Ticker

ELEVEN

In Which Ideas of the Great Hereafter Require Fine-Tuning

I extended my hand, trying to look reassuring. “It’s all right. You can come out. I won’t hurt you.”

“Mama?” she asked again. No more than three or four years old, the little girl was all unkempt hair and enormous eyes.

I tried to keep my face impassive, encouraging, all the while frantically signaling Marcus to cover up the dead woman’s body. “Your mother isn’t here, little one. Are you hungry?”

No answer, but the glint in the child’s eye answered the question. I pulled the scone from my pocket, thankful it hadn’t gone completely to crumbs, and handed it to her. She fell upon it with a glad cry, taking great bites of it and babbling to me. Occasionally comprehensible words filtered through the sugared biscuit and blueberries.

“Mama’s coming. Steamboat! Big trip.” She left off the food long enough for her lower lip to tremble. “Bad man. Very bad man.”

I dared move forward, near enough to brush the hair out of her eyes. There was no mistaking the resemblance to our dead photographer. “Do you know the very bad man’s name?”

The child nodded yes, shook her head no, then took another bite of scone. By the time I coaxed her out of the closet, Philomena and her team had bundled up the corpse and removed it from the room.

Marcus glanced at the child before murmuring, “The team will see if they can get more using the Grand Design.” He got down on the floor so he could meet the little girl’s solemn gaze. “Hello there! Are you a fairy queen?”

That silliness bought us the faintest of smiles. “No.”

“Are you a mechanical Butterfly in disguise?”

Another shake of her tousled head. “No.”

I heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’ll have to tell us your name, then.”

The child leveled a look at me. “Are you a stranger?”

Taken aback by the force of the inquiry, I could only nod and speak the truth. “Technically, yes. But my name is Penelope Aurelia Farthing, and you can call me Penny. And this,” I indicated Marcus, “is Mister Kingsley, Legatus legionus of the Ferrum Viriae.”

“I’m Cora.” She looked at him, a curious expression on her face. “Are you a clockwork soldier, too?”

Marcus glanced at me before repeating, “A clockwork soldier?”

“Like the boy in Mama’s pictures,” Cora said. “Did you come to pick them up?”

“We did,” Marcus said when he saw I could say nothing. “Does your mum have any more pictures of a man? A clockwork soldier?”

Cora turned and headed back into the hidden closet, beckoning over her shoulder to me and then pointing to a heavy stack of glass slides wrapped in thick twine. I carried them both out of the closet, handed the little girl off to Marcus, and cut the string on the parcel.

Numbered and dated with silver-slick metallic paint, the new daguerreotypes told us that the photographer wasn’t the only one to have endured multiple Augmentations in a short period of time. Over the last few days, Nic’s elbows, knees, and ankles had been reinforced with plates of dull metal.

I searched through the stack, sweat slicking my palms. “What if they implanted a prototype Ticker in him as well?”

What if he’s already dead?

I didn’t think I could bear it. Some part of me would die with him, and what remained would simply shrivel up, like a plant denied water and sunlight. I remembered the chasm of grief the family had fallen into when Cygna had died, then again when Dimitria passed; that time, we’d crawled out of the sadness on hands and knees over emotions sharp as glass.

If Nic dies, I don’t think I’ll be able to find my way out of that dark place again.

But I was spared that sorrow for the moment. The last daguerreotype in the stack showed him sitting up, grimacing into a bright light, his right hand fully Augmented. The metal spark in his eyes was welcome now, because it meant that my twin was still fighting. “He’s alive—”

A barrage of MAG gunfire interrupted me. Fléchettes broke through the windows, riddling the walls opposite and tearing open the sleeve of Marcus’s coat before he could duck.

He dove to the floor, still holding Cora. “Get down!”

I obeyed without question, clutching the daguerreotypes. Marcus overturned the shabby chaise, put his back against it, and neatly tucked Cora into his lap. Her brown eyes were huge, and she clapped her hands over her ears.

Mama. Her lips moved but no sound came out.

“Send out the girl!” shouted a rough voice from the street. “That’s all we want.”

I crawled over to Marcus, pushing the pictures in front of me. “They’re coming for her?”

“Or you.” With his free hand, he flicked off his MAG’s safety. “Might I remind you, Tesseraria, that you are also of the feminine persuasion?”

He had a point, curse him. “Give me that.”

“The child?”

