The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance (12 page)

Simple ingredients, but clearly this was a special jam. The two of them leaned into each other and looked at her expectantly. Annmar dropped her gaze to the toast she still held. The pinkish jam mirrored the color of the tree woman’s skin. “Uh, nothing else?”

“Nothing. This is just a jar of what we grow and process for sale in our preservation kitchen. People all over the Basin eat these products.”

“But last night? The food didn’t…”

Mrs. Betsy shook her head. “We made that. This”—she pointed to the jar—“is made in small batches by canning cooks specially selected by Mistress Gere.”

What had Mistress Gere said about her workers? Their talents included a variety of craft skills like cooking, carpentry…affinities for a particular plant or animal. She
had
told Annmar, in a way. These diversities were appearing in Wellspring’s people. The special canning cooks used their Knacks, and when Annmar used hers, the foods came to life.

This plant vision differed from her glimpse of Jac’s teeth, or Daeryn becoming the cat-like animal. Was the woman the tree, or was she someone with an “affinity”?

Annmar stared at the jam. The jar’s lid had a code of letters and numbers, the temporary label. The later part, 7-68, had to be July of this year, 1868. What could the P-PAT mean? Peach…something. “Do you know which tree this came from?”

Mrs. Betsy said, “Let’s see. Pat. That would be one of the peaches here in the yard. Right, Mary Clare?”

“Yes, you can see it from here.” She moved to the window next to the drafting table.

Annmar set the toast carefully on her plate and joined Mary Clare.

“Count down from the left end, and it’s the third,” she said.

Yes, the third one matched the image she’d seen. Annmar scanned the others in the row on the far side of the garden. Though they all had the same silver-gray bark, each one grew in a different shape. She’d have been able to pick her out on her own.

Her?

Yes, the tree was definitely female. But they’d each said
it
. They didn’t refer to the tree as a she.

Annmar licked her lips. “Those trees look alike. How do you know that’s the tree labeled Pat?”

Mary Clare looked at her blankly. “I just do. I suppose someone told me.”

No, they didn’t see the woman with the tree—a tree nymph? Annmar leaned against the drafting table and rubbed her forehead.

Mary Clare patted her arm, and behind them, Mrs. Betsy scooted back her chair.

“I know it takes some getting used to,” the cook said, “but your kin are from the Basin. It’s in your blood to know and do these things, even though you weren’t reared with it.”

Right, it might be in her blood, but what exactly was she seeing?

“Maybe you should take it easy today,” Mary Clare said. “All that travel, up half the night, now this. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Betsy?”

“What would help you feel better, duck?”

What would? Whenever something bothered her, Annmar drew. This was no different. She’d draw, and some solution would come to her. “Sitting here”—she nodded to the drafting table—“and sketching. First, I’d like to have a closer look at the tree. May I borrow a pair of those boots in the back hall?”

“The Wellies?” Mary Clare frowned. “They’d be huge on you. Try my work boots.” In a thrice, she had them off.

Annmar laced the leather boots and stood. These fit better than the ones last night. And walking— “Much less sloppy,” she told a grinning Mary Clare.

Her sore feet and the rough ground slipped from Annmar’s mind a few steps into the orchard. Pat, the tree, stood proudly, her green leaves tipped with just a hint of red from the onset of fall. Thick branches spread low and open. Annmar ducked among them, circling the trunk and looking. Though details for drawings appeared, no woman did. She even dared a “Hello?” But the closest answer was the leaves rustling, and they’d done that when she walked up.

Back in the kitchen, Annmar gave up the lovely boots, saying a brief thanks as Mary Clare mixed batter under Mrs. Betsy’s watchful eye.

The cook nodded her approval. “Refresh her tea, Mary Clare.”

Annmar moved her plate and the jar of peach jam to the flat ledge at the top of the drafting table. She pulled up the stool. The height was perfect, the surface smooth and fresh. She fished through her over-apron pockets and removed her pencils and eraser and laid out her sketchbook. Mary Clare set the steaming cup beside her plate.

“Thanks,” Annmar murmured, but the other girl had already slipped away. She stared out the window for a moment, eyeing Pat. Then she opened her sketchbook to a fresh page, picked up a pencil in one hand and her toast in the other. She took a bite, and the images swirled forth again.

