As she sat, the meadow stirred to life. The first day of summer; same as the last day of spring. Nothing had changed; everything was always changing. The trill of songbirds cascaded overhead. A mouse scurried onto the toe of her boot, sniffed her leg, and scurried away. A fragrant edelweiss waved its lilting petals beneath the brush of a bumblebee.
The wind kissed her wet cheek. The open sky swallowed her sorrow.
The waving grass whispered. The forest was her home, too.
She wiped her eyes. Gathered her supplies and Sy’s pen kit, abandoned in the brush. Pulled her cut shirt from her bag, put it on backwards, secured it beneath her jerkin.
The odds were astronomical, and Sy was already gone.
But she knew where he was going.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
This time, she entered Äbender not as a lost lamb, but as a wolf on the prowl. She looked as beastly as she felt: her hair a wild mess, her shirt, ripped and backwards, barely held to her chest by her mud- and blood-stained jerkin. She ignored every stare, every raised eyebrow, every snide remark, hunting high and low for David.
The tailor was closed for the summer; the grocer said she knew roughly of Sy’s residence, but not his well-off friends’. The tobacconist directed her to Upper Bunting. A street-sweeper directed her to David’s townhouse. He was not at home; his butler directed her to a club called Martin’s. He was not there either; the proprietor suggested she try his father’s factory in Lower Bunting, along the river.
Unfamiliar with that part of Äbender, lost in the smog and smoke, she took one wrong turn too many, landing her in the path of a man who stank of whiskey and was certain his hands belonged on her ass. When she decided her hatchet belonged on his neck, however, he became downright cordial, directing her to the factory, where he recently worked before a strained wrist forced him off the line. He waved the wrist for emphasis.
The best lead she’d had yet, she endured his drunken yammering and he led her there himself. The owner was a good man, he said; spared no expense on his workers, that was sure, but that was likely why his factory was going under. Then he’d gone and taken ill. The owner’s son was a good man too, he said; normally fixed up injuries on the spot, but he’d latelybeen off in the woods chasing fairy tales for the mad king. Had she heard?
Inside, she was immediately crushed under the sound of grinding machinery and the smells of musty steam, sulfur and saltpeter. It made her head swim and did nothing for her foul mood.
Her foul mood, along with her unconventional dress and gleaming hatchet, did nothing to convince the foreman she was an expected guest. He refused to take her to David. Luckily, her raised voice roused the scribe from his perch in the foreman’s office.
“Let her up,” David called, and the foreman, crankily and with exaggerated bravado, bowed to Anya, opening an arm wide toward the steps.
David held the door open for her. The office was large and relatively quiet, allowing her at last to hear herself think. He looked presentable but worn; spent from his efforts at keeping Bertrand alive and getting them both home, she presumed. She wondered what else he had faced on his way out of the wood.
It took her a moment to notice they were not alone. Bertrand, looking quite recovered from his injury, sat on the edge of David’s desk, legs crossed and arms folded across his chest. Sabina rested in an armchair in the corner.
“Anya,” Sabina cried when she saw her, face beaming like the rising sun as she rose from her seat. She clutched Anya tightly to her chest. “Oh, Perrine will be sodelightedto know you’re alright. She’s in Preule, securing her references. We’re opening that restaurant, you know. She’s naming a dessert for you. I told her we should name therestaurantfor you after what you did.” She paused, pressing her lips together as she examined Anya’s expression. “But you didn’t come all this way to see me. Bertrand, we must go.”
“No, both of you stay,” Anya said quickly. “I have need of Sabina as well.” She hadn’t planned on running into the violet-eyed wizard on this trip, but what she needed would be easier with the two of them, and she knew Sabina would not object.
Sabina frowned, but settled back into her seat.
“I’m glad to see you’re doing…better,” David said, clearinghis throat. Anya snorted. “I assume you’ve come after the aid I promised. Let me be plain with you. My father has been ill. The Marchess Empire heard of Edgard’s gamble and is threatening war, closing off the northern trade routes. On top of that, our prize ship met a patch of foul weather off the coast. The banks have already come sniffing for blood. Flatly, Miss Degen, I’m broke.”
“I don’t need your money,” she said bluntly, feeling every moment wasted as a stab in her chest. “It’s about Sy.”
His expression darkened. Bertrand’s gaze turned to the floor.
“We already know,” Sabina provided, voice gentle. Her eyes shone. “The whole city knows; it’s quite the scandal.”
Anya frowned, baffled. “Scandal?”
“Edgard was quite furious with the master scribes and let the whole city know it. He said their tie was severed. The master scribes said it can mean only one of two things: either he died, or he cut off his hand, and would…well, be dead soon after.”
“They’re all wrong.” All eyes turned on her, expectant. She took a deep breath. “Sy turned himself into the phoenix.”
David ran a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Miss Degen, but it isn’t very funny.”
But Bertrand was frowning at her. “How did he do it? Was it the heart? The soul?”
“You can’t be serious,” said David.
“Let her speak,” Bertrand insisted.
