Curio (4 page)

The sound of muffled conversation from her parents' room sent her into a flurry. She wasn't going to stay behind today. After buttoning the shirtwaist over her chemise, she double checked that the layers of material concealed the mark. Satisfied, she laced on boots.

When she stepped outside her room, Granddad was closing the door to his chamber down the hall. He raised bushy eyebrows when he saw Grey.

“I'm going with you and Father to get the ration. I can't just wait here
.
”

He strode toward her, not one floorboard creaking beneath his boots. How could such a massive man move so quietly? Nothing about Granddad made sense. He swore he'd forgotten his own age, but only crow's feet marked his smooth face. He wore his hair long, stood head and shoulders above everyone else, and told stories of trapping and hunting in the Rocky Mountains when Mercury was a tent city on the banks of the Rio de Sangre—one hundred and fifty years ago.

Now, as he towered over her, she caught a whiff of chemicals and dust instead of sage and wood smoke.

“I just thought I'd—”

“I know what you're about.” He waved away her response and continued. “Grey, listen to me. This is your choice to make. Steinar will save some of his ration for Whit, but the mountain folk need as much as he can give them.” His forehead creased. “Mine must go to the lab. It's time
you
decide what to do with your own ration.”

For a moment the weight of her decision pressed the air from her lungs. But for Whit, who'd stayed too long, who'd come back when he should've run, who'd held her above snapping jaws, she'd take any punishment. A rush of strength spread from her torso outward, following the course of the mark. Jaw gaping, she pressed a fist to her midsection as a footfall behind her parents' door signaled Father's approach.

Granddad's pale blue eyes locked on Grey, a strange excitement turning them to glowing moons. “Not a word,” he whispered.

She snapped her mouth shut.

Father, a near duplicate of Granddad with another inch of height and a straighter nose, stepped into the hall and swept Grey with a disapproving look.

She forced a shrug. “I couldn't sleep. I'm going with you to the dispensary.”

He frowned. “We discussed this last night, Grey. You'll take your ration as usual today, and I'll reserve some of mine for Whit. I trust you don't mean to circumvent our decision.”

Grey kept her expression neutral.

“You know the reasons.” His features caved and the commanding edge dropped from his voice. “We can't lose you too.”

She ignored the tightening of her throat. “I'll be careful.”

“Let her come, Stein,” Granddad rumbled behind Grey. “You know Hawards make poor statues.”

“Don't.” Father aimed a finger at Granddad. “None of your stories. You know my wishes.”

“Stein.” Granddad's tone made Grey's eyes prick with tears. “It's in her blood. Look at her, son.”

But Father turned away to snag his anorak from a hook on the wall. He grabbed Grey's coat as well and handed it to her. Granddad followed them out the front door, fastening a heavy cloak around his neck. They stepped into a world of shriveled grass and cold-stiffened shrubs. The houses in Grey's neighborhood perched on the side of a foothill like boulders arranged in rows by giants. A bitter wind swept the street, snatching dead leaves and dragging them across the hardened dirt.

Mountains towered on the edge of the city, forming a cauldron around the westernmost quarter. The Magi mine loomed nearest to the town, but the outlines of the Chrysopeoia and the Panacea were visible on the higher slopes. The rest of the Foothills Quarter lay in the shadows,
though the rising sun turned the snow on the high meadows a delicate shade of rose. Purple shadows filled the valleys above the mines and hung beneath the ridgelines where Father sought out the refugees. Grey's fancy reached for those hills, though she was never permitted to visit them.

Below the frigid wilderness, Mercury City lay like a vast wheel tilted against the foothills. The quarters stretched out like spokes from the black spire of the Chemist tower, the stronghold of the Chemist reign and the blood magic that kept them in power. Mills dotted the northern quarter and huge greenhouses clung to the far-off flatland in the east. On the southern horizon, the deputy outpost marked the town's boundary.

Grey hunched her shoulders and ducked her chin into her collar.

Before they reached the end of their walkway, the Bryacres' door opened and Josephine stepped out. She nodded to them but set out on her own, her slight figure a red smudge in the weak sunlight.

