Arabella pushed down her ire at that last remark, and responded as politely as she could. “Captain Singh is a highly respected airship captain, ma’am, and we were under the protection of one of the Martian akhmoks, or generals.”
“And how did you obtain this protection?” begged the lady in question, raising her lorgnette and pressing forward eagerly. All other eyes also turned with desperate longing to this girl who had somehow obtained special sanction from the same Martians who had driven them from their homes.
“The akhmok in question had been my itkhalya.”
“Surely you must be mistaken,” said one of the men. “All itkhalyas are female.”
“I believe it is you who are mistaken, sir,” she replied, and though she felt a degree of heat entering her words she did not care to reduce it. “Among Martians it is the female of the species who is larger, more robust, and has the thicker carapace; it is only English sensitivities that restrict them to the positions of cook and nanny when we engage them as servants. Have you not noticed that by far the majority of the warriors besieging you here are female? My itkhalya was a prominent strategist among her people even before she became an akhmok, and she taught me of strategy and tactics along with all other aspects of Martian culture and history. I assure you that she is entirely suited by both temperament and training, as well as the physical characteristics of her sex, to the position.”
She found herself breathing heavily, glaring at the circle of distressed and indignant eyes that surrounded her. Most prominent among these were Lord Corey’s. “My dear Miss Ashby,” he said, “I believe you must be overtired after your long and difficult voyage. Please allow my wife to convey you to a private room, where you can rest … and reconsider your words.”
Just as she was about to snap a reply to Lord Corey’s condescension, she noted the captain’s face. His head was tilted slightly toward her, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth turned down.… It was an expression she’d learned to recognize as preceding a rebuke. And the captain’s rebukes were never, ever unearned.
She took a deep breath, considered her response, and then let it out again with a deep sigh. “You are correct, of course, Lord Corey. These last few days have been extremely taxing, and I … I apologize for my outburst. I thank you again for your hospitality.” The captain, she saw, was not displeased by her expression of regret. “However, I must decline your offer of a place to rest until I have spoken with my brother.”
The glance that Lord Corey exchanged with his wife brought a chill to Arabella’s heart.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“My dear Miss Ashby,” Lord Corey said, “I regret to inform you that your brother was seriously injured while fleeing from his home after the attack there. One of the other members of your household carried him the last mile, saving his life. However…” His gaze lowered. “Unfortunately, he lost consciousness shortly after arriving here, and has not yet woken.”
Arabella felt as though the floor had dropped away, leaving her in a state of free descent.
“We have not lost hope,” Lord Corey said. “But we fear the worst.”
22
SIMON
Michael’s face was pale and running with sweat, and his forehead burned with fever. From time to time he moaned and thrashed beneath the thin coverlet, but to Arabella’s expressions of love and hope he made no conscious reply.
“I am very sorry for your brother’s condition,” Mr. Trombley said, “but it would be far worse if not for your brave cousin Mr. Ashby.”
“My cousin Simon Ashby?” Arabella gasped.
“Indeed, miss. It happened while we were fleeing from Woodthrush Woods. At one point I noticed that your brother and your cousin were not among us; I doubled back and found your cousin Mr. Ashby crouching quite solicitously over your brother, who had caught an arrow in the calf. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, and was unconscious.” Mr. Trombley closed his eyes and shook his head at the grisly memory. “I bound up the leg, but it was your cousin who carried your brother the rest of the way here. He was very brave and determined; your brother would surely never have survived otherwise.”
Arabella stroked Michael’s fevered brow, not quite able to credit this tale of Simon’s heroism, but unable to deny the joy she felt at Michael’s survival.
“Your brother was barely alive when we arrived at Corey House,” Mr. Trombley continued. “Fortunately Dr. Fellowes was here, and stitched up the wound, and we were all very hopeful. But then it began to fester, and the leg had to come off. He has not, sadly, regained consciousness since.”
Arabella gazed upon the absence beneath the coverlet where her brother’s right leg should have been. She felt nothing but a cold numbness. Horror, she supposed, would come later.