Page 54 of When the Sky Breaks

After a night of chaos, the serene, polished tranquility of the steamboat’s first-class lounge came as a shock. The salon was painted a pale seafoam green, and a long mahogany bar ran along one side with tables and upholstered chairs clustered throughout the navy-carpeted space. Three walls were solid windows, looking out on the harbor a few decks below. The salon wasn’t busy, but passengers were filtering in as they boarded the ship. Ansel flagged down a waiter and got us a table by the window, as near the center of the ship as possible, likely hoping it would mitigate any potential seasickness for Sorcha.

“Can we please just go to bed?” Sorcha asked as I pulled out her chair. Sweat beaded on her brow and her skin was waxy pale but for a flush creeping up her neck beneath the semi-sheer linen of her kerchief. She was clearly too hot, too tired, and fighting back nausea. She tugged at her collar like her dress was trying to strangle her. It fit—mostly—but clearly wasn’t comfortable in the oppressive humidity.

“You need to eat,” I reminded her again. “And you like tea. You’ve always liked tea.”

“If you don’t get something down you’ll just be vomiting bile later,” Ansel said absently, watching out the window.

I glared. “That’s not helpful.”

Sorcha took a deep breath and got to her feet. “Fine. But I need a bathroom. Get me something. And if I throw it up, I’m blaming you.”

“It’s his baby, so it would technically be his fault,” Ansel put in.

“Still not helpful,” I protested, getting up myself and making to follow after Sorcha.

She turned, put her hands on my chest, and stopped me.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she repeated, articulating each word slowly and deliberately, “which means you don’t get to come. We’re in polite company now. Remember?”

I huffed, but she wasn’t wrong. So I conceded and sat back down.

“Ansel?” An unfamiliar voice came from over my shoulder. “Is that Ansel O’Faelan?”

Ansel’s face registered confusion for a split second, and then was quickly replaced by cheerful recognition.

“Vermont in ’43!” Ansel said, getting up and walking over to the stranger. “That awful business with a bigfoot up in the Green Mountains!”

The newcomer was middle aged, with brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Not an Elf then. He wore a light wool-tweed suit that looked expensive, if understated. And he was, apparently, in on Ansel’s supernatural dealings.

“Andrew Merrick,” Ansel said, gesturing in the stranger’s direction, “this is Neal MacCairn. Associate of mine. His wife Sorcha will be along shortly. Join us, Andrew, please.”

“You work with the Courts as well, Neal?” Andrew asked as he took a seat and opened the menu.

“I do.”

“I’m a mining man myself,” Andrew said casually, flagging down the waiter. “Looking for copper deposits to see if we can get some money out of this blasted desert.”

“That’s how he and I met,” Ansel said. “I was up dealing with the bigfoot incident. He was in the mountains looking for ore.”

I could hardly disguise my relief when Sorcha returned to the table.

“Who’s this?” she asked, sitting down and clearly trying to look like she wasn’t about to vomit.

“Andrew Merrick, an old friend of Ansel’s,” he introduced himself.

“Sorcha Wilson MacCairn,” she replied, taking the cup of tea that I handed her and slouching back in her seat as much as the new dress would let her.

“Oh,” Andrew looked startled, “you didn’t tell me she was . . .”

Andrew gave Ansel a knowing look.

“Cormac’s daughter,” Sorcha supplied.

“She took over the Outer Court,” Ansel filled in the blank, “which we are in the process of relocating back to civilization, in hopes of improving efficiency and resiliency. Very modern.”

Andrew leaned in and spoke softly when he continued. “And so you all are investigating the portals?” he asked.

“How do you know about the portals?” Sorcha countered.