Page 88 of When the Sky Breaks

“Sorcha, lass—” Ansel began, but she didn’t let him finish.

“I’m pulling rank,” she said, curling up and tucking into my chest. “Go to sleep. And we’ll let this drop for the foreseeable future.”

I sighed, pulling my coat back around her and tucking her corset into my pack as she snuggled against me.

“Drop it,” I muttered in Ansel’s direction. But a quick glance once she was asleep. A couple whispered words and scrawled sentences on the back of a napkin. And we were in business. She wouldn’t be helpless. And she wouldn’t be draining her magic again any time soon, not if we had anything to do with it.

Thirty-Seven

Sorcha

Washington was hot, humid, and generally miserable. But at least the accommodations were good. Ansel had sent word ahead to three Elven brothers who did occasional intelligence work for the Outer Court. And so instead of trying to find a room or negotiating with innkeepers, we found ourselves readily welcomed into a warm, prettily furnished bookbinding and printshop.

Etienne, Claude, and Henri had been working with the Outer Court longer than I had been alive. All three had pale skin, dark hair, and light brown eyes the color of cut citrine. Etienne was the shortest by a significant margin, and Claude and Henri were nearly indistinguishable but for Claude’s seeming preference for brighter-colored suits. And they were elated to play host for the next two nights while Neal arranged transit north and rooms in New York and I got some much-needed time to sleep.

“Ansel,” Claude said when they arrived, pulling the other man into a quick embrace. “You’ve brought royalty to us!”

“Lady Sorcha!” Etienne exclaimed, dipping his head and kissing my hand. I froze.

I’d been through a lot in the last six months—accepting honors and courtesies hadn’t been part of it.

“We are so happy to have you here,” Henri said. “Let me show you upstairs. And then just let us know anything you need and we can run out to fetch it.”

I shot a glance at Neal, utterly shocked. “They want us here.”

“They work for you, love,” Neal murmured, a hand on my back as he ushered me inside.

The brothers’ storefront was relatively small, but the workshop behind and living quarters above were expansive, spanning nearly a quarter block. The entire place smelled like leather and ink and paper. I fell in love with it instantly.

And they had dogs, three of them, basset hounds with giant ears and wrinkly faces and loving eyes who took to shadowing me the moment I walked in.

“She needs new clothes,” Ansel told Etienne and Claude as we made our way through the space. “We all do. But her most of all. One dress will get us to New York and a corset better suited for this weather, linen for the dress. Please? I’m tired of this shit they pass for cotton west of the Mississippi.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Etienne assured him.

“She’s ill,” Ansel said. “Goes without saying given the baby.”

He dug in his pockets and found the list Neal had made of the food I’d had successfully kept down in the last few weeks.

“If you can manage,” Ansel said, “I’d rather she rest properly before we get on the ship up in New York.”

“It’d be an honor, Ansel,” Claude said. “We were devastated to hear about Cormac. And we’re more than happy to host his successor. Successors, I suppose.”

“Once they head to bed tonight I’ve plenty of news,” Ansel said. “Portals. Demons. Lots for you to keep an eye out for.”

“At your service as always, Ansel,” Etienne said.

“This is Etienne’s room,” Henri said when he showed us upstairs, “but it’s for you two until you leave. I’ll let you get settled. Someone will call you when dinner is ready. And if you’d like anything to read I can go down and fetch it. There’s water in the bath through there and a stove to heat it if you’d like. Just shout if you need me.”

And with that, he ducked out the door.

I looked around, taking in what was undoubtedly the nicest room I’d ever stayed in—including my own home back in Santa Fe. The walls were papered in pale blue with a faint iridescent stripe. There were thick, heavy wool rugs—clearly imported—a proper four-post bed piled with pillows, vanity with a mirror, and framed watercolor paintings on the walls—cliffs, lighthouses, one of a big English country estate.

“Neal.” My voice had a hazy quality to it and his head snapped up immediately.

“You alright?” he asked, dropping our bags and instantly bringing his hands up to cup my face.

“We’re okay?” I asked.