“The gun.”

He shoved it into my hand, and I loaded a round into the chamber just before someone breached the door. Taking a deep breath, I emerged from behind the couch far enough to shoot the intruder high in his dominant shoulder, then low in his left kneecap. He dropped, groaning, and the man behind him fell back with a shout.

“She’s armed!”

Behind me came the hissing crackle of Marcus’s RiPA firing to life. With a muttered oath, he conveyed to the departing Ferrum Viriae and the ones manning the Communications Center that we were under attack.

“Come out, come out,” the attacker outside singsonged before a smoke canister landed on the floor.

Marcus enveloped Cora in his wool coat while I pulled my shawl up over my nose and mouth. Eyes streaming, I used the choking blue fog as cover and crossed to the fallen mercenary. He lay on the floor, still groaning. When I jammed the Pixii under his chin and discharged the full blast, he jerked once and then went slack. Hardly able to see for the smoke, I divested him of his gun and short knife.

“The Araneae will be here in thirty seconds,” Marcus relayed to me. “Be prepared to evacuate.”

“Two steps ahead of you.” And I was. When another mercenary tried to rush the door, I shot him with both MAGs. Fléchettes riddled his chest even as his answering bullets whizzed past me; he succumbed to my better aim. The whine of incoming SkyDarts and the shouts of soldiers in the street told me our backup had arrived. “Let’s go!”

With Marcus and Cora right behind me, I edged into the street. Armed Araneae soldiers surrounded us.

The squadron leader shouted through his visor, “Are you all right? Is anyone injured?”

“No one on our side,” Marcus said.

The scene beyond the human wall was one of pandemonium, with Ferrum Viriae engaged in hand-to-hand combat and pursuing the attackers who’d fled the scene. Passersby hastened into nearby buildings even as we hustled to the nearest SkyDart. I handed Marcus his weapon without a word, exchanging it for the child. Cora clung to me like a baby possum.

I murmured in the little girl’s ear to cover up the shouts of the dead and the dying. “Have you ever been to the Square Park Zoo? They’ve a Bhaskarian Tiger Exhibit.”

After a moment, she answered against my shoulder, “I like the Butterflies.”

“Yes! I like visiting the Mechanical Butterfly Enclosure, too.” We clambered inside the SkyDart, and Marcus took the controls, launching us like a projectile fired from a Superconductive Slingshot. Fumbling with the lap belt, I somehow strapped it over Cora. “There’s the new Glacia Crystal Castle with white maritime bears that walk on the ice. Have you seen that?”

Cora mumbled something into my bodice, and I put my ear down next to her mouth. “What is it, flitter-mouse?”

“He’s a bad man,” she said, the tremble of her limbs shaking me to the core. “A very bad man.”

I patted her, awkwardly at first, then with growing ease. The weight and warmth of her fragile body against mine roused every protective instinct in me, and I could have cheerfully torn apart any threat to her with my bare hands. “He is a very bad man, and he’s going back to prison.”

This flight seemed to take far longer than the last one, perhaps because I counted every shuddering breath of the small creature in my arms. Cora was like a sparrow fallen out of the nest too soon, with bones so light they might as well have been hollow. I had no idea what I would tell her about where we were going, or about the death of her mother. There was little I could say by way of comfort, and the truth was certainly not something I would willingly share with someone so young.

It’s no wonder parents lie to their children.

How many times did Mama put on a brave face for my sake? Probably once for every star in the night sky. The urge to bury my face in Cora’s dress and hold on with my remaining strength nearly overwhelmed me, but thankfully Marcus circled about one of the white watchtowers and set us down at the Flying Fortress.

Only when we were moving through the corridors at a brisk pace did I realize just how heavy a burden I carried. With Cora’s arms about my neck and her legs clasped firmly about my waist, it was akin to jogging with the proverbial millstone tied to me.

“Let me take her,” Marcus said as soon as there was a pause in the stream of information from the soldiers who’d met us at the landing platform.

I hitched her up and tried to ignore the ache in my shoulder blades. “I can manage.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” His steadying hand found my waist. “I just want to help. You won’t be of use to anyone if your Ticker gives out and you drop.”

I took a breath, savoring this moment when everything was amicable and easy between us. “True enough.” I whispered to Cora, “Do you mind going to the Legatus for a moment?”

