His face broke into a grin, and he grabbed her, hugging her tight for a second. Then, he broke loose and started for the machine.
Daeryn lifted a pail with the end of a rope trailing out of it. “I brought along a few pests to test it. We can wiggle them from a distance using the rope.”
Though he and Mary Clare looked excited, Mistress Gere put up a hand. James stepped into Rivley’s path again.
Rivley pulled the cloth containing the eroded doodem from his pocket and half-turned to Annmar, his brows knit.
This other part of her Knack was still her secret, he was telling her. He wouldn’t give it away if she wanted it kept quiet. Annmar bit her lip. It couldn’t stay a secret, not if she was going to help Wellspring. She returned to Rivley’s side, pivoted him by the elbow to face the small group and laid a hand over the wrapped doodem.
“Mistress Gere? Apparently, my Knack for seeing how to heal people extends to seeing how the machines operate. I have an errand to run, but Rivley has my permission to tell you what I’ve noticed and how we fixed the Harvester. If it sounds reasonable to you, I hope you’ll let him test its operation.”
Mistress Gere glanced between the two of them. “One of my employees died. I cannot risk…”
“That’s why we’re doing this. For Henry.” Rivley unfolded the cloth. Mistress Gere glanced at the whitened blob, then did a double take. She took it from him and brought it to eye level as James also crowded in to look.
Rivley smiled at Annmar. “Thanks. We’ll do this.”
“You may watch.” Mistress Gere pulled him back a few steps. “Afterwards, you’re checking into the sickroom bed Mary Beth just vacated. I daresay she might be more steady on her healed foot than you are with your nerves wound tighter than a clock spring.”
Mary Clare’s hug good-bye and admonishment to hurry cut off the remainder of the conversation. The redhead pushed Annmar toward the bunkhouse, and she dashed to her room.
Thank goodness she’d packed her valise earlier. She slammed her door and trotted down the stairs, realizing at the bottom that she’d left the extra Harvester doodems on her bed. If Daeryn came to her room to sleep again, he’d see them. He’d wonder why she had extras, and possibly figure out she was going after the Derby Harvesters before she could board that train. She grasped the metal stair railing. “Locked,” she whispered. “Closed to everyone.”
Then she practically ran down the hill into Chapel Hollow.
The bell rang when she swung open the door of Miss Lacey’s. The dressmaker smiled. “I knew you’d like your new undergarments. Ready to order more?”
Annmar drew a breath. “I have another purchase in mind. Do you have something a man would rather see a woman in, than try to get her out of?”
Miss Lacey tipped her head. “Something to enhance the figure? Exciting enough the gentleman may forget he even wants to see what lies underneath?”
Annmar heated easily with her already elevated heart rate. “Yes. If it’ll delay undressing, even better.”
Miss Lacey laughed. “I’m sure I have just the gown.”
When Mary Clare entered the shop a half hour later, Miss Lacey was pinning a hat to Annmar’s swept-up hair.
“Oh, my, look at you.” Mary Clare walked a circle around her. “A city lady, for sure.”
To wear the flattering top, Annmar had to bear the slight mounding of her pushed-up breasts at the neckline’s edge of lace, a restrictive adjustment to her corset. The clenching material left her half-breathless after the freedom of wearing next to nothing underneath, but ten rounded pearl buttons closed the bodice—small and slippery to work through their openings.
The color reminded her of the shimmery greenish-blue markings on the heads of the small teal ducks she and Mother sketched swimming on the River Derwent. Annmar couldn’t help smoothing her hands over the skirt fluffing from her corset-pinched waist, providing more tangling layers with hidden closures. Mr. Shearing would have plenty to cast his gaze on and then work through while she focused her thoughts on him.
Miss Lacey stepped back. “This is a different young lady than the one you first brought into my shop,” she said to Mary Clare. “Today she knows what she wants, and we had no problem finding the right clothing for the gentleman she wishes to impress.”
Annmar rolled her eyes so only Mary Clare could see, hoping she’d understand Miss Lacey would have to be told some story. She handed over a half sovereign as her first payment on the items, a low-cut evening gown, but with a matching neck-high jacket that transformed it to afternoon wear.
