Page 78 of When the Sky Breaks

“In what world would that be out of character for her?” Sorcha replied.

Ansel continued, “Fourteenth century, back before I was born, Iksura noticed that Elven influence was waning. More and more countries were converting to Christianity and throwing off the old gods—which meant Elven legends were getting less time and attention. Elven pregnancies were getting progressively more dangerous—with your wife as our lovely case in point as to how that’s progressed—which meant fewer babies. Iksura wanted the populace to trust her, to trust the old ways. Meanwhile the Ironmoot were thriving as the economy depended more and more on trade and mining. So she villainized them, decided that if she could give the Elves a common enemy, then maybe they’d rally. Return to their former glory. She started blaming tragedies on the Ironmoot without evidence—hundreds of unfounded claims published like truth. There were dissenters. Your great-granduncle—who held the Outer Court seat then—was one of them. But slowly the dissenters disappeared, died, were mysteriously killed by Ironmoot factions—despite not a single documented incident of violence prior. And eventually, her story won.”

“So this entire feud was about what? Public opinion?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yep,” Sorcha agreed. “Didn’t they teach you that when you were learning about Stewarding?”

I shrugged, then asked, “So I spent the last hundred-plus years of my life being an utter ass to Ironmoot for literally no reason?”

“No, you spent the last hundred plus years of your life being an utter ass to Ironmoot to boost Iksura’s reputation,” Sorcha clarified, “which really does not go along with our whole goal as a group right now. So you may want to make a quick adjustment.”

“Another damn power grab,” I muttered, slouching in my seat.

“What else is new?” Ansel replied glibly.

“Well now that it’s settled,” Sorcha continued, “I will note down the date and time that I knew something about Elven history that you didn’t, and then I’m going to go back to trying to translate our demon book.”

A gasp came from the seat behind them. And then an older, female voice, “Did they just say something about demon books?”

“It’s on Tasmanian devils of course,” Ansel shouted vaguely in the direction of the startled passengers, “since young Sorcha has taken such an interest in biology. What is it you were saying about marsupial carnivores?”

He shot me and Sorcha a wink, and she suppressed a chuckle.

After weeks fighting for our lives and sanity on the road, I had assumed the six days of rail travel would be relaxing, a reprieve. I didn’t expect boredom to generate its own anxiety.

Sorcha was busy with her book and napping often. Ansel was happy disturbing the other passengers with small talk they definitely didn’t ask for. I was just … restless.

I’d taken to noting down when and how long Sorcha slept, what she ate and drank, if and how soon after she threw it up. I needed something, anything, to keep my mind off the monotony.

After a quick stop to refuel, Ansel dumped a pile of books on our table.

“We’re getting antsy,” he said.

“So you robbed a library?” Sorcha asked in reply, starting to sift through the stack of paperbacks.

“I grabbed a dozen books from the penny bin at a thrift store,” Ansel clarified. “Some of them are bound to be decent.”

“Ansel, this is a romance novel,” Sorcha said, pushing one of the books in his direction. “And this one is in Portuguese. Do you speak Portuguese?”

“No,” Ansel admitted, “but what better opportunity to learn?”

Ansel’s fascination with the books lasted all of fourteen hours. He skimmed the romance novel—I tried to tease him for it but found Ansel’s unending self-confidence made that near impossible—then flipped through a book on train engineering and another that seemed to be about canning fruit. And then he was back to incessant small talk.

Sorcha had taken Ansel’s suggestion of learning Portuguese seriously and was immersed in what seemed to be a book about agricultural methods from southern Brazil. She had a few other texts spread out in front of her—one in Spanish, one the old Cajun French journal from Father Andrew, and the Vulgate Psalms and Proverbs she always kept in her pocket—that she was using to cross-reference for words she couldn’t place. I attempted to read, remembered I generally wasn’t a book person, and remained bored out of my mind.

Ansel returned to our seats late one evening, beaming ear to ear.

“See him?” Ansel asked, pointing down the aisle to an older, clean-shaven man in an expensive black suit with a heavily padlocked crate in the seat beside him. “Fascinating. Utterly insufferable.”

“Oh?” Sorcha looked up from her books.

“Antique dealer,” Ansel said. “Found some ancient and glorious urn in a back-alley thrift store in New Orleans. He’s trying to sell it for over a thousand.”

“And you care, why?” Sorcha asked, disappointment and disinterest clouding her features instantly.

“Because nothing is actively trying to kill us and I have to stay sharp,” Ansel muttered in response.

We stopped in Richmond and went to disembark in search of food and somewhere to wash our faces before boarding again in a few hours. Sorcha was lagging. The train didn’t upset her stomach as badly as the boat. But she’d also been sleeping sitting up for four days now and I could tell—from the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself—that her back and hips were bad, that the nausea was getting harder to cope with. I helped her off the train and onto the platform and watched a panicked look briefly cross her face before she vomited directly onto the polished shoes of a porter loading luggage in front of us.