The Deepest Night

Aubrey chuckled. “She asked … the same thing.”

“She has good reason. It’s been hardest on her, I think. She was the first, and she was alone.”

“She’s …”

Mandy and I both waited.

“Miraculous,” Aubrey said.

“You’ve no notion.”

“But I will, Mandy. Swear to you I will.”

I stole food from the village, a loaf of bread here, a mutton pie there. Small things from different houses, so we’d not be easily tracked.

I took the sword from the hearth and hacked free two fine straight branches from a pine, and made a brace for Armand’s leg.

I stood as a dragon by the lake at night and mourned without words the gaping tear in my wing. It could have used some stitches, but I’d have to stay in this shape too long for it to mend. So I would endure it.

There were, after all, many others enduring much worse.

On our second morning there, I sat with Armand and Aubrey upon the big bed, offering hunks of bread and cheese as Armand smoothed out the newspaper I’d used to wrap it all in for my hike back to the lodge.

There I was again, right on the front page. I looked even more fiendish than the last drawing. This time I’d been given horns.

“Stylish,” I decided, analyzing the illustration. “Elegant but deadly. Perhaps I’ll grow some for real.”

“Perfect as you are,” Aubrey assured me.

“Even better than perfect.” Armand had to top him.

I eyed them both. I’d been hoping, now that the flickering had stopped and the sun had firmly shoved its way inside the cabin, that Aubrey’s condition wouldn’t look so dire, that Armand’s leg wouldn’t be a true break but a sprain or a very bad bruise. But there was no denying that the situation was quite as critical as I’d feared. Aubrey was propped against the pillows; he was sitting up on his own, but that was about all he could do. Armand rested beside him, his bad leg stretched atop the covers, because otherwise the bark from my brace flaked off into the sheets. His toes were turning puce.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “Trying to work matters through. Obviously we need to leave here as soon as we can. Tonight. I believe if we start early enough I can get us across the Channel from here in one stretch, but we should consider what’s going to happen after that. We can land in Dover, and Mandy can say he’s been in an accident or something. But Aubrey, you’re inexplicable. You’re a peer. It’s been widely reported in the papers that you’ve been captured. You’ll have to have either a new name or a new face or a damned credible reason for being in England instead of a German prison camp, and I swear I can’t think of a single one.”

“No, I can’t go … to England. I’m no … deserter. France. Get me there. I’ll get myself home.”

My gaze fell to his hands, the blackened nails, the fingers and knuckles scabbed over so severely there wasn’t any skin left. Good hands, he’d told me, but I’d seen enough burns at Tranquility to know he’d likely never open his fingers again.

Tears pricked behind my lids, which irritated me. Neither of them was acting overly emotional, and they frankly looked as if they might breathe their last at any moment. I had to be stronger than they.

“Where in France?” I asked.

“Casualty clearing station. Army. They’ll take me in.”

I pressed, reluctant, “But I think I’m supposed to get you home.”

“Eleanore. You already have.”

I looked up, took in his ravaged face, the tender smile. The tears pricked hotter.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, miracle Eleanore.”

“What is it with you two?” I snarled. “Don’t thank me until it’s all done.”

I got up and stalked to the window. The lake outside gleamed green and slate, smooth as a looking glass, unbroken as far as I could see. The forest surrounding it seemed a lot less like the safe haven I’d first thought it. More full of holes.

“You’d better live,” I said without turning around. “Both of you.”

“I shall,” answered Aubrey.

“To my dying day,” topped Armand.

Boys.

Chapter 33

A casualty clearing station was like a field hospital near the front. Which meant, logically, having to venture near the front. I promise you, it’s even more harrowing than it sounds. I attempted to keep us high enough to avoid the gunfire, the terrible strands of poisonous gas that slithered along the ground and ate like acid into everything they touched. Chlorine gas, phosgene. I’d seen firsthand what harm chemicals and sinister minds could do, and none of us had masks.

Trenches were laid out below us very much as they’d been on the maps, long, winding lines scarring the earth, hiding desperate men. Protecting them from the mortars that arced white and yellow fire above their heads. Smothering them with dirt and desolation.

I was glad that I knew no one down there. Glad that the only two beings I cared about were being carried safely over this crisis, at least.

As safe as I could make it, that is. The sickle moon had finally waned from the sky, and this would be the night the airships took flight. I kept a wary eye out but didn’t see any. Perhaps they were already across the Channel.

Stars of the heavens, who own my time: guide us safely only just a bit farther.

a bit farther, a bit, they sang in reply.

We were renegade magic, temporarily liberated from gravity and bloodshed. We were stars falling to the earth, to the shelled remains of a French village. To a pasture with very little cover because the grass was stunted and all the trees had burned away.

To a cathedral that had been converted into a hospital for damaged men.

I left Aubrey and Armand behind in the grass. I smoked into the nurses’ tent, where there were women sleeping fitfully and uniforms lay folded at the base of their cots, begging to be borrowed.

Then I ran outside to find a doctor and pulled him from his breakfast, protesting all the way, to my men.

That was how my rescue of Aubrey ended. Where my part in it ended, in any case. He was taken in, absorbed by the frantic yet diligent inner workings of the hospital, and I lingered long enough to see that he was cleaned and rebandaged and given back his name and rank.

Yes, he’d been shot down and captured last spring.

No, he’d never been taken so far as East Prussia. That must have been an error in the paperwork.

He’d been taken to Belgium instead. He’d been lucky enough to escape during transport, and subsequently hidden by a sympathetic farmer’s widow who had tended to him as best she could.

And, yes, somehow he’d made it back here to France after that.

And even though it was perfectly clear that he was in no shape to have traveled any distance on his own, the Marquess of Sherborne’s story was scribbled down and accepted because by then it was two hours past daybreak, and the next batch of wounded men was already crowding the cathedral floors, ready to take his place.

Armand had his leg set and cast. He hadn’t been too pleased about it, but had resigned himself to the fact