The Deepest Night

Chapter 20

He’d meant it when he said it’d be a huge meal. It was.

I’d never dined in a pub before. As far as I recalled, I’d never dined in any manner of public place, but if they were all like this one, I’d gladly return.

Everything was dim and smoky and loud and smelling pleasingly of cider and ale. The tables were worn smooth, their deep coffee-colored varnish marked with paler rings upon rings, proof of generations of sweating drinks. I didn’t even mind the electrical lights, since they were mostly over the bar. Our table was lit by a single drippy candle stuck to saucer that had a series of nicks along its rim.

I definitely fit in here.

I’d allowed Armand to order for us. Roasted chicken, duckling, corned beef. Jacket potatoes and rice and smelts and bread, mutton chops and meringue, potted shrimps.

We devoured it all. Then he ordered more.

“Cor, right away, luv,” said our server, completely smitten because she was plump and plain and he’d smiled at her, and even from across the table, I’d seen that it’d been blinding.

“You’re awfully cheerful,” I said, mashing up the last few grains of rice with the tines of my fork so they’d stick.

“Am I? I suppose I’m relieved, mostly. To be doing something. To be going at last.”

I understood that. There was a certain wretched tension to waiting. I’d felt it, too.

A different woman came by with fresh ales for us both, cold and topped with froth, and when Armand finished his first draw there was a line of foam tracing his upper lip. He wiped it away and looked at me and gave a much tamer version of the blinding smile, but it was still handsome and bright.

Thank you for saving her sons was Lottie’s message from her ghost.

Sons. Plural.

“Mandy,” I said slowly. “Are you still all that hungry?”

“I am, actually.”

“Did you not eat today?”

“No, I did.” He sat back and surveyed the table, picking up the last slice of bread and running it through the mutton juice. “Breakfast, at least. Some luncheon. But I had to clear out by noon if they were going to believe I was headed to London.”

That had been the story we’d agreed upon: I was to go away with Lady Clayworth to Tewkesbury, and Armand was to go alone to London, to rattle the cages of any important persons there who might have news of his brother. Both reasons might legitimately keep us away from Tranquility (and each other) for weeks. We didn’t know how long rescuing Aubrey might actually take, but we’d figured the bigger the cushion of time we gave ourselves, the better.

I watched him fold the bread in half and shove it into his mouth. “And do you feel … restless?”

He stopped chewing, looking back at me. Then he swallowed, and his next sentence came flat.

“What do you mean?”

“Like your skin doesn’t fit. Like it’s shrunken too small and you’re going to burst through.”

He said nothing. But oh, his eyes were so, so wild and blue.

“And your heart,” I went on, accusing. “It’s beating so fast now. Did you think I wouldn’t hear it?”

“It’s the same as ever, Eleanore. The same as it’s been since I met you.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t good. Not now. Not tonight.”

“Everything is fine.”

Anger was coming awake inside me, a small growing flame. “Are you going to lie to my face now, Armand Louis? Are you?”

His brows lowered. He leaned forward to reply, but right then the plain server returned, platters of food stacked up both arms all the way to her shoulders. She winked at Armand and began to sling the dishes to the wood. Someone at the table next to ours produced a noisy belch and a guffaw, and the server winked again before moving off.

“Everything will fall to pieces,” I said, biting off each word. “If the Turn comes to you now, while we’re on this journey, it will all fall to pieces.”

“You needn’t worry about me, Eleanore. I can handle myself.”

My voice began to rise. “I think we should wait until it happens. I think you’re very near to that edge, and it’s a bloody dangerous thing and we should wait.”

He pushed back his chair and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“No. The food just—”

“To the window, Lora. That’s all.”

So I let him lead me across the pub, both of us angling through the crowded tables until we were next to the panes. He bent his head to mine.

“Look,” he said in my ear, and I didn’t even have to ask where.

The storm had broken apart. The clouds were swept into tufts, into somersaults, and the twilight sky beyond them glowed a pure, unmistakable amethyst.

And there, right there in the middle of the clearest patch of heaven, was a golden green star. The brightest star I’d ever seen.

Brighter than life, brighter than death. Brighter than comets or forgotten hopes or any of my futile dreams.

“He says we must go tonight,” Armand murmured, so near our shoulders touched and the heat of his face warmed mine. “I hear him as clear as I hear you, Lora. Clear as ever. He says it must be tonight.”

“Have you—” I had to fight against the knot in my throat. “Have you always heard him?”

“Yes.”

“You blighter.” I lowered my gaze and stared at the girl in the glass: white as a sheet, rain-bedraggled hair, a face etched with betrayal, hurt, betrayal.