Outside stood the carriage Mary Clare had arranged for their ride around Market Day’s congested town square, with Leander driving. No doubt her friend wanted another chance to see him before separating for a day. Her tall, sandy-haired beau held the heads of the matched pair of roan horses. At Mary Clare’s call, he looked up with a boyishly handsome smile. As his gaze fell from her to Annmar, his eyes widened and ran up and down her figure, becoming stuck several times on her round, ribbon-embellished hat, of all things.
Like déjà vu, the fancy clothes instantly transported Annmar back to the proper city norms Mother had drilled into her. Watching Mrs. Rennet and the other fine-bred ladies on The Strand had reinforced the lessons. Annmar drew a breath, released it slowly and gave no sign of recognizing Leander’s interest, which might just lead to Mary Clare hating her after Rivley’s hug. With a side-glance to her and a nod to Miss Lacey, Annmar stepped down the shop stairs. She would do this.
“Ma’am?” Leander held out his hand.
Annmar put hers on top and allowed the young man to help her step into the carriage.
He turned to Mary Clare, his whisper carrying. “Who did you say that is?”
“I told you, one of Miz Gere’s employees. I’m accompanying her on the train. Now pop your eyes back into your head, Leander.”
“Sorry, Mary Delia, er, Clare. You’d look just as pretty, done up like her.” He handed her up into the carriage, then climbed into the driver’s seat.
They couldn’t talk during the ride without being overheard, but Annmar mouthed, “The Harvester?”
With a huge smile, Mary Clare nodded, and they clasped hands so as not to muss Annmar’s clothing.
Surely Mary Clare couldn’t be angry about the way Leander had looked at her, and Annmar knew she was right when the redhead gave Leander one of her usual lengthy good-bye kisses at the train station. Then they boarded, and the conductor took the ticket Mr. Shearing had sent for Annmar and the one Annmar had purchased for Mary Clare.
As they took seats away from the few other travelers in the only passenger car, Annmar ventured, “Leander—”
“I won’t allow thoughts of him—or his slips—to spoil my trip. I’ve waited too long for this.”
So this wasn’t the first time he’d called Mary Clare by her sister’s name. The news pleased Annmar. Rivley was a much better suitor, which she started to tell Mary Clare when the redhead giggled.
“I didn’t think he’d be able to peel his eyes off you, but don’t worry. Leander’s going to love that corset I ordered.” She settled into her seat, flouncing out her wide skirt. “Will seeing you dressed like this raise Mr. Shearing’s suspicions?”
Indeed, Mary Clare did not plan to have her trip ruined, but maybe before they returned, she’d rethink staying with Leander. Annmar ran her gloved fingers over her full skirt’s fine satin weave. “He said to purchase a new wardrobe. He expects it. With any luck, he’ll relax his guard and act like he did when I’d go to his factory to sketch his machine advertisements with Rennet’s Renditions. Then I can focus my Knack on him.” Here was Annmar’s chance to ask Mary Clare about Basin ways and when it was permissible to use her Knack and when it was not. “About that. I won’t be asking Mr. Shearing’s permission.”
“Absolutely not,” Mary Clare said firmly.
“But you told me people who work their Knack on others without permission get a bad reputation.”
&nb
sp; Mary Clare snorted. “After the underhanded way he’s coerced you, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. And if I were you, I’d get paid up front. Before you even arrive at the room.”
Annmar frowned. Mary Clare was ignoring her question. She put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Exactly what kind of bad reputation?” she asked again.
Mary Clare looked around the car before dipping her mouth close to Annmar’s ear. “Um, working witchcraft.” She grasped Annmar’s hand. “But that word doesn’t have the same meaning here as it does Outside.”
How could it not? This was still England, where people had been tortured into confessing to witchcraft. No one had been executed in over a hundred and fifty years, but who would risk talking of performing magic? Oh. Annmar leaned toward Mary Clare’s ear. “Is that why Blighted Basin dwellers don’t call it magic?”
