“And your father?”
“He left.” The only thing Marco had given Alphonse was his absence. It didn’t matter. They barely knew each other.
“That’s too bad.” The underside of the carriage was easy to see now, and a split in the axle rod ran along its length. “What took you from Masotin?”
The Vonards had thrown this particular question at him more times than he could count, and in annoyance, Alphonse cranked the jack harder. “I told you a few times now. Remember? I was looking for Arel.”
“Ah, right. Seeking wisdom. You hiked to Tura—from Masotin no less. You know, Al, I can almost picture it from Sangal or Beschel. But to walk there from Masotin? That’s impressive. How did you cross the Great Gorge?”
Alphonse swore under his breath, cursing the man for his smugness. There was no good way to cross the Great Gorge, the massive canyon cut by the Turas River south of Sangal. It was flanked by three-thousand-foot vertical cliffs. “I went around it.”
Ephraim came over to Alphonse’s side of the carriage, smiling. “That’s quite a distance.”
If his story had any truth to it, yeah, it would be. Alphonse yanked on the wheel. He just wanted to pay his bill and leave.
“Careful. Watch the frame.” Ephraim eased the wheel off, examined the edge, and muttered, “It needs a new rim.”
Ephraim’s daughter came out then. Odile. She was a few years younger than Alphonse and looked a bit like Ardelle. Her eyes were gray with dark flecks, and something in the way she held herself reminded Alphonse of a girl he’d dated years ago. Confidence, he thought, that’s what it was. Her hair fell like water, like a veil. It was closer to blond than either Ephraim’s or Ardelle’s.
She stood there with her hands on her hips, staring at him. At his nose, to be exact. His crooked nose. His off-center nose, broken years ago and crooked ever since. That’s what she stared at.
“Al. You left oil on the door frame. Can you wipe that down?”
Her tone was chilly, had been ever since he’d opened his mouth, and off-putting didn’t begin to describe it. She didn’t know him, yet she seemed to distrust him on sight. Of course, confronting her about it was out of the question. She was Ardelle’s daughter, and Ardelle had hired him. “Yes, ma’am.”
He stood, brushed the dirt from his trousers, and limped back inside. Odile and Ephraim watched him without speaking as he crossed the yard, but as soon as he pulled the door shut, he saw through the little window that they were talking again, quite animatedly.
“Thank you, Al.” He startled and turned to find Ardelle. “For fixing the door. You were right, you did that without any help at all, even with your leg. Would you mind wiping the frame? There’s a bit of oil on it.” She handed him a cloth.
“Of course, Mrs. Vonard.”
He went back up and wiped the door, grabbed the oil canister, which he’d also forgotten, and went down and out again. Odile turned to him and said sourly, “Do you want to see the rest of town?”
No, not with her. He threw a glance at Ephraim, but the man’s face was set. No easy out there; no extra line.
“Go, Al,” Ephraim said at last. “She’ll show you the hardware store.”
The hardware store? In a town so small he could find a hardware store without a guided tour. “The nurse told me to take it easy on the leg.”
“Cordelia said no such thing. Go on the walk with Odile. I’m not giving you a choice.”
* * *
They went after supper, Odile ahead and him behind. Every twenty or thirty feet she’d stop and, clearly exasperated with his pace, wait for him. When they reached the main street she said, “Thoroughfare.”
The shops were mostly closed for the evening. They passed one, an eatery, that was open and smelled of grilled meats. Different culture here; different kind of life. Everything from Odile’s self-protective attitude to the smells and sounds and the rough-hewn planks underfoot.
Different, but appealing.
They passed another shop, a grain merchant. This little town probably had no more than a few hundred people. Of course, it was a between-point, where the goods of the belt were sold for transport to the cities. Merchants lived in these foothill towns, and each fall wagons assembled here before bringing their harvest to the cities.
A few families were out.
“So,” Odile said with that same impossible cliff of expression she’d worn all week, “how do we compare to . . . Masotin, was it?”
“It’s smaller.” He heard his displeasure, and in truth she didn’t deserve that. After a while he looked over. The tightness between her eyebrows was unmistakable. “I’m sorry. Why don’t we try this again, Odile. Your town is nothing like Masotin, it’s smaller of course, and I’d genuinely like to know more about it. How are the jobs here?”
“Fine.”
She said it without missing a beat, and her pace quickened. He pushed to keep up. A stab of pain shot from his knee. He lurched onto a railing and grabbed his leg. His heel began hammering the ground.
“Is that the regeneron?”
She was staring wide-eyed at his foot as it slammed into the boardwalk. He kneaded his thigh until it settled, pushed off the railing and tested his weight. “Yeah. It’s supposed to get better.”
Her face zipped closed, her moment of openness gone.
“Anyway,” he said, still testing the leg, “it’s nice to see families out. Kids.”
He was being conversational, but he was also curious. In the cities, children could work as young as twelve. Out here, with the tradition of apprenticing into a family business, they started younger. “Do they take work?”
She crossed her arms and looked at him icily.
“What? It’s a simple question.”
“Yes. We work.”
“Here in town?”
“Yes. Or in the belt, when we’re older.”