The boy in the glass beside her answered the question I hadn’t asked. “I don’t know why it’s me who hears and not you. It should be you. Obviously, you. But this is how it is. And Jesse says tonight.”

He hesitated, then turned his head so his lips grazed my cheek, a kiss and not, because it was warm and soft and over before it began, and he was walking back to our table without me.

I threw a last look up at the star (green! gold! green! gold!), then went back as well.

I sat down, my hands on my thighs. Armand regarded me through half-lidded eyes and didn’t speak another word.

“Keep eating,” I said, reaching for the nearest platter.

This is what I knew about the first Turn of a drákon:

It was meant to hurt.

Not a little pain, either. A great, great deal.

Nearly everything Armand and I had discovered about our species had come from a series of letters authored by one of his ancestresses, letters that his mother had hidden before her death and that he had recently found.

In them, a woman named Rue had warned her great-great-granddaughter about the alarming facts of her impending first Turn. How it would feel as if the flesh was being flayed from her bones, her body ripped asunder, pure torture. How the agony would consume her, unbearable, and of how she wouldn’t be able to even scream because by then she’d be smoke or she’d be nothing at all.

If you didn’t manage to control the pain and rule the Turn, you’d simply float away as vapor. Dispersed. Forever.

The pain of my first Turn had come to me more slyly than Rue had implied, but that didn’t mean it would be the same for Armand.

Reckless, audacious Armand.

But he was young and male and strong. I told myself that over and over the next few days.

He was strong.

I hoped it would be enough. Because despite whatever the ghost of Reginald’s wife might have said, I didn’t believe for a moment I was going to be able to rescue both of her sons.

We registered at Bournemouth’s Sea Vista Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon, an alias so ludicrous I rolled my eyes when Armand announced us to the innkeeper. But it was too late, he’d said it, so I’d smiled and turned my eye roll into a flitting of my lashes because the innkeeper was beaming at me and congratulating us on our recent nuptials, and promising us a suite that surely would inspire our honeymoon to grand matrimonial heights.

Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening. I’d perked up when he’d mentioned sending along some champagne, until I realized I wasn’t going to be able to drink any since I’d be flying most of the night.

The “suite” was boxy and charmless but did boast a balcony with a fine view of the beach and breaking surf. We waited until the champagne arrived—fat strawberries, too—and then Armand was pressing a wad of notes into the innkeeper’s hand and spinning a short, slippery tale about how not to expect to see much of us (wink!) and we’d not require maid service or anyone’s attention for days to come, thank you very much.

I swear to God, money makes everything so much easier. When you can toss it around as easily as false compliments or blown kisses, the world becomes a wide-open place.

I sighed as the door quickly closed.

“That was embarrassing.”

“It’s fine. We’re married.” Armand began to pull at his tie. “Anyway, if you think it’s bad now, just wait until the next time he sees us.”

I flopped into a chair. “Lovely.”

“Let’s have a drink.”

“I can’t. I need my head clear.”

“One drink. One toast. That’s all.” He worked at the cork. “If someone does pop in while we’re gone, the glasses should be used and the bottle tapped. And the bed, needless to say—”

I cut him off. “Right.”

He poured the champagne, brought me a flute, and pulled me back to my feet.

“To Mrs. Pendragon, light of my life.”

“That’s enough. If we’re going to do this, give a real toast.”

“To Eleanore,” he said, instantly serious. “Light of my life.”

Would there ever come a time when I’d be able to hold his eyes when he looked at me like that? When his gaze burned with that deep blue fire, with that intensity that seemed to strip me to the core?

I didn’t know. It wasn’t tonight.

I stared at the bubbles marching in lines up the sides of my glass. “To success,” I said, and tipped the rim of my flute to his.

He didn’t echo me. I suppose he’d already given the salute he’d meant most.

The Sea Vista Inn apparently had any number of romantic couples staying on. They lingered upon the beach until long after midnight, promenading and holding hands, ladies giggling, men stealing kisses. There was a boardwalk leading to a pier lined with glassed candles, a gently glowing path of them stretching out over the sea.

But eventually the couples were fewer and fewer, until there were none, and the candles all guttered out. Then it was just Armand and me and the deep purple night.

And that star. Star-of-Jesse, burning above us.

We waited until we were well and truly alone. Anyone stumbling across us now would hardly mistake us for newlyweds out for an amorous stroll. I was in a thin calico dress, no coat despite the brisk breeze, while Armand wore a leather driving duster, gloves, goggles, and sturdy boots. There was a compass in his pocket, a knife in one of the boots, and a pistol in a holster around his waist. He had a knapsack, too, because we’d thought it be the easiest way to transport anything else.

