Shana Abe - The Deepest Night

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 that I wasn’t going to carry him back to England unless it was done. He had become Lieutenant Laurence Clayworth, injured in action. Had I been in his position, I would have made more of an ado. After all, the actual Laurence Clayworth was a selfish blighter, and I had no doubt he’d be whining for drugs and attention the instant a pretty nurse hurried by. This Lieutenant Clayworth refused the shot of heroin the nurse attempted to give him. He only glued his eyes on me and clenched his teeth and broke into a white, cold sweat as the bones of his leg were pulled and stretched and snapped back into place.

He did not cry out. He did not faint.

I fared worse than he did. I held his hand and knew it’d be a mistake to look back, but I did it anyway, and then I had to plunk down to the floor and put my head between my knees.

Armand’s hand released mine to pat me on the head.

“Sorry case of nerves, that,” I heard one of the real nurses mutter. “How’d she get in?”

“Now, now,” muttered back her companion. “Some of us are more durable than others.”

I could not agree more.

We said our farewells to Aubrey that evening. I was relieved to see that he, at least, had accepted his measure of heroin. His eyes were huge and dark in his face. But his smile was just as tender as ever.

“See you soon, old man,” murmured Armand, on crutches at my side.

“Soon enough,” his brother replied.

“By the by, did I mention I turned Tranquility into a convalescent hospital?”

That seemed to rouse Aubrey some. “Did you? I say, don’t send me there. Loathe that place.”

“Sorry. I plan to shamelessly exploit Reginald’s connections as soon as I get back.”

“Bollocks.” Those dark gray eyes shifted to find mine. “Will you be there?”

“I’ll be at school. At Iverson. I hope,” I added.

He gave a nod, relaxing back. “That’s something, then.”

Mandy touched a hand to his shoulder. “See you soon,” he said again.

“Right.”

I leaned down and brushed my lips to Aubrey’s cheek. “Goodbye.”

His face angled toward mine; he returned my kiss. “Soon.”

Armand seemed to stop breathing. As we moved off, he stared down at the limestone pavers of the floor, scrupulously following the front-back-front swing of his crutches.

After that, flying back to England seemed very nearly easy. We crossed the Channel with the aid of a checkered layer of clouds, and it was curious now, but I didn’t really need Armand or the stars pointing me the way. I could feel England calling me, pulling at me. Tugging at my heartstrings, drawing me onward.

Toward my home.

We landed on the beach at Bournemouth a scant twenty minutes before first light. I was able to let him down and Turn to smoke in time to flow back to our hotel. I found our room exactly as we’d left it. Even the unfinished champagne was still in its bottle on the table.

I dressed. Then, as furtively as possible, I slipped out of the suite and back to the beach.

The sky to the east had become streaked with cherry. To the west, the first of the fishing boats were departing for the day, heading out into the blue with bells clanging.

A constable was patrolling the boardwalk with rhythmic, deliberate footfalls. At the very end of the pier a man and two little boys were casting their lines, hoping for fresh fish to begin their day.

Armand and I made our way to the entrance of the Sea Vista, only to encounter the innkeeper right as we cracked opened the front door.

His eyes widened, taking us in.

“Why, Mr. Pendragon! Mrs. Pendragon! Look at you! Whatever has happened?”

I exchanged a glance with Mandy, impaired by his cast, marked by roses, and remembered all my own scratches.

À la Chloe, I gave a trilling laugh. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid there was something of a disagreement between our auto and an unfortunate tree by the road. But it’s nothing too awful. His leg’s in something of a fix, but Mr. Pendragon and I will be fine.”

“I should not have allowed you to drive,” Armand said. “Next time I’ll not be so pleasantly persuaded.”

I directed my smile at him, fierce and glittering. “At least we came out at the better end of things this time! Not at all like the time you demolished that hansom cab, was it, my darling?”

“Tsk!” said the innkeeper, still staring at us, back and forth. “Modern days! I’ve always said these motorcars are treacherous devices. I’ve always said!”

I softened my smile. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind sending up some food for us?”

He brightened; breakfast was plainly more acceptable than modern days. “Certainly! What would you like? The wife’s beefsteak and eggs is always lovely, if I do say so, but the eldest went out yesterday and came back to us with a tidy haul of oysters and crabs that we thought—”

“Yes, that, all of that.”

“Er—pardon?”

“All of it,” I said.

“Ah,” said the innkeeper, even wider-eyed than before.

“Everything you’ve got.” Armand swung past him with the crutches, front-back-front. “It’s been an arduous trip from there to here, my good sir, and we’re really quite famished.”

And we ate it all, too. Beefsteak and eggs, fried oysters with red sauce, omelets stuffed with crab. We ate until we were both sated and heavy-eyed, and the sound of the surf beyond our balcony rolled over us like a lullaby.

Children shrieked and laughed, playing in the sand. Out on the boardwalk people tottered about in heels and hats and talked about the weather and listened to an organ grinder playing song after song for copper pennies.

I stood upon the balcony and shielded my eyes from the sun with one hand, letting the sea breeze push cool and welcome through my hair.

“Wife,” said Armand from behind me, very quiet. “Will you come to sleep with me?”

I turned around. He was resting atop the covers, propped up by pillows with his broken leg out, just as he’d been at the hunting lodge, except now with a proper cast. The wallpaper behind him nearly made me smile: giant pink and lavender lilacs entwined with pale green vines. He was dark and scruffy against it, a pirate again, stranded in a room of pastel blossoms.

Since we’d been sleeping in each other’s arms for days now, I knew he wasn’t truly asking about sleep.

“Yes,” I said. “After.”

“After what?”

“There’s one last thing I must do. I’m going to see your father.”

His hands clenched. “I’ll come with you.”

“And undo all that good work on your leg by Turning to smoke? I think not.” I abandoned the balcony and its uncluttered sky, plunging back into the shadows with him. “Besides, I imagine one drákon materializing in the middle of an insane asylum will be plenty. Let’s ease him into the story of you, shall we?”

He was silent, studying me. I could practically feel him weighing my words, his options. How much of a fuss I was going to make.

“I’ll be back soon,” I promised.

“Then I’ll be waiting.” He watched me with those blue, blue eyes. “Fireheart. I’ll always wait.”

Mental asylums are solid places. Everything locked up all right and tight, all the time. But the architects and doctors, the burly guards with batons, were thinking only of the delusional. The shackled. The helpless.