The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance

by Wanrow, Laurel

  “It’s not ready yet. I still want to put a leafy border around it and pencil in some sample wording. And I don’t know if she wanted these prepared for color printing or not.”

  “So you have more to do?” Mary Clare glanced over her shoulder. One of her look-alike sisters approached with a tray.

  The morning was gone and the noon meal about to be served. Annmar pulled her gaze from the plates of food on the tray and slipped off the stool. “You need me to help?”

  Laughing, Mary Clare took the tray from her sister. “Anyone new and untrained isn’t much help in the kitchen right when it’s time to serve a meal.”

  “Thank you, Mary Delia.” Mrs. Betsy handed the girl a platter. “Fetch the meat to the dining room, please. Mary Clare, you tell Rivley he’s to go to his own bed immediately after he eats. He’s no good to us worn through from sitting in a sickroom.”

  Sickroom? He had to be sitting up with Daeryn. “I can sit with Daeryn.” Annmar picked up her sketchbook and pencils. “I can finish this anywhere.” And talk to him about this animal Knack—if he brought it up, of course.

  Mary Clare nodded. “We’re shorthanded because of the injuries, and if Rivley extends himself the way he’s determined to—”

  “Those boys. I don’t know who’s worse,” Mrs. Betsy followed this with a string of tutting. “Daeryn is sleeping, so there’s no need, but your presence might convince Rivley.”

  chapter fifteen

  Scant daylight filtered through the drawn curtains, leaving Wellspring’s sickroom as dim as the back hall. Annmar squinted, trying to see Daeryn in the bed against the wall. All she could make out were dark shapes on top of white covers. Was he in animal form? That would be strange, to sit here with a… What was he, anyway?

  Mary Clare handed Rivley the meal tray and adjusted the curtain behind a wingback chair, sending a shaft of light over the seat. Annmar blinked, and her gaze darted back to the bed. The covers bunched over legs reaching to the end, thank goodness. The dark shapes were his head, brown-sugar-colored arms and…chest.

  Bare chest.

  She sucked a breath. Was he really naked under there?

  Mary Clare tugged at her arm and gestured to the sunlit chair. Ah, yes, the perfect spot for her to continue drawing. She nodded her understanding, but…

  Could she sit in the same room with a naked boy?

  Should she?

  Thankfully, the room was dim, for her hot face must be red at this impropriety. The others thought nothing of this. She shouldn’t either if she wanted to blend with the Basin dwellers. After all, she’d been to museums and art shows. The masters Mother had tutored her in all drew nudes with complete…anatomical…accuracy.

  “I’m fine,” Rivley whispered. “She doesn’t need to spell me.”

  “Miz Gere’s orders.” Mary Clare linked an arm through his and patted his forearm. “You are to eat and rest.”

  He slipped his arm from hers and backed away. “But I can’t, he’s—”

  “Sleeping,” Mary Clare retorted in a louder voice.

  All three of them turned to the bed. Mary Clare took a step closer, and so did Annmar. Her adjusting eyes picked out white bandages covering Daeryn’s bare shoulder and upper arm. Nasty red welts crossed his face and the portion of his chest exposed above the blanket, each coated in shiny salve.

  “It’s the best time,” Mary Clare said softly. “He’s sleeping with the herbs Miriam gave him.” She slid her arm through Rivley’s again. “You need to rest, too. Please?”

  After a second, he turned to Annmar. “You’ll send for me if he wakes? Or shows any sign of change like you saw this morning? Shifting? Will you recognize it, girl?”

  How could she forget that? Annmar resisted checking Daeryn for fur now. “I will. I’ll have them fetch you.” She smiled, hoping that would reassure Rivley.

  “See?” Mary Clare nodded approvingly and pulled him to the door. “We’ll look after Dae.”

  Rivley stumbled alongside her. “For a short time, you hear? I hope things will set to rights now that he’s sleeping, but I don’t want to be away too—”

  The door closed behind them. Annmar waited until their faint footsteps faded down the hall. Then she inched up to the bed.

  Lord, he looked awful, poor fellow. She studied his features. A prominent nose, deep, wide-set eyes with rounded brows and a firm jaw under a morning’s beard growth. Not a boy, as Mrs. Betsy kept referring to them. A young man, definitely. Her breath exhaled on a faint sigh. A handsome one, even with the cuts. Her gaze trailed lower…

  And naked.

