Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FITZ
The cold seeped into Fitz’s bones as he wandered, making his movements more and more sluggish the further he went. His thoughts and emotions were a confused jumble, tumbling over themselves and changing from one moment to the next.
He was angry at Darby, and he was angry at himself for being angry.
She was just trying to help. It’s what she does.
But what’s the point of being alive if I can no longer serve a purpose? She re-made me, but for what?
He was a soldier without orders, a ship lost at sea. The life he had known before was no longer a possibility. The discharge papers were probably already on their way from the capital. Even if he exposed Darby’s secret, the likelihood of him being accepted again as an officer were slim at best.
You wouldn’t have been able to serve if you had died, he argued with himself.
No, but I wouldn’t have had to live through it, either.
A crack of thunder shook the sky overhead, and tiny raindrops began to pelt his face.
Fitz looked up to find himself on an unfamiliar street.
The buildings were small and crowded together, and trash littered the sides of the road.
Despite the rather bleak surroundings, the warm glow of firelight shone out from the dull, dirty windows, and he could hear the sound of music and singing from down the street.
He turned to go just as the skies opened, dropping a deluge of water.
“Hey! You there!”
A deep, grizzled voice called from the building to his left. A man with a dark, unkempt beard stood in an open doorway, beckoning him in. “Come in before you catch your death of a cold.”
He wasted a moment in indecision.
He has no idea what he’s inviting in. He’s just as likely to throw me back out here.
“Come on, son. Miss Shelton will kill me if I let you die after all the effort she’s put into you.”
It was the mention of Darby that had his feet moving in the man’s direction.
By the time he slowly climbed the front steps, Fitz was soaked to the skin and his bones ached with cold.
The man shut the door behind him. “Go sit in front of the fireplace while I look for something dry. Don’t worry about getting the furniture wet; Deus knows it’s already seen better days. ”
Fitz looked around the small room in a daze while he followed directions and planted himself in a chair before the fire.
Everything around him was a hodgepodge of colors and styles, the only unifying theme in the furniture or decor was that nothing matched.
The chair he occupied was a deep burgundy color, though the seat and arms were faded to a threadbare pink.
A rocking chair with thin spindles in the back and arms sat across from him, and a long, green couch beside it.
Quilted blankets and pillows appeared to be trying to make up for the lack of fluff in any of the cushions, and a braided rug on the floor formed tight spirals of brown and white.
There was a kitchen somewhere—he could smell something savory and delicious in the air—but it must have been through one of the narrow doorways that broke up the dark wood of the walls.
The crackling fire was warm and comforting, and Fitz was beginning to thaw out by the time the man returned with an armful of fabric.
Though his beard and hair were only beginning to show streaks of gray, there were deep lines in his weathered face, and his eyes held hints of a darkness that Fitz had seen many times before in some of the older officers.
“Here.” The man shoved the fabric at him. “You can use the back room to change, if you like. Name’s Robertson, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Fitz took the clothes gratefully and stood. His joints were stiff with the cold and wet, and the metal in his knees creaked loudly. He froze.
Robertson had moved behind him and was throwing closed a set of blue flowered curtains. “If you need help, let me know. I’m sure those new limbs take some getting used to.”
“How…” Fitz’s voice cracked. “How do you know about that?”
“Clerval thought that I might be able to help you.”
“Why?”
Without being asked, Robertson crossed the small space and stopped in front of Fitz.
His leathery hands started undoing the buttons from the wet wool.
His movements were brisk and efficient, as if helping a fellow soldier undress were just a normal part of his day.
“What do you know about the Battle of Wollstone?”
“Wollstone?” Fitz narrowed his eyes in concentration as Robertson slipped the heavy coat off his shoulders and tossed it over the back of the couch.
“Wasn’t that the one where they tried to use hot air balloons?
Wait.” His eyes widened, and he looked at the man in front of him in an entirely new light. “Robertson? Are you that Robertson?”
A slight tic of the man’s jaw was all the confirmation he gave. He started working on the buttons of Fitz’s shirt.
“But…you went down behind enemy lines. You were declared a casualty.”
“I did go down,” Robertson finally answered, his voice even and unemotional. “But I didn’t die.”
He peeled the shirt off Fitz’s torso, pulling the gloves off with it.
He let out a low whistle at the shiny metal plates that were now fully revealed in the firelight.
“That girl outdid herself. I’ve seen stitches before that weren’t this clean, and she was combining two completely different materials. ”
Fitz curled his shoulders, crossing his arms self-consciously in front of him. “She made me into some kind of freak. A monster.”
Robertson held up the dry shirt and motioned for Fitz to slip his arms into the sleeves.
“Let me tell you something, boy. I have seen my share of monsters.” Dark shadows passed behind his eyes, and his voice turned brittle.
“The thing that makes them truly frightening is that they almost always look like any other man.”
Fitz waved Robertson’s hands away, pride demanding that he at least try to fasten the buttons on his own now that the fingers of his right hand were free of the glove.
“But surely you see what I am now. There is nothing natural about any of this; I will never be free from the stares and the questions and the horrified gasps of mothers with their small children. I will never again have the freedom of being just another man.”
