“I didn’t come to London for Danny. I came because someone attacked my tower.”
He told her the whole story about Enfield and how Christopher was working with the smiths to make him a holder that would keep him strong while the mechanics investigated.
“Blazes, that’s rough,” she murmured. Her freckles stood out against her pale face. “And poor Dan doesn’t even know.”
“We can’t distract him from his assignment.” That’s what the Lead had said, anyway.
“But who in their right minds would attack Enfield? Why Enfield, and not London?”
Colton bit his lower lip. Cassie was trustworthy. She was honest and kind and loved Danny tremendously. Colton had seen that in the afternoons when the three of them sat talking in his tower. It had irked him at first, mostly because he saw how much Danny loved her in return. The friends mirrored each other, from a certain wave of their hands to a particular way of saying “right,” that reminded him of how Danny’s parents mirrored each other.
It had given him an ache like the one currently throbbing in his side. Danny and Cassie’s connection was not a romantic love—he knew the difference from watching so many couples in Enfield—but it was easy and uncomplicated, demanding nothing, yet giving everything if asked.
That’s how Colton knew he should tell Cassie about the message.
Taking the note from his pocket, he stood and handed it to her.
She skimmed the words at first, then read it two more times before looking up at him with a frown. “What is this?”
“Someone gave that note to Danny, and he didn’t tell anyone.”
“You …” She read the note again. “You think someone is after Danny?”
“That’s what it seems like.” Colton gestured to the crumpled paper. “Towers start falling in India. Danny is sent to India. Someone attacks Enfield.”
Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not serious!”
Colton didn’t know how to respond. “I think so?”
“But why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. All I know is … I feel as if he’s in danger. That he needs help.”
Cassie chewed her thumbnail as she read the note one more time. “Have you told his parents about this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t. They’re already worried enough.”
“You have to tell them. If Danny really is in trouble, someone has to go and help, or at least warn him. If you won’t tell them, I will.”
“No! Please don’t.”
“I’m just as worried about him as you are.”
He opened and closed his mouth. Jealousy simmered within him, but he pushed it down.
Cassie leaned forward in her seat. “I know you’re entitled to your worry. But so am I, and so are Danny’s parents. We all love him.”
Colton ran a thumb over the edge of his cog, tracing one of the spokes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll … I’ll tell them, all right? I just need to find the right words to explain.”
Cassie handed the note back to him, her eyebrows furrowed. “I had a bad feeling when he left. My bad feelings are never wrong. I had one right before my brother got into his accident.” She took a shuddering breath. “But why would anyone want to hurt Danny?”
Colton had no answer. He could have spent hours turning page after page of unanswered questions, listening to their whispers.
That night, Christopher came home with plans for a new holder model and explained it over dinner. They invited Colton to sit with them at every meal, even though he never ate a thing.
“What if the holder included the smaller cogs I brought with me?” he suggested.
“That might make it bulkier. Unless …” Christopher drew a few sketches in the pad he’d brought to the table.
Leila clucked her tongue. “Chris, put that away.”
“Maybe if we make little pockets—”
“Chris.”
“Yes, all right.” He shoved the pad to one side. Leila gave a little nod of approval as she sipped her plum cordial. “I didn’t even think about using the other cogs. Maybe it’ll help.”
“Hopefully.” Colton glanced around the kitchen, trying not to look awkward or guilty as he thought of his conversation with Cassie. He’d promised to tell the Harts, and yet, as he sat there, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Colton was already in Danny’s room when Christopher and Leila retired to bed. Through the wall, he heard Christopher’s low murmur and the higher timbre of Leila’s reply. Christopher gave a brief answer, and then they were silent.
Colton turned off the lamp and stretched out on Danny’s bed. It was impossible for him to sleep, but the exertion of being away from Enfield and the pain sometimes made him black out for a few hours. This had happened a few nights before, when he had woken in Danny’s bed with both Leila and Christopher hovering worriedly over him.
“We have to get this holder right,” Christopher had said then. “The longer you stay here, the more danger you’re in.”
Colton’s side throbbed, and he winced. He lifted his shirt and rubbed a hand over the ropy scar that traveled from underarm to hip. He had noticed several other little scars across his body, but this injury was by far the worst.
The more he thought of the scar, the sharper the pain became, and he couldn’t stay conscious a moment longer. He slipped into a twilight world where he wasn’t aware of senses or the space around him. Just time, ticking on without him, leaving him in the current like an abandoned child.
A river. It gurgled past him, heading south, taking fish and cargo with it. He raced upstream to the dock where men were pulling the cargo onto a small barge.
He ran into one of the men, who stumbled back with a curse. But when the man saw his face, a yellow-stained grin showed from within his dark beard.
“Yes, boy? What is it this time?”
“I get to go! I asked them if I could, and they asked if I was ready, and I said yes, and they said I could finally go!”
“Ah, did they, now?” The man knelt to be at eye level. “I believe this is cause for celebration. Why don’t you run along and tell your mother? I’ll bring a surprise for supper.”
The river faded away, but the sound of water didn’t. It lapped and chuckled, growing from trickling eddies to the distant roar of waves. The ocean stretched before him, gray and dark and fathomless. It was both terrifying and lovely. Seagulls wheeled over the heads of boys and girls standing on the beach, all different heights and ages.
“Who wants to go first?” asked a thin, middle-aged man. Hands shot into the air. “How about you, Castor?”
A dark-haired youth, tall for his age, stepped forward with a nervous smile. His brown eyes kept flitting toward the sea.
“Go on, lad. Show the others.”
Castor walked into the foaming tide.
He sat on a barrel behind a noisy tavern, kicking the heels of his feet against the wooden seat he’d made for himself, listening to the hollow thuds. The boy, Castor, sat on another barrel.
“Am … Am I right?” Castor asked. His hands were clasped in his lap. He looked as nervous as he had that day at sea.
“Yes, I think so.”
Castor’s hands tightened. “So …”