Page 159

Patrick ignored him. “Nina, I can bring you home first, if you’d like? You’re tired—”

“With no Sam to guard her door?” Gunner scoffed. “Everyone has the night off, Pat. No exceptions. Sorry, darlin’,” Gunner said to me now. He did not appear the least bit sorry. “But you’ll be comin’ along as well.”

I gave him a withering glare. “I don’t need a minder.”

“Ah, but you do,” Gunner replied. Colson’s was mere feet away, and my room beckoned me. “Can’t be too careful, Nina. Not everyone is a friend.”

I scoffed in exasperation. “You let Theo go up to his bed, didn’t you?”

“And he knows better than to stay there,” Gunner laughed. Briggs and Scottie joined him. “He’s been dragged out of his room enough times. He’ll be along. That boy can’t stand dirt under his fingernails. No doubt he’s washin’ up and combin’ his hair as we speak.”

Scottie snickered. Briggs hid his grin. I narrowed my eyes at the trio.

“Enough,” Patrick said on a heavy sigh. “Get going, boys. We’ll be along.”

Gunner pointed a dangerous finger an inch from Patrick’s face. “No shirkin’.”

“No shirkin’,” Patrick rolled his eyes, then shoved Gunner’s shoulder in the direction of lower Main Street. “Now, fuck off.”

They receded into the dim, hands in pockets, shoulders bouncing off one another, thick laughter floating back to me and Patrick.

Patrick exhaled heavily. One hand crept to his pocket, blindly searching for cigarettes, but he came up empty. I tried to think of the last timeI’d seen him smoke and couldn’t. “You’re not gonna like what I’m about to say, Nina,” he said, eyes marking the figures on the streets in their heavy coats. “But do you fancy comin’ to a party with me?”

I thought of that soft bed above me, but if there was whiskey at this party, it might be good for loosening tongues, and Patrick surely wasn’t the only keeper of secrets in this town. “Lead the way,” I said, nodding down the street, my smile tight. “I should warn you, though. If there isn’t anything there for me to eat I’ll take a bite straight out of you.”

He clicked his tongue. “Ah, don’t make me promises like that if you can’t keep ’em.”

He wrapped an arm around my back to shield me from the cold. “What about Theo?” I asked, looking up at the lone orange light in a window high above.

“We’ll see him at the market,” Patrick said, and I wondered if I imagined the dark turn of his voice. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

The market thrummed from a distance, light flooding from its mouth. Weak flurries chased children in squalls. There was a pig on a spit, roasting over hot coals, music drubbing the air. Patrick and I made our slow way toward it all, dirt-stained from head to toe. It garnered not a single second glance from any passersby.

I almost laughed to think of the difference time rendered. From the National Artisan House to a Kenton Hill barn. From ballgowns to chipboard floors. The comparison brought with it no ill feeling. I was warm and worn in a pleasing way. I was wrapped in the arms of a man who loved me. The speed of my blood made me suspect I loved him back. And if it weren’t for that hourglass expending inside me, I thought I might be happy.

I took a moment to stare at the underside of his jaw, the blanket of stubble razing his cheeks, the fine slope of his nose, and the peak of his chin. “Look somewhere else, Nina. I’m only so strong.”

I blushed.

Patrick collected plates of food at the door. Bread and corn and fatty pork, its juices swimming round the rim.

“Tell me, why is First Frost so important?”

Patrick grinned. “Mostly tradition. Winter used to be something these people feared. Back when the coal and wood were sent on trains to the city, whatever remained was exorbitantly priced. My father started this celebration the year Kenton took its first strike, and he promised we’d never have another dead winter. So far, the promise has held.”

A dead winter. It had been a while since I’d heard the phrase. People in Scurry used to murmur it under their breath in the streets as the nights grew colder. The teachers would have us pray at our desks for a winter that was mild. A dead winter meant chilblains and watered-down soups and a cold in your chest like a long-fingered hand, snatching you away in the night. Not everyone woke the next morning.

No one had spoken of dead winters in Belavere City. I wondered if they knew what the term meant.

We were received warmly. A woman hugged me in thanks for saving her son. A swoop of little girls pulled on my dirty hands until I joined them in a skipping circle. They held me hostage for two songs before Gunner came to shoo them away. “Leave her be, you little blighters,” he growled, and they scurried away laughing and shrieking.

He led me over to an old card table where the Colson inner circle held court. And by court, I mean Scottie pulled Donny off the center of the table before he could break it, Briggs argued loudly with a busty woman about an outstanding bet, and Sam tried valiantly to beat Otto in an arm wrestle while Polly laughed.

When Polly saw me approaching, she intercepted me from Patrick and Gunner both. “Let us ladies get a drink,” she told them, then intertwined her arm with mine, leading me to the whiskey barrels along the far wall.

“Did you learn anything new today?” Polly asked beneath her breath. She retrieved a clean glass, filling it at the tap of a barrel.

The question brought reality walloping back. “Only that Becker isn’t in Kenton Hill,” I said, dropping my voice to less than a murmur as I moved in to get my own drink.