  Stop it, Annmar! But despite her own admonition, she checked to make sure the door was still closed before she studied the shape of his body hidden under the bunched covers. No way to tell, really, and she shouldn’t go on about it, even in her head.

  She dragged her gaze back over what she could see. As she’d suspected, his chest was muscular, nicely formed like the sculptures back in Mr. Bell’s Gallery in Derby. But the nasty cuts ruined the lines. Over his cheek, too. Perhaps the heavy salve was to keep them from scarring, so he wouldn’t carry a mark like Mr. Shearing did on his hand. The contrast of his strong jaw and the hair falling over his forehead intrigued her.

  She bent and brushed the mussed strands aside. Between her fingertips, his thick hair was silky. She teased another clump into order.

  Her body seemed to sigh. Soft, just like the cat the boarding house kept for mousing. When it had snuck into their room, she never turned it out, happy to pet the animal on her lap, its warmth comforting her. Now, the heat stealing through her body wasn’t exactly soothing—

  “Mmm,” Daeryn rumbled and moved slightly.

  She snatched back her hand. Daeryn’s head tilted up to where her hand had been and wiggled side to side. Annmar stepped back.

  Please, please don’t wake.

  Seconds later—a moment that lasted forever—his chin dropped. He nestled the unhurt side of his face into the pillow and lay still, an adorable angle to his posture.

  Adorable? This…man?

  Heavens. He must hear her heart pounding like tram pistons. She’d just die if he caught her at his bedside. Or if anyone else caught her.

  Annmar glanced at the door. Footsteps sounded faintly somewhere else in the huge old house, and the murmur of voices came from the direction of the dining room. Her heartbeat faded into the background. No one had seen. Daeryn hadn’t woken. Tiptoeing, she backed to the wing chair and sat. She had to get control of herself. Mary Clare would kill her if she messed up this chance for Rivley to rest.

  Well, she’d just keep her hands to herself and her seat in this chair until someone came to relieve her. Yet there was no harm in keeping her gaze on him as much as she wanted, with no one the wiser. Exactly what Rivley asked her to do.

  She ate her midday meal before settling with her sketchbook. The peach tree leaves and blossoms of the label border practically drew themselves while she stole glances at Daeryn.

  By the time she finished, he hadn’t moved. Annmar lightly penciled sample wording for Mistress Gere and turned the page. The pencil skimmed across the paper, sketching Daeryn’s reclining form and then went back for the details. Of course, she didn’t bother with the cuts or bandages. The additional and unneeded lines would only spoil the picture. She drew him as she’d first seen him, strong and free of injury.

  The sketch of him sleeping peacefully led to others, close-ups of his chest, his hands, his face. She’d been right. His mature jawline contrasted perfectly with the silken impression of his fur…hair.

  Flexing her fingers, Annmar glanced through her pages. She hadn’t drawn him in those fleeting moments as an animal, but she could. The image floated behind her closed eyes, not like the tree woman had, just a memory. But he’d looked so pained lying on the floor last night.

  A challenge, Mother had always said: Take the features and mold them to the expression the client desires. Especially if it’s of their children, skip their tra
nsitory moods. Your creativity is the mark of a true artist.

  Annmar glanced at Daeryn. Her client wasn’t looking for a specific drawing. She was. Could she do it? She flipped to a fresh page and started a new sketch of his face, rounding it, moving the ears…

  * * *

  Sniff.

  The scent wafting through the room wasn’t familiar to Daeryn, but wasn’t a stranger’s either. He’d encountered this—sniff—female before. He blinked, trying to focus his weary eyes.

  The room was still blurry. Must be Miriam’s remedy. His eyelids drifted closed. The healer had told him—ordered him, in fact—to forget about the team and the pests. The pain had dulled, making it easier to lie back and do just that. No responsibilities. Yet instinct said the thought was wrong. Was this the herbs knocking him loopy? Great, last thing a predator wanted, but Riv was on guard. Right?

  Or…sniff…perhaps not.

