The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance (11 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Annmar stared at
the fellow who moments ago had been a…cat? Daeryn’s eyes flicked open and met her gaze. His jaw tightened in determination.

“Girl?”

Her gaze shot to Rivley’s ashen face. He sucked a breath and swallowed. “Run. Ring the bell. Tell them to get Miriam
and
the town surgeon. Quick.”

Annmar spun and ran from the workshop. The dark closed around her. The only light visible was a faint yellow pool under the back door porch. She slowed when the sharp stones bit into her feet. Above the pounding of her heart came the barking of dogs far away…and yelling…
screaming
.

Oh, Lord in the heavens above
.

She stumbled to a stop, glancing back over her shoulder to the safety of the workshop. Light poured from its big doorway, where the boys…
strange
boys… But nice. Not as scary as anything out—

Annmar shook herself.
Daeryn won’t get help if I stand here like a ninny.

Ring the bell, Rivley said. She would do this.

She ran, her nightdress wildly flapping. In seconds she reached the light. Her fingers found the rough bell rope. She pulled, and the bell was clanging, clanging, clanging…

Shouts came from the loft of the bunkhouse behind her. But where was Mistress Gere?
Dash it all
. Annmar grasped the latch and shoved the door open. “Help! Daeryn needs help,” she shouted into the hall. Then she startled backward upon seeing a figure running down the stairs.

It was Mistress Gere, in her nightdress. “What has happened?” She spared Annmar just a glance before bending to grab a boot from the pile under the coat pegs.

Annmar stepped inside. “Daeryn is”—what was he?—“bloody with bites. Rivley said get Miriam and the surgeon.”

“Miriam!” shouted Mistress Gere.

“I heard,” said a woman from the floor above. “A minute to collect my supplies.”

Shouts came from closer outside, footsteps running.

Both feet clad in boots, Mistress Gere straightened and pulled a cloak off a peg. “Where is he?”

“The mechanic’s workshop. And others are hurt, he said.”

Mistress Gere gave a curt nod. “Wait to direct Miriam, please.” She strode out the door as several tall men ran up. She gave them directions—going for the surgeon, finding the others who were injured—then she left, her footfalls across the flags replaced by others on the floor above.

Annmar looked at the line of boots, the many robes piled onto the pegs. Why not? She shoved her feet into boots too large for her and donned a robe to cover her nightdress, tying the sash as a thin woman in a robe herself trotted down the stairs. “Miriam?” she said. “I’m Annmar. What can I carry?”

The lady’s pale eyes—possibly gray?—lit on Annmar as she descended the last step. They were the same height, but the healer was middle-aged and looked far stronger. Her body seemed all angles, from her long nose and pointed chin, to elbows poking at her red robe sleeves and the protruding tendons on her hands gripping a basket handle. Yet her gaze, which only briefly held Annmar’s, conveyed gentleness. She handed Annmar the basket and bent to step into another pair of boots. “Thank you.”

“Do you have a stretcher?” Annmar asked.

The woman blinked at her in surprise. “It’s that bad?”

“Horrible. Rivley asked for the surgeon, and Mistress Gere has already sent men for him.”

The woman shook her head, swaying her brown braid, but pointed to the door. “Catch someone.”

Annmar darted outside. A number of people with lanterns were crossing from the bunkhouse’s middle, so it was nothing to hail two and bring them back to the farmhouse. At the door, Miriam had the stretcher. She handed it over and said, “Let’s go.”

The crowd in the workshop parted, though several people kept their hands pressed to the blood-soaked throw still covering Daeryn. Miriam took her basket, squatted and lifted a corner. She blotted a wound with fresh bandaging and peered at the ragged flesh. With a shake of her head, she dropped the cloth and replaced Rivley’s hand on Daeryn’s shoulder. “Keep pressing. This is the worst? He arrived under his own power?” When Rivley nodded to each question, she waved to the stretcher carriers. “Move him to the sickroom, please.”