Pages later, Annmar put down her pencil and flexed her fingers. She thumbed back through her sketchbook, scanning her drawings. The woman, her tree, her peaches, close-ups of her face, her slender fingers holding a peach, the inside of a cut peach, the blossoms lining her branches in May.

With her colored pencils, she could touch in the bit of pink at each flower’s center, although perhaps her watercolors would give a better sense of the faint tinge of the color… Hold on.

Annmar darted a look from the tree outside to the last page. She’d drawn the tree’s flowers? In the fall? Oh, my. Propping her head on one hand, she stared at the page. This wasn’t her imagination, just like last night wasn’t a nightmare. She had seen the flowers. And a girl, the tree nymph in her youth, graced the spring sketches. Annmar had seen everything, in very clear detail, as if the images were before her, moving even.

“Very nice, duck.”

Annmar lifted her head. Beside her, Mrs. Betsy wiped her hands on a towel. “These blooms look quite real, about to flutter in the wind.”

“It was a windy day,” Annmar murmured, and then realized what she’d said. “Um, as I imagined it.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think Mistress Gere will be happy with them?”

She nodded. “Of course she will. Which did you have in mind for a label?”

Annmar flipped to the last page on which she’d roughed out a rectangle for the squat pint jar. Within it she’d sketched the fruit, whole and cut open, and in the background, the tree, with the young woman sitting below hugging her knees and gazing up into the peach-laden branches.

Mary Clare crowded in beside Mrs. Betsy and squeezed Annmar’s arm. “It’s wonderful. Why, the tree looks just as it did this summer. The girl looks so happy to be there.”

Mary Clare hadn’t indicated that she recognized the girl, though of course she was only an inch high in this picture.

Mrs. Betsy said, “I’m sure Mistress Gere will be excited to see what you’ve done. I’m sorry she’s not here so you can show her.”

“It’s not ready yet. I still want to put a leafy border around it and pencil in some sample wording. And I don’t know if she wanted these prepared for color printing or not.”

“So you have more to do?” Mary Clare glanced over her shoulder. One of her look-alike sisters approached with a tray.

The morning was gone and the noon meal about to be served. Annmar pulled her gaze from the plates of food on the tray and slipped off the stool. “You need me to help?”

Laughing, Mary Clare took the tray from her sister. “Anyone new and untrained isn’t much help in the kitchen right when it’s time to serve a meal.”

“Thank you, Mary Delia.” Mrs. Betsy handed the girl a platter. “Fetch the meat to the dining room, please. Mary Clare, you tell Rivley he’s to go to his own bed immediately after he eats. He’s no good to us worn through from sitting in a sickroom.”

Sickroom? He had to be sitting up with Daeryn. “I can sit with Daeryn.” Annmar picked up her sketchbook and pencils. “I can finish this anywhere.” And talk to him about this animal Knack—if he brought it up, of course.

Mary Clare nodded. “We’re shorthanded because of the injuries, and if Rivley extends himself the way he’s determined to—”

“Those boys. I don’t know who’s worse,” Mrs. Betsy followed this with a string of tutting. “Daeryn is sleeping, so there’s no need, but your presence might convince Rivley.”

chapter fifteen

Scant daylight filtered
through the drawn curtains, leaving Wellspring’s sickroom as dim as the back hall. Annmar squinted, trying to see Daeryn in the bed against the wall. All she could make out were dark shapes on top of white covers. Was he in animal form? That would be strange, to sit here with a… What was he, anyway?

Mary Clare handed Rivley the meal tray and adjusted the curtain behind a wingback chair, sending a shaft of light over the seat. Annmar blinked, and her gaze darted back to the bed. The covers bunched over legs reaching to the end, thank goodness. The dark shapes were his head, brown-sugar-colored arms and…chest.

Bare
chest.

She sucked a breath. Was he really naked under there?

Mary Clare tugged at her arm and gestured to the sunlit chair. Ah, yes, the perfect spot for her to continue drawing. She nodded her understanding, but…

Could she sit in the same room with a naked boy?

Should she?

Thankfully, the room was dim, for her hot face must be red at this impropriety. The others thought nothing of this. She shouldn’t either if she wanted to blend with the Basin dwellers. After all, she’d been to museums and art shows. The masters Mother had tutored her in all drew nudes with complete…anatomical…accuracy.

“I’m fine,” Rivley whispered. “She doesn’t need to spell me.”

“Miz Gere’s orders.” Mary Clare linked an arm through his and patted his forearm. “You are to eat and rest.”

