The Twisting (16 page)

“Of course,” Annmar said, but her mind was reeling. This might work. “I recall a few of Mr. Shearing’s business arrangements I overheard. He’s careful to stick to what’s in a contract, too. Mrs. Rennet called him on it once, and he slapped that money down fast. But never again were the terms unclear. She often said she liked and disliked doing business with him.”

Mary Clare nodded. “He’ll pay, then, but you ought to get it in advance, for showing up. If you go, that is. And if you do, will he expect you to stay?”

She practically knew the letter by heart, so nodded. “He wishes to discuss the shop he offered me. ‘There we will explore what arrangements might be necessary to conclude transferring ownership of Number 8 Bond Lane to your capable hands.’”

“Like you could get the money and a shop. One you could sell, or rent out, if you don’t want it any longer.” She looked hopeful.

Annmar shook her head. “I want to stay here. Besides, if I was destitute and tried to work or run a shop there, Mr. Shearing would surely make his payments better, his advertising needs greater, his presence more frequent.” She tipped back her head to rest it on the shelf. “Making him ever more difficult to avoid.”

“Then we forget the shop and focus on the payment offer.”

“We?”

Mary Clare pulled one of Annmar’s hands free to hold it. I’m not asking for any part of the money. I just want to see you figure out how Mr. Shearing works this so we can convince Miz Gere to avoid him. Or better yet, have him banned from the Basin.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll certainly go with you to Derby. I can be there in case you need help after… Just—to help. I’ll stay at my sister Mary Alice’s.”

“I suppose that would be good. Thank you.”

Mary Clare’s lips twisted, and then her nose scrunched. “You know, it doesn’t sound like he expects to talk
all
the time.”

Annmar’s breath caught in her throat. Mary Clare was right. If she went to that hotel—or even back to Derby—even if
she
intended just to
spend the night
, Mr. Shearing would surely find a way to manipulate her into doing exactly what he had in mind. At least she had Jac’s training as backup—though it wasn’t exactly
tested
. Annmar rubbed her eyes. Oh, Lord. How her life had changed in the week since she’d come to Blighted Basin. “I don’t believe Mr. Shearing has ever been refused, but I plan to be the first.”

“Let me help you. I know a thing or two about sex, including how to avoid it.”

For the first time, Annmar’s confidence wavered. Could she do this, stop the man determined to control agriculture across the whole of Derbyshire—and now apparently Blighted Basin? She stared at the candle flame. “I had a vision of him once. Vines erupted from him and spiraled out to capture anything—and anyone—in their path. I felt they were about to ensnare me. Right afterward, Mr. Fetcher approached me about coming here. I’m ever so glad I did. Mother might not have wanted to live here, but I do, and I won’t give it up. Mr. Shearing cannot control the Basin farms.”

Mary Clare hugged her, but when she backed up, she was biting her lip. “I think you should ask Daeryn to do
it
with you before you go.”

“What?” Annmar squeaked.

“Don’t yell. You’ll have Mrs. Betsy in here.”

Annmar gritted her teeth, clenched her hands and took a deep breath. She released it, but couldn’t keep from hissing, “I think I’ll decide for myself who—and when—my first is going to be.”

Mary Clare lifted an eyebrow. “With no experience, you think you can wiggle out of it with this city bloke? After all, he still has you in his sights. That is a stack of banknotes he’s offering. For
advice
.”

Annmar shot her a look.

“What? I didn’t suggest doing it. Money is never a reason to have sex. Never do anything anyone suggests, unless you’re a hundred percent for it.” Mary Clare threw an arm around her shoulder. “Still, it might be a good idea to know what it’s all about. With a boy you like. Daeryn is—”

Annmar patted Mary Clare’s lips closed. “Don’t lecture me. Please? Just help me figure out what to do.”

Mary Clare hugged her again. “Of course.”

They lowered to the pantry floor and sat snuggled together up against a bag of cornmeal, and Mary Clare told her, in far more detail than Mother had, what happened during sex.

