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August 19 - December 10, 2017
Elston chortled into his mug and then spread his huge arms. “Aye, for all who enjoy the tough love.” Kelsea stood up, tightening her cloak. “Won’t you all be hung over in the morning?” “Probably,” muttered the dark-haired guard named Kibb.
“Is it really a good idea for so many of you to be drunk on this journey?” Carroll snorted. “Lazarus and I are the real Guard, Lady. These other seven are window
dress...
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Kelsea closed her eyes and saw her mother, the woman she had pictured throughout her childhood, the white queen on the horse. But the vision had already darkened. The people who cheered the Queen were scarecrows, gaunt with long starvation. The wreath of flowers on her head had withered. Her horse’s mouth was rotting away with disease. And the woman herself . . . a crawling, servile thing, her skin white as a corpse and yet bathed in shadow.
Two hundred feet away, the Fetch watched the girl and her entourage cross the bridge, a small smile playing on his lips.
“God granted me a small enough helping of femininity. I’d like to keep what I have.”
Kelsea turned away and found herself staring at her mother’s bookshelves again. They bothered her more every moment. Bookshelves weren’t meant to be empty. “Is there a library in the city?” “A what?” “A library. A public library.” Mace looked up at her, incredulous. “Books?” “Books.”
“Wary now!” Mace barked. “Eyes on the crowd! Kibb, you need a doctor?” “Fuck you,” Kibb replied in a good-natured tone, though his face was white and he was clutching his hand in a death grip. “I’m a medic.”
The future was only the disasters of the past, waiting to happen anew.
Kelsea shook her head. “Barty always used to say there were three things men were stupid about: their beer, their cocks, and their pride.”
Even a book can be dangerous in the wrong hands, and when that happens, you blame the hands, but you also read the book.”
“He’ll be all right, Lady,” Pen assured her. “We’ve seen him like this before. He only needs to go off and kill someone and he’ll be right as rain.”
Mace raised his eyebrows. “Be careful about making open-ended promises, Lady. I know all about those, believe me; they bite you in the ass when you least expect it.” “Even so, I mean it: if there’s ever anything I can do for you, it’s yours.” “Fine. Put all of those books in a pile, and set them on fire.” “What?” “There’s your open-ended promise.”
treachery is hardly a one-size-fits-all proposition.