  Across the room lingered some familiar sweet scent, faint, but clearly the city girl. A miscellany of Outside smells still masked her delicate odor, but soon enough she’d have a chance to wash her things and rid herself of the clinging city brew. Then she’d be pure pleasure to scent, as much as she was to view now.

  He rubbed his eyes for a better look, careful of the cuts on his most injured side. At least Miriam’s concoction had soothed the painful scratches. The sting had gone, leaving the minor slices with an itchy, healing sensation.

  Perhaps the lessening pain was due to the lovely distraction before him. Lit by a soft light, she sat primly in her city skirt, staring down at the book propped on her knees. Her pencil darted in quick short strokes, her head and shoulders tipped in concentration. She’d pulled her curling brown hair back with a ribbon, exposing her creamy neck and rounded cheeks, though nothing else on the girl was rounded from what he could see. Her too-feminine fluffy blouse concealed whatever figure lay beneath. Not that it mattered. To most ’cambires, him included, body shapes were fluid and never as important as the person’s nature.

  She paused in her work and lifted her pencil, pursing those tiny lips. Her eyes—he remembered they were blue—scanned the book. Color rose in her cheeks. She smiled at something on her pages, and her face transformed to the look that’d left him stupefied yesterday.

  Great Creator. His innards churned like a kit’s all over again. He drew a breath and released it, the sigh carrying in the silent room.

  Her head popped up, her eyes wide and startled, her nerves as skittish as a fawn’s. Then her gaze darted down, and he swore her cheek color deepened. She flipped the book closed with a snap and rose. “Are you all right? Should I call someone?”

  “Easy, girl.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Barely on the edge of waking, I think.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  But she was already pouring a glass. She brought it, then hesitated.

  “I can hold it.” He took it and drank. “The healing herbs have a hold of my brain. Tell me your name again.”

  “Annmar. I arrived yesterday.”

  “That part I remember. The artist. You were drawing just now.” He sipped from the glass and watched her. Yes, she was coloring, and a distinct nervous smell flooded the space between them. But she dipped her head and showed no signs of her discomfort. Good girl. A human would never guess. A darned protective skill in the city. He wouldn’t let on that he and the other mammalian ’cambires could detect her mood changes through her scent.

  “I’ve started on Wellspring’s labels,” she said, her tone a little too set.

  Fine. Let her keep her secrets. She didn’t know him.

  Not yet.

  Besides, Miz Gere had laid down the law. Daeryn rested his eyes for a moment.

  Annmar pulled the glass from his hand. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call someone?”

  He forced open his eyes. “To watch me sleep? No, you’ll do fine. Riv needed a break. Work on your labels.” He yawned, and his eyes closed. Harder this time to get them open, but he did.

  She hovered a few steps off, holding his water glass. He should say something more, keep her talking, but this brain haze overwhelmed him. It’d be too easy to say the wrong words. And it hurt less to lay still. His eyelids drifted down…

  Her steps shuffled barely louder than her rustling skirts.

  Leaving? His eyes jerked open.

  She crossed to the chair and picked up her book. Took her seat. Not leaving. Good. Her hand gripped a pencil. Drawing. She looked up.

  Their gazes met.

  “Talk to you later, if I may?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  Chapter sixteen

  Distant rumbling pulled Daeryn from sleep. He squirmed into a better position under the sickroom’s blankets, and sank back to his half doze. The pain had all but gone. If not for the ache in his foot, he’d drop off easily. Maybe Miriam had left him some willow bark…

  Click, click, click.

  Daeryn froze, jerked fully awake by the warning call and the scent of agitation. His eyes flashed open.

  Rivley stood at the window, the curtain pushed back. Outside, the tractor engines’ even drones cut off one by one, leaving the avian’s soft clicking the only sound.

  No, not the only one. Muted grumbles came through the glass, the cadence and tones familiar even if the words were lost.

  His teammates. And the nervous voices included Jac’s.

  He pushed himself up and swung his legs out of bed, wincing at the stab through his ankle. He rose on his good foot all the same. Damned awkward.

  The clicking stopped. Rivley half-turned to meet his gaze.

  “What’s happening?” Daeryn asked, then realized Rivley had stepped aside so he could see the ’cambires standing outside the window under the porch. Their backs were to the house, but Daeryn recognized Jac and Zar.

