Glass Sword
Page 80
“Supplies as well,” Farley puts in. “We’ll take food if you got it, but winter clothes will be best.”
Another nod. “We’ll certainly try,” Ellie says. “I’ll have whatever we can give you ready as fast as possible. Might need an extra pair of hands, though.”
“I’ve got it,” Crance offers. His bulk will certainly help speed the process.
I can’t believe Ellie’s willingness and neither can Farley. We exchange loaded glances as Ellie gets to work, opening cabinets and floorboards in succession, revealing hidden compartments all over the house.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Farley says over her shoulder, quietly suspicious. As am I, watching every move Ellie makes. She’s old, but spry, and I wonder if we’re truly alone in this house.
“Like I said, I take my orders from Command. And they sent out the word. Help Captain Farley and the lightning girl, no matter the cost,” she says, not bothering to look at us.
My eyebrows rise, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You’re going to have to fill me in on this,” I mutter to Farley. Again, I’m struck by how organized and deep-rooted the Scarlet Guard seems to be.
“Later,” she replies. “The Marcher family?”
While Ellie gives her directions, I move to stand with Harrick and Nix. Though this is Harrick’s first recruitment, Nix thinks this is old hat, and rightfully so. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s accompanied me into hostile territory, and for that I’m so grateful.
“Ready, boys?” I ask, flexing my fingers. Nix does his best to look gruff and nonchalant, a veteran of our missions, but I don’t miss the flash of fear in Harrick’s eyes. “This won’t be as hard as coming in. Less people to hide, and the officers aren’t bothering to look this time. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks, uh, Mare.” He straightens, puffing out his chest, smiling for my benefit. I smile back, even though his voice trembles when he says my name. Most of them don’t know what to call me. Mare, Miss Barrow, the lightning girl, some even say my lady. The nickname stings, but not so much as the last. No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to be one of them, they see me as something apart. Either a leader or a leper, but always an outsider. Always separated.
Out in the alley, Crance begins loading the cart, not bothering to watch us blink out of existence with the grace of a Silver shadow. But unlike them, Harrick cannot only bend light, creating brightness and darkness—he can conjure anything he wishes. A tree, a horse, another person entirely. Now that we’re on the street, he masks us as obscure Reds with dirty faces and hoods. We are unremarkable, even to each other. He tells me this is easier than making us disappear, and a better alternative in the crowd. People won’t wonder at bumping into thin air.
Farley leads, following Ellie’s directions. We have to cross the market square, past the eyes of many Security officers, but no one gives us pause. My hair blows in the slight wind, sending a curtain of white-blond across my eyes. I almost laugh. Blond hair . . . on me.
The Marcher house is small, with a hastily built second floor that looks liable to collapse on top of us. But it has a lovely back garden, overgrown with tangles of vines and bare trees. In the summer, it must look wonderful. We pick through it, doing our best to keep the dead leaves from crunching.
“We’re invisible now,” Harrick mutters. When I look in his direction, I realize he’s gone. I smile, though no one can see it.
Someone reaches the back door before me and knocks. No answer, not even a rustle inside. They could be out for the day, working. Next to me, Farley curses under her breath. “Do we wait?” she breathes. I can’t see her, but I see the puffs of breath clouding where her face should be.
“Harrick’s not a machine,” I say, speaking for him. “We wait inside.”
I head for the door, bumping her shoulder, and sink to a knee before the lock. A simple one. I could pick it in my sleep, and it takes no time now. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a familiar, satisfying click.
The door swings back on shrieking hinges and I freeze, waiting for what might be inside. Like Ellie’s house, the inside is dark and seemingly abandoned. Still, I give it another moment, listening hard. Nothing moves inside, and I feel no tremors of electricity. Either the Marchers are out of rations, or they don’t even have electricity at all. Satisfied, I beckon over my shoulder, but nothing happens. They can’t see you, idiot.
“Head in,” I whisper, and I feel Farley at my back.
Once the door is safely shut again, we burst back into sight. I smile at Harrick, again grateful for his ability and strength, but the smell stops me cold. The air is stale in here, undisturbed, and slightly sour. With a hasty swipe of my hand, I brush half an inch of dust from the kitchen table.
“Maybe they ran. Lots of people have,” Nix offers quickly.
Something draws my focus, the tiniest whisper. Not a voice, but a spark. Barely there, so soft I almost missed it. Coming from a basket by the fireplace, covered in a dirty red rag. I drift toward it, drawn by the small beacon.
“I don’t like this. We need to regroup at Ellie’s. Harrick, pull yourself together and get ready for another illusion,” Farley barks as quietly as she can.
My knees scrape the hearthstones as I kneel over the basket. The smell is stronger here. And so is the spark. I should not do this. I know I won’t like what I find. I know it, but I can’t stop myself from pulling back the rag. The fabric is sticky and I tug, revealing what lies beneath. After a numb second, I realize what I’m looking at.