At Annmar’s gasp, Mary Clare swept an arm round her shoulders. “Lands, girl. You really aren’t ready if you can’t face the thought of that. That’s what most boys are like.”

Annmar shuddered.

A grin lit Mary Clare’s face. “Don’t worry, at some point you’ll want it, too.” She hugged her tight and whispered, “Daeryn will be great about it. He’s a good fellow. He’ll wait until you invite him, until
you
decide the time is right. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Annmar nodded against her shoulder.

“I’m not going to fool you and say the first time is easy, but he’ll make it good for you.”

She sighed. “How am I ever going to do this? A proper lady never…” Oh, they must.

Mary Clare jostled her a little. “That’s the beauty of it. If you let yourself go, your body just takes over and does it for you. But only if it’s the right boy. That, you’ll know by how you feel down—”

“Right.” Down below. Her down below was making itself known more and more. With Daeryn. Mr. Shearing wouldn’t be the one. She’d see to it one way or another. If she couldn’t outsmart him, she’d retreat. “Can I ask…”

“Ask away.”

Annmar whispered, “Was Rivley your first?”

“No, but he should have been. Mama put me on
Regulatia
immediately—oh! Annmar, you shouldn’t even be talking about this unless you start taking
Regulatia
. Even if you’re just thinking of it.”

“Your mother talked to me this morning after she saw Daeryn and I together. I took my first dose today.” Acknowledging she had made her feel more on equal terms with Mary Clare.

Her friend squealed. “Ohh, good for you. Good for Ma. She never misses anything. One reason I took a room here. So anyway, when my monthlies started, Ma said it was up to me to start the habit of taking it. I did, but of course she wanted me to wait a few years to become
that
involved with any boys. I’d been working here part time, then a few months after I turned sixteen, the regular kitchen girl left and Mrs. Betsy offered me the job. Ma let me move in, because both Mary Alice and Mary Beth lived here then. Ma and my sisters had gone over all these same details I’m telling you. I thought I was right hot and ready for anything. I allowed a boy I’d been seeing for a few weeks to really do it.”

Annmar’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“No one who’s here at Wellspring.” She grimaced. “It didn’t go well. He was too rough. I got hurt, physically and emotionally. I really
wasn’t
ready. My sisters told Ma, and she stepped in and laid down the law—anyone else not checked out by the family and I was moving home.

“I’d had a taste of living on my own, so absolutely wasn’t going back home. I steered clear of boys for a few months, then started going around with a couple, just casual-like. Kissing and such for a while, but I was getting all hot to try it again. Rivley and Daeryn had come to work here, and Mary Beth…”

She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Back then she tried every fellow who caught her fancy. Anyway, she got Mama to approve Rivley, and he and I started seeing each other. He’s the most considerate lover I’ve been with.”

“That’s so sweet. So…why aren’t the two of you together?”

“We can’t seem to get along day-to-day. It’s been over two years of back and forth with us. And remember it’s not just Rivley, it’s Daeryn, too. He’s been his best friend since forever, and I can see that’s not going to change. Riv and I have a lot of fun, but I seem to set Daeryn off, which in turn sets Rivley off. But that’s not to say Daeryn won’t work for you. You’re different than me.”

Annmar rolled her eyes. “Since Daeryn is the one I like, I suppose that’s true.”

Mary Clare snorted. “And you’ll be
that
close to him in no time.”

Annmar opened her mouth, then closed it again. A week ago, she would have vehemently denied the prediction. Today, after her run-in with Mr. Shearing, Daeryn clearly shone as a caring, protective boy. It didn’t matter if he didn’t dress as well, or have any money, or had relations with other girls. She could better imagine him sharing her bed than anyone else.

Rap, rap
.

The knock at the pantry door startled Annmar from Mary Clare’s oh-so-improper details about men. They flinched apart almost guiltily.

“Mary Clare?” said someone from behind the pantry door.

“Go away, Mary Frances.”

