The Damnation Affair (13 page)
Read The Damnation Affair Online
Authors: Lilith Saintcrow
They waited until the children were gone, then trooped silently in, faces scrubbed and mouths pulled tight. Miss Tiergale took her seat first as Cat brought out the slates.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” she essayed. They were so long-faced she half-expected bad news. God and charter both knew it would be
just
the time for it.
It was Belle who spoke first, in a rush. “We don’t mean to be no trouble, Miss Barrowe.”
Trouble? Oh, none at all, unless you count the bruise on my arm and the loss of Reputation. It does not seem that I will miss it overmuch here.
Her chin rose. “Indeed you are none. In fact, on our short acquaintance I have found you all to be serious and studious.”
“She means with Tils.” Mercy’s cheeks, one with its fading bruise, flushed uncomfortably. “He’s…well, he ain’t a nice man, miss. And he’s been drinkin.”
“That does not surprise me.” She began handing out the slates, her boots tapping the raw lumber with little authoritative ticking noises. “He does not seem the temperate sort.”
In any sense of the word.
“Well,
you
ain’t got to be afraid, not with Gabe looking after you.” Trixie gazed at the ceiling. Today they were all dressed fairly respectably, instead of in their frail flash and feathers. “It’s us what gots to watch our step.”
There are so many grammaticals I could take issue with in those statements.
“Mr. Gabriel is charged with the safety of everyone in this town.” She handed Mercy her slate with an encouraging smile.
Anamarie giggled, elbowing the tall one, Carlota. “Not Salt’s, I reckon. He hates that chartershadow.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Trixie was still studying the ceiling, her cheeks flushed from the heat. “Shadows ain’t no good.”
Let’s cease this chatter.
“We shall begin with—”
“She’s blushing,” Anamarie whispered. “I think she’s sweet on him, too.”
That got Trixie’s attention. “Who, the shadow?”
“
Ladies
.” Cat folded her arms. Her cheeks stung, perhaps because of the bruise on Mercy’s poor face. “We have much to accomplish this afternoon. I intend to earn every cent of the fee you have graciously promised me. Take up your slates.”
That served to bring them to task. Her cheeks still burned, though, rneeveand it took a while for the heat to fade. It was entirely different than the dry baking outside, and Cat’s head was full of a strange noise. She held grimly to her task, and by the end of the session all the women had firmly grasped not only the basic functions of the alphabet, but also the idea, if not the application, of multiplication.
“It’s all groups!” Anamarie finally burst out. “Say you’ve a fellow buying drinks for you and him. That’s two drinks. And he buys three rounds. Three groups of two, six!”
“Unless Coy waters yours so you can keep a clear head to roll the bastard,” Carlota said, and their shared laughter made Cat smile before the probable meaning of “roll” occurred to her.
“Language, Carlota.” Mildly enough. Cat pulled her skirts aside as she reached to wash the slate board clean in preparation for their practice at writing their names. “Very good, Anamarie. It’s all groups. Multiplication and division—”
“Now hold on,” Mercy finally spoke up. “Let’s just stick with the multiplyin’ until I get that clear inside my skull.”
“I wanta read my Bible.” Belle, suddenly, as she scratched lightly at the wooden frame of her slate with one broken fingernail. “That’s what I want.”
“I’m a-gonna move to San Frances and open up a bawdy house of my own. Be a madam, not the girl.” Trixie waved one airy, plump hand. “Count the money and eat me sweet things all day.”
“Where you gonna get the stake for that?” Anamarie tossed her dark head, her earrings—plain paste, like Mercy’s—swinging against her curls.
“That’s why I said we gotta learn numbers, so Tils can’t short us none no more.”
“Names, ladies.” Cat began tracing them on the board. “Can you tell whose I am writing now?”
A ragged chorus: “A…N…A…M…A…”
“Why, that’s me! Ah-na-mah-ree.”
“
Very
good. Wait until I’ve written them all to copy your own name.”
“It’s like mancy. Like the charters.”
“Except these don’t glow—”
“Ladies, I know you’re eager to be gone. We must finish this first, however. Please contain yourselves.”
“Why you call us ladies all the time?” Carlota wanted to know. “We ain’t.”
