by R. C. Lewis
“So are you—a good job of distracting me,” I teased.
“That’s not the only good job I’m doing. I came to tell you how well the conference with the interim provincial leaders went.”
“How well did it go?”
“I was so charming, they’re falling in love with me despite my Candaran status.”
“They’d better not,” I said, sliding my fingers up the back of his neck so they tangled in his hair. “I’m the only one who gets to fall in love with you.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t argue with the queen.”
I didn’t answer, just closed the distance to kiss him again. When I let him go, his smile matched mine.
“Well,” he said, “since we’ve mutually distracted each other, I have a surprise for you. Your engagement gift has arrived.”
“I thought we decided not to bother with anything like that.”
“I changed my mind. Come see it before you decide whether to be angry. I’ll help you go through the logs later.”
The data and decisions weren’t going anywhere, so I let him guide me out of the office. Dane’s stride distracted me as we walked. Anyone who didn’t know better would think he just had a limp rather than a prosthetic. I could make it better, though. A new stitch or two, improving the neural-cybernetic interface, and I would make it better.
I heard my gift long before I saw it. Chirps and beeps…and a few well-chosen expletives.
I turned to Dane, my eyes wide, and he grinned, giving the small of my back a little nudge. With that encouragement, I ran the rest of the way to the entrance hall and saw my ears hadn’t lied to me.
Six drones scuttled and skittered, exploring the hall—seven if you counted Dimwit, which I definitely did. Ticktock measured the individual tiles in a wall mosaic, Clank and Clunk argued over which tapestry was older, and Cusser…Cusser was patched and whole. Not just whole, but himself again, living up to his name due to Zippy slipping and falling on the marble floor. Whirligig spotted me first and scurried over.
“Instructions, Essie?”
I just stared as Dane caught up, enfolding me in his arms again. “Cusser. How?” I asked. “It would’ve taken me the better part of a Thandan cycle to repair him.”
“Candara has a few things you didn’t on Thanda. And once they retrieved the others, ’Gig gave us Cusser’s backup programs. He doesn’t remember anything after being brought back online, but otherwise should be fine.”
I looked around at the seven of them. “But we can’t,” I protested. “The men in Forty-Two need them. The mine’s too dangerous. It isn’t fair.”
“Mining is on hold. Everyone’s working on building up the Bands, and I thought maybe some of the Thandans will want to come settle in the outlands. Your father’s merinium reserves are more than enough to keep things going while the rest of the drones are upgraded. They probably won’t have the personality of this lot, but that’s why I wanted them with you, where they belong. I know you’ve missed them.”
I had. The unpredictable little drones had been my first and only friends until Dane found me. They all looked at me, waiting—even Zippy, who kept trying to get up too fast, which led to more sliding on the floor.
“Remind me which one’s Clank,” Dane said, so close his breath tickled my ear. I pointed out the drone. “Clank, wasn’t there one more thing?”
Clank’s storage compartment popped open. He pulled something out and handed it to me.
Mother’s notebook. It settled into my hands like a piece of me, its worn edges ingrained in my memory. I looked up at Dane, unable to find the words to thank him. His smile told me he knew.
“Essie? Instructions?” Whirligig repeated.
I flipped open the notebook, going straight to the sketch of the dragonfly hovering over the orchid.
“Well, I don’t know, ’Gig,” I said. “Maybe you should download some data files on gardening.”
That got them all going again, as Ticktock began listing apple tree varieties and Clank and Clunk debated whether roses or orchids were better in the Royal City’s climate. It was noisy and chaotic and disruptive.
It was exactly what the palace needed.
With all that activity, my eye went to the one thing not moving. Dimwit stood off to the side, still looking at me.
“Dimwit Essie queen Essie,” he said. “Essie mother proud.”
And the twitchy malfunction who’d never botched anything he didn’t mean to dipped himself into an unmistakable bow.
I didn’t fight the tear that slipped down my cheek.
I smiled, and I bowed back.
I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO DO THIS.
I was supposed to be a left-brained math teacher with the extra quirk that I can discuss calculus in sign language. But a whim led to an attempt, an attempt led to an obsession, and several manuscripts later, here we are. Without support and encouragement and challenges from amazing people, I’d still be stuck on that whim.
My gratitude and a touch of idol-worship to my editors, Catherine Onder and Lisa Yoskowitz, who pushed me to know every in and out of my characters and story. Thanks to the genius design team at ilovedust for the amazing cover illustration, and to everyone at Hyperion who helped take this from an idea in my head to a book for real people.
All things are possible because of my agent, Jennifer Laughran. She’s a bookseller at heart and a book lover to her core. Thank you for believing in me, for telling it like it is, and for teaching me how to talk on the phone.
Many thanks to the founding members of the Dimwit Fan Club: MarcyKate Connolly, Johanna Quille, Jennie Bates Bozic, Riley Redgate, and Charlee Vale, along with the Kid Crits group at AgentQuery Connect for offering feedback on the early chapters. Special thanks to Mindy McGinnis for being my go-to gal when I needed to stick to my guns, swallow my pride, or get talked off the ledge. Thanks as well to the third leg of the Critecta, Caroline Poissonniez, for getting me to dig into the emotional context of my characters when all I could think about was plot.
Continuing thanks to my students, past and present, for never letting me forget how awesome teenagers are.
To my parents for keeping me well-stocked in books growing up. To my brother for starting my first attempt at writing when we were kids (a tag-team Star Trek fan fiction that didn’t get very far). To my sister for reading chapters of Stitching Snow as I drafted, and keeping the fire lit by demanding, “More. Now. Faster!”
Here’s to doing the unexpected.
About the Author
R.C. Lewis teaches math to teenagers—sometimes in sign language, sometimes not—so whether she’s a science geek or a bookworm depends on when you look. That may explain why her characters don’t like to be pigeonholed. Coincidentally, R.C. enjoys reading about quantum physics and the identity issues of photons. You can find her on Twitter (@RC_Lewis) and at www.rclewisbooks.com.
