Mandy stood. He grabbed the blanket he’d set aside for her and went to the door. He had his hand on the knob before she even knocked.
The door opened just as my hand was lifting. I supposed he felt me there beyond the wood, maybe sensed my Turn from smoke into flesh. The door didn’t open all the way; Armand’s arm emerged through the crack to offer me a soft gray blanket. I caught it up to my chest, then shook it out and flung it over my shoulders like a cape.
The perils of Turning. It would have been convenient if my clothing somehow made the transformation with me, but it never did. Nothing ever stuck to me when I Turned, not even rain or blood or dirt. I’d spent a lot of time naked recently.
“You made it,” Armand said, opening the door wider. He sounded relieved, as if he’d thought I wouldn’t actually come.
“You seemed to require it.”
I spoke softly. It was late and I didn’t think there was anyone nearby, but Tranquility was a decaying mess of a maze, to put it kindly. It’d be easy to overlook a hidden servants’ door. Armand gave a quick glance up and down the empty hallway before stepping back.
“Come in.”
I did. I was glad to see he hadn’t turned on the electric lights, so the shadows of the room danced strictly from the fire. I didn’t like electric lights. I didn’t like electricity in general, not after Moor Gate, but even the fashionable stained-glass chandeliers here made me feel ill when they were lit. Like bees in my head, buzzing and buzzing.
I was curious if it was the same for him, but I had never asked.
“How’s your wound?”
I shrugged. “It’ll heal. Again.”
“Let me look.”
I freed my upper arm from the blanket. His touch felt light against my skin, gentle. His fingers were cold and long, like mine.
“It’s not as bad as I thought today in the auto. All that blood, I mean.”
“Dr. Hembry put a stitch in it,” I said.
“Did he?” He tipped his head, looking closer, and I smiled.
“The Turn,” I said. “It’s gone now.”
“Oh.”
He stood there, frowning, and I wondered if he noticed the bruising around the freshly broken scar. The unmistakable shape of his father’s fingers imprinted on me.
I pulled the blanket back over my shoulder and surrendered to a giant yawn.
“Tired?” he asked.
I shrugged again. “New moon. You know.”
“You’re still keeping watch?”
“Is there someone else to do it?”
It came out sounding cruel, and I hadn’t meant it to; I touched my hand to his sleeve. “Never mind. I know you’d help if you could.”
His lips thinned. I spoke again quickly to stave off whatever he was about to say.
“Is that sugar in the air?”
“Yes. I saved you dessert.”
“Cheers!”
Oh, pie! Blackberry pie, a nice fat wedge, the crust so buttery tender it flaked apart at the first touch of my fork. I sat before the fire and devoured it all in about a minute, then swiped the plate with my finger, eager for every last crumb.
Armand was seated cross-legged at my side. I sucked the mashed blackberry goo from my fingertip, sending him a glance.
“What? No comments about my charming manners?”
“Er …” He seemed dazed in the firelight, watching me. “No.”
I placed the china plate on the floor. Gilt traced its rim, a ring of golden light, and the fire before us sighed and worked its way along the final orangey bit of log.
“You never told your father.” I didn’t make it a question. “About me. What I am.”
Another frowning, thin-lipped look.
“He said there’s a boy in the stars who speaks to him in his dreams. Who told him what I am.”
“A boy in the stars,” he repeated slowly.
“How could that be? Could Jesse …
“You’re asking
“Well,” I said, and stopped, a little flustered. “Well, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”
Armand lowered his gaze. After a moment, he began to tap the pie plate thoughtfully with one finger. “All right. I think … I suspect it must be true. You’ve never told Reg about any of it, and I haven’t, so aside from Jesse, there really
I shook my head.
“There’s your answer, then.” He gave the plate an extra tap. “Unless he’s a bloody good guesser.”
“Or a bloody astute lunatic,” I countered, unthinking.
The words hung between us. I winced and ventured a look back at him, but the lunatic’s son was staring bleakly into the fire.
“I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m a moron.”
“No harm done,” he said, but he sounded just as bleak as he looked.
I tried to rally. “That means, then, that somehow Jesse really does talk to him. That everything that your father said that Jesse said is true. That Aubrey is alive and imprisoned somewhere. That I’m meant to fly to him.”
“To rescue him,” Armand finished.
I shook my head again. I didn’t dare blurt out what was I was thinking now:
I played with a fold of the blanket draped along my knee. I ran my hand over it, the center of my palm, thinking hard.
“No,” I said finally. “It can’t be done. I’m supposed to fly across the front? Across Europe, into the thick of the war, dodging zeppelins and bombs and aeroplanes and God knows what? I mean, we don’t even know where Aubrey’s being held.”
“East Prussia,” said Armand. “Schloss des Mondes. It’s a medieval ruin. Apparently they converted it into a prison camp.”
I stared at him, mute, and he lifted a shoulder.
“He’s a nobleman and an officer, a prisoner of war. Rules of the game say they have to tell us, just as we have to tell them about our prisoners.”
“They just—give you his address?”
“Something like that. So we can send him aid parcels. Extra clothing, food. Sweets. Cigarettes. Things to trade. Since he’s an officer, he’s likely to have some enlisted bloke as a servant, so you send things for him, too.”
I couldn’t help it; I let out a laugh. “Does he even
Armand lifted his head. “I think he must,” he said, quiet. “If Jesse says so.”
And that was the end of my laughter.
“You should get back to Iverson.” He climbed to his feet. “Try to get some rest. We’ll work out a plan soon.”
