“Pleased to meet you,” James said.
“Why didn’t you travel with the rest of your family?” Alistair asked. His words were monotone, part of the mask he wore. There was a sharp grinding noise as he spoke, like the gears were starting to seize. It was the sound her own mechanical device made when it needed to be oiled.
James leaned away from Alistair, clearly not used to the quirks of prosthetic machines.
“I’m terrified of air travel, actually. I prefer my horse,” James said.
His easy admission of fear was somewhat endearing to Westie, but she was still uncertain what to think of him. At a glance he appeared good-looking, wealthy, and well bred—a stark contrast to the tipsy boy she’d seen fighting with creatures in front of the saloon.
They sat down to their meal. James took his seat across from Westie and tucked his napkin neatly into his collar, pressing it down. One of the servants set a steaming plate in front of him.
“This looks delicious,” he said.
He used the tips of his fingers on his fork and knife to slice off dainty pieces of meat. When he chewed, his jaw barely moved. It looked tiresome.
When Westie bent to grab her knife off the floor, Nigel shot her a look that said, Don’t even think about it. On the road, dirt and manners had been the least of her worries. She rolled her eyes, sat back up, and began to eat.
James watched the twisted fork in Westie’s metal hand as she scooped heaping loads of food into her mouth and smacked her lips. Nigel tapped his fork against his plate, a reminder for her to chew with her mouth closed.
Westie pressed her lips together, breathing heavily through her nose.
James continued to watch her. It wasn’t just her machine he studied—that she could handle; she was used to it. When James looked at her, he looked at all of her. She felt exposed, as if he could look inside her head and see all her secrets.
She dropped her fork on her plate, startling the servants refreshing their drinks.
“Anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?” she said.
“Westie!” Nigel stuck a sharp elbow into her rib. She winced, grabbing her side. He turned to James. “I’m so very sorry—she didn’t mean it. She’s just a bit cantankerous from traveling.” Nigel’s eyes bulged when he looked back at her. “Isn’t that right?”
Not wanting to upset Nigel on her first day back, she submitted, sagging in her chair. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m just tired from being on the road, is all.” That part was true. Her eyelids and limbs felt heavy, and a yawn waited at the back of her throat. When she was traveling alone, it wasn’t safe to close her eyes more than a few minutes. The lack of sleep was finally catching up with her. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”
All three men stood when she did. She kicked at the hem of her gown to get it out of her way so she didn’t trip over it and make a fool of herself. She walked away, unaware that a piece of the tablecloth was stuck between the copper joints of her mechanical elbow. It wasn’t until dishes crashed to the floor behind her and servants shrieked like loons that she realized what she’d done.
“Sonofabitch.” She closed her eyes and groaned.
Westie heard the buzz of Alistair’s mechanical laughter. When she opened her eyes, she saw James biting his lip to keep from smiling. Nigel’s mouth was agape as he took in the destruction around him.
“Nigel, I’m sorry—” she tried to say before he cut her off.
“Go to bed, Westie.”
She sighed and, with a nod, went upstairs to her room.
Westie was brushing her hair in front of the vanity when there was a knock at her door.
“It’s open,” she said.
She watched Nigel in the mirror as he limped across the room and took a seat in the chair beside her bed. He still dressed like a chap in the London fog, wearing a jacket the color of strong tea, just a shade lighter than his skin.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
“This isn’t one of your stories, is it?”
When she was young, he used to sit in that very chair, crossing his legs just like he was doing right then. His stories were always about the things she loved: castles and dragons, slaying evil with broadswords. Though she loved the medieval subjects, Nigel was a terrible storyteller. His characters were flat—the maidens were always beautiful, helpless half-wits, and the heroes handsome and perfect, when she knew darn well that after traveling for days to rescue the princess from her tower, they probably stank like pigs and were in need of a good shit.
“Not this time, I’m afraid.” He tapped his cane on the edge of her bed. “Come on over—let’s talk.”
She placed her brush on the vanity, lay down on the bed, and settled in beneath her covers.