One by one the doors of the other bungalows on Grey's street opened. Neighbors stepped out and plodded toward the cross street, their faces lowered against the cold air and the glare of the rising sun. Most walked alone, but some of the women moved in silent clumps of crimson, thrown together by the same crucial errand. Another day. Another ration.

The stream of people trickled onto Pewter Street and made their halting way down the steep road. At the bottom of the hill, the brick morality hall signaled a change from the residential streets to the business center of the Foothills Quarter. The clock mounted to the hall read five after six.

Just before the horizon disappeared behind the nearby store fronts, Grey let her eyes fall on another clock tower,
this one made of obsidian with a green face glowing like an eye. Others like it stabbed the skyline at regular intervals throughout the city, but Grey focused on the nearest punishment facility. Whit was there.

She clenched her arms against her midsection. The breath she gulped stalled in her throat. Half a block away, Whit's mother also walked with her arms hugged around her middle, her eyes monitoring the progress of her own feet. Without warning, Josephine stumbled and fell to one knee on the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Bryacre!” Grey broke into a jog. Father and Granddad followed. They remained a few feet behind while Grey stooped to check on the woman.

“What should I do?” She flinched at the helplessness in Father's eyes. Granddad's gloved fingers twitched, but he too kept a safe distance.

Grey supported Josephine's bony elbow as the woman struggled to stand. In the light of day her sallow skin appeared translucent. Bloodshot eyes stared from deep sockets and then rolled back into her head. Grey caught her before she hit the ground.

Father dared to step closer to study Josephine's unresponsive face. “I should have seen it last night. She's nearly starved.”

Grey adjusted her hold. “I think she's been slipping most of her ration to Whit.”

Granddad pointed to the morality hall clock. “She won't get her ration or Whit's if she doesn't make it to the dispensary on time.” He dug in the pockets of his trousers, and Grey heard the faint jingle of coins. “We could hire a coach.”

Father jammed his own hands into his pockets, but between the two of them they probably had only a few dollars, and he needed his money for train fare to the hunting
outpost in the mountains—the base of his mission operations. Besides, a hack wouldn't arrive in time.

Grey clamped one arm around Josephine's shoulders and slid the other beneath her knees. She stuffed back the memory of Whit's arms cradling her the same way as she lifted his mother. “I can carry her.”

“Can you make it to the dispensary?” Father glanced around. “We can find another way.”

Granddad grabbed Father's shoulder, his fingers digging into the coat fabric. “Steinar.” The one word stilled Grey. “You cannot deny what your daughter is any more than you can deny your life's work or mine.”

The two of them gaped at her. Others paused in their morning errand to stare at Grey holding a grown woman like a sleeping child. Grey ducked her head, Granddad's strange words and behavior further disturbing her calm. “Let's go.”

They trudged down the hill in silence, pausing in front of the morality hall for Grey to adjust Josephine's weight. As they readied to cross the street, Father eyed the house of instruction that provided his meager living. When his gaze returned to Grey and the unconscious Josephine, he wore his funeral frown.

Grey tightened her grip on her burden. Josephine would not end up in a box at the front of the morality hall. She'd march in tomorrow morning just like everyone else in the quarter and listen to Father read from Mercury's codes of conduct. And if Whit's stripes were few, he'd be sitting next to his mother, his eyes wandering over to Grey when he thought she wasn't looking.

Grey pushed Whit's face from her thoughts and focused on the wheat-colored strands trailing out of her grandfather's hood as he strode before her. People moved out of his way, scooting to the edge of the boardwalk to let her family
through. The atmosphere on Reinbar changed, growing hushed and still as faces lifted to watch the Hawards pass.

An orderly line snaked out of the dispensary door. Father joined the queue, but Granddad led Grey to a nearby bench beneath a bare sapling. She arranged Josephine's unconscious form on the seat then maneuvered herself onto the bench and rested the woman's limp head on her lap.

