Page 121 of When the Sky Breaks

“One day,” Sorcha agreed. “But not soon.”

A long moment passed in silence as she twined her fingers with mine again.

“Take me to bed?” Sorcha asked. “Hold me till I sleep?”

“All the way until morning,” I promised, kissing her forehead.

Fifty-Four

Sorcha

Istuffed the five black, rune-etched daggers in the bottom of my carpetbag, already considering potential explanations if someone decided to search our things and stumbled upon the magic weapons. We were reasonably certain the knives would work the same as the original Ironmoot-made pistol. A few local Ironmoot had consulted, agreed. But the blades hadn’t been tested. And the original Ironmoot smith who’d forged the gun was now apparently up in Rupert’s Territory on a mining expedition. It’d take months to get final confirmation. And Ansel was hesitant about concealing one of the guns, too concerned about confiscation risk to even make an attempt.

“I’d still prefer if I went with you two,” Neal said, scowling as he leaned against the parlor wall.

“And I’m still happier we have someone on the outside,” Ansel countered.

“Two pigeons a day,” I said. “You get two pigeons a day. That’s plenty of updates.”

“We’re positive that much magic isn’t going to strain you too much?” Neal asked.

“You insult me,” I said, clasping my bag. “They are pigeons, Neal. Pigeons.”

“And we miss two in a row?” Ansel added. “You come get her back by any means necessary. Burn the whole city down if you have to. Subtlety is done at that point.”

Neal’s hand twitched to the pistol holstered at his side. “That part I’m more comfortable with.”

“We’ll be safe,” Ansel said. “Safe as we can anyways.”

“And your trigger to call it and come home?” Neal prompted.

“Ansel starts feeling any symptoms,” I replied. “Or if I start bleeding from the eyes or ears. Or if I experience severe enough paresthesia I can’t reliably hold a pen.”

“Still think that’s too high a threshold,” Neal muttered.

“I think your wife vomited blood from five minutes of portal exposure,” Ansel said. “So we need something worse than that or we won’t learn anything.”

“What brings you two to our little community?” the black-haired, mustached man asked, sitting across from us in the dimly lit parlor.

The mansion certainly wasn’t as obviously occult as the club back in New Orleans. It had normal furnishings, if a bit dingy. The walls were almost aggressively whitewashed, like they were trying to keep it sterile, but the smell was off—a touch of iron, a hint too sweet, something almost sulfuric. Wrong.

“My daughter’s worried she’ll lose the babe,” Ansel said immediately. “We heard you can help.”

“We certainly can,” the man replied. “My name is George Collard. You two?”

“Albert and Sally Mansard,” Ansel replied, shaking hands.

“There’s a small introductory fee. Then monthly dues. And we do ask that you stay here at the house with us,” George said, shuffling through a stack of papers on the table beside him. “Will that be an issue?”

“Money is no object,” Ansel said. “I own a couple of linen mills out in the country. Still doing well.”

“Good to hear,” George said, handing over a stack of forms. “And I do have to ask. Where’s the girl’s husband?”

“Sally may have made some unmentionable decisions. No husband,” Ansel said.

“But the child’s father?” George pressed.

“Unfortunately taken to drinking,” Ansel replied automatically. “I’ll look after her and the babe. She hasn’t seen the father in months.”