The redhead’s brow creased. “Um, maybe? You’d have to ask my granny. I just know she and Ma tell me to keep my Knack to myself and hidden. Around some corners of Market Day, people will pay if they think Knack-bearers can do good, like healing. But if it didn’t work, or, say, if they didn’t like the results, then the stories start. Just be discreet, all right?”
“So whatever it’s called, you can have fingers pointed at you if you’re too…strange.”
Mary Clare hesitated, then nodded. “Working a Knack on others isn’t accepted. You can have fingers pointed at you if you accuse someone else of doing it. The Elders investigate both of you. It’s a problem for Knack-bearers whose talents aren’t so obvious, like those of a ’cambire or planta.”
Annmar checked to be sure no one was looking their way, then whispered, “So, based on what I’ve told you, do you think Mr. Shearing worked his Knack on me?”
“My Knack doesn’t make your skin crawl, does it?” She barely waited for Annmar to shake her head. “From what I’ve done, um, experienced, people feel nothing.”
“Mistress Gere felt nothing.”
“Right.” Mary Clare flipped her hands up. “I don’t know what he was doing to you. See the problem? No one can accuse him of anything.”
She’d have to find a way to prove it. Or just stop him. Without getting accused herself.
Annmar sighed. “I can’t let Mr. Shearing know what I’m doing. He figured out I have an artistic Knack—”
“Which no Basin dweller thinks twice about.”
“—but I want to avoid talking about that, too.”
Mary Clare rolled her eyes. “Dressed like this, he won’t be asking you about art. Thank the Creator we have hours to educate you on how to avoid him and practice your Knack.”
Then she’d be on her own, alone with Mr. Shearing. Annmar pressed a gloved hand to her forehead, covering the tears welling in her eyes. “He won’t take no for an answer. As much as I want to stop him from controlling me, or Mistress Gere or anyone else, I may not be able to.” She swallowed, and a tear escaped.
“I thought you said the man liked to brag? Likely, he’ll tell you right off how his Knack works.”
“He-he should. But other things may happen while I’m trying to learn his techniques. He’s relentless, and he’s made it clear he’d like sex with me, too. I have more choices than when I first came to Blighted Basin. For work, for making someplace home, for…me. If I can’t avoid his attentions, then I’ll lay him out and leave.” She wiped her eyes and told Mary Clare about Jac’s training.
“Brilliant!” Mary Clare smiled. “Your Basin skills are improving every day. You’ll do this, Annmar, just give yourself the chance. The dress and Mr. Shearing’s desire will get him talking. Once he spills his secrets, you act: Make Mr. Shearing fail with his manhood, or be unable to use his arms, or even to fall asleep, without knowing what happened.”
A week ago, Mary Clare’s ideas would have sounded like another penny dreadful tale, but now Annmar knew each idea was possible. “Sleep. That’s not a bad idea—oh. We could have used Master Brightwell’s brew.”
“Oh, dear…” Mary Clare shrugged. “Too late now to turn back, besides with everything else you can repair in a body, making one sleep should be easy.”
“I wonder how the threads—”
Mary Clare tapped her fingers to Annmar’s lips. “Don’t think about it. Knacks work better when you don’t worry over the exactness.” She lowered her hand and gave a reassuring nod. “On the next train you’ll have time to practice the sleep idea on me and perfect your performance.”
“Performance?”
“It’s nearly that, since you feel nothing for him. You should pretend you admire his maleness.”
“Admire him?”
Mary Clare rolled her eyes. “His manhood. Tell him it’s bigger than you imagined.”
“I imagined it?”
“You did. And it’s better than you had hoped. Lands, Annmar, have you never thought about what men want to hear?”
She definitely had not. At least in this area. “They like hearing about…themselves?”
“Yes,” she said adamantly. “I suppose I have to excuse you, not growing up in the country. My pa hired hands for the heavy work. That didn’t mean he let us girls off doing chores, and I learned bragging is a boy’s way of life. After my older sisters started seeing those boys and talking about them, I put it together.”
Mary Clare leaned in. “Say you think he’s endowed in a masculine sense. That’s of course after you fawn over his chest, his muscles, how strong he must be. Not too much, mind you. It’ll sound contrived. Of course, you can ask how it works.”
