The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato Page A

said was a poem. “I vow that to you upon my life.”
    She felt a twinge of guilt at holding back information. “If Mrs. Stout is really . . . you know who, I doubt your assurances will hold weight. A woman in her position doesn’t stay alive by having others know her true identity.”
    His hand lifted from her shoulder. “I agree.” They sat there in uncomfortable silence. She fidgeted with the sheet on Mrs. Stout.
    â€œI should finish cleaning in here,” he finally said.
    â€œYes.” Octavia didn’t look at him.
    Octavia and Mr. Garret exchanged few other words as he tacked a fresh carpet into the floor. When they set Mrs. Stout onto her fully remade bed, she quivered in her sleep. Her consciousness was rising.
    â€œThank you for your assistance, Mr. Garret,” Octavia whispered at the door.
    He offered her a short bow. His crimson uniform looked even more worn and rumpled after a full day of wear, but his eyes were keen. “I will monitor matters lest you be disturbed again.”
    â€œThank you,” she repeated.
    She latched the door shut and then eyed the room. Any substantial furniture was bolted to the walls, so she grabbed their heavy baggage and stacked it against the door. Octavia plucked the pillow from her bunk and dropped it on the floor. The new carpet reeked of bleach and mustiness, the pile chilly from wherever it had been stored. She lay down with the light still on and glaring. From her vantage point on the floor, she could see Mrs. Stout’s pasty arm dangling over the edge of the cot. It twitched on occasion, loose flesh jiggling at the elbow.
    Octavia unlaced her boots and pulled down her threadbare stockings. Tucking her feet together, sole to sole, she angled her knees out in the diamond Al Cala position. She placed her hands together against her lower belly and inhaled to fill her lungs.
    The chaos of the city, the search for the airship, Mr. Drury. Sweet little Leaf, the lone survivor of his flock. Mrs. Stout. Tears burned her eyes, and she breathed out, expelling the full burden of air along with her anxieties of the day. She closed her eyes, the world within her eyelids lit by the moon.
    The Lady’s Tree, taller than any mountain. Its bark green with algae, its branches burdened by vines and a hundred kinds of life. Waterfalls trickle through wide gaps in the bark; goats and deer bound up the slopes to hide within the thick brush.
    â€œYou know the sorrow of a woman’s heart,” Octavia whispered, the words slurred with tiredness. “Be with me, Lady.” She breathed in again, her vision homing in on a single branch, a single leaf. She imagined the scent in her nostrils, musty and verdant. The single leaf, green and five-pointed, bobbed on its twig. As if she flew, Octavia reached out her hands to cup the leaf as it fell. It only wobbled on the twig, a single drop of dew coursing along the membranes and falling to her hands. Coolness and peace tingled from her palm and prickled the hairs on her arms, swirling in her chest. Pleasant pressure weighed against her like a stack of five quilts on the coldest winter’s eve.
    Octavia’s soul radiated its thanks to the Lady as her body drifted to slumber.
    T HE SHRILLNESS OF A bell jarred her awake. Octavia bolted to sit upright, heart racing. Oh. She lay on the floor. The light was on. Muffled voices and reverberations from footsteps thudded through the flooring. Morning, already? Her fingers fumbled for her watch and she squinted bleary-eyed at the numbers upon the face. Exactly seven. Her eyes widened as memories of the previous evening flooded her mind. Mrs. Stout.
    Mrs. Stout lay there with chapped lips agape like a fish. Her eyes were wide with shock, her silvery brow furrowed.
    â€œWhat . . . ?” Mrs. Stout asked, the word slurred.
    â€œMove slowly, Mrs. Stout. You endured a terrible trauma last night.” Octavia braced her hands against Mrs.