eyes meeting
hers. She pulled away from Zane, but it was already too late: the colliers were
shoved aside by one of the men with buckets, and there was no one behind them.
Only a wisp of smoke, rising up
to blend into the smudged, violet-tinged sky.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A gainst what Zane would have
wagered were considerable odds, the water brigade was managing the fire. Smoke
no longer poured from any of the lower-story windows; the unholy curtain of
crackling yellow had vanished from behind the closed panes. People were still
shouting and rushing about, but it seemed at least half of the hotel had been
saved. Half. All that was left of the upper floor, the attics, was a mosaic of
broken rooftiles and black skeleton timbers, flecked with orange embers.
Zane turned to Lia. She appeared
pale and very shaken. Her hair fell snarled over the sleeves of his coat, a
sheen of rose lacquered over the guinea-gold, a gift from the rising sun. She
was gazing away from him, distracted; a line of soot streaked from her
cheekbone to her chin.
“I think,” said Zane, bending
down to her ear, “that perhaps I’m ready to concede that you cannot Turn.”
Her look back to him was
startled, as if she’d forgotten he’d be there. He offered a bow and handed her
her gown, thrust at him by a man in passing. It was wet and trampled but
undeniably what he’d thrown from their burning window. She stared down at the
layers of cambric and coral-pink damask as if she’d never seen any of it
before.
“Lia,” he said, touching her
shoulder, and she started again. He caught his cuff in his fist and rubbed the
soot from her cheek, then tucked her arm through his. “Come along. Come with
me.”
Her lips seemed very red. Her
eyes were dark. She held his arm like a dreamer, walking beside him through the
throng of weeping and smelly people without glancing left or right, her breath
clouding in the chill.
The people were not all that
smelled. Zane reeked of smoke. He did, Amalia did, the sky did, the very atoms
in the air. Sullage and cinders crunched beneath his boots like fresh snowfall;
for an instant he worried for Lia, but as he looked down he remembered she’d
found her shoes in time. She stepped mindlessly through a greasy puddle, the
ruffled hem of her chemise flipping pretty against her calves.
Her legs were long and bare.
Beneath his surcoat, beneath that slip of ivory silk, she was wearing nothing
at all.
He looked up. He wished suddenly,
fervently, for coffee.
Across the square was what
appeared to be a tavern—perhaps it was a teahouse. It had mullioned windows and
a door and a knot of people standing outside it gaping at the smoldering hotel,
some of them holding tankards. He steered Amalia toward it.
It was a tavern, largely
deserted. He settled for ale instead of coffee, ordered another for Lia, and
led her to a table in the corner, well in sight of the door. He made sure she
was seated, went back to the bar for their drinks, and turned around with his
hands full.
She sat alone in the light. It
wasn’t much light, just the wan, murky rays that managed to pierce the panes of
the window nearby. The beam itself fell drained of hues: everything around her
was dusty and brown and dull. But Lia glowed. Her hair madonna-loose, the spare
dress in her lap. She was pink and gold and soldier-straight in her chair, her
expression pensive, faraway. He could still see the faint mark of the soot upon
her cheek where he hadn’t gotten it all off.
Something
within him shifted. He felt queer, almost dizzy; the very world seemed to tilt
to a slow, molasses stop, everything suspended. Dust motes. Voices. His
heartbeat. Only Lia moved. She took a long, deep breath, her chest lifting, her
lips parted, and he thought, sinking, Oh, God. He wanted her. Not
somewhat, not in passing. He wanted her deeply, and he wanted her now. Here. He
wanted to touch her hair, and taste her skin, and breathe in the scent of smoke
and roses he knew would rise from
hers. She pulled away from Zane, but it was already too late: the colliers were
shoved aside by one of the men with buckets, and there was no one behind them.
Only a wisp of smoke, rising up
to blend into the smudged, violet-tinged sky.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A gainst what Zane would have
wagered were considerable odds, the water brigade was managing the fire. Smoke
no longer poured from any of the lower-story windows; the unholy curtain of
crackling yellow had vanished from behind the closed panes. People were still
shouting and rushing about, but it seemed at least half of the hotel had been
saved. Half. All that was left of the upper floor, the attics, was a mosaic of
broken rooftiles and black skeleton timbers, flecked with orange embers.
Zane turned to Lia. She appeared
pale and very shaken. Her hair fell snarled over the sleeves of his coat, a
sheen of rose lacquered over the guinea-gold, a gift from the rising sun. She
was gazing away from him, distracted; a line of soot streaked from her
cheekbone to her chin.
“I think,” said Zane, bending
down to her ear, “that perhaps I’m ready to concede that you cannot Turn.”
Her look back to him was
startled, as if she’d forgotten he’d be there. He offered a bow and handed her
her gown, thrust at him by a man in passing. It was wet and trampled but
undeniably what he’d thrown from their burning window. She stared down at the
layers of cambric and coral-pink damask as if she’d never seen any of it
before.
“Lia,” he said, touching her
shoulder, and she started again. He caught his cuff in his fist and rubbed the
soot from her cheek, then tucked her arm through his. “Come along. Come with
me.”
Her lips seemed very red. Her
eyes were dark. She held his arm like a dreamer, walking beside him through the
throng of weeping and smelly people without glancing left or right, her breath
clouding in the chill.
The people were not all that
smelled. Zane reeked of smoke. He did, Amalia did, the sky did, the very atoms
in the air. Sullage and cinders crunched beneath his boots like fresh snowfall;
for an instant he worried for Lia, but as he looked down he remembered she’d
found her shoes in time. She stepped mindlessly through a greasy puddle, the
ruffled hem of her chemise flipping pretty against her calves.
Her legs were long and bare.
Beneath his surcoat, beneath that slip of ivory silk, she was wearing nothing
at all.
He looked up. He wished suddenly,
fervently, for coffee.
Across the square was what
appeared to be a tavern—perhaps it was a teahouse. It had mullioned windows and
a door and a knot of people standing outside it gaping at the smoldering hotel,
some of them holding tankards. He steered Amalia toward it.
It was a tavern, largely
deserted. He settled for ale instead of coffee, ordered another for Lia, and
led her to a table in the corner, well in sight of the door. He made sure she
was seated, went back to the bar for their drinks, and turned around with his
hands full.
She sat alone in the light. It
wasn’t much light, just the wan, murky rays that managed to pierce the panes of
the window nearby. The beam itself fell drained of hues: everything around her
was dusty and brown and dull. But Lia glowed. Her hair madonna-loose, the spare
dress in her lap. She was pink and gold and soldier-straight in her chair, her
expression pensive, faraway. He could still see the faint mark of the soot upon
her cheek where he hadn’t gotten it all off.
Something
within him shifted. He felt queer, almost dizzy; the very world seemed to tilt
to a slow, molasses stop, everything suspended. Dust motes. Voices. His
heartbeat. Only Lia moved. She took a long, deep breath, her chest lifting, her
lips parted, and he thought, sinking, Oh, God. He wanted her. Not
somewhat, not in passing. He wanted her deeply, and he wanted her now. Here. He
wanted to touch her hair, and taste her skin, and breathe in the scent of smoke
and roses he knew would rise from
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