“How—oh, his—” Annmar lifted a hand to shield her heating face. The half day of train rides might not be long enough for her to get through Mary Clare’s idea of preparing.
chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Daeryn kicked aside his covers and rolled to sit on the side of his bed. Why had he woken? His sleep-deprived head and the angle of light cutting into their room’s dormer window told him the time was around midday. He’d been tossing for some time now. Something felt…off.
He rubbed his eyes and looked across at Rivley’s foot, the only piece of him visible in the mound of blankets the avian piled on when desperate enough to sleep in the daylight. Daeryn didn’t want to wake him. If Riv hadn’t recovered from his bout of nerves, it’d make him even angrier than he’d been when Miz Gere insisted he see Miriam. Smooth talking had released him from the sickroom, but Riv had been in a huff after the healer foisted the sleeping herb on him.
Daeryn slipped out of the room, thinking he’d go to the kitchen for a glass of milk, if not more. Yet once in the bunkhouse corridor he realized he wanted to check on Annmar. Not just wanted to, needed to.
Despite his intention, he missed her connecting hallway. He backtracked. By the time he’d passed the spot where it should have been, he knew: Annmar had closed it to him.
A sinking feeling like a hairball weighed in his stomach. Why had she blocked him?
He raced downstairs and to the end of the bunkhouse. Only the cobwebbed piles of farm clutter stood in the storage area. “But her staircase is right here,” he growled, yanking at a roll of fencing that refused to budge.
Muscles tight with the change to polecat threatening again, he pivoted and ran to the house. He burst into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the vacant drafting table and corner rocker before riveting on Mrs. Betsy. “Have you seen Annmar? Ma’am?”
She placed a roaster pan on top of the cookstove and closed the oven door before turning and frowning. “This morning. Didn’t you accompany her to town?”
“Yes, and we came back together. Have you seen her since…what time is it?”
Mrs. Betsy gestured around the kitchen. Pots and pans and dishes of food lined the serving counter and filled the table around which three of Mary Clare’s sisters dawdled. The youngest openly stared at him. The others tried not to. “Lunch hour,” the white-haired cook intoned. “Though we can’t serve a meal with still feet.”
Each girl grabbed up a dish and scurried into the
dining room, leaving Mrs. Betsy to shake her head. “These girls try, but they move in a muddle without Mary Clare staying on their tails.”
“Where is Mary Clare, ma’am?”
“Off for the day, duck, by special request. I assume accompanying your artist girl. You saw the two of them this morning, dressed to the nines.”
Had they been? He couldn’t remember. Annmar always looked nice.
Daeryn rubbed the ache in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger. This feeling meant something was wrong. But what? Scent-marking relayed only a portion of what a true pack mark would. He had to piece the rest together himself.
She’d worn her good clothes, gone somewhere with Mary Clare. Why hadn’t she asked him to go…oh. In the tunnels she’d seen him change and rage at the hedge-rider, the dangerous ’cambire behavior he’d described to her last night. Not what a proper girl wanted in an escort.
But he’d told her of those beastly habits before they’d kissed. Before she’d asked to kiss. He’d thought it had gone well, but she’d said little afterward…
Ah, hell.
That kiss happened after he’d said he wasn’t free, nor would he leave the Basin even if—Wait. She’d asked him about leaving the Basin. She’d been nervous, on top of her upset about Henry’s death—
Daeryn bolted from the kitchen, narrowly missing one of the Pemberton girls in his race across the dining room to Miz Gere’s office. His fingers darted for the knob, then he stopped and rapped on the wooden panel instead.
He opened it at the same time she said, “Come in.”
Miz Gere took off her reading glasses and looked at him. “What is your hurry, my boy?”
“Annmar is…doesn’t seem to be around. And I can’t get into her room anymore. Could you use your Knack to check for her on the property?”
Miz Gere rolled her eyes. “Her room’s closure to you should tell you something. It’s none of your business where she is.”
“But I think she’s left, gone back to the city. Would you check? Please?”
The Twisting Page 23
