My mind could not seem to move forward. Jie. Mama. Jie. Then Marcus, with his gloating grin . . . then back to Jie.
With a tight breath, I returned to the garlic. At least there was comfort in the mundane. In how easily the knife sliced through. At how the sharp tang of garlic filled the room. I could almost pretend I was back home. That it was May. . . . Elijah would be home any day, and Mary would be bringing in the evening paper as I made supper.
Clack, clack. I sank into that familiar sound. The familiar feel of cooking. Of course, just as I finished chopping, Daniel returned, and my daydream vanished like a popped soap bubble. I wiped my hands on my pants, dragging my mind back to the present and burying reality beneath layers of careful control.
Yet as I looked at Daniel, I froze. For atop a fresh shirt and trousers was an ornate, cream-colored hatbox.
I knew what was in that box—I had accidentally seen its contents in Paris. But why Daniel would show it to me now, I couldn’t guess. I wanted it—oh God, how I wanted it—but now did not feel like the right time. I was so tired, so heartbroken.
Daniel set down the box and offered me the clothes. “While you dress, I’ll cut some potatoes. I don’t like cooking, since open flames ain’t exactly safe on a balloon, but I’ll do it. For you.” He flashed me a lopsided grin.
“Daniel,” I said, my voice tight. “Is that for me?” I motioned to the box. “Are you going to give it to me?”
His smile faltered. “Yeah. It’s for you.” His eyes skipped from my face to the box and back. “It’s somethin’ I wanted to give you in Paris, but . . . I couldn’t.”
“And perhaps you shouldn’t now. Perhaps you ought to wait until the time is right.” My blood pounded in my ears.
“I need to do it, Empress.” His chest rose as he inhaled. Then he yanked off the lid, and, cringing, he held it out to me. “This is for you.”
Ever so slowly, I dragged my eyes from his tightened face . . . down his strong shoulder and long arm . . . to the box.
Nestled within and burning bright in the electric light was a mechanical hand.
A sob trembled up from my stomach, but I bit it back. Even though I’d seen the hand before—when Laure had accidentally knocked over the box in Paris—it gutted me to see it again. The wire tendons, the bronze knuckles, and the seamlessly carved wooden fingertips . . .
There was so much meaning held within this creation—all the tenderness and thought that could characterize Daniel. And also all the anger and bleakness, for when he’d first seen me in Paris and realized I didn’t need the mechanical hand, he had let his temper break loose.
This hand symbolized everything about our relationship. The good, the bad, and that inevitable, frightening truth that I would one day need the hand, when Oliver was gone.
“It’s perfect,” I finally croaked.
Daniel’s face relaxed, and he plucked the hand from the box to hold it to the light. Then he groaned. “There’s a spot on it. Goddamned grease gets on everything. . . .” He trailed off, his eyes widening to meet mine. “Er, I mean, gol’ . . . dern?”
I forced a laugh and reached for the hand. “I don’t care if there’s a stain, Daniel. I still want it.”
The edge of his lips curving up, he laid it on my palms. The metal was cool, and as I examined it more closely, I found the carvings even more meticulously intricate than I’d first thought.
“This is a masterpiece, Daniel.” I shook my head, awe taking over all emotion, and caressed the small, curved fingernails. “You should patent it.”
“Maybe. Plenty of time for that later.”
Something about his voice made me lift my eyes . . . and I found his face had gone very still. As if he had stopped breathing.
I swallowed.
He took a step toward me. “Empress. I need you to know something.” Then a long inhale, and he closed the space between us. I did not move. Not even when I had to hold the mechanical hand to my chest because he stood so near. Not even when I had to roll my head back to see his face. And not even when his fingers reached up to brush my hair lightly from my eyes . . . and then linger down my jaw.
“A few years ago,” he said, lowering his hand, “when I first met Joseph, I made a promise to myself. I swore I would live my life unflinching. Unafraid. Just like Joseph does. No matter how hard I try, though, I never seem to do that with you. Whenever you’re near, I flinch. Whenever I want you most, I always pull away. But . . . no more.” He shook his head once. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I feel—right now—and you can take it or you can leave it. I just want you to know. . . . I need you to know.”
My fingers tightened around the mechanical hand, squeezing it until the gears cut into my palm. I knew what was about to come. I had wanted it for so long, and now would be the perfect moment if not for everything else.