Along with the others, Annmar stepped aside to give room. Whispered conversation surrounded her. Some worried for Daeryn, or the other injured guards a wagon had been sent to bring in. Others debated what kind of dark pest roamed the farm fields. Farmhands circled the farmyard now, carrying sticks, ready to beat them off.

A shiver ran down Annmar’s spine. She’d run through the dark, alone. But listening to these workers sharing the same fears set her mind at ease as much as the promise of protection. She wasn’t so different. Like half of them, she was dressed in nightclothes and trying to help, as any normal human being would. Daeryn’s body, though cut and bleeding, stayed a human figure when four of the men lifted him to the stretcher under Miriam’s direction. The men carried Daeryn out of the workshop. Miriam picked up the basket of supplies and, finding Annmar, gave a wave of thanks before she followed them.

Annmar wanted to go with her, to see what else might happen, but as several of the others were now saying, they’d only be in the way. “Likely as not to cause more trouble by being bit ourselves,” one woman said.

So when they said good-bye and walked down the bunkhouse’s hallway—clear of storage and dirt—Annmar turned to her own circular stairway. She stood at her room’s window and watched the lanterns coming and going across the farmyard. A livery wagon arrived, then the farm wagon, and after that there was nothing to see. With a sigh, she pulled off the borrowed boots and crawled between her flannel sheets for the second time.

Lying in the dark, she committed each detail of Daeryn’s furry body to memory. Had he really changed, or was that another vision?

* * *

Daeryn tried to
turn over. Stabs of pain shot through his shoulder, his foot and a dozen other places in between. He stopped, body rigid, but the throbbing hurt melded into one pounding— “
Damn
,” he gasped.

“Take it easy there,” Rivley said.

Daeryn blinked his watering eyes open. Sickroom. The night’s attack, every nasty tooth and claw of it, came back. “Hell,” he muttered. “Can you find me some willow twigs?”

Rivley snorted. “Miriam skipped that and poured one of her more serious remedies down you. You don’t remember?”

He didn’t want to remember. “Hardly. I suppose if she said it’d stop the pain, I took it.”

“Nothing else to do. Be back in a minute. Stay there.” Rivley left.

Ha. Like he could manage…anything. Daeryn closed his eyes. Somewhere distant, voices murmured. It was morning…mealtime. Closer, a fire crackled. They’d lit a fire? It warmed the room…nice…if only he didn’t hurt so much. He moved just the arm that hurt less.

How could he lead the team like this? Not able to run, or even be in the fields to watch and ensure the others stayed on task. Dash it, he didn’t even know who could still hunt.

How? How…how… The question bounded around his head, echoing with each throb of his foot. He had to get up. Otherwise how-
how-ow-ow
— “
Ow!
”

“What are you doing?” Rivley grabbed his arm, and Daeryn’s body seized in pain. Rivley maintained his hold long enough to shove another pillow behind him, then eased him back.

Daeryn collapsed into it, squeezing his eyes shut against the fiery stings.

“Eh, you needed to sit up anyway. Here.” Rivley handed him a fork and a bowl of scrambled eggs. “Eat. Miriam says you need food in your stomach first.”

Steadying the bowl hurt. Lifting the fork hurt. But once he ate he could lie down again. Damn, one night as lead and
poof
. Done. Jac would be thrilled. There went proving himself. Rivley would be—Daeryn glanced at him, folding a blanket next to a wing chair and footstool. Riv had been here all night. Ah, he was a friend no matter what, and didn’t need proof of Daeryn’s abilities. A burst of gratitude flooded Daeryn. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“Sure.” Rivley put the blanket away in the wardrobe where Miriam kept other sickroom supplies. A knock came at the door. “Thank the Creator,” Daeryn muttered. “Think she has something to let me sleep off the pain?” But it wasn’t Miriam.

“Can I have a word with him?” Jac asked Rivley when he opened the door.

The avian glanced around, blocking Jac’s view to the bed.

Daeryn briefly closed his eyes. Here it came, Jac pushing to take the team lead. No point in avoiding it. He nodded.