  “You’d think an upcoming funeral,” answered Rivley, “rather than meeting the temporary hires on the way in with Mistress Gere. Someone needs to tell those beasts to cut the spineless milling.”

  Daeryn frowned. Jac didn’t think she could boss around a couple of temporary workers? He grabbed the top blanket and wrapped his middle. Half-hopping, he crossed the room, biting his lip at the shooting pain. He fell to one knee in the wing chair Annmar had used earlier and with his good foot, angled the chair sideways to the window.

  Rivley caught his intent and shoved up the sash of the large window. At the sound, the two outside turned and stepped closer. Their high-strung tension wafted in to join Rivley’s irritation. Jac tapped his non-bandaged shoulder in greeting.

  “Daeryn.” Zar lifted his chin, subtly scenting him. “Feeling better?”

  “I suppose. Slept the afternoon thanks to Miriam’s herbs.” He scanned his arms and bare chest. The welts had faded, leaving just scabs under the salve. He gestured to the red slash down Jac’s forearm. “Get some for your arm. It’ll heal faster.”

  She grimaced. “It stinks, and I don’t want my fur matted. If this isn’t better in the morning, I’ll use it then.”

  Rivley scanned the yard. “So where are the temporary hires?”

  Zar tilted his head toward town. “Comin’ up the road now. Miz Gere met ’em at Smitty’s, where the two will be boarding.”

  Daeryn’s hopes sagged. Only two? No wonder Jac and Zar smelled of fear. He didn’t dare show anything but encouragement. “Four of you guarding tonight, then.” He nodded to Jac. “Spare, but doable. Divide the sections as you see fit for their skills.”

  She eyed him. “Maraquin should be out by tomorrow.”

  “Me, too,” Daeryn said, ignoring the rise of Rivley’s brow to watch Jac’s reaction to an idea he had. “Depending on how capable these hires look, I may call on James to add in.”

  Jac blinked in surprise. “Owen never would have done that.”

  He knew. James, Wellspring’s manager, was the only other nocturnal predator on the farm. To ask for his help was admitting th
ey couldn’t handle their duties. “Hell, we’re beyond protecting our pride when Wellspring is at stake.”

  Jac didn’t scoff, so it looked like she’d agree. Instead, her head snapped around. Jac tipped her nose and sniffed. “Crossing behind the kitchen.”

  The breeze carried the scent of stale musk and guano. His scalp prickled. What the heck were these hires? His gaze shot to Zar and Jac—they’d seen them. Daeryn opened his mouth to ask, but his inhalation drew in Jac’s nervous scent.

  No. She could not let the others smell her fear. Not now. He reached out with his unbandaged arm and tapped her shoulder. “Go meet them,” he said. “Be sure they know you’re in charge.”

  Chin up, Jac spun on her heel and stalked off. Zar followed a step behind her. Daeryn leaned out the window, but their straight backs disappeared around the corner of the building before Jac called a greeting.

  Damn. He wanted to see the new hires. But he’d look pretty stupid hanging out the window. Daeryn shifted position to sit in the chair, draping his sore foot over an arm to elevate it, and arranged the blanket to cover his lap.

  Rivley also straightened and crossed his arms. “You actually turned your lead position over to Jac.”

  What? His gaze darted after her again. “Not exactly. You don’t smell them, but the hires’ scent is strange. How else would I stoke her ego for tonight?”

  Rivley rolled his eyes. “As if Jac needs even half that coaxing.” Both their gazes returned to the window, and he added, “At least it wasn’t because you thought she’d do a better job.”

  Sticking up for their own had more to do with it. Before Daeryn could explain, a few deep words drifted around the kitchen. He strained to hear more, but the windlass started up at the bunkhouse.

  Daeryn glanced across the farmyard. The diurnal team’s three rangy figures passed the growers unloading the wagons, walking in from the changing shelter at the far end. “Here comes your old team, Riv.”

  The broad-shouldered Gunther—far taller than his buzzard’s four-foot wingspan—appeared as unconcerned as usual. Their leader, Famil, looked beat, her blond braids showing a bit of eagle feather beneath her felt hat. Wyatt had his thumbs hooked in his worn leather braces, but his intent look beyond the farmhouse was far from normal.