It was heavy. Anything else included my spare clothing, his, tinned food, water, a blanket, aspirin, iodine, bandages (expertly rolled), cotton wool, bullets, and the maps.

We took a final look around to ensure we were alone, then faced each other.

I wanted to say something but couldn’t think what. We’d already gone over our plans so thoroughly they were seared into my brain.

Off we go seemed woefully inadequate. So did Don’t forget to hold on.

Perhaps it was the same for him. He only lifted a hand to my face, an unhurried stroke of his fingers along my cheek, and smiled.

I went to smoke. He knelt down, retrieved my dress and chemise and stockings and shoes, and pushed them into the knapsack.

rise up, urged the stars (and I still could not pick out Jesse from among them). rise up, beloved beast!

And then there I was, a dragon in the sand, gleaming and actual for anyone to see. Armand climbed up quickly; he knew as well as I that we were most vulnerable like this, fixed to the earth. I felt him nestle into position. The weight of the knapsack was a new adjustment for us both, but there wasn’t time to fret about it.

His legs clenched my sides and his hands grabbed my mane. I gave a nod and took us up.

We’d decided to hug the coast as far as we could until Dover, when the span of the Channel shrank as much as it ever would and the risk of me drowning would be significantly lessened. It was the same route the zeppelins took, but there was no helping that. The moon was bright tonight, so the airships probably weren’t out. If they were, we’d just have to avoid them.

I’d been cold as a girl on the ground. In the air, though, I felt fine. The wind was my ally, its chill diluted now that I had scales. But I was glad that Armand had thought to wear gloves and a coat. It’s what the pilots wore, and after all, we were flying nearly as high as they did.

I glanced back at him. He was slanted over my neck, an extraordinary aviator indeed with the glass goggles over his eyes and his hair whipped into spikes. He released my mane long enough to give me a thumbs-up. Moonlight feathered his edges in silver; all the rest of him was purple, like the sky.

We were probably visible from the coast. I could see the rough line of the shore, the occasional inviting lights of villages or towns, but I hoped we were far enough out that anyone getting a glimpse of us would think we were a very large bird. Or an illusion.

We weren’t really liable to be anything else.

Moon above, England to the left, a deceptively velvety-looking sea below. Jesse, like Armand, somewhere behind my shoulders. My wings found their rhythm and kept it.

And time passed.

The stars changed places. The moon set.

Armand and I soared alone through the center of the universe, no aeroplanes, no zeppelins, no birds or seals or boats or fish. Just us.

It seemed a very quiet sort of war.

I felt the sun wanting to rise right as we neared the end of our passage over the sea. It was a peculiar sensation, a building, bulging pressure against the eastern horizon, like a giant on the other side of the world pressing his fist against the thin glazing of night. I’d never felt anything like it in my human shape—but then, I’d never kept my dragon shape as long as this before, so who knew what other strange drákon skills I was about to discover. In any case, the sun wasn’t up yet; heaven and earth were still thick with dark. The only way I knew we were near land again was that the scent of salt water became mixed with that of seagulls once more, a great many seagulls, and also sheep. And the stink of coal. Which must have meant people.

We had about another hour before the sky would begin to catch fire. Armand knew it too (to be fair, he had a watch). With his compass in hand he pointed the way we should go, and I veered north, following the invisible path he’d set for us.

The sea gave way to bumpy, broccoli-topped forests, quilted patchworks of fields, and somewhere over the tip of France I had my moment of grace: Only a few weeks ago I’d been the outcast charity student seated on a stage before some of the most wealthy and powerful people of the kingdom, but now I, Eleanore Jones—a girl without a true home or a past or even a middle name—was on my way across enemy lines to save the life of a man I’d never met. Because I could.

And that was power.

I was proud of it. Pride was a sin; I’d been told that over and over again at Blisshaven, at Moor Gate, even during services at Iverson. Pride is a sin, Eleanore, especially in a woman. Women must be modest and meek. Only the meek shall thrive.

I doubted meek would get me to Prussia. It was pride curled up warm inside me, ticklish and pleasing, and if that made me bad, so be it. I planned to thrive just fine without bloody meekness.

We located a rickety, leaning barn in a pasture, exactly as Armand had predicted, and settled down tight with our blanket amid mounds of sweet-smelling hay. I fell asleep right as the giant had his way and the night cracked apart, letting in the morning sun.

Everything had gone so smoothly.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.