“That’s very fortunate.”
Wister nodded. They sat in silence for a time, and I sensed that something had shifted between them. Clementine wasn’t forthcoming, not yet, but Wister had won her confidence. When the time came, and Wister reached out her hand, Clementine would take it.
Sam: The Suit
As is proper, this volume dedicates a greater portion (chapters 1–3) to footwear, which is the most important element of the enchanter’s armor. Footwear must be quite heavy, but not so heavy as to make movement impossible. It must fit snugly on the foot. And it must, if possible, be resistant to rust.
—Ernest L. Throckmorton,Armor in the Realm
Friday, September 14, 1888
Clementine walked home at the end of the day, as dusk was falling, with new books in her satchel. The weather had grown cool and rainy; Clem was protected by a hooded cloak, but the pattering of the rain had cleared the streets. As she walked along a stretch of Derby Street that was normally quite busy, she found herself alone.
I saw the stones before she did. I had not imagined that they would return again so soon, but there they were: pursuing her quite openly, their clattering inaudible in the falling rain. Why wasn’t she wearing the armor? I felt a burst of despair. Wasn’t that the entire purpose? A dozen pieces of tempered steel were sitting uselessly in the Oliver Street apartment in a sack, when they should have been encasing her person! And I was equally useless. How I longed to be there, beside Clem, where I could do something to aid her.
Clem must have felt my longing and despair, for she stopped in her tracks. “What is it?” she whispered. The stones tumbled along some twenty feet behind Clementine, skipping over one another as if engaged in a clumsy, halting race. I pressed a sense of urgency upon her and she stopped in her tracks. “I’m ready,” she said quietly.
Derby Street was littered with debris, as it often was at dusk; in the early morning, street sweeps and scavengers would clear it all away. A split coach wheel, a broken lobster trap, and a pile of crushed bottles lay a few feet away in the road. Stepping quickly toward them, Clem seized the broken lobster trap: a broad, basketlike contraption shaped like a doughnut. She turned and faced the stones head-on with the trap lifted before her. This time, the stones made no attempt to shape themselves or speak. Rising slowly, they hovered in the air like fat hornets, hesitantly dodging up and down and past one another before hurling themselves toward her.“Morder,”Clem shouted over the pelting rain. The trap leaped away from her, the broken splints of wood flapping madly like long, sharp teeth. It lunged at the stones and snapped them up hungrily. Its job was made easier by how the stones did not manage to fly all at once, some of them pausing indecisively in the air while others launched. The trap swallowed them one by one, meeting them closer and closer to their point of origin, until they all lay inside its woven belly, rattling angrily.
It seemed too easy. Were there more? Was something else lurking in the side streets? I saw nothing to suggest it. All was quiet.
Clem stood in the pouring rain, watching. The trap clattered to the ground. In the tea shop nearby, a serving woman stood at the window, staring at Clementine. I sent her a brief sense of ease, a certainty that nothing at all was wrong. The woman blinked, wiping her hands on her apron, before turning away. Clementine kicked the trap experimentally with her foot. The stones were inert now, only wet and heavy inside the lobster trap.
How many more times? How many more times would she be able to elude them? I could not sit by like this. I needed to be there with her, or the next time I saw her, it would be as a spirit, in the realm. I could not bear the thought.
I am not sure what emotion I conveyed to Clem with my agitation, but it must have been arresting, because she stood still in the pouring rain, staring into the distance. “I understand,” she said quietly. She clenched her fists for a moment. “I wish you were here, too. Truly.”
Then she hurried home in the rain.
Rosie was waiting for her at the doorway, an anxious look upon her face. “Clem?”
“What’s wrong, Rosie?”
Rosie’s hands fluttered before her, clasping and unclasping. “I came down, just a while ago…” She put a trembling hand on her heart.
Clem had reached her now, and she seized the hand that quivered anxiously before her. “Tell me. What is it?”
“Through the window, Clem.” Her voice shook; her eyes brimmed with tears. “I could have sworn I saw him. It was Father. I’m sure of it.” She shook her head. “But when I came down, something told me to wait.”
Clem put her arm around Rosie’s waist. “Come upstairs with me, dearest. It wasn’t Father you saw on the street. I promise you that.” She steered her through the door and shut it firmly behind them. “It must have been someone very like him. We know Father is gone.”
Rosie wiped her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I know. He was just so like him.”
“I’m glad you didn’t go out.”
Rosie nodded, seeming somewhat more composed. “It was so strange, the strong feeling that came upon me. As though I just didn’t want to budge from the doorstep. I wanted so desperately to go back inside.”
“I know. I sometimes have them, too. Strong impulses that seem to come from someone else.” She led Rosie to one of the yellow chairs.
“You’ve felt that as well?” Rosie blinked. “Do you suppose it’s Father?”
“I’m not sure,” Clem said carefully. “Often the sentiments are contrary to my own. Has it happened before?”
“Not like this,” Rosie said.
“But in other ways?”
Rosie pondered for a moment. “Often when I’m feeling a little sad, I’ll suddenly feel comforted, and it’s just like when Father would put his arms around me and say, ‘Tranquila, pequeña.’?” Her voice was wistful.
