“If you deliver the news, be wary of those Transistors,” Francis said, practically spitting the word out.
“Did you see them?” I asked Francis. “The Transistors?”
“They arrived a few days ago on horseback. Wanted a full accounting of everything the Taylors had ever ordered. Told them I didn’t keep records, of course.”
The House of Industry knew what Maggie had been doing. That meant Julian wasn’t safe. Not here. Not anywhere.
“You were protecting them,” I realized aloud.
Francis nodded vigorously. “Of course I tried to help them out. The Taylors are—were—good people. I wish I’d known what those monsters from the House intended to do. I’d have done more. Burning up a whole family … Stars bless their poor souls.”
Though I knew it wasn’t my fault, not really, I couldn’t help feeling sick that fellow Children of Industry had done something so vile. I’d wanted so badly to be a Transistor, and had I gotten my wish, it might have been me laying waste to a farm. Despite the heat, I shivered.
Francis patted my hand. “We’re safe now. Folks saw them riding off.”
I didn’t bother correcting her. What could I possibly say? That I’d narrowly avoided being the kind of person who would ride to a small town and commit mass murder?
A violin began to play in the distance, and I turned from Francis, surprised to hear the fine instrument out here—so far from a proper city. The girl playing couldn’t have been more than ten, and she sang a soft, haunting song as Ezra and several others from the town dug four graves.
“I haven’t heard a violin in a long while,” I murmured.
Francis corrected me gently. “It’s a fiddle. She’s playing our pain. Go on and listen with your friend in the shade. The sun will have you fried right up before you know it.” Picking up her pail, she headed for the grave sites.
Bolstered by the water and her kindness, I dusted myself off and went to Julian. He sat with his back to the tree trunk, gaze unfocused. Maggie’s blood stained his gray shirt. Hesitant, I sank to the ground, out of reach. The fire had not crossed this part of the field, and the grass was as soft as a carpet.
In the shade, with the smoke finally dying down, this could have been mistaken for a beautiful day—perfect for a picnic or a nap. High clouds crossed the sky, and a steady breeze kissed my sweaty skin.
“Julian,” I said, aching.
A slow shudder ran through him. I didn’t expect to hear his voice, but it broke out of him like a creaking hinge. “This was meant to be my home. I wanted to go home. It’s all I’ve thought of, day and night. In that lonely Mission. At the House. Everything I did was to get here.” He covered his eyes with trembling fingers. “I didn’t arrive quickly enough.”
My breath hitched.
His voice cracked. “What do I do now?”
After crawling forward on my knees, I gathered him close and let him shake against me. His skin was clammy, his grief like a sickness. I ran my fingers through his hair, working out the snarls. I could feel his humid breath against my chest.
“They’re gone.” He gasped out strange soft sounds—as if he didn’t know how to cry properly.
I spoke no words of comfort, because I had none to give. The townspeople gave us space, averting their eyes and focusing on digging and honoring the dead with mournful, soft music. After a long while, Julian went still, not peaceful with sleep, but boneless and spent. I shifted around to sit and eased his head against my lap. As the song of the fiddle washed over us, I continued to stroke his damp hair.
Dirt-streaked and flushed, Ezra approached like a sneaking cat. He favored his side, one hand absently held against it. I found myself wishing for the river and the hot spring in Frostbrook. All of us could use a good scrubbing.
Ezra wobbled to sit with his legs crossed, close enough that I could smell his sweat and the scent of freshly turned soil. “Is he …?”
I shook my head. Julian wasn’t asleep. I wondered if he’d ever sleep again, or if he’d fear seeing the flames every time he closed his eyes. “You look exhausted.”
He leaned back on his hands and looked at the scraggly apple tree shading us. “I am.”
“Did you reopen your wound?”
“No.”
“Have you always been able to do that? Heal so quickly?” I asked, glad for something to think about—and hoping it would distract Julian from whatever thoughts he was trapped in where he lay quiet against me.
“Yes.” Ezra let out a sigh and shifted to lie on his side, his head propped in one hand. “I suppose that’s why I became interested in the healing arts. I can’t do this for others, but I can learn what plants help and what measures can be taken to try to save a life or heal a wound. Or ease pain. I wish I’d had supplies with me. Something for Maggie’s pain. Anything.”
“I imagine some pain cannot be eased.”
