Page 113 of When the Sky Breaks

I pulled her close, her head on my shoulder, barely moving in time to the band any longer. Just feeling her breathe against me. The song drew to a close and Sorcha excused herself for the bathroom. I went back to my seat beside Ansel. I searched the crowd for Guinevere. But didn’t see her.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“That man, in the print tuxedo?” Ansel said. “Is investing in banana farms.”

“That’s terrible gossip,” I replied.

“Where’s Sorcha?” Ansel asked.

“Likely vomiting,” I replied. “I don’t know that dancing was the wisest idea. I’ll go check on her in a minute.”

“Her kissing you like that certainly wasn’t the wisest idea,” Ansel muttered.

I just shrugged. “We could’ve skipped the party and gone to look for whales. You’re the one who insisted.”

“Fair enough,” Ansel said.

“You sent word on to Liverpool? For temporary lodging? Transport up to Edinburgh?” I asked. “I don’t think Sorcha will take kindly to another chaotic transition.”

“I wrote ahead,” Ansel said. “Told them any preferences I could get her to put in writing while we were in New York. No balls planned that I know of. No suitors lurking. Iksura is being oddly well behaved since the spider incident in Washington. It should be an easy trip. We can stay in Edinburgh as long as she wants, or head straight up to Islay. Archivists have already worked out a way to get documents back and forth fast enough to run the Court smoothly from the island. We can dig into the portal investigation properly then too. I already have field researchers out seeing what they can find.”

“Cormac should have moved the Court back decades ago,” I muttered.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Ansel agreed.

I went to reply, but something was caught on my pant leg. Pulling. I glanced down and saw an enormous cat gripping my ankle, claws extended. The cat meowed loudly—its tone demanding, insistent.

“Do you think . . .” Ansel began, but I was already moving.

“She sent them,” I said immediately, glancing up and seeing two more cats winding their way through the ballroom, eyes locked on the two of us. “Come on!”

Forty-Nine

Sorcha

Istood at the basin in the women’s water closet, blood flowing from three open cuts on my face. Two of my cats lounged on the counter. The others had disappeared moments before, off to fetch Neal and Ansel for backup.

Lady Guinevere Marchmont lay sprawled in the corner, conscious but stunned, dabbing a cut on her own lip with a handkerchief.

She’d burst in moments before—screaming something about the failure of morality in Elven youth—then struck me hard across the face with her pearl-encrusted handbag. And, to Guinevere’s shock and horror, I’d hit her back. Closed fist, steady wrist, feet planted. Just like Neal taught me back on the Rio Grande.

Guinevere hit the ground hard and had refused to get up since.

“You struck me,” Guinevere shrieked.

“You hit me first,” I said bluntly. “You used a weapon.”

“But you used your fists,” Guinevere exclaimed, “like a . . . like a man!”

“I’m from the mountains, Lady Marchmont,” I replied blithely. “My striking you like a man should be the least of your concerns.”

“You common whore!” Guinevere snapped. “You steal my husband. You cheat! And then you hit me!”

“I didn’t take your husband,” I replied, “and I’m not being unfaithful. And, Lady Guinevere? Need I remind you? I had just been ill. I was washing my hands. You came in. Started shouting. And then struck me with your handbag. I hardly think I’m the aggressive party here.”

“But you kissed him!” Guinevere shrieked.

I was about to reply when the door slammed open, letting in three of the ship’s cats followed closely by Neal and Ansel.