“You’re not the boss of me here. Ma wants the artist girl. Someone’s been hurt, and she’s needed in the sickroom.”

chapter EIGHTEEN

Daeryn dropped the
extra stakes in one of the equipment sheds alongside the fencing that Terrent and some growers had carried back. “Glad that’s done,” he said. “The pests would have been on us if we hadn’t been working behind the fence.”

“That Harvester is getting ’em, pickers snatching gobblers and jabbing them to its underside,” said a grower everyone called Sticks. He lifted a stunner from the pile. “Heard someone call for emptying it already. Dae, you think we should shuffle another pair up there to help while they do?”

That might not be a bad idea.

A scream rent the air. Every head swung to the north. As if one, they sprinted up the road to the top of the hill. Below, green-glowing Luci-viewers surrounded the Harvester. Instead of a steady forward progress, it swerved, scattering the workers.

Daeryn dashed forward, squinting. Someone was at the rear control panel, dancing wildly to keep up with the machine’s erratic movements, but it seemed the swinging green lights were zeroed in on the side of the machine and a hopping figure. As he watched, the person, a female, careened into the Harvester, groped at its side and screamed again.

Hell, it was Mary Beth. She fell to her back with a
thud
. The machine dragged her across the ground, her leg pulled upward to it.

It had her ankle.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped at the same time Terrent yelled, “Shit.” They bolted forward, pulling ahead of the growers.

Yells rang out, the green lights converged on Mary Beth. Sparks shot from beneath the Harvester.

“Shift,” Daeryn shouted. “Paws are faster than feet.” They shrugged out of braces, trousers dropped and shoes flew. Shirts were shed as two legs changed to four. They bounded forward.

His eyesight sharpened with the shift, in time to see Master Brightwell stumble and fall. Rivley, above him on the machine, jerked around. The inventor rose to his hands and knees. He was fine—

A gobbler leaped on Master Brightwell’s back.

Daeryn growled. The fence loomed ahead. His muscles bunched, and he took it at a flying leap. He ran on, while behind him Terrent’s claws scrabbled over the wood. His weight hit the ground. Pounding fox paws followed Daeryn down the hillside.

The field below was in utter confusion: Lights messed with his vision, continuous screams overloaded his sharp hearing, and the out-of-control Harvester barreled on. One pocket of light stayed in its wake, a group surrounding the fallen inventor. The rest swarmed around the machine.

Master Brightwell was getting help, but why weren’t they stopping the Harvester? Rivley? Where was he?

As if in answer, a sparrowhawk’s shriek cut through the chaos, quieting things for seconds.

Daeryn’s stomach turned. Rivley was not a happy bird.

Shouts for help rang out again, and a hawk rose from the crowd around Master Brightwell. It whirled over the Harvester and landed.

Rivley shifted to human and nestled between the joint connections of two moving legs. He paused, his hand pressed to his leg—

Damn
. A line of blood flowed from under his fingers. Riv swayed, but then turned to the engine.

Daeryn raced across the field, Terrent’s paws thudding at his tail. Rivley had to be doing something to stop the Harvester, despite looking as unsteady as the machine.

A larger bird swooped overhead, silhouetted against the purpling sky. Then a second, and a third. They landed and formed up into the tall figures of the day guards.

“Shut it down,” Gunther shouted.

Wyatt yelled, “Where’s Master Brightwell?”

“Over here,” someone called. “He’s injured.”

“Who else can operate it?”

“I tried,” sobbed a grower girl named Iris. “The lever must be down. I know it’s down, but nothing happens and Mary Beth is underneath. It got her.”

Daeryn headed for the day guards, dodging among the growers staying clear of the lurching legs. He changed form to human and shouted, “Rivley’s up top dealing with the engine. Mary Beth can’t wait. Grab a pincer arm and hold it so help can get to her.”

Five others wrangled the metal arms, while he and Gunther caught the one suspending Mary Beth. Together, they bent it. Lower, lower…as the machine threw them side-to-side with every awkward step. Someone dove for her head and cradled it. Terrent and several growers squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder with them and pried at the pincers.

