The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(69)
“Ranhoftantu,” she replied.
Magic pulled taught with a twang. Another line holding them together under tension. A step closer, when she should’ve taken a step further away. A yes that should’ve been a no. And a want indulged before a thought could be applied.
They were drunk on each other still. Their magic was still fresh, and new, and desired. But eventually, they would sober. They would wash away the sweat of sex and the heat of each other’s skin. When the time came, what would they find?
31. Florence
Nora and Derek were set up across the hall from her. Florence heard them entering in a haze, but sleep’s hold was too strong on her to even cast off her covers. She would ask them in the morning how their meeting with the Vicar had gone.
But when morning came, a knock awoke her, and she found neither was waiting.
Powell stood on the other side of the door in the same, simple, pocketed worker’s pants he’d worn the whole journey. Well, judging from the lack of smell and stain they weren’t the exact same trousers. They were belted, and a loose cotton shirt was tucked into them, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“I woke you.” His observation seemed mildly apologetic.
“I might have slept for the next two days if you hadn’t.” She rubbed her eyes with a yawn. He had been right, there was no substitute for sleeping in a proper bed.
“Then I’m glad I woke you, seeing as I don’t know when you’re leaving and there’s much I’d like to show you before then.”
“Well, I don’t seem to have much else to do.” It was nice to feel welcomed by someone, to have them engaged in her wellbeing. Nora, Derek, and the rest of the Alchemists’ Guild were poor substitutes in that regard. Since Ari left, Florence had no one to look after her other than herself. “Are you sure you have the time?”
“I will until I won’t. I’m at the leisure of the guild’s Masters and Vicar. Whenever they reach their decision, I’ll find out if I have something to do, or if I’m returning home with my mark as it is,” he explained. “Here.”
Florence accepted the bundle of clothes he offered. She’d brought her own, but they were still soiled from travel and the prospect of something clean was incredibly appealing. She wondered if he had paid that much attention to her needs or if this was standard hospitality for the Harvesters.
“You can wear what you want, but I thought after the organ halls we may head into the mines, so you might want to wear something you don’t mind potentially getting soiled or ripped.”
“These days, all my clothes can potentially get soiled.” Powell didn’t know the half of what she’d been through. The days of her pristine vests, matching top hats, and perfect stitching were gone. Her vests were wrinkled, her top hats lost or left behind while she was on the run, and the seaming at the elbows of every one of her shirts had been torn. “But, thank you. It’s nice to have something clean.”
Washed and dressed, Florence followed her new friend once more into the Harvesters’ Guild hall. Powell was indeed known, as she waited once or twice for him to have short conversations with Journeymen and Initiates. There was an easy comfort about him as he spoke and answered questions. That was what had made him easy to speak to on the train and what, effectively, had forged their unconventional relationship.
Florence had always set Ari on a pedestal in terms of what it meant to be a Master. Her breadth of wisdom. Her intense respect of knowledge. Her reverence for the halls of education that elevated guilds and classrooms from mere institutions to temples of learning.
Powell embodied these things, but there was a different sort of openness to his mannerisms. He worked to include Florence in all the conversations, despite her lack of experience in these areas. He treated knowledge as a delight, rather than a sacred right.
“Sorry for the delays.” He leaned toward her so the people they had just bid farewell wouldn’t hear.
“It’s no problem. It’s nice to be included in such a positive atmosphere.”
“You were not before?” He posed the question delicately.
A tired smile curled her lips. “The Alchemists’ Guild is… a very different place. It suits them. But there isn’t much room for a Revolver there.”
He made no comment on her reference to herself as something other than her marked guild. And Florence didn’t feel the slightest bit of concern at the fact that she’d openly declared it. Powell was smart enough to figure it out—had already figured it out—and she didn’t see the point in insulting their mutual intelligence by masquerading otherwise.
“I am forced to take your word for it. I’ve never been to the Alchemists, and I cannot imagine a place where there would not be room enough for someone as eager to learn as you.” His smile was infectious. “Here we are.”
Florence wished she could bottle his words and save them for the next time she was struggling in the Alchemists’ Guild. Or with the Revolvers… Or in general.
“We worked closely with the Alchemists to develop our harvesting processes for Dragon organs.” They walked through a series of narrow halls, washing their hands along the way and passing through antechambers. “We may not know how to heal a wound, or convert a Fenthri to Chimera… But when it comes to removing the organs themselves, we’re just as skilled as any Alchemist you’ll find.”