The Clockwork Crown by Beth Cato

your hands up.”
    Alonzo and Octavia crawled out on their knees, a tricky thing with hands up and splayed books beneath them. Octavia kept partially falling over her satchel and winced as pages tore beneath her weight. As she reached the end of the shelves, another soldier grabbed her by the arm—­not cruelly—­and pulled her up to her feet. Several other soldiers crawled to Esme. Her body’s screams had dwindled to the weak mews of a starved kitten.
    Cyanide that potent, that fast, placed her beyond intervention within seconds, even with a circle in place. That awareness didn’t stop the knot of frustration from forming in Octavia’s chest. Her fists balled at her hips.
    â€œCheck her bag,” the commander said to a soldier, pointing to Octavia.
    She hugged her satchel closer, the parasol banging against her arm. Alonzo gave his head a quick shake. Grinding her teeth, she relinquished her death grip. The soldier made no effort to take the satchel strap from her shoulder. Instead, he opened the main pocket and rummaged under the blanket. He held up the newly filled jar of pampria.
    The commander nodded. “A medician indeed. Check the other pockets. If nothing stands out, let her keep it.”
    Octavia almost sagged in relief. The soldier made a quick check of the other compartments and then her coat. He took her gun without a word and backed away.
    Esme’s limp body lay sprawled on the carpet. One of the men, eyes averted, tugged her skirt to a proper length past the knee.
    A woman in a skirted version of the blue uniform rushed up just as Octavia finished refastening her satchel. She wore a black leather medic bag against her hip.
    â€œWhat’s this about, then?” asked the newcomer.
    â€œWoman took a dose of cyanide, they say.” The commander gestured toward them.
    The doctor crouched. Her thick black hair was pinned in a massive roll like a ball of yarn. She muttered beneath her breath as she checked Esme’s pulse, opened her mouth, and glanced at her fingernails. “Cyanide, absolutely. The good stuff, from the look of it.” She looked up at Octavia. “You family? Friend? Do you have any claim to her?”
    â€œClaim?” asked Octavia. “No. She tried to kill us by tipping the shelves!”
    â€œPerfect. I claim the body, then. My students need to see the internal results of a cyanide poisoning.” The woman brushed her hands on her skirt as she stood.
    â€œThat’s it? You’re not going to do anything else?” The mews faded to nothing. The drumbeat, gone.
    The doctor looked Octavia up and down. “What would you have me do, a song and dance and plead for help from above? Footle. There are other, living ­people who need aid now. This one made her choice when she bit down on a tablet.”
    That terrible sense of frustration threatened to overwhelm Octavia again. I could use a leaf. We could question her, find out how she followed us here, what she has reported to Mercia.
    â€œMiss Leander.” Alonzo’s voice was soft. “No. Not on her.”
    Of course he knows what I’m thinking. He knows me so well.
    â€œYou’re both hale, then? No injuries after this attack?” asked the commander. Alonzo and Octavia shook their heads. At that, the doctor turned on her heel and left. The soldier continued, “We’re here to fetch you, and with right good timing, it seems. We’re private guards for august Balthazar Cody. You’re invited to his household.”
    â€œRight now?” Octavia asked.
    â€œNow,” said the soldier. He and the other men bristled with weaponry, their expressions grim.
    â€œWell, as I was raised, invitations were best handled by a calling card and a gift of flowers, but I suppose this will do.” She said this as brightly as she could, trying to ignore the worry that raced through Alonzo’s song. “Lead on, please.”
    â€œI DO NOT LIKE