The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato Page B

along the wall. Testing each would present a tedious chore. She knew better than to ask if the patrons had ingested water; at a place like this, it was unlikely. Unless . . . “Do you serve ice in your drinks?”
    Vincan looked at her as if she was daft. “Most assuredly I do, miss. Keep a cooler under the bar an’ fetch more ice from the kitchen if needin’ more.”
    She turned to Mr. Garret. “I’m afraid I have a rather grotesque favor to ask of you.”
    â€œFor you to preface it like that does not bode well.” He braced himself. “Ask away, m’lady.”
    â€œI need a sample of . . . expulsions from an ill man.”
    â€œOh, is that all?” An eyebrow arched high, his lips already contorting in disgust. “Miss Leander, as I said before, you do bring new life to a dull job. I will be right back.” The air-lock door whooshed shut behind him.
    â€œHe’s fetching . . . er, what?” asked Vincan.
    â€œVomit, most likely,” Octavia said in an upbeat tone. “It’d be the pleasanter choice.”
    â€œYou are a strange one, aren’t you, miss?”
    â€œSo I’ve been told.” And I’m about to prove my oddness once again.
    Mr. Garret returned with a chamber pot in hand. The foul, fermenting stew of stomach acids and alcohol caused her to crinkle her nose.
    â€œI intercepted a steward just out in the hall. Everyone is on cleanup duty.” His expression turned grim. “And you should know, the copilot is now ill as well.”
    No. Don’t picture the flames. Don’t imagine the screams. She took a steadying breath, and immediately regretted it. “How soon until we’re forced to land?”
    â€œLess than thirty minutes. If anyone else in the cabin shows symptoms, sooner.” He set down the pot.
    â€œKethan’s bastards. I dunno if I should be around for this,” muttered Vincan. “Miss is the real deal, in’t she? Magic ’n all? I just . . . I don’t know . . .”
    â€œGo back to sleep, big lug. ’Tis far past your bedtime,” said Mr. Garret.
    â€œYes. Yes. Believe I shall.” Vincan lowered himself behind the bar.
    â€œI confess, Miss Leander, I am not sure what you are doing either,” muttered Mr. Garret.
    â€œAre you afraid of me?” she asked softly. I’m so sick of being feared.
    â€œAfraid of the chaos in your wake? Perhaps. But of you, m’lady? Certainly not.” His smile created cozy warmth in her chest—quite an accomplishment, considering the task at hand.
    She looked down at the chamber pot, steeling herself. “I’ve only done this once before. It’s only been done once, period.”
    â€œSurely medician texts—”
    Octavia shook her head, loose hair whipping her cheek. “There’s nothing similar chronicled. I may be the only one who’s done this, ever.” The words emerged as a whisper.
    He arched a black brow. “Most interesting.”
    â€œIn this regard, perhaps, though I fear I’m rather dull at parties.” She tucked the strand of hair behind her ear and set her satchel on the floor. “Can you lock the door, please?”
    Octavia pulled out the bag of honeyflower and crouched close to the chamber pot as she created a tight circle. “You’re aware of the science of zymes? It comes out of Tamarania.”
    Mr. Garret shook his head. “I am Caskentian, born and raised. I have never been to Tamarania, though my mother maintains Father’s old household there.”
    Octavia stood, dusting her fingers against her parasol. “Zymes are living creatures so small they cannot be seen with the eye, though they show up in a magnifying scope. Some zymes make a person ill, while others do nothing at all.”
    â€œI note you are not using your blanket this time,” said Mr. Garret.
    She studied him before answering. His