Final Flight
Page 5
“Ingrid, the meeting will commence in minutes—”
She set the record on the spindle and fastened it into place. A tug of the lever and the black disc began to spin. She set the needle on the outer edge of the album. Static screeched through the horn and then the twanged notes of the shamisen rang through. The three-stringed instrument resembled an American banjo, and here it played a short, simple melody in repetition for some thirty minutes. Not that she would need to play the album for that long.
“Then we have enough time for this. Here,” she said, motioning to the rug.
He didn’t look enthusiastic, but he still walked over and lowered himself to the floor.
She knelt to face him and tilted an ear toward the Graphophone, her hands poised in midair. Simultaneously, she and Mr. Sakaguchi clapped hands to a beat of three. She quickly moved her hands to make two Vs atop her head—fox ears—while at the same time Mr. Sakaguchi briefly rested his hands on his lap.
Ingrid cackled. She won that round—a kitsune’s magic could bewitch a chief. Mr. Sakaguchi’s face twitched as they began the clapping again. This time, she positioned her hands as if on a rifle, with her right hand on a trigger and her left extended like the barrel of a gun. Mr. Sakaguchi made fox ears. The hunter’s gun could kill the kitsune. She won again.
“At least try,” she teased.
He did—the next round, he laid his hands on his lap again to symbolize the role of the chief, outranking Ingrid’s hand motion of the hunter with a gun.
The twanged music played on as they continued. A regular game of kitsune-ken ended after a player won thrice, but Ingrid didn’t care about the numbers. They found the rhythm. Ingrid made fox ears and stuck out her tongue. Mr. Sakaguchi burst out laughing.
His next motion of the rifle turned into wiggling fingers as if he threatened to tickle her like when she was a little girl—an act that used to make her screech and roll with giggles without a hand being laid on her.
Kitsune-ken had been played for centuries in Japan along with a number of other hand-gesture games. This was one their favorite, though, because it was about a fantastic. Kitsune were powerful fox spirits known for their wiles and shapeshifting. Something about the game—about play-acting a being of power—inspired Ingrid to puff her cheeks, blow raspberries, and turn her pointy fox ears into arm-long ears like a donkey.
Happy tears streamed down Mr. Sakaguchi’s cheeks. He gasped for breath as he doubled over in deep laughter. Cozy warmth filled Ingrid’s chest as she looked on him. This was how Mr. Sakaguchi should be—his spirit buoyant, eyes bright, a smile branded on his lips, even if it was to her aggravation.
A bell chimed in the hallway; time for the meeting to resume. She turned off the Graphophone.
Mr. Sakaguchi wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. A few final laughs wheezed from him as he stood. “Well. I believe you won, Ingrid.”
“I wasn’t keeping score.”
“I wasn’t either, but you still won.”
They entered the hallway as some adepts rushed by. She glanced back at him. “If you need another reason to cheer up, remember that Lincoln premieres the day after tomorrow.”
She was puzzled when his smile diminished. “I do hope I can still attend.”
“Of course you can attend! There’s no reason for you to be called away. You’ll even have protesters lined up outside the Damcyan Theatre.” At that reminder, he grinned.
Mr. Sakaguchi was a fiend for opera, and had been delighted that a company dared to perform Lincoln in San Francisco. It had outraged critics for a decade with the parallels it drew between Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and his late-life work on behalf of the Chinese in America. The fact that Mr. Sakaguchi would attend such a pro-Chinese—and therefore anti-Japanese—work might raise a few eyebrows, but he had a reputation for attending every operatic performance in the city. He was also known to bring his secretary in tow so she could hold calling cards on his behalf.
Ingrid greatly enjoyed the outings. She could never dress like the other women in their furs, pearls, and masterful hats, but there was still something electric about the place. Plus, it was a delight to share in something that Mr. Sakaguchi adored.
Mr. Sakaguchi paused at the table outside the boardroom and picked up Ingrid’s white pitcher.
“At least it’s a small crack this time,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not like that Wedgwood you shattered. Your warfare on dishware continues.”
“Maybe I should do something more rewarding than handle dishes all day.”
“You shouldn’t hold power like that. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I doubt I’m even running a fever.” A lie. A small one. But her fever was under a hundred.
“Don’t you have kermanite?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t held this power for long, just since this morning.” She noted the brief widening of his eyes as he took in that information. He hadn’t felt the tremor at dawn, then. “And of course I have kermanite. I’ve been extra careful not to touch it.”
Mr. Sakaguchi pursed his lips in disapproval. Here came the lecture. “Now, Ingrid, you know better—”
She felt the sudden shift of matter beneath her. Pressure. Raw power. Surging upward. Heat. In that space of two seconds, she threw herself over Mr. Sakaguchi, catching the briefest glimpse of shock on his face as the hallway shattered around them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BETH CATO is the author of the fantasy duology The Clockwork Dagger, which was nominated for the Locus Award for Best First Novel, and The Clockwork Crown. She writes and bakes cookies in a lair outside of Phoenix, Arizona, which she shares with a hockey-loving husband, a numbers-obsessed son, and a cat the size of a canned ham.
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ALSO BY BETH CATO
The Clockwork Dagger
The Clockwork Crown
The Deepest Poison: A Clockwork Dagger Story
Wings of Sorrow and Bone: A Clockwork Dagger Novella
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Breath of Earth copyright © 2016 by Beth Cato.
FINAL FLIGHT. Copyright © 2016 by Beth Cato. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780062411280
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