The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato Page B

Stout’s shoulders to force her down.
    â€œI . . . oh.” She pressed a trembling fist to her chest, to where the scar lay. “I dreamed . . . I thought it was memory.”
    â€œDuring a healing, it’s common to flash back to early memories of pain,” Octavia said. “I once knew a young man who lost part of his leg on the field, but when he awoke from surgery, he insisted that it was only broken. In his mind, he had returned to a childhood incident when he had fallen from a tree and broken that same leg.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that’s the Lady’s way. There’s some comfort in the familiar, even in pain.”
    â€œThe Lady.” Mrs. Stout licked her dry lips.
    Octavia filled a small cup at the tap and assisted Mrs. Stout in sitting up to drink. “I’m a medician.” She lowered her voice to imply secrecy.
    â€œI know.” Mrs. Stout leaned back against the wall.
    â€œDo you remember anything about what happened when you retired to bed last night?”
    Mrs. Stout opened one eye. “You’re not going to ask how I knew, or when?”
    â€œYou mentioned my sensing abilities earlier, and I wondered what may have given me away.” She paused, recalling Mr. Garret’s aggravating statement. “Was it my satchel?”
    â€œNo.” A smile softened her face. “But to answer your first question, I remember going to bed last night. I remember worrying over you and that little gremlin of ours, but you seemed in good hands with that steward.”
    Octavia’s breath caught. Leaf! With Mrs. Stout’s attack and the ensuing cleanup, she had forgotten all about him.
    â€œOur cots were set up,” Mrs. Stout continued, “I went to sleep. Then . . . footsteps. I thought you were back, and then there was pain. Such terrible pain.” She pressed a fist to her chest again, shuddering. “I tried to scream. I know I did. But all I remember is blackness and . . . and memory . . . and then . . . It became cozy, soothing. What happened, Miss Leander?”
    â€œYou were attacked. Most brutally.” She helped Mrs. Stout drink again. “Someone stabbed you. When we came in, you were near death.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œYes. Myself and Mr. Garret. The steward.”
    â€œOh.” Mrs. Stout frowned into space.
    â€œWe . . . cleaned up. We deemed it best to keep this attack a secret for now, but if you disagree—”
    â€œNo. I do not.”
    Octavia’s tongue floundered in her mouth. She had to bring this up. She had to know, and yet . . . “I . . . we . . . couldn’t help but notice your scar. On your chest.”
    Mrs. Stout’s eyes flared open. “You . . . what?”
    â€œIt’s probably nothing. Just a scar. We know that.”
    â€œYou . . . and that steward?” Mrs. Stout glared toward the door. If she were an infernal, that entire wall would be a molten heap.
    â€œIt’s okay, Mrs. Stout, really. Just say it’s balderdash. A coincidence.”
    The older woman seemed to shrivel against the wall, both hands pressed to her face. “Lies. Do you have any idea how sick I am of lies and subterfuge? It’s all good and well when reading a copper novel, but when it’s your own life, it becomes so old and tiresome.”
    Octavia’s tongue felt as dry as cotton. “You . . . what are you saying, Mrs. Stout?”
    â€œI don’t mind you knowing. I owe you my life, and you’re one of Nelly’s girls. But for a man to know, a servant . . . God, do you know how those people gossip?” Her skin resembled vellum, translucent and frail. Octavia offered her a drink and Mrs. Stout jerked her head in refusal.
    â€œMr. Garret has an appalling way of finding out these things,” Octavia said. “He knows I’m a medician traveling incognito as well, but he