“Battle changes all of us,” Robertson answered quietly. “Your scars just happen to be more visible than the rest. They are a testament to both your own willingness to sacrifice for your country, and the lengths that Miss Shelton was willing to go to in order to keep you alive.”
“But for what?” Fitz threw his hands up as he plopped back into the chair, which groaned under his weight. He started fumbling with the fabric wrapped around his left leg. “I have no purpose anymore.”
The older soldier took the chair across from him. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the arm rests and linking his fingers together over his stomach. “What makes you say that?”
“I’m as good as dead, as far as Mavoria is concerned. There’s no way my discharge papers haven’t already been filed.”
Robertson raised an eyebrow. “And?”
With a frustrated growl, Fitz finished with the fabric and tossed it to the side.
The metal plates in his leg and side were beginning to transfer the heat from the fire to his body, and he no longer shivered with cold.
“And what am I supposed to do now? I’ve been in the army since I was sixteen. I don’t know anything else.”
“Then learn.”
“What?”
Robertson leaned forward in his chair, his face brooking no argument. “Listen to me, young man. The fact that you are alive right now is a miracle. Don’t waste it by holding on to the past. Deus doesn’t make mistakes; you were saved for a purpose.”
“Deus wasn’t the one who made me like this; Darby did.”
“And Deus often works through the hands of His creation. Ask yourself this—if you could go back to that day, would you do anything differently?”
“No.” His answer was swift and decisive. “Of course not.”
“But, whether by death or injury, that act would spell the end of your military career.”
“Yes.”
Robertson raised an eyebrow. “Then it seems foolish and unkind to place the blame for its loss on Miss Shelton’s shoulders. You chose to throw yourself on that powder ball; she chose to put you back together.”
Fitz leaned his head back and sighed, the fight drained out from him. “What do I do now?”
“That’s between you and Deus. But I suspect you could start by apologizing to Miss Shelton.” He gave Fitz a pointed look. “It’s a sad truth that friendly fire is often the cause of more casualties than the enemy.”
The truth of Robertson’s words hit him squarely in the chest, and his clockwork heart squeezed with regret. “I should go back.”
Robertson was already on his feet, rifling through the contents of a coat tree that stood in the corner. He pulled off a blue jacket and held it up, as if gauging to see whether or not it would fit. He grabbed the left shoulder and tore the sleeve off at the seam. “Here.” He tossed it to Fitz.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s still chilly outside, but that sleeve wouldn’t have fit over your arm.” He gestured for Fitz to put it on. “The rain has stopped for now, but I can feel in my bones that the storm isn’t past yet. You’ll have to hurry back if you don’t want to get caught again.”
Fitz looked down at the jacket uncertainly. “But people will see.”
“So let them see. You’re not a monster. You don’t have to hide in the dark.”
The clouds parted just long enough for Fitz to catch sight of the sun dipping below the horizon.
The lamplighters were out, the light from their torches reflecting off the rain-covered streets.
Fitz kept his head down as he walked, both to keep himself from slipping and to avoid the eyes of fellow walkers on the streets.
He could hear the sharp intakes of breath and the whispers that followed as he passed, but he forbade his mind from focusing on anything other than getting back to Darby as quickly as he could.
I was rude and unfair. She has poured every ounce of energy she has left to spare into helping me heal, and I rewarded her by treating her like the enemy. Deus, forgive me…and let Darby forgive me, too.
He turned down the alley that ran behind Clerval’s just as dusk was settling. A flurry of black feathers suddenly filled his vision, and Raven’s agitated cawing rang in his ears. “Sorry I’m late. Where is it? Make it work. Sorry I’m late.”
He waved his arms in front of his face. “Raven, stop. What are you doing?”
The crow flew to the ground, where he hopped and flapped his wings in anxious, unsettled movements. “Sorry I’m late. Sorry. Sorry.”
A deep sense of foreboding washed over him, and his heart stuttered, seizing painfully before resuming its steady beat. “Raven, what’s wrong?”
Raven flew to the back door and back, repeating the same words over and over again. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late. Where is it?”
The moment Fitz pushed open the door, Raven took off like a shot to the door that led down to Darby’s workshop. He pecked and scratched at the handle. “Make it work. Sorry.”
Henry, elbows deep in the sink, looked over his shoulder in surprise. “What’s wrong with Raven?” He tilted his head to look past Fitz’s shoulder. “Where’s Darby?”
“She’s not here?”
“I thought she was with you.”
Their eyes met, both widening in horror as they realized at the same time the reason for Raven’s agitation. Fitz lunged for the door to the basement, throwing it open and nearly falling over his feet in his haste to make it down to the landing. Henry followed on his heels.
The workshop door was ajar, but no light glowed from within. Raven was already inside, his distressed calls carrying through the tense silence. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m late. What do you think you’re doing?”
Fitz pushed the door open slowly, then had to use it to catch himself as his knee buckled underneath him.
The room was a mess. Tools and materials were strewn about, as if someone had emptied the shelves by throwing everything onto the floor in a fit of rage. The cushions of the chair had been sliced open and the stuffing pulled out, and the cot was overturned against the wall.
And sprawled out on the floor, pale and lying in a pool of blood, lay Darby.