Page 96 of When the Sky Breaks

“No,” I replied. “Anything interesting.”

“There’s four or five issues with faeries and cryptids that need handling,” Ansel said. “I’ll get telegrams out and have it dealt with. There’s another two dozen portal sightings recorded. I’ve started keeping an index. I also put out word about the cult connection. Nothing on that yet. No direct threats from Iksura here yet. But I’m sure they’re coming. But in the meantime? You’ve got appointments.”

“Appointments?” I asked.

“Three,” Ansel replied. “Meeting with the Ironmoot. Something about mining rights and peryton out in California. Some kind of social call with an Inner Court expat noblewoman. And then a ball.”

“We are not going to a ball.”

“But I think you’ll find that’s not an option, lass,” Ansel said.

“I thought I was in charge?” I countered.

“Unfortunately part of being in charge is honoring your constituents’ feelings,” Ansel said, “and rejecting a ball invitation wouldn’t be very diplomatic.”

“Fine,” I agreed through gritted teeth, “I’ll find a dress at my appointment today.”

“Oh good, someone’s already scheduled that?” Ansel asked.

I had forgotten that I actually liked going to the dressmaker. And now as a grown adult without my father or Nokona giving commentary? It was even better.

Ansel was vague about our accommodations on the ship. Simply saying the rooms were “nice.” Which—knowing Ansel—could mean anything from the better part of steerage to the penthouse. Neal was trying to track down ticket details. But had so far been unsuccessful.

So I wanted to have my bases covered.

The dressmaker and her two apprentices were sweet, attentive, and not at all fazed when I repeatedly excused myself to be sick in the alley behind the shop. And best of all they were genuinely good at their work, suggesting colors, cuts, and materials with an eye for both function and aesthetic.

I settled on two linen day dresses and two wool in simple, practical cuts but expensive fabric, three tea gowns—I was almost positive there’d be a point where those were the only thing that would fit with my belly—a few nightgowns and a new robe, two new corsets—finally getting my hands on the silk and net that Ansel had promised back when he’d destroyed mine in the Texas desert—a dozen chemises, a dozen stockings, a couple hats, since only one worn wool-felt bonnet had survived our trip across the desert, a dinner dress with one modest and tasteful bodice for normal nights, and another cut low off my shoulders and trimmed in beetle-wing sequins—since Ansel insisted on a ball.

All of it made to measure, cut carefully to accommodate my belly and all the growing it had yet to do.

Neal was waiting when I got back to the house—with news.

“So about those cabins Ansel booked for our trip to Liverpool,” he said the second I got through the front door.

“What about them?”

“What exactly did you buy at the dressmaker?” Neal asked by way of reply.

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because apparently we’re in the room next door to some French marquis,” Neal said.

“I repeat . . . why?” I asked.

“Because Ansel, his words not mine, feels bad about all the awful places we’ve slept the last few months and wanted to make it up to us,” Neal said.

“That’s fine, I guess,” I said. “I need to be on Wall Street for that meeting with the Ironmoot in an hour. Ansel’s gonna take me. I’m not going back and buying another silk dress that I won’t use. But I do need to change. Just can you make sure everything is actually settled for these tickets? I don’t think I can take another logistical disaster at this point. And then make sure they make dinner I can actually eat. Please?”

“Sorcha, love,” Neal said, smiling, “you’re literally asking me to do the tasks I trained for as a Steward. I promise you it will be fine.”

Forty

Sorcha

Isat down at the conference table across from four short, bearded, well-dressed men, representatives from an Ironmoot mining consortium with a peryton infestation that needed dealing with.

“We have a good reference for you from Andrew Merrick,” said one of them—Albert Caldwell—black hair and beard, fair skin, blue eyes, marginally older than the others.