Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(11)

“Like I said,” Daniel added, “it’s a bit late to tell you since we’ll reach Marseille in a few minutes.” He turned back to the wheel, fidgeting with the spyglass. Then messing with a chain around his neck—a monocle.

Anger tickled down my spine at the sight of it. “Why do you keep that, Daniel?” It was one of many opulent gifts from Madame Marineaux and the Marquis. They had heaped us with new gowns and suits and jewelry, and they’d distracted us from les Morts with parties and meetings and meals.

And it had all been a part of Marcus’s carefully laid plans to get information on the Black Pullet. Once we had realized that the Marquis was none other than Marcus’s uncle—when Joseph had seen a portrait of the Marquis’s sister and recognized her as Marcus’s mother—it had been too late to stop what was already in motion. Jie was gone; the Marquis was dead.

Daniel glanced at the monocle as if surprised. “I keep it because it’s useful. It lets me see all the small details on my work.”

“But it was from Madame Marineaux.”

“So is that shirt you’re wearing.” He frowned and flicked a finger at his thigh. “These pants are too. Besides, have you ever tried to turn a screw the size of a pinhead?”

I gave a soft “hmmm.” He had a point. . . .

Clack, clack, clack. He was back to messing with the spyglass.

“Daniel.” I scooted closer to him.

His shoulders rose; his fidgeting quickened.

I moved even closer until Daniel’s fingers—and the spyglass—froze.

“Are you angry with me?” I asked quietly. “For earlier? With . . . Oliver?”

“No.” He closed the spyglass. “I’m just confused, I reckon. One minute you’re hard as nails and don’t need help from anyone. Then the next you’re . . .” He blushed. “Well, the next minute you’re soft.” His voice almost cracked on that word. “And it’s only then that you seem to want me around.”

“Soft?” I repeated in a squeaky tone. His blush brightened, and I could only assume he referred to our kiss from the night before. I had initiated it; he had responded—perhaps too much. We had fallen so deeply into the taste and feel of each other that we’d lost sight of the real world.

“Daniel,” I started, just as he said, “Empress.”

Our mouths clamped shut, and we stared at each other. “Y-you first,” I finally said.

“Are you . . .” He coughed lightly and pushed the spyglass into his pocket. “Don’t get mad, all right? But I gotta ask this.” His breath huffed out, and then he blurted, “Are you in love with him?”

I cocked my head, not understanding the question. “In love with whom?”

“Oliver.”

I reared back. “Why would you ask that? Or even think that?”

“It’s just. . . . That is. . . .” He moaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re so close to him.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” he insisted. But then he shook his head. “Well, maybe I am. I lost someone that way—to another man. So I want to know now if anyone’s out there with designs on your heart. I can’t handle all this back-and-forth between us, so I’d like a solid idea of where I stand.” He nodded as if satisfied with this declaration.

But I was not satisfied. In fact, my breath seemed to trap itself in my lungs as the meaning of his words slithered through my brain.

And as three months of hurt came rising to the surface.

“A solid idea?” My voice trembled. “You have no right to ask that of me, Daniel! Nor do you deserve any declaration of feelings from me. Not after you left me in Philadelphia. I asked you for the same thing—do you recall? I wanted to know where I stood, and you crushed me. So pray tell, why should I make any promises to you now?”

His lips screwed shut, and he surprised me by lowering his gaze to his feet. “I thought I was doing what was best for you in Philadelphia. I thought you ought to find someone who your ma would like—who could make you happy. And keep you comfortable.”

“And of course I had no say in the matter.” I folded my arms over my chest and stared out the window. We were almost to the coastline now, and a series of jagged hills rose up and up to the east.

“I really did mean well.” Daniel’s voice was low and urgent. But I did not look his way, so he returned his hands to the wheel and shifted his own focus to the horizon.

“Mean well,” I repeated to myself. Then louder, “And in Paris, when you screamed at me about my new hand—did you mean well then? Or in the lab, when you suggested that I hurt myself on the crystal clamp. Did you mean well then?”

His knuckles went white as he squeezed the wheel. “I know I don’t always handle things right. I ain’t . . . I mean, I am not polished. My temper always causes more trouble than I mean to. I’m just . . .” His eyes flicked to me then back ahead. “I’m protective of the people I care about. Too protective. When I saw your new hand and your demon, my vision went red . . . and I didn’t think before I spoke.” Twisting the wheel left, he eased back one of the levers . . . and the balloon twisted sharply east.

We had reached the water now, and the steep hillsides alongside the sea were lined with green vineyards and olive groves. It was peaceful and beautiful—and nothing like what warred in my heart.