He slipped his arm from hers and backed away. “But I can’t, he’s—”

“Sleeping,” Mary Clare retorted in a louder voice.

All three of them turned to the bed. Mary Clare took a step closer, and so did Annmar. Her adjusting eyes picked out white bandages covering Daeryn’s bare shoulder and upper arm. Nasty red welts crossed his face and the portion of his chest exposed above the blanket, each coated in shiny salve.

“It’s the best time,” Mary Clare said softly. “He’s sleeping with the herbs Miriam gave him.” She slid her arm through Rivley’s again. “You need to rest, too. Please?”

After a second, he turned to Annmar. “You’ll send for me if he wakes? Or shows any sign of change like you saw this morning? Shifting? Will you recognize it, girl?”

How could she forget that? Annmar resisted checking Daeryn for fur now. “I will. I’ll have them fetch you.” She smiled, hoping that would reassure Rivley.

“See?” Mary Clare nodded approvingly and pulled him to the door. “We’ll look after Dae.”

Rivley stumbled alongside her. “For a short time, you hear? I hope things will set to rights now that he’s sleeping, but I don’t want to be away too—”

The door closed behind them. Annmar waited until their faint footsteps faded down the hall. Then she inched up to the bed.

Lord, he looked awful, poor fellow. She studied his features. A prominent nose, deep, wide-set eyes with rounded brows and a firm jaw under a morning’s beard growth. Not a boy, as Mrs. Betsy kept referring to them. A young man, definitely. Her breath exhaled on a faint sigh. A handsome one, even with the cuts. Her gaze trailed lower…

And naked.

Stop it, Annmar!
But despite her own admonition, she checked to make sure the door was still closed before she studied the shape of his body hidden under the bunched covers. No way to tell, really, and she shouldn’t go on about it, even in her head.

She dragged her gaze back over what she could see. As she’d suspected, his chest was muscular, nicely formed like the sculptures back in Mr. Bell’s Gallery in Derby. But the nasty cuts ruined the lines. Over his cheek, too
.
Perhaps the heavy salve was to keep them from scarring, so he wouldn’t carry a mark like Mr. Shearing did on his hand. The contrast of his strong jaw and the hair falling over his forehead intrigued her.

She bent and brushed the mussed strands aside. Between her fingertips, his thick hair was silky. She teased another clump into order.

Her body seemed to sigh. Soft, just like the cat the boarding house kept for mousing. When it had snuck into their room, she never turned it out, happy to pet the animal on her lap, its warmth comforting her. Now, the heat stealing through her body wasn’t exactly soothing—

“Mmm,” Daeryn rumbled and moved slightly.

She snatched back her hand. Daeryn’s head tilted up to where her hand had been and wiggled side to side. Annmar stepped back.

Please, please don’t wake.

Seconds later—a moment that lasted forever—his chin dropped. He nestled the unhurt side of his face into the pillow and lay still, an adorable angle to his posture.

Adorable?
This…man?

Heavens. He must hear her heart pounding like tram pistons. She’d just die if he caught her at his bedside. Or if anyone else caught her.

Annmar glanced at the door. Footsteps sounded faintly somewhere else in the huge old house, and the murmur of voices came from the direction of the dining room. Her heartbeat faded into the background. No one had seen. Daeryn hadn’t woken. Tiptoeing, she backed to the wing chair and sat. She had to get control of herself. Mary Clare would kill her if she messed up this chance for Rivley to rest.

Well, she’d just keep her hands to herself and her seat in this chair until someone came to relieve her. Yet there was no harm in keeping her gaze on him as much as she wanted, with no one the wiser. Exactly what Rivley asked her to do.

She ate her midday meal before settling with her sketchbook. The peach tree leaves and blossoms of the label border practically drew themselves while she stole glances at Daeryn.

By the time she finished, he hadn’t moved. Annmar lightly penciled sample wording for Mistress Gere and turned the page. The pencil skimmed across the paper, sketching Daeryn’s reclining form and then went back for the details. Of course, she didn’t bother with the cuts or bandages. The additional and unneeded lines would only spoil the picture. She drew him as she’d first seen him, strong and free of injury.

The sketch of him sleeping peacefully led to others, close-ups of his chest, his hands, his face. She’d been right. His mature jawline contrasted perfectly with the silken impression of his fur…hair.