Granddad knelt and studied Grey's face. “I'm so proud of you. What you've done today—”

His words broke off. Murmured conversations in the line halted. Grey's nerves cinched tight as she looked around. She spotted him immediately. A Chemist. What was he doing all the way out here in the Foothills Quarter?

Her heartbeat sped as he strode in their direction. The queue of people shrank against the brick front of the dispensary. They ducked their heads and pulled their coats close, compacting their bodies into winter-garbed cocoons.

Granddad frowned. “Don't speak,” he whispered, then rose to face the Chemist.

Tall and dressed in a suit made of shiny black material, the man resembled an elongated crow. His coat hung open, revealing a leather belt festooned with potion bottles and green-glowing instruments that whirred and whined. A mass of black hair spiked around his head beneath his top hat. Hints of iridescent green lurked in the nooks of his face—at the corners of his mouth, the creases of his nostrils, and the rims of his eyes. Pale foam-green irises—one magnified by a tinted monocle—swept over her grandfather then studied Grey and her slumped charge. A surge, like the crackle in the air before lightning hit, brushed over Grey's skin. She knew this gaze from the store yesterday. The Chemist's eyes alighted again on Granddad's face. “Olan, I see
you
made it home safely last night.” His low voice slid into Grey's ears
like warm oil. The accented words, though not directed at her, settled in her gut and smoldered.

“Adante, you're far from the tower this morning.”

Grey started at her grandfather's familiarity. He stood, feet apart and shoulders relaxed, showing no deference to this powerful man who knew the secrets of both science and magic.

Adante ignored Granddad's silent challenge and turned to Grey. A smile tugged his thin lips. “I found something that interests me in the Foothills Quarter. I think you know that, Olan.”

“Indeed.” Granddad's gruff voice lost a little strength.

Father left the queue to stand near Grey. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he inched closer as if he could hide her.

“Steinar.” Adante transferred his attention to her father. “As strapping as ever. Our potions must agree with you.” He pivoted back to Grey. “And your daughter.”

Father and Granddad stiffened, but when they said nothing, Adante continued.

“She's a well-built girl. And spirited, I hear.”

Grey went cold. She slid her shaking hands out of view. So the deputy who'd witnessed her defiance
had
shared the incident. He must've included her actions in his official report.

Father's mouth pressed in a grim line. His fair eyebrows lifted in a subtle question.

Adante's form flickered like the shadow of leaves. He bent over Grey and his syrupy breath clouded in the cold air, coating her face in a sticky layer.

“I see no signs of punishment, Steinar. Here she is, out on a ration run the day after her offense. And carrying—is that what I saw?—another woman. There can be no doubt she takes after you. And her grandfather.”

Granddad stepped closer, speaking low and rapid. “It makes no difference if she does. We haven't broken the pact. It's the Chemists who violate our agreement.” He jutted his chin toward the bustling heart of Mercury City and the stronghold of the Chemist tower. “What does Jorn mean, turning an enclave into an empire? We won't stand for it.”

Adante's sinuous form grew rigid. He spat out a reply. “And what can your mighty little family do about it? Unless you've found the means to grow your numbers, in which case my grandfather will be very interested to hear of your dabblings. I'm told the Bryacre boy displayed extraordinary courage. Been performing experiments of your own, Olan?”

Granddad's nostrils flared. “I am no blood magiker. Tell your grandfather he'd do well to remember his debts and the agreement between us.”

A collection of stares now rested on their group, and Adante seemed to grow aware of the notice. He retreated a pace, and, with features arranged in a bored expression, gestured to Josephine's shriveled body. “And this?”

A muscle worked in Father's jaw. “Josephine Bryacre is ill. We are merely seeing that her family receives their rations.”

“Of course.” The Chemist smirked. “It seems her need is almost as great as her son's.”

Grey balled her fists. Did Chemists bleed green blood? She'd like to find out. Adante's focus whizzed back to her, and his eyes narrowed, reading her. His face split into a smile that revealed tinted gums. He nodded to Grey and stepped backward, as if to signal an end to a conversation they hadn't had. But then he paused to address her father.