For an answer, she held her arms out to him. Physical burden relieved, I stretched out my back and moved with far greater speed. Philomena de Mesmer emerged from a side hallway, flanked by two other members of the psychic unit. I knew whatever information she needed to convey wasn’t suitable for little ears.

Hoping Marcus would follow my lead, I tipped my head sideways to address Cora, now hanging from his arms upside down. “Perhaps you’d like a slice of cake and some milk?”

When she began to nod with great enthusiasm, Marcus pulled a thoughtful face. “Ah, no, that’s a terrible idea. Whatever can you be thinking, Penny? Children hate cake!”

I clapped my hand to my forehead in the most dramatic fashion possible. “A plate of stewed prunes instead?”

“Creamed spinach,” Marcus countered.

“Blancmange,” I said, twisting my mouth up at the memory.

“Chicken livers on toast,” Marcus said, unable to restrain the puff of laughter that followed.

“I like chicken livers,” Cora said with a breathless giggle.

“Is that so?” Marcus pulled her upright and set her on her feet. “I can do one better than that. How about some roast chicken, vegetables or not, bread and butter, and a piece of cake the size of your head to follow?”

“Chocolate cake,” Cora bargained.

“Done.” They shook solemn hands on it, and Marcus waved over the nearest soldier. “Captain Hunter, take our guest here to the commissary and see to the menu.”

“Of course.” He passed a small box to Marcus before he offered Cora a gloved hand, which she accepted as gracefully as a debutante at her first dinner dance.

“Hunter won’t let anything happen to her,” Marcus said under his breath as we watched them go. Opening the box, he retrieved his bracelets and snapped them on in quick succession. When Cora paused halfway down the hall to look back at us, Marcus was ready to deliver a reassuring wave.

My own wrists felt decidedly bare when I raised my hand as well, trying to mirror his cavalier expression. “If you wish to set my mind at rest, Kingsley, you’re doing a very bad job of it.”

“No one’s ever dared attack the Flying Fortress,” he said. The instant Cora rounded the corner with Captain Hunter, he added, “Not even during the Great Revolution.”

“If the last few days have taught me anything,” I said, “it’s that there’s a first time for everything, and that’s usually when you least expect it.”

“True words, Tesseraria,” Philomena said, her expression wan and lines cutting deep around her mouth. It looked as though years had passed since last we’d seen her, not a scant hour. “I need you in the laboratory immediately, Legatus. Despite everything, I think we’ve managed to lift the veil.” She turned to me. “Your mother’s machine is working for now.”

Marcus’s abrupt “This way” was for my benefit as the two of them took off at a run. Doing my best to keep up, I realized that life couldn’t sustain this frantic pace without fracturing. Even now, I felt hairline cracks radiating out from my clockwork heart and down my limbs. Hit me hard, just once, and I was sure to shatter.

With my family gone, who will pick up the pieces?

With impeccable timing, Marcus turned around and held his hand out to me.

“In here, Tesseraria.” He used his bracelets to unlock a reinforced metal door set with huge rivets and threatening signs. “This is the generator room,” he had to shout over the upsurge of noise. “Careful where you put your feet.”

The warning was warranted. Extending hundreds of feet above and below us, gargantuan crankshafts operated with military precision. In place of coal-powered boilers, enormous glowing containers hovered every few feet, radiating blinding white-light with only the merest suggestion of a prism visible through the glare. I expected heat, but instead they exuded a chill so powerful that I shuddered. Frost slicked the surface of the railings that marked off either side of a narrow, grate-floored bridge. Snowflakes drifted past us, dusting our hair and shoulders, clinging to my eyelashes.

“Where did these crystals come from?” I shouted into the din.

Marcus caught hold of my hand before I could reach out to touch the power source. “Viktor and my father discovered them while on an expedition to Glacia ten years back. We’ve been mining them out of the ice, learning to harness their energy. They keep the Flying Fortress aloft.”

Marcus didn’t release me until we reached the next doorway and he passed us through. In contrast, the room beyond was blessedly quiet, all noise muffled by the thick marble blocks that composed the walls. The same brilliant light was in evidence, but silver fixtures dispensed more judicious amounts. The air held the faintest scents of ambergris and orrisroot. Homely Bhaskarian-rubber mats were laid out on the floor like mosaic tiles, and insulated cables ran from the body of Lucy Reilly to the generators occupying the nearest wall.