Flexing her fingers, Annmar glanced through her pages. She hadn’t drawn him in those fleeting moments as an animal, but she could. The image floated behind her closed eyes, not like the tree woman had, just a memory. But he’d looked so pained lying on the floor last night.

A challenge, Mother had always said:
Take the features and mold them to the expression the client desires. Especially if it’s of their children, skip their transitory moods.
Your creativity is the mark of a true artist.

Annmar glanced at Daeryn. Her
client
wasn’t looking for a specific drawing. She was. Could she do it? She flipped to a fresh page and started a new sketch of his face, rounding it, moving the ears…

* * *

Sniff.

The scent wafting through the room wasn’t familiar to Daeryn, but wasn’t a stranger’s either. He’d encountered this—
sniff
—female before. He blinked, trying to focus his weary eyes.

The room was still blurry. Must be Miriam’s remedy. His eyelids drifted closed. The healer had told him—ordered him, in fact—to forget about the team and the pests. The pain had dulled, making it easier to lie back and do just that. No responsibilities. Yet instinct said the thought was wrong. Was this the herbs knocking him loopy? Great, last thing a predator wanted, but Riv was on guard. Right?

Or…
sniff
…perhaps not.

Across the room lingered some familiar sweet scent, faint, but clearly the city girl. A miscellany of Outside smells still masked her delicate odor, but soon enough she’d have a chance to wash her things and rid herself of the clinging city brew. Then she’d be pure pleasure to scent, as much as she was to view now.

He rubbed his eyes for a better look, careful of the cuts on his most injured side. At least Miriam’s concoction had soothed the painful scratches. The sting had gone, leaving the minor slices with an itchy, healing sensation.

Perhaps the lessening pain was due to the lovely distraction before him. Lit by a soft light, she sat primly in her city skirt, staring down at the book propped on her knees. Her pencil darted in quick short strokes, her head and shoulders tipped in concentration. She’d pulled her curling brown hair back with a ribbon, exposing her creamy neck and rounded cheeks, though nothing else on the girl was rounded from what he could see. Her too-feminine fluffy blouse concealed whatever figure lay beneath. Not that it mattered. To most ’cambires, him included, body shapes were fluid and never as important as the person’s nature.

She paused in her work and lifted her pencil, pursing those tiny lips. Her eyes—he remembered they were blue—scanned the book. Color rose in her cheeks. She smiled at something on her pages, and her face transformed to the look that’d left him stupefied yesterday.

Great Creator.
His innards churned like a kit’s all over again. He drew a breath and released it, the sigh carrying in the silent room.

Her head popped up, her eyes wide and startled, her nerves as skittish as a fawn’s. Then her gaze darted down, and he swore her cheek color deepened. She flipped the book closed with a snap and rose. “Are you all right? Should I call someone?”

“Easy, girl.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Barely on the edge of waking, I think.”

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes, thank you.”

But she was already pouring a glass. She brought it, then hesitated.

“I can hold it.” He took it and drank. “The healing herbs have a hold of my brain. Tell me your name again.”

“Annmar. I arrived yesterday.”

“That part I remember. The artist. You were drawing just now.” He sipped from the glass and watched her. Yes, she was coloring, and a distinct nervous smell flooded the space between them. But she dipped her head and showed no signs of her discomfort. Good girl. A human would never guess. A darned protective skill in the city. He wouldn’t let on that he and the other mammalian ’cambires could detect her mood changes through her scent.

“I’ve started on Wellspring’s labels,” she said, her tone a little too set.

Fine. Let her keep her secrets. She didn’t know him.

Not yet.

Besides, Miz Gere had laid down the law. Daeryn rested his eyes for a moment.

Annmar pulled the glass from his hand. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call someone?”

He forced open his eyes. “To watch me sleep? No, you’ll do fine. Riv needed a break. Work on your labels.” He yawned, and his eyes closed. Harder this time to get them open, but he did.

She hovered a few steps off, holding his water glass. He should say something more, keep her talking, but this brain haze overwhelmed him. It’d be too easy to say the wrong words. And it hurt less to lay still. His eyelids drifted down…

Her steps shuffled barely louder than her rustling skirts.

Leaving? His eyes jerked open.

She crossed to the chair and picked up her book. Took her seat. Not leaving. Good. Her hand gripped a pencil. Drawing. She looked up.

Their gazes met.

“Talk to you later, if I may?” he asked.

“Of course,” she murmured.