“As long as it’s a civil one.” Rivley swung the door open.

Jac brushed by him, a scratch on her cheek and another—deeper and swollen—extending from her rolled shirtsleeve along her forearm. “Believe me, I’m feeling nothing but grateful. Zar and I might be the only nocturnal guards left, but I’d rather be hunting than down like Maraquin, Terrent and…you look like hell.”

Daeryn shrugged one shoulder—the wrong one. He fought down a grimace. Behind Jac, Rivley shook his head and stepped into the hall, closing the door.

“Anyway,” Jac continued while coming to stand at the end of his bedstead, “Miz Gere is trying to find us some help. She sent me to talk to you.”

He’d guessed right. With his foot and shoulder like this, he wouldn’t be running for days…er, maybe a week. By then Jac would consider the position hers. This stunk, but it was Miz Gere’s choice. If he wanted to stay good with her… “You’re taking over the lead. Probably a—”

“Don’t think I didn’t suggest that,” Jac snapped, “but Miz Gere said it’s up to you to decide what you want to do.”

Jac was kidding. No, from the twist of her lips, she wasn’t. He got to decide? Daeryn bought some time spearing the remaining egg bits. He had a chance to keep the lead—if he could think how. Already, it was different than how he’d run the pack back home. He’d talked things out with Jac yesterday, and it’d worked. Daeryn scanned his bandaged shoulder and the salve-smeared cuts crisscrossing his arms and chest. Talking to her was all he had.

He looked up at Jac. “With over half the team out, what is there to do?”

Her eyes narrowed, studying him. Maybe looking like hell paid off, because after a moment she shrugged. “Pick someone to train whatever temporary hires Miz Gere is able to find today.”

Oh? His surprise must have shown, because Jac smirked.

“Yessiree. Dumb idea to bring on anyone new. That’s what I thought.”

Daeryn clenched his one good fist. No, they needed help, but Jac was too proud to admit it. Fine, he’d hang on to the lead. If his foggy head managed not to botch this conversation with Jac. “They’ll need showing around. Direction in how we rotate and where to meet.”

Jac shook her head. “Who’s gonna be up to handling what we dealt with last night? Look at the three of you. Experienced hunters. Agile. I told Miz Gere anyone she hired had to be fierce. Wolves or better.”

That attitude was the heart of why Jac grated on everyone’s nerves. Yet, this time she’d slipped up. Tired, he bet. “Or better? Are you saying there are ’cambires better than wolves?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know what I mean. She won’t find anyone good enough.”

Daeryn grinned, then winced as one side of his face complained. “Say she does find someone, and listens to your recommendation. We both know Zar won’t keep anyone tough in line. He’s not the pushy sort. You are.” Ouch, that didn’t sound complimentary. He rushed on. “Will you do it, Jac?”

She crossed her arms. “Only because I’ll suffer if I don’t. Suffer more, that is.” She turned to the door and reached for the knob.

“Wait,” he called. “What happened after Terrent, Maraquin and I were brought in?”

“Zar and I spent the rest of the night darting anywhere we heard them, then trying to avoid getting mauled while chasing them off. Miz Gere ordered us not to get torn up, just figure out what they are.”

“Did you?”

Jac favored him with one of her most exaggerated snorts. “We saved our skins. ‘
The better part of valor is discretion’ and all that. It’s a dumb idea. By the time we identify them, Wellspring will be overrun. I told her that and my theory that this pest isn’t from the Basin. She said she’d get help.” Jac flung open the door.
“Consider this your morning communication.” She stalked out.

Daeryn sank into his pillows and allowed himself a small groan. Morning communication? Right. He’d had to pull the news out of her. Even as mad as Jac was about the whole lead thing, they had an arrangement. But how long could he keep the lead? Relying on Jac to listen to him when she didn’t agree would become trickier the longer he stayed down. Yet until he was back on his feet, talking was his only plan.

chapter fourteen

Sunlight streamed through
the window of Annmar’s golden room. She closed her eyes to it and rolled over. The images from her restless night rose again:
Blood. Copper skin crossed with yawning gouges. A blur of naked form and furry paws.

