Ironskin (6 page)

A crack behind her and she whirled, but saw nothing. Another noise—a crackle, a
bzzzt
—a fey noise, she was imagining things—! Jane cursed herself for a fool. No sane person went even this close to the woods at night, especially not to satisfy some silly curiosity about the state of her employer’s supply closet.

Jane turned back. She left the curving path and struck out straight across the lawn, skirting flowerbeds on a direct line to the house. There was nothing behind her, nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing. Another crackle—she turned around—and
he
was suddenly standing where she had been a moment before, as if he had been following her, unseen.

“What are you doing out at night?” he demanded, and he took her elbow, crushed her against his side, moved her forcibly across the lawn and into one of the back doors to the house. Inside the entryway he freed her from his grasp but not his gaze.

Jane drew back, crumpled into her shell, a thousand things whirling through her mind so not one of them was able to get free on her tongue. He was here, when she had wanted to see him. He had too many bluepacks. He was right to be worried; and of course she knew better than to wander near the forest, like some sort of witless city girl.

He locked the door behind them and stood, his amber eyes intense and black. Then he sighed and said with a self-mocking lilt to his tone, “I am sorry. I am a beast; I roar.” His hand went to her shoulder, and the gentle touch, the apology, disarmed her. She would have to watch herself—it was not right to be undone every time someone casually touched her. “Yet I cannot afford to lose you, and you of all people should know not to tempt fate.”

But that made her angry, and the anger tangled up with the embarrassment, leaving her further tongue-tied. From her tongue spilled the thought: “Perhaps if you were around for me to ask questions about Dorie, I wouldn’t have to come looking for you.”

“You were looking for me?” He had still not released her shoulder.

“For Dorie,” she repeated, firmly. It was true. She had been, earlier. Further, he should be around for Dorie; she shouldn’t have to hunt him down.

He glanced upward, as if he could see back to his studio. “I have someone waiting just now,” he said. “I only left her because I saw you on the lawn.”

Someone.

“A client,” he amended, as if he could hear her thoughts. “I would put her aside if I could, for you.”

“For Dorie,” she said.

“Yes.”

She suddenly thought that he meant it, that she had a momentary power that meant he would stand there until she told him yes, it was okay to go, yes, she could do without him just now, just at this moment. She looked at him and still he stood, his amber eyes studying her thoughts and waiting.

“Go,” she said.

He nodded. “We will speak later.”

And then he was gone, and she was not sure that she believed his promise, though he probably meant it as much as he could. She could not puzzle him out. He seemed to put up barriers—old walls, formal language. A man who seized every opportunity to melt away to his world of work—his masks, his clients.

But then—he had come down from his studio for her? Was that because he cared about Jane—or cared about what she might see? Did he know, all through that conversation just now, that she had been shadowing the maid? For that matter, what door had he come out of? She pulled aside a curtain from a back window, looked back toward the walk that led to the carriage house. But it was dark now, too dark to see.

Jane walked slowly through the fully lit halls, back to the foyer, brushing the dust from her skirt—sitting on Dorie’s floor did little for her dresses, old as they were. She had not even received any help from him for Dorie. All she needed was a way to reach her—

And then she saw a glint of blue-lit gold, just near the garnet curtains. She crossed the foyer and picked it up. A coin-sized sequin, no doubt fallen from one of the pretty ladies’ dresses.

Jane pulled the crystal buttons that she had tried the other day out of her pocket and considered them as she wandered down the hall and into the kitchen.

Shiny buttons. Sparkly sequins.

Rewards.

“Cook?” she said. “Do you have any aluminum foil?”

Chapter 4

THE BEAST-MAN’S PROMISE

Jane spent the next several days scouring the house for forgotten treasures: scraps of ribbon from a governess, bits of foil from Cook that she cut into stars, small gold sequins fallen from a party dress in a long-unused guest room.

She did not see Martha until by chance in the parlor—the maid cleaning the window, Jane examining a beaded lampshade and reluctantly deciding that there was no way she could declare a certain swinging bead both about to fall off and unfixable. Jane watched Martha cleaning in energetic circles, her unpinned ginger braid swinging in tempo, and could not think of a way to admit she’d been spying.