All Daeryn could do was hold on and listen to Mary Beth’s weak cries, the others yelping and grunting as they worked to free her, Gunther’s panting breaths matching his own. He closed his mind to the mangled mess that had been her foot. The damage was beyond medicine. Maybe beyond Annmar’s Knack.

Other frantic shouts came from beyond the advancing legs.

“Has anyone seen Paul?” someone yelled. “How about Henry?”

“Paul’s with Henry. We’ve got to move the injured up to the house. Fast.”

“Clear the wagon for transporting these people.”

The Harvester jolted forward, its arms still reaching, trying to break from Daeryn’s grasp. Overhead, the engine crackled and popped, sparks shot everywhere, the gears ground—

“She’s loose!” Terrent’s shout echoed off the undercarriage. “Carry her out.”

The growers moved the limp girl. “She’s clear,” grunted Daeryn. “On three, release the arms and get away! One, two, three.” He stumbled from under the machine as fast as possible. Casting a look to confirm no one remained underneath, Daeryn spun to peer at the engine looming above him.

Rivley clung to the metal parts, his bare back glistening in the lantern light that someone had pointed at him. Holding with one hand, he fitted a wrench to the inlet valve. Again and again, it slipped off—then the Harvester lurched and the wrench flew from his hand. Rivley stumbled, the foot of his injured leg dangling until he pulled himself upright again.

The onlookers shouted directions, three scrambling for the wrench.

Great Creator, even if they got it into Riv’s hand again, the task was nearly impossible with the jerky movement. Daeryn glanced around for a tool, a rock, something else they could use to hammer the valve.

His gaze fell on the stunner Sticks still held. Master Brightwell had complained the fungus solidified his lubricant—temporarily, but it might be enough to help Riv. Daeryn bounded over and grabbed the weapon. His finger found the trigger as he ran back within range. He lifted the barrel like he’d watched Terrent do, like he should have done at that practice. If only he hadn’t been such a coward… Sylvan’s death had made him avoid weapons for three years, but damned if he’d let his fear cost him Riv.

Daeryn sucked a breath and darted alongside the moving machine, avoiding the roving pincers. “Riv! Show me where to stop the feed of steam to the engine.”

Rivley’s head shot up. Giving a nod, he pulled himself along one side—

Daeryn gaped at the blood smeared from Riv’s groin to his knee.
No wonder he can hardly stand.
He forced himself to look to where Riv pointed, to a pumping rod between the firebox and engine.

“End of the valve rod,” called Rivley.

“Stand back,” Daeryn shouted, but Rivley was already retreating. Daeryn sighted along the stunner and pulled the trigger. Whitish muck shot from the end of the barrel, but the Harvester pitched aside at the same moment. The fungus hit a leg joint. It slowed to a stop and dragged with the next step.

This would work, if he could just hit the joint at the end of the rod. Daeryn aimed again and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Damn, it had to recharge. How long—

“Six,” Terrent yelled from behind him, “five, four, three, two, one, shoot!”

Daeryn’s finger yanked on the trigger. The stream of fungus shot from the stunner and arched neatly to the rod…not quite the end. It glistened white, then the shimmer traveled to the end and, slower than molasses, the rod came to a stop. A burst of condensation spewed over the machine, luminated by the lantern light.

The Harvester groaned to a stop, and in the wafting mist Rivley sagged, one hand pressing his bloodied leg. Their gazes met, then Rivley’s darted to Daeryn’s feet. “Watch out,” he shouted.

Daeryn spun and swung the stunner at the gobbler reaching for his heel.

* * *

Annmar and Mary Clare
scrambled from the floor of the pantry as one of Mary Clare’s sisters banged on the door again. “Someone’s hurt!” she repeated.

Mary Clare threw open the door. “What? Already?” Little Mary Frances shrank back as her sister dashed by.

Annmar found her sketchbook and blew out the candle. “Who is it?’

“The old inventor man.” Mary Frances’ eyes were huge.

Annmar pushed past her. “Oh, no, not Master Brightwell.”