Daeryn.

She’d seen something happen, but what? Which parts were real? Which visions? How could she determine if this was her Knack at work?

Annmar needed answers. Artistic Knacks couldn’t be common, otherwise Mistress Gere wouldn’t have sent for Mother, nor told Annmar they hadn’t seen a talent like hers since Mother left. Too bad she’d never persuaded Mother to give her information about her family. When Mother fell ill, Annmar had pressed her again and again to tell her someone she could go to if circumstances worsened. “Don’t look for them, duck,” Mother said. “Either family will only bring you sorrow, and I don’t wish that upon you.” And because she knew what was in Annmar’s heart, Mother added. “The name we use—Masterson—is made up.”

Was that last part true, or only meant to discourage her? Annmar might never have the answers to questions she’d been asking all her life: What had kept her parents apart? Why did her mother leave? What had happened to her father?

But right now she didn’t need
those
answers.

Tangled thoughts hammered at her, but so did the throbbing of the bottoms of her feet. She threw back the covers. Dirt coated her tender soles. The borrowed boots lay tumbled at her chair. This morning a memory was clearer: Before she had run for help, Rivley said to Daeryn, “Don’t change.”
Because he also saw his change
. The animal wasn’t her imagination. Rivley had seen it. She’d seen it…and more. At the thought of what she
had
seen of Daeryn, heat flooded her torso, leaving a funny twist low in—

She scooted to the bathing room’s pedestal sink. A flip of the handle brought splashes of cold water for her face.

His face, focus on his face. His shoulder. Clawed and bitten. He’d looked awful. Would Daeryn still be in the sickroom? Or would he have been transferred to the town sick ward, if they even had one? Perhaps Mrs. Betsy had news.

Annmar dressed in her shop clothes and her sturdiest everyday shoes to protect her feet. She slipped on her canvas work apron with its large pockets and dropped in a few pencils, a kneaded eraser and her sketchbook. At the bottom of her stairs, she hesitated. Unlike when she crossed the workshop for dinner yesterday, this morning the room bustled—with birds.

Swallows flew in and out. With much twittering and waving of wings, they landed in their mud nests along the sides of the ceiling beams then, after doing who knew what, randomly threw themselves into the air again. Some darted outside. Others circled.

Dozens of birds. Everywhere.

Annmar fingered her sketchbook. She’d run through here last night with no thought of the birds attacking again. And now, less than a day later, a few little birds seemed nothing compared to what she’d seen.

Gripping a boot in each hand in case she needed weapons, Annmar raised her chin and strode forward. The swallows veered around her, accepting her presence before flying off overhead. She still had to pick her way over rough ground, but Annmar arrived at the back door smiling. She returned the boots to the pile and the robe to the pegs. Then, doing as she’d been instructed, she headed back out to present herself to Mrs. Betsy in the kitchen.

Her stomach growled. It was late, later than she should expect breakfast. She entered a screened, postage-stamp landing crowded with crates of vegetables. The inner door flew open and Mary Clare stuck her head out. “About time.” She gestured enthusiastically. “Get in here and give us your account of last night’s alarm.”

Late, on her first day, no less. Surely last night’s disruption would serve as an excuse.

Ahead of her, Mary Clare darted to the sink, grabbed up a bowl with a dishcloth inside and vigorously scrubbed. Mrs. Betsy turned from the counter with a measuring cup in hand and smiled. “Good morning. Will it be tea or coffee, duck?”

“Tea, please. I’m sorry to be coming around so late.”

“Are you kidding?” Mary Clare said over her shoulder as she plopped the dish in the rinse water and took up another. “We’ve been serving scattered breakfasts all morning. A third of the workers didn’t go back to bed until dawn. You were there. Rivley told me when he came for breakfast.”

“Only to ring the alarm and help Miriam. Others knew better what to do, so I went back to bed. More guards were hurt, I heard.”