“That’s your mother’s machine,” Marcus said as electricity arced between exposed metal coils.

Even with panels out of place and mechanical guts spilling onto the floor, Mama’s version of the Grand Design put every invention I’d ever seen to shame. A thousand parts awaited fine-tuning, as though her hands had merely paused in making the necessary adjustments. “What’s the problem with it, exactly?”

“We can’t feed enough energy into it without getting a kickback that blows all the circuitry,” Marcus said. “That’s why we set up the laboratory so close to the source of the white-light. The more time that passes after death, the more power required to make contact.”

It made sense now. “My father is the one who handled that sort of thing.”

“So your mother said.” Marcus was careful not to look at me when he continued, “Apparently he didn’t care to work on a project of this scale.”

Which meant either Papa thought it a ridiculous waste of time, or he’d chosen the bottle.

Then again, maybe Mama never asked for his help.

Philomena saved me from that line of thought by handing Marcus a typewritten transcript. “I would have gotten more, but we had a power surge that broke the connection.”

Marcus pulled me to the side, near a second bank of machines. Needle gauges jumped and danced on various screens while a transcription unit thrummed. “Let’s try it again,” he said.

Philomena crossed to Lucy’s body, which was positioned upon a sturdy table in the center of the room. Someone had taken the time to wash the dead woman’s face and hands, to brush her hair and braid it out of her face, but even clean and neat with her hands resting gently at her sides, Lucy was no more at rest than I. There was enough tension in her limbs, at the base of her throat, and just about the eyes to make me wonder if she could be shocked back to life.

Settling into an adjacent chair, Philomena placed a band of metal-studded leather on her own head and matching cuffs around her wrists. Slowly, almost painfully, the assistants turned up the dials on the generators. An answering whine filled the room with crackling feedback.

The vibration threatened to jar my bones through my skin, and my teeth hummed in my jaw. Looking down, I noticed the scorch marks scarring the floor. “Are you certain this is safe?”

“We’ve got a connection,” the lead assistant said before Marcus could respond.

The medium spoke again with Lucy’s voice. “Moving. He’s moving. Moving. Moving. Pictures. Get the pictures. Moving. Pictures. Catch him, he’s moving.” Machines spewed out readings that Marcus hastened to read over, even as Philomena continued to mutter. “Going. Going. Catch him.”

“Do you think she’s talking about Warwick?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low.

He paused, three sets of paperwork in hand. “Let’s hope so. I’d rather go prepared into our next battle with him. We’ll have to see what kind of useful information she can relay, though.”

“Can’t you ask her questions?” I glanced back at Philomena. “You interrogated Lucy back at the studio.”

Marcus shook his head. “Philomena can’t hear anything we say when she’s hooked up to the Grand Design. Her body is here, but her mind travels far beyond our reach.”

Either the machines were getting louder or Marcus’s voice was fading. With ambient electricity crackling over my skin, I struggled not only to pay attention to what he was saying, but to remain conscious. “I wouldn’t have believed any of this was possible yesterday.”

“Catch him, catch him.” The lights in the room flickered, and Philomena’s next words were garbled.

“What’s happening?” Marcus turned to an assistant.

When the power surged again, I pressed myself against the wall. It seemed more than one machine was malfunctioning; even as the technicians rushed to the Grand Design, struggling to make adjustments before Philomena’s connection with the dead broke, my Ticker threatened to send me after her. It was hard to draw a breath. I knew if I closed my eyes, I would most likely faint . . .

I only blinked, but when next I opened my eyes, I sat at the table in Glasshouse’s formal dining room. Or rather, a chamber quite like our formal dining room. Here, the flowers on the brocade wallpaper bloomed in three dimensions instead of two, releasing the fragrant scent of roses in summer. The doors on either side of the hearth were gone, removing any chance of exit. The elaborate stained-glass window had been replaced by a vast crystalline sheet; in front of it, a telescope was focused upon the night sky. The midnight canvas was dark blue. Impossibly blue. Wisps of smoke drifted over silk taffeta, the moon a diamanté brooch, the stars beads of iridescent glass. Black velvet shadows swirled around me, but I was far from alone. When I turned to the table, Dimitria sat on her birthday throne. In the corner, a cradle of polished black walnut rocked itself with haunting creaks.

“Tuppence,” Dimitria said with the faintest of smiles.