Cat’s patience stretched, but the clarity that had possessed her all day held. “This is the Wild Westron. Anyone can become anything here.”
I can
even become a schoolteacher, possessed of patience I hardly knew was possible. And helper to a midwife, and a woman who can teach fancy frails to read.
For a long few moments, nobody spoke as Cat traced a C, an A, an R. “Which letters are these? Anyone?”
The chorus began again. “C…A…R…”
Cat Barrowe found herself smiling broadly, facing the board. Yes, indeed.
Anyone can become anything here.
D
usk was gathering, purple veils and a breath of coolness stepping down from the hills on the heels of a steadily gathering wind. Approaching autumn tiptoed around the town, but the bank of heavy gray stayed firmly in the north and didn’t sweep down any farther. When it did roll over Damnation, the mud would be knee-high. He would have to teach Miss Barrowe to drive the wagon, so she could avoid getting her skirts draggled. That would mean caring for a horse close to her cottage, too, and he was involved in a long train of thought having to do with trneevuld avoid he possibility of a stall in the Armstrongs’ stable when he turned the corner and saw her walking slowly, head down, from the other direction.
School was out, then, and the saloon girls were probably back at the Star. He’d had a word with Paul Turnbull about Tils. That went about as well as could be expected—Paul didn’t like trouble, and Gabe gave him to understand that Tilson was fixing to have trouble with Gabe himself if he didn’t leave the marm alone.
At least it was something.
She was in blue today, and her nipped-in waist was a sharply beautiful curve. Those little pointed-toe boots with all the buttons, and stray dark curls coming loose under her prettily perched hat. It was the first time he’d seen her slim shoulders anything but straight and stiff. She looked half-dead on her feet, like a sleepy horse.
Well, no wonder.
His stride lengthened. What should he say?
Evenin’, ma’am?
Was that too formal?
Hello there?
Maybe something else, a little pleasantry.
Ain’t you a fine sight.
Or even,
God must be kind, because you’re here.
It had been years since he’d felt this tightness in his chest. Annie hadn’t made him feel silly and stupid; or at least, maybe he’d been young enough that he hadn’t cared. She had been sweet and soft, not prickly and precise as this little bit of a thing with her head down and the leather satchel swinging from her left hand pulling her to the side. She was listing like a ship limping into port, and Gabe swallowed dryly.
Oh, Hell.
The wind picked up, and dust swirled against her skirts. She halted by the white-painted garden gate, staring at it as if she could not for the life of her figure out what such a contraption might be for.
“Don’t fall asleep, now.” His hand closed around her elbow, gently.
Her head tilted up, a slow movement. She blinked, weariness etched on her soft face. She searched his features, as if he were a stranger. “Mr. Gabriel?” Wondering. “Is Li Ang well?”
What?
“Should think so. I just got here.”
“Ah.” Miss Barrowe nodded. “I see. Well, you may come in briefly to see her, but I warn you, she is still very tired.”
What about you?
“Didn’t come to see
her
, ma’am.”
“Then what are you…oh,
never
mind.” She took her elbow from him, very decidedly, and he reached to open the gate. “Is it a disaster, or some new variety of excitement?”
What do you expect?
“Neither. Just came to visit before I rode the circuit.”
“I hope I am not keeping you.”
“You treat all your visitors this way, sweetheart?”
“Sir.” Frosty and sharp, now. “You shall address me as
Miss Barrowe
.”
Well, now he had her measure. And braving that prickliness was worth what was behind it. “Sometimes, yep. Other times, not so much.”
At least the irritation had given her a little energy. She sashayed up the walk at a good clip, and he watched the swing and sway of her skirts. How did women move with all that material tied on? No doubt it weighed like panniers stuffed with gold dust.
Something bothered him, but he couldn’t rightly figure it out. Something about gold, and Miss Barrowe.
She reached the steps, gathering her pretty blue skirts with her free hand. “I hope she hasn’t barred the door. That would be simply terr—
oh!
”
Her hurt little cry pierced the moan of the freshening dust-laden wind, and he had no memory of the intervening space. He was simply
there
as she stumbled back, her skirts dropping free because she had clamped her hand over her mouth. She turned, blihe memoryndly, and the thump of her leather satchel hitting the wooden bottom step barely covered his hissed, indrawn breath.