“The vermin tore up Terrent’s leg pretty bad when he tried escaping up a tree.” Mary Clare swept her arms wide and flung drops of water on Annmar.

“Careful now,” Mrs. Betsy said. “We don’t want to drown the girl. Here’s your tea, duck. Have a seat next to the stove until I have your breakfast up. Eggs for you?”

“Yes, please.” Annmar sat in the armless rocker beside the woodstove, its gentle heat soothing her as much as Mrs. Betsy’s familiar endearment.

Mary Clare put her hands back in the dishwater, but talked over her shoulder. “When Daeryn arrived, he fought them, and they
both
ended up falling.”

Annmar wanted to ask if all happened as she was imagining, with people as animals fighting off other vicious animals. But she couldn’t draw attention to herself with such a question, especially if what she thought wasn’t so. They’d think her a lunatic. “From the tree?”

“From the tree. Into more of the pests,” she said with a nod, her eyes wide. “By then, both were standing three-legged.”

Three-legged. That meant animals. Annmar put a hand to her head. It hadn’t been her imagination.

“Maraquin and Jac raced in just in time to scatter the vermin,” Mary Clare said, “
after
they’d fought a couple more in another field. Maraquin’s bigger than Dae when she’s on the paw…what? Forty times his size? But she couldn’t throw it off. The creature didn’t tear into her like it did Dae, because her coat’s so thick.”

Maraquin forty times bigger, her thick coat… Lord, those girls changed to animals as well. Now Mary Clare’s descriptions easily reformed with Annmar’s visions: Daeryn as a small brown-furred animal, the girls as…wolves?

Mary Clare clanked the dishes from the rinse water into the drain rack. “So the surgeon released her with a few stitches. Terrent’s calf took fourteen stitches to close it. Mr. White, the town surgeon—though he’s not a trained physician, he’s near enough to one—said he’d see him in a week, no work until then.”

Annmar swallowed. They hadn’t mentioned the one who’d been hurt the worst. “And Daeryn?”

At the stove Mrs. Betsy made the tutting sound Annmar had frequently heard from Mother. “That poor boy. Never seen him down like this and, of course, arguing to get up.”

Mary Clare looked over her shoulder to Annmar. “You saw him. Mr. White says it’ll be weeks before those slices heal. Dae’s got so many, about half of them deep enough for sewing. Then there’s the torn tendon he ran on.”

“Your breakfast is ready, duck.” Mrs. Betsy carried a plate around the cookstove. Annmar jumped up to follow. “Mr. White said he should have sent Terrent for help. But no, not our Daeryn. Takes his leadership so seriously, to the point of harming himself.” She shook her head.

“And now it’s up to us to keep him in bed until he heals.” Mary Clare laughed. “As if that’s gonna happen. Rivley will be the only one to knock some sense into him.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Betsy placed the plate of steaming eggs and toast on the wooden table in the breakfast nook.

Annmar slid into a chair. “Thank you. They smell so good.” She speared eggs and bit into the thick, homemade toast. They weren’t mad at her for being late. Daeryn and the other night guards were going to be all right. But until they returned to work, who would replace them and safeguard the farm against these creatures?

Mistress Gere might not have known these pests would turn so vicious, but she surely knew about her guards. Animals. Why didn’t Mistress Gere tell her outright?

Privacy.
It’s up to you to get to know Blighted Basin and your mother’s people.

Annmar had promised the owner a fair trial. In turn, Mistress Gere promised generous compensation, compensation Annmar couldn’t afford to pass by. She squeezed the coins in her waistband.

Mrs. Betsy returned and sat in the opposite chair with her cup of tea and a jar. “Perhaps you’d like to try our peach preserves?”

“Thank you.” Annmar opened the jar and picked up her knife.

“After breakfast, you can set up your drawing here.” Mrs. Betsy gestured to a drafting table in the corner. “The canning cooks are on a tight schedule with the harvest and don’t have time for questions and explanations. And it’s tough to keep paper spot-free in a commercial kitchen.” Mrs. Betsy sniffed dismissively. “So you can sample our products, and I can answer your questions while I work. Mary Clare here can take you to the fields, if you need to get to the root of a product, in a manner of speaking.”