So for now she did not seek out any new mysteries, but only shiny things, until she had a full double handful, ready to go. That day after Dorie’s nap she brought all the sparkly bits to the nursery in a little bag and showed them to Dorie, whose blue eyes lit up.

Yes, thought Jane. This might work.

“One at a time,” Jane said to Dorie. “I’ll give you one pretty sparkle for every one of my games we play. Shall we start with catch?”

Jane tucked the bag of treasures in her skirt pocket and got up to get the ball.

She tossed it to Dorie, who did not put up her hands to catch it. The ball fell at Dorie’s feet, and she looked past it, at Jane’s skirt.

There was a tug on Jane’s pocket.

Jane whirled, grabbed for the bag, caught the bottom edge of it as Dorie whisked it from the pocket and up into the air. The bag untied itself and a froth of silver stars, gold sequins, and blue ribbons spilled out. They circled over Jane’s head like a planetarium display, and Jane, furious in a way she knew even in the moment that no savvy governess should be, lunged after the sparkling swirls.

The orbiting stars rose higher, out of Jane’s hands. She shouted, grabbing for them, and Dorie looked solemnly on, her arms raised and her face as blank as a porcelain doll.

The sparkly bits that Jane had so painstakingly collected rose to the ceiling. Then they swirled into one starry line, shot to the top of the wardrobe, and deposited themselves well out of Jane’s reach on top of the tall white cabinet. Well out of Jane’s reach, but she had no doubt that Dorie could now take the tinsel down at her leisure and play with it anytime Jane was gone.

She skidded to a halt and stood panting, staring down at the girl.

If, in that moment, Dorie had looked mischievously up at her and laughed, Jane might have calmed down. But Dorie merely turned from her, walked to the window, and stood, watching the forest with no expression at all.

Jane left the nursery, slamming the door behind her.

*   *   *

Day after day and the frustration didn’t lessen. The more Jane coaxed, thought up new games, took Dorie’s Mother doll away, the blanker and more stubborn—and more infuriating—Dorie got.

By the end of the month Jane was wondering whether she had the temperament to stay after all, no matter how much she wanted to help the girl. She had heart for the task, she had determination—those weren’t the problems.

It was the self-doubt that was getting to her. The anger lumped along behind her like a black dog nipping at her heels. It raged inward, telling her it was her fault that Dorie was intractable. You should leave, it told her. You expected a lonely girl like you; you expected you could swoop in and solve her problems with a bit of iron and a hug. Never mind that yours weren’t solved so readily. Never mind that when you finally found Niklas and the foundry, you wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks—just sat hidden under a worktable and watched the other scarred children try to master their ironskin, their curse.

Jane hated her inability to make a difference in Dorie’s life, and she hated how exhausted the girl made her. Where was her patience for this poor waif, battle-scarred just as she had been? Where was Jane’s loving kindness?

Gone since the war, Jane thought. Gone with her brother.

*   *   *

Jane and Dorie were sprawled on the stone floor of the kitchen, heedless of dignity, when the weekly mail came. Jane had momentarily given up the battle and was watching Dorie waft cut-up chunks of the last mealy storage apples into her mouth.

“Sure and you’ll never get that one to use her hands,” said Cook.

“Maybe she just wants to use her feet like a monkey,” said Jane. “I should take off her shoes.”

“Being tired makes you sarcastic,” said Cook. “Now you’ll be seeing what we went through.” She held the white bowl against her broad hip, beating air into the cake batter.

“All you had to do was let her draw light pictures on the floor while you worked,” said Jane. “I’m responsible for her mortal soul.”

“She’ll be having a soul, now? Ha,” said Cook.

There was no real rancor in these exchanges. Jane rather liked Cook’s lazy cynicism. It meant there was one place in the house she didn’t have to guard her tongue and bite back the sarcasm that spilled over it. That was a rarity—even Helen had not suffered Jane’s black dog moods very well.

But even if she could be caustic with Cook, they had little else in common. And Jane couldn’t stay in the kitchen all the time, anyway. She got to her feet. “Finish your apple, Dorie, and then we’re going back upstairs.”

Dorie looked mutinous and Jane sighed inwardly, careful not to let it show on her face. You couldn’t let children know when they were shredding your last bit of patience.

