Page 176
Story: A Forbidden Alchemy
There was only one thing that stopped me. I was not the only Artisan in Kenton Hill.
I would warn Polly. Give her the chance to run, if she chose. It might save her life.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His grip loosened. He wiped the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, as though he could erase its trembling.
“We’ll find a way to finish the tunnel,” he said. “I’ll get your mother out, I swear it.”
I closed my eyes and felt his fingers sliding into my hair. “And when I come home, I’ve got plans to marry you. Promise me you’ll be waitin’.”
Choked laughter escaped me. “What if I don’t accept your proposal?” I asked. But my voice was hollow, lined in fear.
“You will.” He seemed quite sure of it. “It’ll be far grander than this one.”
He seemed so filled with confidence—for a future still distorted, for his town, his plans. How I wished I could keep him blind to the missile headed for us.
He brushed my hair aside, pressed his mouth to mine. He kissed me so sweetly it was difficult to breathe.
I let myself drown in that moment, knowing it might be the last of its kind. I pictured yellow hills and black-spotted yarrow and Patrick offering a life with him, and I pretended there was nothing else. No idium, no lords, no Artisans or Crafters. I imagined I’d said yes to him as a girl and sat beside him on that train home, the years between then and now made simple and kind.
CHAPTER 61PATRICK
In the night, Patrick’s anger ebbed into the sheets. He watched her sleep and thought of the look on her face when she saw children on the street, when he chased her downhill, when she danced. He wanted to give her a lifetime of that.
He traced the burn marks on the inside of her wrist. Beneath it, he could just make out the Artisan brand, Idia’s face refusing to be erased. Had it hurt, when she’d scorched away this version of her-self?
She’d made a mistake. Hadn’t he himself made plenty? He could forgive her this one error in judgment, this one deception. In some ways, he was responsible for it; he’d lied to her, too.
Nina Harrow had been in hiding most of her life, put through more than anyone deserved. And perhaps he was selfish for deciding she would be his—he, who could never bring her peace.
By dawn, his face was washed and clean-shaven. He was dressed but for his boots and pocket watch. He looked over to the bed, to Nina, still asleep. She was achingly beautiful.
Outside, duty beckoned, but he decided duty could wait a little longer. Instead, he pressed his lips to her exposed hip, tasted her skin with slow repose until she began to stir.
She came awake breathing his name, rolling toward him.
“Lie back,” he told her.
And when she did, he leaned over her thighs and lavished her with his fingers and tongue, until his name wasn’t just a murmur, but a cry. Until his clothes were once more discarded.
Until the troubles of the day seemed diminutive, hardly worth his time at all.
CHAPTER 62NINA
Polly was in the post office at an early hour, sitting at her station. Her pieces of parchment lay haphazardly around her, their neat lines of ink appearing in rapid tandem.
But each piece stilled when she saw me, brazenly crossing the threshold alone.
“Nina,” she said, standing and rounding the desk at once. She looked over her shoulder as though the policemen who once manned this square might come storming out of the walls. “Do you have news?”
“I have to speak with you.”
She eyed the street-facing windows. “What of the Alchemist?” she asked beneath her breath. “Please, tell me you found him.” Her eyes were bloodshot, and her teeth had reddened a spot on her lip.
I grimaced. I knew I could only give her a half-truth, and that it might break her. But at least afterward, I would be done with these deceptions. Already I felt less and less constricted.
“No,” I told her. “Domelius Becker is dead.”
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