. Not after you left me in Philadelphia. I asked you for the same thing—do you recall? I wanted to know where I stood, and you crushed me. So pray tell, why should
I
make any promises to you now?”

His lips screwed shut, and he surprised me by lowering his gaze to his feet. “I thought I was doing what was best for you in Philadelphia. I thought you ought to find someone who your ma would like—who could make you happy. And keep you comfortable.”

“And of course I had no say in the matter.” I folded my arms over my chest and stared out the window. We were almost to the coastline now, and a series of jagged hills rose up and up to the east.

“I really did mean well.” Daniel’s voice was low and urgent. But I did not look his way, so he returned his hands to the wheel and shifted his own focus to the horizon.

“Mean well,” I repeated to myself. Then louder, “And in Paris, when you screamed at me about my new hand—did you mean well then? Or in the lab, when you suggested that I
hurt
myself on the crystal clamp. Did you
mean well
then?”

His knuckles went white as he squeezed the wheel. “I know I don’t always handle things right. I ain’t . . . I mean, I
am not
polished. My temper always causes more trouble than I mean to. I’m
just . . .” His eyes flicked to me then back ahead. “I’m protective of the people I care about.
Too
protective. When I saw your new hand and your demon, my vision went red . . . and I didn’t think before I spoke.” Twisting the wheel left, he eased back one of the levers . . . and the balloon twisted sharply east.

We had reached the water now, and the steep hillsides alongside the sea were lined with green vineyards and olive groves. It was peaceful and beautiful—and
nothing
like what warred in my heart.

I wanted to forgive Daniel for leaving me in Philadelphia. Love was about forgiveness, right? Yet I could not seem to forget how much he had
hurt
me.

After shoving the second lever in place, Daniel turned to me. “I’m sorry, Eleanor Fitt. Really. Truly. I’m sorry if I hurt you when I left Philadelphia. Or when I yelled at you in Paris. It ain’t . . .” He ground his teeth. “I mean,
it is not
easy to change. But I’m trying, Eleanor. I
swear
I am.”

I could not breathe. I could not move. I could not speak. He was offering an apology. A genuine apology that I so desperately wanted to accept. I would
not
push Daniel away as Oliver wanted.

Daniel seemed to understand my thoughts, for he took a long, hesitant step toward me. Then another, to fully close the space between us. “I am so sorry,” he said softly. His fingers came up to twine a lock of my hair. “Once we stop Marcus and get Jie back . . . well, then you can break this thing you have with Oliver, and it can be just us.”

It’s not so simple,
I thought. Oliver was bound to me until I
learned the magic to set him free, and I prayed that Daniel would push the subject no further.

But he was Daniel, and he had no idea when enough was enough.

“And then Joseph says, with the proper trainin’, we can fix your magic too.”

Ice shivered through my body. My hair pricked up. “Fix my magic.”

“Mm-hmmm. Joseph says—”

“But what if I don’t want to?” I pulled free from Daniel. “I realize you follow Joseph blindly, but—”

“It ain’t blind, Empress. He knows best, so I take his lead.”

“But
does
he know best?” I gestured between Daniel and me. “Joseph knows nothing about what we feel, and he knows
nothing
of my magic. I do not need fixing, Daniel. This is who I am now. Magic is a part of me—a part of my very soul—and I wish you and Joseph could accept that.”

Daniel reached for me, his eyes wide and lips parted . . . but the hole in my chest was back. It was bigger and meaner than before—and it was so,
so
cold. As I staggered around and marched for the door, tears burned my eyes. Stinging, ridiculous tears that I did not want to cry any more than I wanted to hear Daniel’s inevitable apology.

Perhaps Oliver was right: perhaps I
did
push my friends away—but it was not only me. They pushed back. From all directions, everyone wanted something from me. Oliver wanted his freedom, Allison wanted companionship, and Daniel wanted
my heart. Joseph was the only person on this ship who seemed to understand that all that mattered right now was Jie and Marcus.

But even Joseph wanted me to stay away from necromancy—even Joseph made stupid demands regarding friendship and power that I could not meet.

I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes as I stumbled into my cabin. The only thing I had that I could still rely on was my magic. It had gotten me to the spirit realm and back, hadn’t it? It had helped me destroy Madame Marineaux and save Daniel and Joseph. My magic had stopped the Dead in Philadelphia as well as in Paris, and it would stop the Dead again.

Lose you all in the end?
I thought miserably, stopping before my porthole. Yes, perhaps I would, and perhaps it was precisely what Oliver wanted. But at least with no one telling me what to do, I would be left with the lone person who could kill Marcus and get this job done.

Me.

When the airship crested the final hill to Marseille, my thoughts were in another world—one in which Marcus was before me and my revenge finally had its outlet.

It was then, just as I reached for the ivory fist, that all of Marseille appeared. My hand jerked from my pocket, and I pressed my face against the porthole. Crowded with white-faced buildings and red roofs, Marseille rose up and outward like a bowl. It sat right on the Mediterranean’s edge, hugging a long harbor on all sides—and then the Gulf of Lion beyond.

Steamers and sailing boats dotted the waters, and the closer we puttered, the more clearly I could make out the huge merchant vessels and the more picturesque fishing boats. After the empty expanse of the Provençal desert, Marseille was a flourishing, vibrant place.