“My goodness, she’s thought of everything.”

Mrs. Betsy smiled. “That’s our Mistress Gere. She has the best head for business in the Basin, man or woman. And she’s not above passing on help to others,” she added proudly. “More than I can count have come for mentorship from their trade alliance.”

Annmar spread the peach preserves on her toast. If Mistress Gere belonged to a trade group and mentored others, would Annmar be able to fulfill her expectations? She didn’t have Mother’s years of experience, nor experience with a Knack, despite Mistress Gere’s assurance she had one.

“She sent her apologies for her absence this morning,” Mrs. Betsy said. “She intended to give you a tour of the fields, but I’m sure you understand that with the attack and injuries last night, she’s up to her ears in arranging temporary help. She’s asked us to look after you today.”

“Right.” Mary Clare sidled over and threw a glance down to her supervisor. “We’ll get you properly settled into farm life.”

“Land’s sake, Mary Clare. Don’t be brazen. Not everyone wants to do things your way.”

Annmar put down the toast, clenched her hands beneath the table and forced a steady gaze to the two of them. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“Nothing, duck,” Mrs. Betsy said. “A whim of this girl’s.”

“More than a whim. It’s a mission. To help—” Mary Clare had stepped closer, but suddenly she frowned. “Don’t be worried. Nothing’s
that
different.”

Mrs. Betsy reached out and pulled Mary Clare back. “See here, miss. You will not be bothering this poor girl to tell you her life story…” The cook finished her lecture in a hissed whisper.

Annmar’s hands were hidden beneath the table, her posture straight as always. Why did Mary Clare think she was worried? Polly claimed she was downright stoic when it came to hardships and letting others know when she needed help or a chance to talk. She couldn’t
look
worried. Unless, Mary Clare had some sort of gift, too?

Hmm. Annmar used the trick she employed when her worries about money and her future became too much: She imagined herself drawing the placid flow of the River Derwent, ripples stretching on and on.

Mary Clare had been about to answer Mrs. Betsy, but looked up with a smile. “See? She feels fine about learning how we do things.”

Feels
. Oh, my. Mary Clare knew how she felt?

“Humph,” Mrs. Betsy said.

“I can introduce her around,” Mary Clare said, “make sure she understands the Basin’s customs—what’s the matter now?”

“Nothing,” Annmar said firmly. Mary Clare’s suggestions nearly mirrored Annmar’s concerns. Creepily so. “Go on.” She picked up her toast and took a bite of the peach-laden bread. The sweet fruit hit her tongue and exploded.

The swell of ripe peach swirled over her taste buds, grabbed at her nose and rode a wave of warm summer, light fuzz and fibrous texture filling her body with one complete sensation of
peach
. Annmar closed her eyes and saw the red-burnished globes as big as her spread fingers hanging one by one, weighing down the branches of a medium-sized tree, narrow leaves fluttering with happiness at its fertile fullness. A woman stood beside the tree, her flushed peachy skin peeking from a silver-gray tunic over which cascades of soft orange hair fell. Flecks of green leaves winked among the windblown strands, and the woman laughed and reached her arms to the sky in a graceful, loving manner.

Annmar swallowed and gasped for breath. Her eyelids flew open.

Both were peering at her, Mrs. Betsy quieting Mary Clare with a finger held aloft. The older woman’s gaze met hers, and she burst out laughing. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to take that first bite, duck.”

Annmar licked her lips and drew in a smidgeon of the jam, which immediately refreshed the flavor filling her head. She didn’t allow her eyes to close this time, though it was difficult. “What…” She licked her lips again, but she’d gotten it all. “What is in the jam?” she whispered.

“Ohh,” Mary Clare said. “Mrs. Betsy, you gave her one of the—”

Mrs. Betsy swooped an arm around the girl and pulled her to her side with a quick, “Shh, now. Peaches from a single tree, sugar, and pectin for thickening.”