Chapter Thirty-One Patrick #2
At his side, Nina rubbed her arms, nodded to the stars. “That’s Neveretti’s Cross,” she said softly, in a way that drew Patrick’s attention to her lips rather than the constellations. “Do you know the story of Neveretti?”
Patrick put the cigarette between his lips. “Somethin’ tells me I’m about to.”
She rolled her eyes, and for a moment, they were back in that city courtyard, legs crossed, her explaining the world to him like the meaning of it all was obvious.
“Neveretti was a man of the sea,” she began, “and every day he stood on the shore and prayed that the waves wouldn’t flood his village.
His people watched the water come right up to the banks, then retreat, and believed Neveretti was a messenger of God.
They called him the Keeper of the Sea. Each day, Neveretti would pray for the waves to retreat, and every day they did.
He would return home to his wife, his daughter, and his bird. ”
“His bird?”
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
Despite himself, Patrick grinned. “Go on, then.”
“One day, Neveretti did not go to the shore, and he didn’t pray.”
“I’ll bet his wife was relieved,” Patrick said.
Nina smirked but otherwise ignored him. “He’d been too ill to rise from bed, and so the waves breached the banks and swept into the village.
They carried his wife, his daughter, and the caged bird out to sea.
Neveretti blamed himself and went to save them.
He was the strongest swimmer in the village, after all.
Who else would save them, if not him? He found his wife first, taking her on his back.
Then he swam further and found the bird in its cage.
“Last, he found his daughter, but when he turned around, he was too far from the shore. The weight of all he carried impeded him, and together they drowned.
“When he arrived in hell, Neveretti was confused.
He began listing all the good he had done in his life.
He told the devil that he had tried to save his wife from the water, and the Devil replied, ‘Your wife could swim.’ Next, Neveretti claimed he had tried to save his bird.
But the Devil replied, ‘The bird could fly.’ Last, Neveretti fell to his knees and cried out the name of his daughter.
‘Your daughter,’ said the Devil, ‘was already dead, and yet by trying to save her, you drowned them all.’
“In a final bid for salvation, Neveretti said, ‘I am the Keeper of the Sea, and I protected my people from the waves for as long as I could.’ But the devil shook his head and said, ‘The tide ebbs and flows without you, by the will of God, and you are no god.’ ”
Patrick watched the frost of Nina’s breath dissipate with that final sentence and waited. “Horrible bloody story,” he muttered, pulling the cigarette from his mouth again. He had yet to light it.
“My mother used to tell me that one,” Nina said conversationally. “Among others.”
Patrick saw again the noose, the lever, the woman on the platform who looked so much like the woman at his side. The laughter bubbling in his throat turned abruptly to ash. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Are you about to liken me to Neveretti?”
“Neveretti was an imbecile. I’m sure you know better than to think yourself a god.”
Patrick sighed. “There ain’t a god. Just a world full of terrible people.”
She nodded, and once she might have disparaged Patrick his lack of faith, but he believed the past months had peeled all charity from her bones. Perhaps now, she was fated to be as cynical as he was.
Lord, he hoped not.
“I’d agree with you, but I’ve found there’s still some good in it.” It was whisper-soft, and her eyes did not turn to Neveretti’s Cross or to the crumbling main street. They turned up to Patrick as though he were the map of stars.
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “A gangster?”
She shook her head, tilted it. “No, he’s just a man, I’m afraid.”
Patrick turned the cigarette over his fingers once more, then threw it to the ground, stamped it into the snow. He knew she hated the smell. “I’m not half good enough, Nina,” he said. “And if there is a hell, one day I’ll be takin’ my place in it, right beside Neveretti and his fuckin’ bird.”
Nina reached up and touched his forehead, sinking the pads of her fingers into the creases.
“Does blaming yourself for the deaths of all these Crafters help them?” she asked, and the words struck a chord in Patrick’s chest, as though she’d reached in and plucked it.
“Does it save you from all the bad you think you’ve done? ”
“I’m not lookin’ for salvation.”
“You didn’t kill the people here, Patrick. Nor the people in Kenton Hill, or Dorser, or Hesson—”
“But somethin’ could have been done. There’s always somethin’ to be done.”
“Why should it fall on you?”
“Because it has to,” Patrick answered. “He left it all up to me.”
“Who? John?”
“Yes.”
She blustered. “Your father isn’t exactly a beacon of virtue.”
“But he’s my father just the same.” Patrick said it calmly.
He didn’t expect her to understand the tangles of the Colson web, and why should she?
