Florence hadn’t said a word for two hours. She’d argued with Arianna for a short five minutes, then slumped against the wall on her stool, staring at nothing. Cvareh might only have known the girl for about four days, but it had been a long four days mostly spent in close quarters. He could read her, if only just.
Cvareh had studied the people of Loom all his life. He’d learned of the Five Guilds and the specialization of each of them. He’d studied Fenish, the language of the people. But being on the ground itself was a surreal experience. It was like he knew the notes, but he couldn’t hear the melody that was being sung. He could say “Rivet,” but he didn’t understand what that really meant—and every look from Arianna over the past few days had confirmed as much. But nothing made it clearer than Florence’s expression.
The girl was in distress. A line marred the space between her brows, her young face twisted in a scowl. Cvareh understood the plan Arianna had laid out—more or less. He knew of Ter.4.2, and the Underground seemed like a logical enough choice to move quickly without being discovered. He understood the word “prison” in the sense that his mind could come up with a definition, the equivalent word in Royuk, but somehow he wasn’t speaking their language yet. The gravity he felt at the idea of a prison break was a weightless cloud compared to the lead in Arianna’s eyes and, so plainly, Florence’s heart.
He wanted to help. Petra had made him smile thousands of times when he was sad. His sister knew exactly what to say to encourage him. But he only had four days of knowledge to draw from when it came to the young Fenthri.
“Florence?” Arianna gave him a cautionary look the moment her pupil’s name crossed his lips. The girl was oblivious to her teacher’s protective urges, but her eyes came into focus slowly at the sound of her name. Cvareh put his pride aside and sought an absolution from his ignorance from someone who was twenty years his junior. “Can you explain to me how your revolver works?”
“What?”
“Your revolver. I watched you oil it on the train, and then you used it in the scuffle. I know you’re not a Chimera and don’t have magic… So how did you manage a shot like that?”
“You want to know about guns?” she asked timidly.
“If you’ll teach me.” Cvareh prayed he hadn’t misread the hopeful note in her voice incorrectly.
Florence was moving again. Spurred back to life, she rummaged through her bag on the floor, pulling from it a small red tin that Cvareh recognized instantly as her gun care set, another medium-sized box where she kept her powders, and her weapon. She moved off her stool to sit in front of him on the floor.
Cvareh lusted after the empty stool that would insulate him from the grime and dirt, but he made no motion. His clothes were ugly and dirty, and the stool was really no cleaner. It certainly wouldn’t be comfortable. Plus, Florence had already set up shop in front of him, and this was for her.
“Well, it’s not that complicated.” She put the revolver between them, pointing to different parts. “You have the hammer, the cylinder, the trigger, the barrel and the muzzle. The hammer cocks back, engaging the trigger when you’re ready to fire. It strikes against a canister in the chamber and that exchange of force causes a chemical or magical reaction—a small explosion.” Her voice lifted on the last word. “That explosion is sent through the barrel and out the muzzle, propelling a bullet. Or whatever else is in the canister.”
She held up a small chunk of metal. It was pointed on one end and flat on the other. Cvareh accepted it from her to inspect, pleased the action delighted her.
“The bullet sits on this end of the canister, near the primer—that’s what the hammer hits.” She produced a long hollow tube that, sure enough, the bullet could be fitted into. “What I fill the canister with, and how much, determines the type of shot.”
“But how does magic come into play?” Cvareh passed back the canister and bullet to Florence and picked up the gun. The hammer and muzzle were gold. Poured into the side of the barrel were golden shapes he vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place. He peered down the barrel and noted the inside was gold as well.
Florence’s fingers wrapped around the barrel, pulling it away from him. “Never point the muzzle of a gun at something unless you’re ready to shoot it.”
“But it’s not loaded.” Cvareh didn’t appreciate being treated like a child.
“It isn’t now. But it could’ve been. It’s just good practice. Every young Revolver learns that.”
“Ah, Flor, if he wants to point guns at his face, why don’t we let him? It’s not like the shot would kill him. Maybe he should learn the hard way and have to sit around a few weeks like a blob while he grows back part of his brain,” Arianna quipped unhelpfully.