Though the fire in the hearth proved that my afterlife was to be pleasantly warm, my teeth started to chatter. “Demy.”

“Thinking of crossing over?” Her voice was as clear and as sweet as violin song.

“I’m not certain that decision is mine any longer.” I reached up to touch my finger to the broken Ticker, but under my shirtwaist, the skin was smooth and unbroken. I thought my heart, my real heart, would stop completely from the shock of it. “Haven’t I died?”

Dimitria shook her head, tossing a cluster of russet ringlets over her shoulder. “Not yet. This is an in-between place.”

Pushing back my chair, I tried to get closer to her, but the room spun around me so that I never left my place at the table. Everything about this room felt disjointed, out of sync, like the music flowing from the broken Cylindrella in the opposite corner.

“Child of mine, child of mine,” the recording crooned between gentle creaks of the cradle.

I swallowed hard. “That’s Cygna, isn’t it?”

Dimitria put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. She’s sleeping.”

I wanted to touch her, to hug her to me, but I was afraid my hands would pass right through her. “I’m so sorry, Demy.”

“Save your sorrows.” My sister’s face paled until it was as white and lovely as the moon. “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time, speaking to the dark-haired woman whenever she comes near the veil.” Her voice faded a bit, a recording winding down, then surged back when she said, “You have to help him.”

“Nic?”

“Warwick. You have to help him. I made him promise me, but he doesn’t realize—”

The crystal chandelier popped and showered me with violet sparks. Electricity wrapped me in painful arms, and I fell to the carpet, jaw clenched and muscles spasming. My flesh-and-blood heart gave a single, final thump, and then it was gone, replaced by searing hot metal and clockwork.

Hands grasped me, half lifting me up. “Penny?” The voice that called to me was urgent. I couldn’t help opening my eyes. Marcus knelt alongside me, his concerned expression echoing that of Nic. Of my parents.

My Ticker and stomach both sank.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t see me as some frail, useless creature.

Fall in love with me, not the idea of rescuing me.

I tried to sit up. “It’s all right. I just . . . fainted.”

Easing me to a sitting position, Marcus ran his hands over my arms and legs, checked the state of my pupils, and took my pulse with grim efficiency. “I’m not altogether certain that’s true. Another power surge blew out three of the coils and broke Philomena’s connection to Lucy. I picked her up off the floor, and when I turned around, you were slumped against one of the broken generators. I think you might have been electrocuted.”

Perhaps that’s what restarted my Ticker, the same as it had when Marcus turned the Pixii on me. If clockwork bits couldn’t save me, maybe electricity could.

Marcus mistook my silence for shock. “You need rest, and we both need brandy,” he said. “I’ll take you back to my office. Put your arms around me.”

“What about Philomena?” I glanced over my shoulder as he heaved me up into his arms, leaving my legs to dangle.

“She’s gone to adjust the main generators.”

“I think I owe her an apology.” My vision remained blurry about the edges, diffusing the light from the gas globes into soft, golden clouds. Though I tried to blink it away, doing so only produced a curious moving-picture effect. “I spoke with Dimitria. Beyond the veil. Which looked curiously like my dining room.”

“You spoke with your sister?” Marcus adjusted his grip upon me.

“Yes. You and Mama were right. It is possible.” Turning my head toward him, I nuzzled my face against his jacket. “Did you get any other information we can use?”

He cleared his throat before answering. “Nothing of further use, no. It was a success that we even got her to speak, but it’s going to take more research and fine-tuning of the equipment to make it function the way we’d like.”

“My mother will be able to fix it.”

“I know she will.”

“You can put me down,” I protested, realizing I must be considerably heavier than Cora.

“No need, we’re almost there.”

“I really do feel better.” More than that, actually. With the fog in my brain dissipating, I felt empowered.

He kicked open the door to his office and set me in the chair before the fire. “Can I get you some brandy? Or tea, maybe?”

“Tea, please.”

Moving behind his desk, Marcus barked an order into the intercom. That done, he rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I nearly forgot in all the excitement, but we need to locate Cora’s next of kin. I’ll have someone at the Bibliothèca messenger up the necessary records.”

I stared into the flames, seeing the stuff of a child’s nightmares dancing across the embers. “What do you suppose it’s going to be like for her, growing up knowing that she would have died if her mother hadn’t hidden her?”