The old butler, Poule, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She nodded at Cook and reached up to hand her a circular. She was nearly as short as a dwarf, Jane thought—not that the dwarves were seen much anymore either. And for Jane—

“A letter?”

Bright eyes gleamed, but the butler didn’t answer the obvious. As Poule reached up to hand Jane the letter, Jane saw a stray flash of light from her sleeve, as if light glanced off metal. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Just what kind of roles were Mr. Rochart’s servants really playing? The woman turned and left, her worn black shoes stirring up a small puff of flour that Dorie had spilled.

Jane slit the envelope with a silver paring knife and tugged out a thick fold of heavily written-on paper. “It’s from Helen!” she said. “I was almost getting worried. I’ve written her twice.”

“And she not once?” said Cook.
“Tsk.”

Jane laughed and dismissed the implied rebuke. “Helen probably has twenty letters started to me by now—seventeen of them mislaid. Goodness knows what the flat looks like anymore.” She unfolded the page, pleased that Helen had managed to get a letter actually out the door to her. “Dearest Jane…” began the letter, and then, typically Helen, it launched into a flowery description of the latest ball she and her fiancé had attended, replete with tidbits of gossip about people Jane had never met. The flow of minutiae was occasionally interspersed with a command for Jane to return to the city immediately and have as delightful a time as Helen was having.

Jane flipped over the page, and an engraved card fell out and fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up—and stopped.

“It’s a wedding invitation,” she said.

“As should be,” said Cook. “You said she was betrothed.”

“Yes, but I thought she was waiting till the summer,” said Jane. “When the family left on their summer travels.” A familiar worry tugged at her inside—that Helen was busy making rash decisions without Jane there to advise. Not that Helen always listened. Jane was not entirely certain about the character of Helen’s fiancé, but when she had dared mention any concerns, Helen had stormed about, insisting that she adored him, that any faults were easily mendable, and what did Jane know about marriage anyway.

“Soonest’s best,” said Cook. “Otherwise the man might be finding a new lass, or the woman getting in a spot of trouble.” She beat the batter hard, her wooden spoon hitting the side of the bowl with muffled thumps.

“Helen would not,” Jane said positively. “She is not, I’m sure of it. Likely she’s lonely without me, and dying for something new to happen. Neither of us were born with much patience.” Jane flipped the engraved card around in her fingers, the attendant letter almost forgotten. “The wedding is soon—just after her eighteenth. Do you think he’ll grant me leave?”

“Only way of finding out is asking,” said Cook.

Jane looked up at the older woman, startled. “Am I allowed to go up there? To his studio?”

Cook tapped the cake tin full of batter against the counter, leveling it with sharp thwacks. “He’ll not be having any appointments today, so I expect you’d be safe. Mind you, you’re not to be saying I said so. And knock first.”

“All right,” said Jane. She stood up, brushing her dark skirts clear of flour and crumbs. “I’ll go.” She glanced down at Dorie, now lying on her back and pointing her toes at the ceiling for no discernible reason.

“Sure and I’ll watch her,” said Cook. “This is her I’ll-be-an-angel-if-no-one-is-crossing-me stage. I know it well.”

Jane nodded, folded the unread letter in her pocket, and took a breath. “I’ll go,” she said again. “It’s just a studio.”

Just a man.

*   *   *

She repeated that to herself as she climbed the stairs outside the kitchen. Where they opened on the first floor she stopped and peeked out, calculating that this should be the damaged wing she had studied from the back lawn. The hall was nearly pitch black, and she couldn’t see if there was damage or not. At the far right a thin slit of light implied a break in the forest-green curtains she had seen in the foyer.

Jane continued climbing.

She wondered as she went past the floors if she was supposed to know immediately where Mr. Rochart worked. Would it be obvious? Or was it off one of the black landings, branching off one of the dark and destroyed rooms?

But at the fourth floor the stairs stopped and it
was
obvious. The landing was lit with the most light she’d seen yet in the house. This was the top floor, and the roof was sloped overhead, the great beams visible. It looked like it should be the garret, she thought. It shouldn’t be where the master worked—it should be servants’ quarters, dark and cloistered cubicles of space, twisting corridors.