And she took his breath away.
He could not tell how long they kissed. Empirically he knew it had to have been less than two minutes, since he could only hold his breath that long. Realistically it didn't matter. It could have been a heartbeat, but might as well have been forever. In that moment, a part of himself that had been shut away for so long became free.
The look on her face as their lips parted said she read it all in his eyes. He had no words for the emotions racing through him. The freedom, the towering joy. It was every bit as exhilarating as the first time Mugwump had dived beneath the river with him. It was the complete satisfaction of having found something he never even knew he had lost. And he wondered how he could have survived so long without it.
He laughed silently, then kissed her again. Is this love? He knew lust was involved, certainly, for hungry were their kisses and hot their desires. But he found more there, more that was frustratingly elusive. He could not measure it nor describe it-an ability for which he had to grudgingly admire the much-disparaged novelists. And yet, even though it escaped measurement, it existed because it quickened his pulse and brought him such great joy he could not stop smiling.
Reluctantly he released her. 'I fear, Princess, Mugwump is a very poor chaperone.'
'This may be, my lord, but he is a silent one, which could make him a wonderful chaperone.' She laughed lightly and he adored the sound of it. 'But we shall not do anything which would besmirch von Metternin's honor.'
'It's best we don't.' He took her hand and led her back to the ladder. 'And we need to refill the boiler.'
He bled the steam off, then opened the boiler. They took turns pumping water and hauling it to the boiler. When they'd filled it two-thirds full, he sealed it again, then climbed back down into the pit to stoke the fire.
She remained above, leaning on the rail, smiling down at him. 'I find your working this way very attractive.'
He smiled, but stopped himself from preening foolishly. He raked the coals around and started laying in more wood.
'I have a question for you, Princess.'
'Ask, my lord.'
'In your family, the women bear strong children?'
She nodded, her golden hair shimmering. 'Very, my lord.'
'So then, by three or four, my sons will be able to tend the boiler on cold nights?'
She grinned. 'Only if, my lord, you excuse them from hunting jeopards, which they will want to do from two.'
'Very good, my dear, very good. We are splendidly matched. Perfectly.' Vlad beamed for her sake and tossed more wood onto the coals. And I wonder, when my aunt discovers this fact, what she will do to ruin us.
Chapter Forty-One
October 15, 1763
Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia
'I t's time.' Owen threw back his bedclothes. 'Quarante-neuf, we go tonight.'
The pasmorte shook his head. 'It is too dangerous. It is too cold.' Owen stood and unlaced the leather covers over the shackles. 'The wind will bury our tracks with snow. This is the only chance. I need your help.'
'You can hardly move.'
'This is why I need you to help me.' Over the last six weeks du Malphias had taken great delight in having pasmortes chase Owen down. Because Quarante-neuf would stop them from harming him, the game really had no purpose, but Owen played it anyway. His clumsy efforts gave du Malphias data concerning the magick shackles.
Quarante-neuf had learned through the exercises as well. He broke other pasmortes instead of reintroducing them to death. Repair made more work for du Malphias. The Laureate, in turn, taught Quarante-neuf enough magick to affect basic repairs, mending bones and flesh.
He pulled the sharpened nails from beneath the shackles. 'Pull on your glove. Now, pinch the flesh at the back of my thigh. Get a good handful. Yes, now, shove one of the nails all the way through the fold.'
'I cannot. I would hurt you.'
'No, you're preventing hurt.' Owen held nails out. 'Please, you have to do this. I can't.'
The pasmorte sank to a knee behind him. He grabbed a hunk of flesh and drew it away from the muscle. The nail popped through and out again, more of a burning sensation than pain, but nothing in comparison to the magick hobbling. Quarante-neuf repeated the procedure on the other leg.
'How does that feel?'
Owen took a step. He felt the tug at the back of his leg, and some of the magickal pain triggering, but less. Another step and another, longer each time. 'The iron mutes the magic. I need more nails. Another above the knee. One below. One below the calf, and maybe at the small of my back. Please, my friend, hurry.'
'Yes. Let me prepare things.' The pasmorte quickly bent the nails into a gentle curve. He tore the shackle covers into rectangular strips and pierced them with the nails first. He used the strips to pinch the skin, then inserted the nails through Owen's flesh and the leather. The wounds burned, and blood welled up to stain the leather.
Once all the nails had been set in place, Owen made several circuits of his cell. He moved more easily, but couldn't run. Then again, with the deep snow, what could? This will have to do.
He dressed, careful not to catch clothes on the nails. He wrapped one thin blanket around him and saved a corner as a hood, then pulled on the leather tunic Msitazi had given him. They tore the other blanket into strips and bound his feet in several layers, then tied them in place with strips of canvas. The remaining canvas he pulled around him as a cloak, and used the last two nails to hold it closed.
Quarante-neuf nodded. 'Ready?'
'Wait, I need Agaskan's doll.'
The pasmorte produced it from a drawer and Owen tucked it inside his tunic. 'Now I will be safe.'
Owen followed the pasmorte from his prison, hunching himself over. He moved haltingly, imitating as best he could the pasmortes circulating as sentries. He mimicked their awkward gaits and ducked his head as he turned north. The full brunt of the storm battered him. He snarled defiantly and forced himself toward the wall.
Snow drifted against the walls' northern faces. He fought the wind and reached the stone wall construction inside the north wall. The open end and ragged line of stones allowed him to easily scramble up to the top. He crouched, searched through the blizzard for any sign of pasmortes nearby, but saw nothing.
He couldn't see a dozen feet in any direction, but that hardly made him feel safe. He imagined du Malphias had some arcane means of piercing the storm's curtain. Or he might have a way to track me or Quarante-neuf. That thought soured his mouth, but he dismissed it.
Knowing where I am and dragging me back are two different things in this blizzard.
He grabbed the wooden wall's points and hauled himself over. He fell for a yard, then sank into snowdrifts. He floundered for a moment, then another body crunched down beside him. Quarante-neuf grabbed his arm and pulled him from the snow. The pasmorte wore no heavy clothes, but did have a pack on his back. 'Come.'
Owen began wading through the snow. 'You have to get me away from here. I will kill du Malphias if I stay.'
Quarante-neuf nodded. 'Thank you, my friend…' His voice trailed off for a moment. 'Is it that we are truly friends? Can it be?'
'Of course.' Owen leaned heavily on the pasmorte 's arm. 'Why would you think we are not friends?'
'I am dead, Captain. I may not remember much, but that cannot be forgotten. The dead have nothing to offer the living.'
'Not so, Quarante-neuf, not so.' They stepped free of the largest drift-which had totally filled the trench-and made their way across the wind-scoured glacis. They forded another drift, then pushed on straight north, toward the looming hill from which he had first scouted du Malphias' domain.
They paused in the lee of another drift. Quarante-neuf knelt with his back to the wind, providing Owen shelter. Snow caked the pack and his clothes, but he did not seem to notice. He did not shiver, he did not brush snow away.