She braced herself on hands and knees, her eyes closed, head bowed, until the whisper curled outside her ear, opened itself up, and flowed.
An endless current, unfolding from the earth, tumbling on the winds, a respite of silence within the storm. Isobel was there, held by the current curling out from within her, but the whisper looked past her now, Isobel only the container, and whatever occurred, occurred far beyond her understanding.
And in that nub of silence, the storm moved, the endless wings lifting, the red eyes looking elsewhere, the grass around her burnt to the ground, thick smeared clumps of soot filling the air, but her own skin untouched, her clothing ashes on her flesh, only the knife, the silver shining clean, remaining.
One heartbeat. Another. Then the faint clack of grasshoppers, somewhere grass still remained. And then, overhead, the long low call of an owl, hunting as the sun slowly slipped over the mountains to the west.
And then the sound of her own breathing, as she realized she was still alive.
She let that rest for a moment, feeling her heart beat, too fast and too loud, the breath in her lungs too harsh for not having moved, the lack of weight pressing at her. She lifted her bloody hand from the ground, then pressed it back again, wincing at the sore flesh on dirt but feeling only the soft familiar dizziness of the bones deep below, the Road distant but present. The barrier was gone; the valley had been abandoned.
“Gabriel?”
Something harsh and warm draped over her shoulders, and she reached up to touch it—a blanket, familiar, her own blanket from her pack, and equally familiar hands wrapping it over her arms, a shaking hug engulfing her and the blanket, soft, harsh breath mingling with her own as he held her like a child, and she, dry-eyed and unutterably weary, stared out at the burnt expanse of the valley.
Justice is done, the whisper said, and was gone.
“I want a nice, quiet week in a town,” she said. “Just a week. Maybe two. Can we do that?”
“Yah.” He shook, and it took her a moment to realize it was from laughter. “Yeah,” Gabriel said, “we can do that.”
It was late even by a saloon’s standards, the bottles closed and dishes washed, the felt tables covered by sheets, chairs stacked and floors swept, the larger lamps trimmed and closed for the night. Marie walked across the main floor, her slippered feet and skirt making soft sounds in the air. The scent of bay oil and whiskey lingered over a fainter, more pervasive smell of tobacco and brimstone, and she followed it to the far wall and the faint indentation of a narrow door set into the wall.
He was within; she knew that the way she knew everything that occurred within the saloon, within Flood itself, from the river banks to the outskirt farms, and she thought, briefly, to leave him to it, to retire to her own bed and wait for him to speak to her instead.
“Come in,” came the response before she could decide.
She placed her hand against the wall, and the door swung open. She wondered each time she entered what would happen if she were not granted permission, if the door would still open or no, but had never felt the need to test it. If she were not wanted within, she would not enter.
There were no windows in this room, no desk, only a sideboard with a crystal decanter of whiskey and the remains of supper on a tray. The walls were light brown wood, smooth-hewn and polished by time and use, three of them set with lamps that cast no shadows, while one was covered by a map, a fine-grain calfskin larger than any calf ever grew, etched with careful black lines and lettering.
His back was to her, hands resting on his hips, his attention on the map. He had shed his jacket during the evening, his hair slicked back and dark against the starched whiteness of his collar, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.
The map was still for the first moment she glanced at it, then a patch of yellow faded to pale green, a thick black line thinning, a shadow of pink darkening to red. In the upper left corner, new lines formed, spiderweb-thin, a dark, ominous blue.
She waited, but no further shifts occurred.
“You worry.” His voice was rich and dry, and the face he turned to her was marked by wry amusement, all white teeth and smooth brown skin. For once, his amusement did not sit well with her.
“I always worry.” She was his Right Hand, tasked to ensure that those who came to him were seen, heard. If something was happening, something that affected the House, troubled him, she needed to know.
Unless, the thought came on the heels of the first, it was not a thing for the Right Hand to know. Unless it was a matter for the Left Hand.
She glanced at the map again, but—as ever—it was too much for her to take in, too much to look at for too long.
“It’s nearly dawn. Even you need to sleep eventually.”