She’d swallowed that idium and left her own father behind.
How to explain to her that you could both love and hate a man, a place, a purpose, in equal amount?
“He left the Union in my charge, and look at what I’ve done with it.
” His hands balled, though he didn’t mean for them to.
“I fell for Tanner’s scheme. I invited Polly in, and now it’s all in pieces.
The Lords’ Army will keep on burnin’ and razin’, and there won’t be a choice but to break their strikes, give over their goods, return to the mines and factories, because there ain’t anythin’ else to turn to.
Without the Union, there’s no tip-offs, no guns, no bluff.
No way to protect themselves. That’s what I’ve done. ”
Nina looked as though she might cry, and Lord, he hated to see it. He lifted a hand to her cheek, swiped his thumb over the freckles there. “I accepted the responsibility,” he said. “So I accept the blame, too.”
Nina’s eyes blurred with tears, and she shook her head. “This is Tanner’s fault. Shop’s fault.”
“Perhaps,” Patrick allowed. “But they’re only doin’ what the powerful do when the lowly rise up. You can’t start a revolution without plannin’ for the downfall. And I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan for you.”
Her nose had turned pink from the cold, her eyelashes wet. Her chill-burned lips opened slightly. A moment of hesitation. “Am I the downfall?” she asked, and it was delicate, like she expected the answer to come out spitting, swinging at her.
He could see how easily she would take the burden from him, how she would foster blame that wasn’t hers, and fill up that hole with it. He couldn’t let her. He couldn’t stand to watch the slow collapse of her lovely face, turning in on itself, hating herself. He wouldn’t let that happen.
The blame would remain his own.
So, he scoffed. “A girl from Scurry who can’t box?” he tsked. “A pain in the arse at most.”
Her lip quirked. “Broke my thumb once,” she admitted. “Couldn’t have been older than ten.”
Patrick wasn’t surprised. He’d seen her form. She punched like she was only thinking about it. “And the victim?”
“A boy from school,” she grinned. “Arlo. Used to call me Ninny Nina.”
Patrick whistled. “Deserved. A no-good villain.”
“He put ants in my hair, too,” she recalled.
“Ah, probably he was in love.”
She scowled at Patrick. “He had a funny way of showing it.”
“Most of us do.” He considered her for a moment, then stood. “Get up.”
She looked up from her frozen position on the bench. “Why?”
Patrick took off his coat and cap. “So you can learn to throw a punch like you mean it.”
She frowned. “You want me to punch you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like it wouldn’t bring you a little satisfaction.”
“I don’t think it would,” she mused. “In fact, you might be the only person I don’t want to punch.”
“That’s just my charm distractin’ you,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her upright. “Didn’t have no problems throwin’ fists at me in Kenton. Put ’em up.”
She looked a little incredulous. Her eyes glanced over his shoulders. “You’ll freeze.”
“That’s the first rule in a fight,” he said. “Don’t freeze.”
She let out a sigh and shook off her coat, as he had, shivering. For once, her hair wasn’t pinned back. It lay loose around her collar.
She looked painfully beautiful this way: pink-nosed, curls wild, her borrowed blouse too big for her, slipping down slightly over one shoulder. She pushed the sleeve up.
“Widen your stance,” Patrick said. “One foot in front, one behind.”
She lifted her skirt to see her boots, then planted her feet.
“Dukes up, in front of your chin.”
She held limp fists close to her face, elbows tucked tightly into her body.
“Lord almighty,” he said, and he took one of her fists in his grasp and pried the fingers back. He pulled her thumb free, touched each delicate knuckle. “Never tuck your thumb, Nina. No wonder you broke it.”
“Hurt like hell,” she recalled, looking at his fingers too long. Swallowing. Without exception, being this close to her invaded his senses, tripped his self-control. He backed away. “Did you leave a bruise, at least?”
“Not even a shadow.”
Patrick groaned. “It’s a miracle you made it out alive.”
“I can land a fair kick,” she grinned. “Kick a boy in the groin and you don’t need fists.” Her eyes traveled south, below his belt.
He resisted the urge to wince. “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Though I’ll warn you. Try and sneak one in, and I’ll pin you down.”
Her eyes flared.
Damn it. Where was that line he’d drawn?
Patrick held his hands up, swallowing the rush of desire that had pooled in his mouth. “Give it all you’ve got.”
She breathed, then reeled back and threw a fist into his waiting palm. It wasn’t so terrible. But he was a man of very little discipline, apparently, so he rolled his eyes and said, “A wet fish would slap harder.”