His leg seemed to be working well enough, and he paced back into a walk. The muscle worked, just not smoothly. “Okay. Well, what if someone doesn’t want either of those? They have to go somewhere.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re very interested in how we do things. Is it so different in Masotin? That’s where you’re from, right? Or was it Narona?”
He forced a smile and resolved to make it through this walk one way or another. “I’m from Masotin. Sunny Masotin. Home to the greatest fishing fleet on Nasoir. How many workers—”
She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him around to face her. “Let me be clear, Mr. di Anton. We do not call our neighbors ‘workers.’ We know one another by name. We grew up together. We don’t want city folk, especially deceitful ones, here. We’re content. You can leave. I can’t imagine anyone would ever want a job anywhere else. Especially in the cities.”
Astonished. Her attitude toward him boiled down to his city roots. She disliked him for no other reason than that.
She started walking and he followed. They passed a grassy area, the street splitting on either side. “The Grand Square,” she said.
‘Grand’ was the wrong word, but it was pleasant and more or less square-shaped. A few families were out here as well.
“Weddings, naming ceremonies, conjunction festivals. Those are held here.”
Conjunction—when Bel and Letra aligned to create the illusion of a single sun—occurred twice yearly. Turaset’s orbit brought it closest to Bel’letra during conjunction, and brutal radiation bathed the planet. Everyone’s pigmentation shifted. According to the history books, most of the original colonists died during their first conjunction because they didn’t have protective pigmentation, and that was a major challenge of colonizing Turaset. Now, in the cities, electrical lines were kept buried as a protective measure. Here in the foothills, of course, electricity was dependent on individual fuel-powered generators. There were no lines to bury.
Squeals
came from the children on the green, the pure happiness of childhood. Alphonse wondered at times how much more of that he might have had and whether he’d be different now if his grandfather hadn’t died and Marco hadn’t left. “Are the festivals nice?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “I’m not superstitious.”
True, these country traditions were rooted in superstition. The suns, according to one of the religions, symbolized twin gods, one ruling the body and the other the spirit. To be outside when the gods met was to risk losing the soul. Conjunction festivals were held after dark to celebrate escaping soul-death.
Odile had led him most of the way through the town now, and she stopped in front of another little shop. Fuel-powered tools and devices sat inside the window.
“So. The hardware store.” She slapped the window frame. “This is it. The place where everyone buys their tools. And the fuel, and the service for the motors and engines.”
It looked standard, if small.
Her eyes grew hard. “Masotin, yes? In Renivia Province? Tell me, Al. Why do we need fuel-powered tools?”
Maybe he’d misunderstood her. His eyes roamed down the street and fell on a building that looked like it might be a public bath. Past that, a schoolhouse.
He looked back. “Why do we need them? Well, look. You must have learned it in school. You grow food; we build things.” He rapped the pane with his knuckle. “You’d have trouble making glass out here.”
Odile crossed her arms. “Hmm.”
“You would.” He pushed the heel of his palm down his thigh again. They must’ve walked over a mile, and the soreness in his leg was deep and aching, like he’d just spent the afternoon climbing. In a sense this whole conversation had been an exercise in finding holds and pushing onward.
He could, he thought, take charge of it. Put on a charming smile, like his mother would do. Flirt a little. They’d walk back to the inn, and he’d convince her he was interested in her dreams. He knew how to do that well enough, had been raised by one of the best. He’d pretend to care about Odile and her ideas. That might be better, actually, than this hostility they seemed to feel toward one another, and certainly would be easier.
But as he considered it, he saw too much of his mother in it and not enough of the man he was trying to be. “Odile. I don’t know what you have against me. I don’t know why we’re getting off on the wrong foot.” Something heavy in his chest, some hard part of himself, loosened at the admission.
She frowned and looked straight into his eyes. The flecks in them, dark and light, reminded him of mountaintop granite. “Why are you here?”
He slipped on her words, her forthrightness. This candor!
Why are you here?
Why. Because the Council was unworkable. His relationship with his mother too. That was why. He stared at the dusty planks. “I think I’m just looking for a little solid footing.”
The words might sound cryptic, but they felt honest. He looked back up.
After a moment, her shoulders relaxed, and her face smoothed out. “Thank you. Your leg’s had enough. Let’s go back.”
* * *
Back at the inn, two carriages stood in the lane, and once inside he heard voices coming from the back office. Alphonse didn’t give it much thought. He bid Odile good night, went up to his room, and opened the window. The scent of sage blew in, good mountain sage. He lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and listened as he’d done before.
There it was. Cricket.
He imagined himself by a burbling stream with the spread of stars above. His breathing slowed and deepened, and the ache in his thigh smoothed out.
Frog.
Then glass clinking on glass, and a voice. “Is he with the combustion industry?”
Alphonse startled. That was Ephraim, his voice barely audible. He concentrated.
Odile’s voice. “No. He’s a dishonest boob. He’s not . . .” Alphonse flinched at her words and strained harder, “. . . Masotin.”
“Desisters . . . those people . . .”
“. . . the network.”
