already writhing with flames; ash
from the wallpaper floated up to the ceiling in monstrous black flakes.
“I! Can’t! Turn!”
He didn’t bother to argue with
her again, only grabbing her hand to pull her to the window. When the sash
stuck, he used the valise to smash the panes. His shirtsleeves snapped in the
sudden new draft, and the smoke pulled around them to funnel out into the cold.
The screaming swelled abruptly
louder.
He leaned his head out the
opening, looking down, then glanced back at her.
“It’s two flights down. Can you
climb? There’s a gutter to the left.”
She nodded, still trying to work
open her gown. He made an impatient sound, snatching the mass of it from her
hands and pitching it—overskirt, petticoats, and all—out the window.
“Follow it,” he said, and pushed
her up to the sill. “Mind the glass.”
In her
chemise, in the cold, Lia clambered out the window. A crowd of people had
amassed on the street below, hotel workers and guests and passersby, everyone
shouting and pointing. A line of men slopped buckets of water through their
middle, snaking back into the hotel. The wind was a freezing shock. She saw the
gutter, a lead fluted pipe barely attached to the stone wall, and stretched a
hand to it. The pipe was slick with dew; she tried twice to catch it, swaying
back and forth as her fingers slipped across the metal. Zane held fast to her
other hand.
“Hurry,” he urged, very calm, as
the ceiling above him rippled into flame.
Dragon heart. With a surge of desperation she
dug her nails into the lead. The metal gave like wet clay, and the pipe began
to bend.
“Let go!”
He did. She swung free for a
heart-stopping moment, dangling, and the people below cried out. Quickly,
before the pipe gave, before she lost her nerve, she shimmied down, half
sliding, half falling, the chemise twisted up to her knees, the soles of her
pumps slipping for purchase against the lead and stone. She landed in the arms
of several waiting men, hands grabbing her, lifting her back to her feet.
People were yelling at her, incomprehensible, but Lia was staring up at the
smoke and the broken window, and the man there leaning out to see her, his hair
a brown gilded streamer blown across the frame.
“Lia! Catch!”
He tossed down the valise. She
caught it and staggered back, supported once more by the many hands. When she
looked up again, Zane was halfway down the pipe. He landed with a nimble leap
just as it detached from the building, the length of it tilting to the ground
in a slow, smooth arc that crumpled against the cobbled street.
Zane pushed his way to her. He
took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, his arm wrapping around her
waist. She set the valise at their feet. They stood there together with the
rest of the people, watching the upper floor of the hotel—their rooms, their
beds, their belongings—crumble into cinders.
Her hand hurt. She must have cut
it on the glass; there was a gash across her knuckles, sticky with blood. She
cupped her fist to her chest and closed her eyes against the smoke, turning her
face to Zane’s shoulder. The wind slashed like a blade around her bare ankles.
And then she felt it. That same
chill across her skin, not from the cold but from something else—some one else. It was electric and thin and very, very familiar.
The beast in her heart stirred,
fell and glimmering.
Lia lifted her head. It wasn’t
possible…but there was another drákon nearby.
She glanced casually around the
swarm of people, scanning faces. She saw the dowagers of the night before,
lined and haggard in the rising light, their guards flanking them. She saw the
squires, red-eyed, their cravats undone and their wigs askew. She saw men in
slack jackets and women in head-scarves and a scattering of urchin children—and
there—behind a pair of colliers gawking at the mess—
It was just a flash, a quick
thrill of movement, white skin, dark hair. A set of oddly tintless
from the wallpaper floated up to the ceiling in monstrous black flakes.
“I! Can’t! Turn!”
He didn’t bother to argue with
her again, only grabbing her hand to pull her to the window. When the sash
stuck, he used the valise to smash the panes. His shirtsleeves snapped in the
sudden new draft, and the smoke pulled around them to funnel out into the cold.
The screaming swelled abruptly
louder.
He leaned his head out the
opening, looking down, then glanced back at her.
“It’s two flights down. Can you
climb? There’s a gutter to the left.”
She nodded, still trying to work
open her gown. He made an impatient sound, snatching the mass of it from her
hands and pitching it—overskirt, petticoats, and all—out the window.
“Follow it,” he said, and pushed
her up to the sill. “Mind the glass.”
In her
chemise, in the cold, Lia clambered out the window. A crowd of people had
amassed on the street below, hotel workers and guests and passersby, everyone
shouting and pointing. A line of men slopped buckets of water through their
middle, snaking back into the hotel. The wind was a freezing shock. She saw the
gutter, a lead fluted pipe barely attached to the stone wall, and stretched a
hand to it. The pipe was slick with dew; she tried twice to catch it, swaying
back and forth as her fingers slipped across the metal. Zane held fast to her
other hand.
“Hurry,” he urged, very calm, as
the ceiling above him rippled into flame.
Dragon heart. With a surge of desperation she
dug her nails into the lead. The metal gave like wet clay, and the pipe began
to bend.
“Let go!”
He did. She swung free for a
heart-stopping moment, dangling, and the people below cried out. Quickly,
before the pipe gave, before she lost her nerve, she shimmied down, half
sliding, half falling, the chemise twisted up to her knees, the soles of her
pumps slipping for purchase against the lead and stone. She landed in the arms
of several waiting men, hands grabbing her, lifting her back to her feet.
People were yelling at her, incomprehensible, but Lia was staring up at the
smoke and the broken window, and the man there leaning out to see her, his hair
a brown gilded streamer blown across the frame.
“Lia! Catch!”
He tossed down the valise. She
caught it and staggered back, supported once more by the many hands. When she
looked up again, Zane was halfway down the pipe. He landed with a nimble leap
just as it detached from the building, the length of it tilting to the ground
in a slow, smooth arc that crumpled against the cobbled street.
Zane pushed his way to her. He
took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, his arm wrapping around her
waist. She set the valise at their feet. They stood there together with the
rest of the people, watching the upper floor of the hotel—their rooms, their
beds, their belongings—crumble into cinders.
Her hand hurt. She must have cut
it on the glass; there was a gash across her knuckles, sticky with blood. She
cupped her fist to her chest and closed her eyes against the smoke, turning her
face to Zane’s shoulder. The wind slashed like a blade around her bare ankles.
And then she felt it. That same
chill across her skin, not from the cold but from something else—some one else. It was electric and thin and very, very familiar.
The beast in her heart stirred,
fell and glimmering.
Lia lifted her head. It wasn’t
possible…but there was another drákon nearby.
She glanced casually around the
swarm of people, scanning faces. She saw the dowagers of the night before,
lined and haggard in the rising light, their guards flanking them. She saw the
squires, red-eyed, their cravats undone and their wigs askew. She saw men in
slack jackets and women in head-scarves and a scattering of urchin children—and
there—behind a pair of colliers gawking at the mess—
It was just a flash, a quick
thrill of movement, white skin, dark hair. A set of oddly tintless
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