down the tracks. Another train was coming.
Though it had taken them a disgracefully long time to send it, the depot in Three Points had finally come to see about their missing passenger train. Winslow could feel the rumble of it through the tracks and hobbled for the side, quickly ushering Mirabella and Fayree out of the way. The hurried movement jostled his injuries, but he was too pleased at the prospect of rescue to grumble about it.
He didn't know what he was going to say about his sudden lack of magic and he really didn't care. The other Tre`ow was still tracking them and he wanted Mirabella safely away. He looked from the girl to her mother and then at the approaching train. Fayree had taken a big risk by saving his life and exposing herself. Damned if he knew all the consequences to it, but he could smell the fear in her.
"Your secret is safe, but if you have any hope of survival you will go to Lady Elsie Delgora." He had to raise his voice against the roar of the locomotive. "At the very least, she can buy you a little more time."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cringing, Winslow hobbled down the short steps and onto the platform. For various safety reasons, not the least of which was a concern to keep Fayree's secret, he'd been forced to scrape off the verue goo. He'd done this in the privacy of his cabin, insisting that the Untalented physicians were unnecessary in spite of the gaping wound. He'd expected the pain to double without the numbing agents of the plant, but Winslow had grossly underestimated the damage to his shoulder.
Now that he could feel it, the entire arm was only barely attached. His bones shifted every time he moved; like they were floating in a viscid sea of torn muscle and cartilage. Giddiness made the world swirl in his vision as his feet settled onto the wooden deck and for a horrified second he thought he might faint.
"Winslow!" a familiar voice shouted above the throng of people.
Winslow hadn't really noticed the crowd at first, he'd been too damned focused on not vomiting all over himself. The unpleasant prickle of fever made his skin damp and his vision fuzzy, and he suddenly wished they hadn't been rescued. The verue plant was far better than dealing with the unnatural tide of heat, the nausea threatening him, or the confusion of bodies just below the platform.
"Winslow!" The voice came again and he tried to concentrate.
He was holding up the line of people behind him who wanted to disembark the train, but if he wasn't careful he thought he really would pass out. So he used the unidentified caller as an excuse and scanned the crowd. His vision blurred at the edges, smearing people together and making them indistinguishable from storefronts and streets and grungy market tents. Blinking hard, he finally located the voice in his memory.
An instant later, Bartholomew Feverrette-Kelemen broke free of the crowd. He was intercepted by a Warder, who was obviously trying to quell the fascination of the crowd. It had been twenty years since the last train accident, making this an unprecedented debacle. There were a scant few, however, whose anxious faces gave away the hope of finding a loved one among the survivors. Winslow wondered which one was Fayree's husband.
"Sir." Bart's voice cut through the clamor with cold authority. "I am Lord Feverrette, Consort of House Witch Caresse Feverrette, and you will stand aside."
The Warder looked conflicted for a moment, but conceded. Tugging once on his suit jacket, Bartholomew strode forward, clearly angry but too gracious to complain. Winslow found himself smiling, though he knew it must look weak to his friend. Bart reached his side, took in his battered state, and then grabbed his elbow.
"Fates alive, Winifred, if you tell me you've strained yourself out of Talent, I will kill you where you stand."
The reprimand was quite serious but for the use of Winslow's teasing name. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd earned the title "Winifred"-sometime during his
Though it had taken them a disgracefully long time to send it, the depot in Three Points had finally come to see about their missing passenger train. Winslow could feel the rumble of it through the tracks and hobbled for the side, quickly ushering Mirabella and Fayree out of the way. The hurried movement jostled his injuries, but he was too pleased at the prospect of rescue to grumble about it.
He didn't know what he was going to say about his sudden lack of magic and he really didn't care. The other Tre`ow was still tracking them and he wanted Mirabella safely away. He looked from the girl to her mother and then at the approaching train. Fayree had taken a big risk by saving his life and exposing herself. Damned if he knew all the consequences to it, but he could smell the fear in her.
"Your secret is safe, but if you have any hope of survival you will go to Lady Elsie Delgora." He had to raise his voice against the roar of the locomotive. "At the very least, she can buy you a little more time."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cringing, Winslow hobbled down the short steps and onto the platform. For various safety reasons, not the least of which was a concern to keep Fayree's secret, he'd been forced to scrape off the verue goo. He'd done this in the privacy of his cabin, insisting that the Untalented physicians were unnecessary in spite of the gaping wound. He'd expected the pain to double without the numbing agents of the plant, but Winslow had grossly underestimated the damage to his shoulder.
Now that he could feel it, the entire arm was only barely attached. His bones shifted every time he moved; like they were floating in a viscid sea of torn muscle and cartilage. Giddiness made the world swirl in his vision as his feet settled onto the wooden deck and for a horrified second he thought he might faint.
"Winslow!" a familiar voice shouted above the throng of people.
Winslow hadn't really noticed the crowd at first, he'd been too damned focused on not vomiting all over himself. The unpleasant prickle of fever made his skin damp and his vision fuzzy, and he suddenly wished they hadn't been rescued. The verue plant was far better than dealing with the unnatural tide of heat, the nausea threatening him, or the confusion of bodies just below the platform.
"Winslow!" The voice came again and he tried to concentrate.
He was holding up the line of people behind him who wanted to disembark the train, but if he wasn't careful he thought he really would pass out. So he used the unidentified caller as an excuse and scanned the crowd. His vision blurred at the edges, smearing people together and making them indistinguishable from storefronts and streets and grungy market tents. Blinking hard, he finally located the voice in his memory.
An instant later, Bartholomew Feverrette-Kelemen broke free of the crowd. He was intercepted by a Warder, who was obviously trying to quell the fascination of the crowd. It had been twenty years since the last train accident, making this an unprecedented debacle. There were a scant few, however, whose anxious faces gave away the hope of finding a loved one among the survivors. Winslow wondered which one was Fayree's husband.
"Sir." Bart's voice cut through the clamor with cold authority. "I am Lord Feverrette, Consort of House Witch Caresse Feverrette, and you will stand aside."
The Warder looked conflicted for a moment, but conceded. Tugging once on his suit jacket, Bartholomew strode forward, clearly angry but too gracious to complain. Winslow found himself smiling, though he knew it must look weak to his friend. Bart reached his side, took in his battered state, and then grabbed his elbow.
"Fates alive, Winifred, if you tell me you've strained yourself out of Talent, I will kill you where you stand."
The reprimand was quite serious but for the use of Winslow's teasing name. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd earned the title "Winifred"-sometime during his
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