Page 77 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Just let me take care of you for once,” Sorcha mumbled into my chest. “You like this. Admit it.”

“I like having you here in my arms,” I agreed, hugging her closer. “That’s certainly true.”

She took one of my hands and pressed it gently to her belly. “We’re both fine. Promise.”

Ansel arrived not ten minutes later, dusting himself off and hanging up his coat with a satisfied expression.

“What do we have here?” he asked.

“Neal had a nightmare,” Sorcha said, picking her head up.

“I thought you were asleep?” I muttered.

“Oh how sickeningly domestic.” Ansel chuckled as he settled in the armchair across from us.

“Shut up,” Sorcha muttered, pressing her face back into my chest. “I’m being supportive.”

“Right.” Ansel smirked. “We’ll go with that.”

Thirty-Two

Neal

It would take four train changes to make it from New Orleans to New York City. But the tickets were booked, the porters had our luggage, and things were—for once—going smoothly. The first few hours were a welcome respite. Ansel talked loudly and enthusiastically about uncomfortable topics any time another passenger got too close. I managed to situate Sorcha such that most of the other passengers wouldn’t notice her belly and such that she had easy access to a basin to vomit in when her pregnancy symptoms inevitably reared their head.

We were six hours out of New Orleans now, and my mind wandered as I traced a thumb absently over Sorcha’s knuckles and watched the monotonous landscape outside the window.

Then, as though my subconscious had been storing up the thought for a moment of peace, I remembered Andrew Merrick. Ironmoot. Supposedly the sworn enemy of the Elves. But friends with Ansel, willing to wake in the middle of the night to find hot water and help me break Sorcha’s fever. It didn’t add up.

Sorcha was awake. Ansel wasn’t currently actively terrorizing any of the other passengers with uncomfortable anecdotes. Now was as good a time as any to bring it up.

“So Andrew Merrick,” I said, deciding to just be blunt. If they chided me for ignorance, or inversely decided I was a traitor, best to get it over with. “Not what I was taught to expect from an Ironmoot.”

Ansel snorted then replied, “Yeah because you trained in Europe and read all the Inner Court–sanctioned histories.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“You know the feud is propaganda, right?” Ansel prompted.

I shook my head.

“You didn’t know?” Sorcha asked. She almost sounded proud of herself.

“I always thought . . .” I trailed off.

“Wait no,” Sorcha cut in, “I knew something about Elf politics that you didn’t?”

She was almost squealing now.

“Okay, so—enlighten me, you two—what actually happened?”

Sorcha leaned back, looking pleased with herself and nodded to Ansel.

“The short version?” Ansel began. “Iksura has always seen the Ironmoot as a threat. Long lived. Highly intelligent. They’re too much like us while simultaneously being culturally opposed. Elves stand for tradition, honor, spirituality, and naturalism. Meanwhile the Ironmoot have always valued effort, productivity, pragmatism. And they brought out something hostile and competitive in her.”

“And so she just lied about them? Told everyone they committed atrocities?” I asked.