The younger girl trotted beside her through the dining room. “I saw him get off the wagon. They said he got tore up pretty bad until Rivley changed and snatched the gobbler with his talons. He’s a hero. But bloody. Are heroes supposed to bleed that much?”

Not Rivley, too.
Annmar swung around the corner into the hall and heard Mary Clare calling Mary Beth’s name over and over. The dozen feet to the sickroom seemed like miles. People blocked the door. “Excuse me.” She pushed through.

Blood spotted the floor, covered the sheets of the examination table and Miriam, who was working over—

Henry.

The boy’s arm was smashed, his leg askew, his belly torn open—

Annmar’s stomach lurched, doubling her over.

“Watch it!” Someone grabbed her shoulders and rushed her out the door.

She nearly ran into James outside. He whisked her to the edge of the paving stones and held her while she dry-heaved. Finally, panting, she stopped and he lowered her to sit on a crate.

“There now.”

A cold cloth was pressed into her hand. Annmar wiped her face, while around her people talked quietly, but urgently. She lowered the cloth.

James smiled sympathetically. “Never seen that much blood, have you?”

She sighed. “No. Luckily. Will Henry be…”

“I…don’t think so. Gunther has gone to town for the surgeon.”

Annmar opened her sketchbook. Tears fell on the page, and the first few lines wobbled.

“I’m not gonna tell you not to try,” James said, “but Henry isn’t the only one hurt.”

She stopped. “Is Daeryn one of those injured?”

“He’s fine, and it’s a good thing. That boy’s out at the broken Harvester convincing the hardier growers to keep going at those pests.” James gave a nod of approval.

Annmar drew a breath. She brought her hand to her left collarbone to steady her fingers, but also to reach deep for the strength of her Knack. Blue swirled up to greet her, and she willed its warmth down her arm, straight to her fingertips and the pencil filling in Henry’s earnest face, his wayward hair, then dropping to sketch a torso with no damage.

Heart, lungs, ribs, intestines…
She drew up the anatomy in her mind, placing it in Henry’s torso, whole, functioning, and laced with connected blue threads. A rounded arm followed, a properly aligned leg appeared, both with good strong bones drawn in blue lines.

And then it was done, Henry’s perfect boyish image complete. And at the bottom, the little blue mark that was now appearing on all her drawings glowed.

“No one is knocking me out with chloroform.” At the far side of the covered area, Master Brightwell’s uncharacteristically angry words drew her gaze from the page. “It isn’t natural. I’ll be prepared when that pushy so-and-so gets here, but in
my
way. Someone either runs to the greenhouse and gets me a jar, or I’ll hobble down there myself.”

The wagon had left. Kerosene lanterns lit the area surrounding the gray-haired man. His shirt had been peeled back, and a grower dabbed a bloodied cloth to his neck. Below it, gashes cut across his shoulder, some missing hunks of flesh.

“Determined as ever,” James said.

Yes, the inventor’s tone sent a girl Annmar remembered as being Iris running for his
jar
. But where was Rivley? “Master Brightwell’s not the next worst?”

“No. You ready to go back in the house?”

She nodded, and James helped her stand. “The place is in turmoil,” he said. “No one is taking any account of you or your skills. But when the surgeon arrives—”

“Don’t let him in to see Henry just yet. Miriam will know. Mary Frances said Rivley was cut up.”

“Worse is Mary Beth.” James stopped her at the back door. “Gird up your loins. Can’t promise you it’s going to look any better, so you best just keep your eyes to the bed where Mary Beth is. Pincers mangled her foot.”

She swallowed. This would work, she could feel it. She’d look and draw a matching foot. “If she has a shoe on, get it off her, so I can see the good foot, too,” she whispered.

“Right.” James prodded the person in front of them and suggested the growers crowding the sickroom door return to the fields. They moved to the hall, and Annmar stepped inside the door, where she could lean on the wall at the foot of the bed. Curiosity got the better of her, and she darted a quick glance to Miriam.