He heard mumbles of other voices, two or three he didn’t recognize. One was loud and had a shrill edge, like a peevish old man. “They want to drill the ranges. They’ve roped in di Les, over in Sangal.”
Ephraim’s voice. “Provinces . . . restrictions . . .”
Odile’s voice. “. . . not my friend . . . Renico.”
With a jolt, Alphonse stopped. This family tracked the actions of the combustion industry. He stared at the window, wondering where he might go to hear their words more clearly.
His stomach twisted hard. No. If they’d wanted him to join their conversation, they would have asked. They hadn’t, and if he was honest with himself, he would have said no. There was little chance this family could teach him anything he didn’t already know about combustion. More to the point, eavesdropping, like deceit, seemed like another bad habit to leave behind.
He closed the window and turned off the light.
Chapter Eleven
The horses plodded in the early morning suns. Jack and Myrta did too. The events at market—di Vaun chasing her, the bizarre stream of blue from his aut’s rear pipe. Maybe a procedure was what she needed. She was so tired it was hard to think straight.
“Tell Papa about di Vaun.” Under the exhaustion in Jack’s voice was the sound of grim determination. “Promise.”
Yawning, she nodded.
The barn came into view. Nathan and two field hands were in the wheat field talking about something. He was pointing toward the far end. Then he saw them and strode over, clearly upset and plainly tired, looking them both up and down. “Jack.”
“Sorry, Nate.”
“Save it.” His voice was brusque. It was the tone he took with the hands when they hadn’t done what he’d told them to do. Nathan ran his hand along the horses, down their withers and legs. He looked at their eyes and pulled their lips back to inspect their gums. “Team’s thirsty. They’re no good today. Myrta, take ’em to the trough, then stable ’em.”
She pulled the horses away. Another pair of horses, not theirs, grazed in the pasture, and her heart sank. Terrence must have paid to get the carriage home. That meant money lost from sales. She could see it playing out, Mama and Papa and Nathan finding Rusty and Rennet gone, Myrta and Jack nowhere to be found.
She and Jack had run off now and then as youngsters, but for Papa to pay to get home from market, that had never happened.
She lingered by the fence. If she was sick like di Vaun said, that would cost money too. Brooding, she stabled the horses, made her way to the house, and eased the front door open as quietly as possible. Celeste and Terrence’s angry voices spilled out from the kitchen.
They never argued, except about money. She’d go upstairs and change, give them time to settle before telling them about Mr. di Vaun and his aut.
Celeste’s frayed voice carried into the hall. “You’ve always worked with nature, not against it.”
“Why’re you arguin’? You’ve seen the numbers same as me. We need water.” His voice sounded like a distant storm, threatening and deep.
Myrta crept up the stairs. The fifth one creaked, and Celeste rushed into the hallway, her eyes bloodshot and her nose red, like she’d been crying. “Myrta, oh thank the heavens, Myrta.” She ran up and hugged her. “Where did you get off to? You’re safe. Sweetheart.” She held her tightly and didn’t let go.
In the kitchen doorway, Terrence said, “We need words. That’s twice, against my better judgment, you came when you oughtn’t. Past time to grow up, Myrta.”
“Terrence, she’s been out all night. Your lecture needs to wait. Myrta, come to the kitchen. Is Jack all right?”
“Yes.” She followed Celeste and sat, looking at the table, trying to think about something besides this moment. The goats, anyt
hing. After a minute, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa.”
He loomed over her. “What got into your head? Runnin’ off like that?”
She didn’t know how to answer. She needed to say something, be brave. “I . . .”
After a minute he rumbled, “I’m waiting.”
Myrta sat very straight. This wasn’t the first time Terrence had demanded answers from her. She had plenty of practice. “Mr. di Vaun was following me. He was chasing us. He drove his aut right up to me and tried to drag me inside it. He did. It’s why we took the horses. I know it sounds crazy when I say it, but he was in his aut, trying to grab me, and . . .” She began choking on the recollection, because as frightening as that had been, the air turning into colors was worse.
Doctors cost money.
Terrence leaned back against the counter and heaved a sigh, looking for all the world like a man who’d long since considered himself done with children and expected his own to look after themselves or maybe him even. Myrta felt she’d disappointed him, this man facing a tiresome chore. Her. Terrence said, “He wasn’t chasin’ you. He’s got no reason to.”
Myrta took a breath, preparing to launch into what she’d seen, but before she said anything, Celeste set a bowl of warmed grains in front of her. “Sweetheart, eat. Terrence. That man came to the cheese stand asking after Myrta. He’s dangerous. She has nothing to do with irrigation.”
Terrence stood, still and expectant. “What happened?” He looked back and forth between them.
Her stomach hurt, and the food was a lump in the back of her throat, stuck there. Myrta put the spoon down and swallowed, but the lump remained. “It seemed like Mr. di Vaun was after me. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I ran, and Jack stayed with me. I know we could’ve found you, but the paddock was right there, and I thought I’d just leave and come back. And,” she stole a quick glance at Celeste, but her mama was watching Terrence, “I think something’s wrong with my—” Try as she might, she was unable to say it. “I’m sorry.”
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