Chapter Twenty-Six Patrick #3
“Wishes?” Theo asked incredulously. Patrick imagined that Artisan children never heard that part of the tale.
Never snapped a chicken bone at midnight.
Never blew a strand of hair into the water the way Crafters did at the beginning of spring.
“That sounds like a nursery story. But there are actual written accounts of witnesses who were there the day Idia threw herself onto enemy battlements. There was a bright white light, an explosion, and the other side was slain immediately. Her blood seeped into the ground that day.”
Patrick didn’t like the tone of his voice. His foolish certainty.
“It is quite far-fetching, this war story,” murmured Tamir.
“Not as far-fetched as the idea that God had three daughters, two of which have never been accounted for,” Theo countered.
Patrick spared him no more of his attention. He instead focused on Nina, who looked as though she were reaching into the trenches of her mind to bring forth something forgotten.
And did Patrick imagine it, or were the corners of her mouth extending? Her cheeks, too, grew rosy and full by the light of the candles. She touched the Stewards’ book with the tips of her fingers, mesmerized.
Theo sighed heavily and shook his head. He was a swank, born to the stories of the Artisans.
But Nina and Patrick? They were born in the brink, where the legends wound so deeply into marrow, they were reborn in the chests of children.
Towns with no archives, no written records, just skeletons full of stories.
Lord, how he’d love to bend Theo’s neck and make him see the tethers he and Nina were made of. See? he’d say. She and I, we’re just the same.
“How long will it take to translate the rest?” Patrick asked.
Polly was passing the pages of the book over the pad of her thumb, the weight of this remit already descending upon her. She looked up warily. “A while,” she said. “Several weeks, most likely.”
Patrick and his father shared a look. It was far longer than they’d bargained for—enough time for something to go wrong.
“When I’m standing on a pier in Hoaklin with a ticket in my hand, you’ll have your translations,” Polly said. “Not before.”
Patrick felt a familiar exhaustion wrap around his spine. He stood. “You ever hear of a miner’s shiver, Pol?” he asked her darkly.
She hesitated. Shook her head slowly.
“It’s a bad omen. An instinct, if you like.
Some miners get it right before a tunnel collapse.
It starts in the middle of your back, works its way to your skull.
We learn to trust that shiver. Sometimes it’s the only warnin’ we get that it’s all about to fold in.
” Patrick put his hands on the table and leaned in, until Polly had no choice but to meet his eye.
“You’ll have your ticket out of the Trench,” he told her.
“But if I feel that shiver, Pol, you won’t see me comin’.
There’s a bullet in my pocket with your name etched on its side. ”
He watched a familiar fear gloss her eyes, her lip tremble, but she nodded.
Patrick stood upright. “Get your things,” he said to the rest. “We leave before dawn.”
“Leave for where?” Theo asked.
“Home.”
But John grunted his reproach. “Might as well make our way to Hoaklin,” he said. “We’ll need to make arrangements there if the Scribbler is to set sail.”
“We need to return home,” Patrick repeated. With each passing hour, he felt his skeleton rearing forward, as though it would wrench itself outside his body and retreat to Kenton without him. He turned to his father. “Especially you.”
Time for John Colson to take back his seat at the table. For the rungs of Patrick’s life to fall back in order.
John leveled him with a glare. “Ain’t nothin’ I want more,” he said. “But I’ll be in hell before I let the likes of these swanks waltz back into my parish.”
In a former life, Patrick would have shrugged, sighed, and heeded his father’s wishes. But not anymore. There were problems awaiting them both, no matter who was chairman.
“We’re going home,” he argued. “There’re damages and broken trade arrangements—”
“And no bluff to trade with,” John reminded him. “Unless we find the means to make it.”
Patrick gritted his teeth.
“We’ll have the Scribbler write home to Kenton,” John said now. “Tell ’em we’re still standin’. Tell ’em we’re on business so they don’t worry.”
But Patrick worried. It was like a bolt slowly threading into his skull.
Despite it, he nodded. He would bide his time.
To Polly, he said, “Best you use a different hand for that scribble, so they don’t know it’s you sendin’ it.”
Polly nodded once, her eyes empty.
“Tamir,” Patrick said, “we can send word to Kenton Hill that you’re comin’. They’ll give you a place to sleep.”
Tamir nodded dolefully, touching the wallpaper of his brothel as though he were saying goodbye to an old friend.
“Teddy,” Patrick said next. “Do the honorable thing and be on your way.”
Theodore glared back at him. At least he was man enough to do that. “I’m afraid my honor compels me to stay, in case I need to fish Polly from a canal.”
Polly gave him a weak nod of gratitude.
Nina simply stared down at the Stewards’ book.
Patrick wished that she’d say the words and send Theo on his way, save both men from the contest that would soon come.
But she didn’t.
And Theo stayed.