Marcus shifted a stack of papers to the side, looking through the intelligence reports that had piled up since his last debriefing. “It’s going to be easier if we can tell her that Warwick is back in prison and shackled within an inch of his life.”

“I wish you could have known him . . . before. He was a different man then. A good man.” Unable to sit still, I strode about the room until I found myself staring up at the maps and plans pinned to the wall.

“We’ve all had terrible things happen to us,” Marcus said without looking up. “Only the weak use it as an excuse to prey upon others.”

I didn’t argue with him. Instead, I studied a blueprint of the courthouse that was marked where incendiary devices were found and rooms were reduced to rubble. I untacked the diagram and moved back to his desk. “So let’s show our strength. We need to organize a ceremony at the courthouse, dedicating the areas that will be rebuilt and celebrating the restoration of justice. Something we can broadcast into all the homes in Industria. Something Warwick won’t be able to resist attending.”

Marcus’s frown doubled when I swept some of his files aside to make room for the map, and not just because I was making a mess of his workspace.

“You can’t possibly think a gathering of any size is a good idea,” he said. “There’s a madman on the loose.”

“And this will be an excellent opportunity to lure him in,” I said, weighing down the four corners with his letter opener, an ink pot, a single-stroke staple press, and my hand.

“There are other ways of catching him.”

“Not ones that have as high a chance of succeeding.”

Marcus tamped down his visible frustration before trying again. “I understand your enthusiasm, but I know you a bit better than I did a few days ago, Penelope Farthing, and you’ll want to be right in the thick of it, won’t you? Fainting spells and assassination attempts on your person be damned?”

“I won’t sit here fussing and fretting while your soldiers do all the dirty work, if that’s what you mean.” The next words gushed out of me like blood from a wound. “Warwick has already gotten to Sebastian, to Nic, to my parents. Who’s next? Violet or Cora? You? We have to stop this now.”

Marcus studied me for a long moment, his gaze tracking over my face. “Can’t you spare a bit of care for yourself?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” I said.

“Yes, but hope is an ever-blooming flower.” He turned, crossed to the drinks cabinet, and poured out two generous tumblers. Returning to the desk, he offered one to me. “To your good health, Tesseraria. May it endure past noon tomorrow.”

“And to yours, Legatus.” I clinked my glass against his, then emptied it. False warmth snaked through my veins and lent me a desperately needed air of bravado.

“I have to get in touch with the chancellor.” Marcus set his cup down on the blotter, leaving a wet ring on the paper.

I pored over the diagram of the courthouse, noting the entrances and exits, the major streets and small alleys that surrounded it. “If he gives us the go-ahead, we can’t let ordinary citizens anywhere near the site.”

“All the deployments I recalled from Bhaskara and Aígyptos will be here by the morning.” Following me step for imagined step, Marcus pieced together a potential battle plan. “If we go through with this insanity, and that’s a very big if, every person on site will be plainclothes military.” He pointed to the area at the top of the exterior staircase. “We’ll lock down this central area here and put explosive-sniffing dogs at these four locations.”

I continued to study the diagram, wanting to know it as well as he already did. “No matter our preparations, Warwick will be three steps ahead of us.”

In the absence of the tea that he’d ordered, Marcus poured out another measure of brandy. “I’ll have my incendiary crew mix up personal powder-flashes. Everyone will carry at least two of them.”

“Everyone, Legatus?” I slanted a look at him.

“Yes. They’re fairly simple to operate. Light the fuse and throw it at the enemy.” After a pause, he added, “Away from you.”

I would have been insulted, save the fact that his mouth was twitching with inappropriate amusement. “I’m glad you felt compelled to specify that. Light it. Throw it. Then what?”

His smile disappeared. “Then, you run.”

“If you think I’m leaving you to the mercy of Warwick’s mercenaries, you can just think again—”

“You’ll light the powder-flashes, throw them, and run like your shoes are on fire.” He put his arms around my waist and drew me against his chest. The soft tribute that followed was no more than the brush of a Butterfly’s wing against my mouth.

If my Ticker were going to stop forever, I almost wished it would be now, in this quiet moment, the two of us together. But it beat on, knowing we had yet more work to do.

“I don’t like this worse-case-scenario thing,” I whispered, my arms slipping up to encircle his neck. “It feels very ominous.”

“An ounce of prevention,” Marcus said as he bent to kiss me again.

“And large quantities of black powder,” I finished the old saying for him just before his lips met mine.