He found himself with a shivering woman in his arms, staring at the shadowy writhing thing nailed to the porch. It had probably been a rabbit once, but bad mancy was all that was left, corkscrewing and flapping the dying tissues. An unholy spark flashed inside the thing’s half-peeled skull, and whatever tortured bit of soul still remaining in its tiny bone cage let out a piercing little moan.
She shuddered again, and his fingers were in her hair, cupping the back of her skull, a hatpin’s prick against his wrist. “Shhhh,” he soothed, only half-aware of speaking. “Shh, don’t look. God
damn
. Easy there.”
The wind crested, and he had limited daylight to take care of this thing and get to the circuit. Russ wouldn’t take kindly to riding alone at twilight. Dawn was one thing, but dark was another, and Gabe didn’t blame him.
“L-l-l—” She gulped, tensed, and tried to pull away. “Li Ang! She’s inside—what if—”
He found his other hand was pressed against the small of her back, and the fading whiff of rosewater mixed with clean linen and a spice-tang of healthy female to make something utterly unique. She didn’t have any idea how good she smelled. “Then I’ll find out. Now come along.” He didn’t have to work to sound grim. “Back door. Step quiet, and stay behind me.”
“What…who would…”
“Don’t know.”
But I aim to find out. That’s bad mancy for sure, and what if I hadn’t been here?
“Now you be a good girl and stay behind me, you hear?”
A nod. He was all but crushing her, he realized, and loosened up just a little. Then a little more. She might scream, or faint—no, this miss wasn’t the fainting type. Even if she had swooned a little when she arrived. Who wouldn’t have?
He trawled through memory and found what he wanted. “Catherine.”
“Wh-what?”
“Just sayin’ your charing-name. Makin’ sure I’ve got your attention, like.”
“I believe you do, sir.” With nowhere near her usual snap.
“You can call me Jack.”
“Thank you.” A little prim, now, which cheered him immensely. She was nice and steady, and she didn’t try to struggle away. Instead, she just stood there, and he let her. “Jack?”
“Hm.” He kept his gaze on the twisting, flopping thing. It was nailed in solid with what was probably false-iron, and it let out another agonized little sound.
A warning, maybe. God damn whoever did this.
“It’s screaming. Could…could you possibly…”
I’d prefer to clear the house first, but since you’re asking…
“Stay right here, then.
Right
here. This very spot.”
“I shall.” Her eyes were tightly closed, and she flinched when the no-longer-rabbit thing screeched. Jack’s chest cracked a little, and he found, to his not-quite surprise, that everything in him still remembered what came next, as if the intervening years had fallen away and he was still the orphan boy sold to the Ordo Templis and the man who had left the knights behind for a woman’s arms.
This, he knew how to do.
* * *
It was a moment’s work to mount the steps, a trifle more to take a long considering look at the mancy pinning the thing. No use rushing.
It looked odd, and his mouth thinned. He shook out his left hand, keeping his right away from a gun with an effort. A bullet wouldn’t end this misery.
He closed away the moaning wind and the falling darhe nd, keepink. The sun was a bloody clot in the west, its light dipping and painting Damnation in vermilion. The thought of the schoolmarm at the foot of the stairs wouldn’t go away, so he breathed into it. Let it fill his head, and relaxed.
I release you.
His left-hand fingers made a curious, complex motion. It was not quite charter-mancy; nor was it sorcery. A trace-map of golden veins lit the flesh of his fingers, and he
saw
the knot holding the tiny soul into violated flesh. Sometimes the best response was to unpick the strands carefully, loosening one a fraction, then another.
Then there were times like these.
I release you.
His fingers tensed, the golden light casting dappled watershadows on the roof and floor of the porch. He had a moment to hope she had her eyes closed—this would create all manner of fuss and undue questions if she saw grace upon him instead of plain mancy—before he jabbed his hand forward, a softly spoken Word resonating with hurtful edges as it sliced the knot of bad mancy clean through.
I release you.
False-iron popped blue sparks, and the sodden little rag of fur and meat and splintered bone sagged. His left hand, a fist now, flicked down as if he were casting salt. Fine golden grains of pure light showered over the thing, and the blot was cleansed. A brief burst of fresh green scent, like new-mown hay, washed away on the breeze.
