Page 150
Story: A Forbidden Alchemy
Gunner brought me to the bar, found a stool for me to sit on, and glared at anyone who tried to approach. They quickly diverted, and though the floor space was entirely occupied, a foot of space was left around me.
Tess appeared before me with a pint. She said nothing, but her hand patted mine before she departed.
“Well, fuck me,” Gunner grunted, staring wide-eyed after his mother. “Don’t tell me you cracked Tess Colson?”
I shrugged. “Turns out she rather prefers you alive.”
Gunner let out a laugh the likes of which I hardly thought him capable. He appeared a different man. “Only sometimes, I assure you.”
All around us, it was more of the same. A tumble of dancers slammed their feet on the boards as they skipped around their partners. When the most inebriated spilled their drinks on another, it was met with not ire, but laughter. The bay windows were steamed and sweating and Tess pulled a large brass bell over her head and rang it. Its peals were met with more cheers.
“A round on the Colsons!” she shouted, and the piano rejoiced.
I watched it all with a growing warmth. The thrill in the room—I’d never seen a thing like it, not in the pubs of Scurry or in the ballrooms of Belavere City. Nothing existed in those places that could replicate this. They were, each one of them, a single piece of a larger joy.
Happiness swept through me. I let it.
I turned to Gunner. “Thank you for the rescue,” I said.
But he shook his head. “You’re stealin’ all my lines,” and he clinked his pint to mine.
Just then, Tess Colson climbed onto a chair behind the bar, and her voice rang out at a decibel that seemed supernatural. “QUIET!” she shouted, and it served to silence at least half the crowd. “Scottie! I’ll mash your head in if you don’t quit.”
Scottie, who’d once again commandeered the piano, saluted her with a wayward grin, then promptly fell off the bench.
“Right. The Union meetin’ is about to commence, and at least halfo’ you aren’t an official member,” Tess said. The comment was met with resounding dissent. “But I’ve got no earthly hope in hell of movin’ you out o’ me pub. So, if you insist on stayin’, commit to shuttin’ your trap!”
There were a few brave or stupid souls among the wash who cheered or whistled in response. But upon the glare Tess issued, they soon fell quiet.
Patrick appeared behind the bar and helped his mother from the chair. It seemed she wobbled on her descent, though Patrick shielded it from view.
“Go on, Patty!” Gunner cheered drunkenly, and the crowd laughed. They looked to Patrick expectantly as he stood on the chair, then on the bar top.
And so did I. I marveled at the boy in that courtyard who had become this man—arresting and steadfast. I saw precisely what Kenton Hill must have seen in him. Someone unswerving.
I felt as though I understood it then—the toll paid to keep a place like Kenton Hill safe. To keep it aboveground and functioning. What wouldn’t one do, to preserve something so invaluable?
“I call to order this extraordinary meeting of the Miners Union of Kenton Hill. Tonight, we’ll be skippin’ formalities.”
His spectators bellowed.
Patrick’s eyes swept to me, held.
And I knew what he would do in the next moment. I shook my head and thought of Theo sitting somewhere in a corner, watching.
Patrick knelt down and held a hand out for me. “Do me the honor, Scurry girl.”
My hand shook. Whatever commendation I’d receive next would be undeserved. And would they see it on my face, when I stood before them all? Would they know that my intentions here hadn’t always been pure?
But Patrick’s fingers took mine, and Gunner’s hands hoisted me from behind. And suddenly I was standing beside Patrick, and the people of Kenton Hill were calling my name as a chant. My real name.
“Yesterday, Kenton Hill suffered a loss of four men. But we were alsogifted the safe return of many more, the likes of which we Crafters have never seen. They went home yesterday evening to their families, slept in their beds, awoke this morning to a new day. And for that, we have exactly one person to whom we ought to give thanks.”
He spoke to them, but he looked at me. He lifted a glass of whiskey into the air. “First, we toast those fallen, Idia claim their souls.”
Glasses were hoisted into the air. They remained poised, waiting.
“Next, we toast our old Kenton, whose hills we have sworn to defend,” Patrick’s voice rang out as though he stood on a summit. It was reverent. Commanding. “And last, we toast Nina Harrow, who lifted an entire hill off our backs.”
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