Another nod. “We’ll certainly try,” Ellie says. “I’ll have whatever we can give you ready as fast as possible. Might need an extra pair of hands, though.”
“I’ve got it,” Crance offers. His bulk will certainly help speed the process.
I can’t believe Ellie’s willingness and neither can Farley. We exchange loaded glances as Ellie gets to work, opening cabinets and floorboards in succession, revealing hidden compartments all over the house.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Farley says over her shoulder, quietly suspicious. As am I, watching every move Ellie makes. She’s old, but spry, and I wonder if we’re truly alone in this house.
“Like I said, I take my orders from Command. And they sent out the word. Help Captain Farley and the lightning girl, no matter the cost,” she says, not bothering to look at us.
My eyebrows rise, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You’re going to have to fill me in on this,” I mutter to Farley. Again, I’m struck by how organized and deep-rooted the Scarlet Guard seems to be.
“Later,” she replies. “The Marcher family?”
While Ellie gives her directions, I move to stand with Harrick and Nix. Though this is Harrick’s first recruitment, Nix thinks this is old hat, and rightfully so. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s accompanied me into hostile territory, and for that I’m so grateful.
“Ready, boys?” I ask, flexing my fingers. Nix does his best to look gruff and nonchalant, a veteran of our missions, but I don’t miss the flash of fear in Harrick’s eyes. “This won’t be as hard as coming in. Less people to hide, and the officers aren’t bothering to look this time. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks, uh, Mare.” He straightens, puffing out his chest, smiling for my benefit. I smile back, even though his voice trembles when he says my name. Most of them don’t know what to call me. Mare, Miss Barrow, the lightning girl, some even say my lady. The nickname stings, but not so much as the last. No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to be one of them, they see me as something apart. Either a leader or a leper, but always an outsider. Always separated.
Out in the alley, Crance begins loading the cart, not bothering to watch us blink out of existence with the grace of a Silver shadow. But unlike them, Harrick cannot only bend light, creating brightness and darkness—he can conjure anything he wishes. A tree, a horse, another person entirely. Now that we’re on the street, he masks us as obscure Reds with dirty faces and hoods. We are unremarkable, even to each other. He tells me this is easier than making us disappear, and a better alternative in the crowd. People won’t wonder at bumping into thin air.
Farley leads, following Ellie’s directions. We have to cross the market square, past the eyes of many Security officers, but no one gives us pause. My hair blows in the slight wind, sending a curtain of white-blond across my eyes. I almost laugh. Blond hair . . . on me.
The Marcher house is small, with a hastily built second floor that looks liable to collapse on top of us. But it has a lovely back garden, overgrown with tangles of vines and bare trees. In the summer, it must look wonderful. We pick through it, doing our best to keep the dead leaves from crunching.
“We’re invisible now,” Harrick mutters. When I look in his direction, I realize he’s gone. I smile, though no one can see it.
Someone reaches the back door before me and knocks. No answer, not even a rustle inside. They could be out for the day, working. Next to me, Farley curses under her breath. “Do we wait?” she breathes. I can’t see her, but I see the puffs of breath clouding where her face should be.
“Harrick’s not a machine,” I say, speaking for him. “We wait inside.”
I head for the door, bumping her shoulder, and sink to a knee before the lock. A simple one. I could pick it in my sleep, and it takes no time now. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a familiar, satisfying click.
The door swings back on shrieking hinges and I freeze, waiting for what might be inside. Like Ellie’s house, the inside is dark and seemingly abandoned. Still, I give it another moment, listening hard. Nothing moves inside, and I feel no tremors of electricity. Either the Marchers are out of rations, or they don’t even have electricity at all. Satisfied, I beckon over my shoulder, but nothing happens. They can’t see you, idiot.
“Head in,” I whisper, and I feel Farley at my back.
Once the door is safely shut again, we burst back into sight. I smile at Harrick, again grateful for his ability and strength, but the smell stops me cold. The air is stale in here, undisturbed, and slightly sour. With a hasty swipe of my hand, I brush half an inch of dust from the kitchen table.
“Maybe they ran. Lots of people have,” Nix offers quickly.
Something draws my focus, the tiniest whisper. Not a voice, but a spark. Barely there, so soft I almost missed it. Coming from a basket by the fireplace, covered in a dirty red rag. I drift toward it, drawn by the small beacon.
“I don’t like this. We need to regroup at Ellie’s. Harrick, pull yourself together and get ready for another illusion,” Farley barks as quietly as she can.
My knees scrape the hearthstones as I kneel over the basket. The smell is stronger here. And so is the spark. I should not do this. I know I won’t like what I find. I know it, but I can’t stop myself from pulling back the rag. The fabric is sticky and I tug, revealing what lies beneath. After a numb second, I realize what I’m looking at.
