Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(28)

And now a Wilcox was on the ship.

“I’m so sorry, Daniel. I didn’t even think about Allison—”

“It’s fine,” he cut in. “If Joseph says she can stay, so be it. But it doesn’t mean I trust her.”

“A-all right.” I frowned, for once grateful that Daniel did—and felt—anything Joseph commanded. At least he wouldn’t make trouble with Allison.

I leaned back into the hall and strained to see through the dim light. “Who is at the wheel?”

“Jie.” Daniel’s voice was low, and when I twisted back toward him, he shrugged one shoulder. “We’re just coasting over the Mediterranean for now. Ain’t difficult to fly, and . . . well, she doesn’t want to sleep.”

“Ah.” I slipped into the room, rubbing at my arms for warmth. “How long was I asleep?”

“Six hours? Seven?” His eyes landed on my shivering arms. He frowned and dropped the knife on the table. “Let me get you fresh clothes.”

I opened my mouth, a natural protest forming . . . but then fading. I did want warm, dry clothes. So I nodded and held out my hand for the knife.

“I’ll cut the garlic. And perhaps . . . some potatoes? Or bread?”

Another huffed laugh—but this one genuine. “Absolutely, Empress.” With a playful, almost tender smile, he popped my chin with his knuckle. “Potatoes, bread, and clothes. I can do that.” Then he handed me the knife and strode from the galley.

And as I watched him go, my heart was shaking almost as much as the rest of me. Despite how he felt about my magic, I could not forget the absolute honesty in his apology yesterday. Nor could I forget our kiss in the rain . . . or that, yet again, he had come to my rescue. I owed him so very, very much.

He was trying—he really was.

Yet it was so hard to be light after what we’d faced in Marseille. After seeing Jie’s blank face and shorn hair. After learning of Mama . . .

My mind could not seem to move forward. Jie. Mama. Jie. Then Marcus, with his gloating grin . . . then back to Jie.

With a tight breath, I returned to the garlic. At least there was comfort in the mundane. In how easily the knife sliced through. At how the sharp tang of garlic filled the room. I could almost pretend I was back home. That it was May. . . . Elijah would be home any day, and Mary would be bringing in the evening paper as I made supper.

Clack, clack. I sank into that familiar sound. The familiar feel of cooking. Of course, just as I finished chopping, Daniel returned, and my daydream vanished like a popped soap bubble. I wiped my hands on my pants, dragging my mind back to the present and burying reality beneath layers of careful control.

Yet as I looked at Daniel, I froze. For atop a fresh shirt and trousers was an ornate, cream-colored hatbox.

I knew what was in that box—I had accidentally seen its contents in Paris. But why Daniel would show it to me now, I couldn’t guess. I wanted it—oh God, how I wanted it—but now did not feel like the right time. I was so tired, so heartbroken.

Daniel set down the box and offered me the clothes. “While you dress, I’ll cut some potatoes. I don’t like cooking, since open flames ain’t exactly safe on a balloon, but I’ll do it. For you.” He flashed me a lopsided grin.

“Daniel,” I said, my voice tight. “Is that for me?” I motioned to the box. “Are you going to give it to me?”

His smile faltered. “Yeah. It’s for you.” His eyes skipped from my face to the box and back. “It’s somethin’ I wanted to give you in Paris, but . . . I couldn’t.”

“And perhaps you shouldn’t now. Perhaps you ought to wait until the time is right.” My blood pounded in my ears.

“I need to do it, Empress.” His chest rose as he inhaled. Then he yanked off the lid, and, cringing, he held it out to me. “This is for you.”

Ever so slowly, I dragged my eyes from his tightened face . . . down his strong shoulder and long arm . . . to the box.

Nestled within and burning bright in the electric light was a mechanical hand.

A sob trembled up from my stomach, but I bit it back. Even though I’d seen the hand before—when Laure had accidentally knocked over the box in Paris—it gutted me to see it again. The wire tendons, the bronze knuckles, and the seamlessly carved wooden fingertips . . .

There was so much meaning held within this creation—all the tenderness and thought that could characterize Daniel. And also all the anger and bleakness, for when he’d first seen me in Paris and realized I didn’t need the mechanical hand, he had let his temper break loose.

This hand symbolized everything about our relationship. The good, the bad, and that inevitable, frightening truth that I would one day need the hand, when Oliver was gone.

“It’s perfect,” I finally croaked.

Daniel’s face relaxed, and he plucked the hand from the box to hold it to the light. Then he groaned. “There’s a spot on it. Goddamned grease gets on everything. . . .” He trailed off, his eyes widening to meet mine. “Er, I mean, gol’ . . . dern?”

I forced a laugh and reached for the hand. “I don’t care if there’s a stain, Daniel. I still want it.”

The edge of his lips curving up, he laid it on my palms. The metal was cool, and as I examined it more closely, I found the carvings even more meticulously intricate than I’d first thought.