Thunderstruck

  Jordan snorted, noting the ample bustle. “My rump would look quite huge,” she agreed.

  “Ah, but my darling girls,” Caleb announced, “such things are quite in style in Europe.”

  Jordan wrinkled her nose. “You would have me wear something that is stylish abroad and has not yet caught one’s fancy here?” she asked.

  “Oh, just try the blasted thing on,” Caleb muttered, leaning so far back in the chair that its front legs came off the floor.

  “Shall I?” Jordan mused, going nose to nose with Meggie.

  Both their noses wrinkled, their tips touching, and they squinted at each other with sparkling eyes that made them look mean if one didn’t know how they joked or watched the way their lips twisted into crazy grins.

  “Yes,” Meggie insisted with a sharp nod.

  “Then I shall!” Jordan said, leaping to her feet. She snatched the gown away from the maid with a softly spoken, “Thank you,” and disappeared behind the screen.

  She wrestled with the fixtures on the back of it, and then stepped into the voluminous gown and tugged it up around her shoulders. It did not come up as far as she had hoped.

  Her neck and most of her shoulders were bare to the air, and she shivered, knowing how much of her flesh could be seen. And how much of her scar.

  “Come out, come out, come out,” Meggie insisted at the top of her voice.

  Jordan heard her bed squeak rhythmically and peeked around the screen.

  Meggie was bouncing as hard as she could and giggling each time her rump reconnected with the mattress.

  “What if I don’t like it?” Jordan asked.

  “Are you getting cold feet, beautiful girl?” Caleb called.

  “No,” Jordan muttered, “cold shoulders, technically.” She disappeared back around the screen and thought she could hear Caleb’s eyes roll.

  “Be brave, child,” he insisted. “You are among friends here. Well, among friends and one anonymous servant girl,” he added, obviously remembering the maid still stood there, obedient.

  Jordan rested her hand on her bust, feeling the way her chest rose and lowered as she breathed. And noting that her chest was rising and falling rapidly. She closed her eyes and gulped down air, sucking in breath after breath as she tried to steady herself. Caleb wouldn’t understand—couldn’t understand. She barely understood! There were just times—moments, triggers that caused her vision to constrict into a dark tunnel, moments her pulse rose in volume in her ears to the point she could hear nothing else around her—not even the thunder booming when she lost focus for a few minutes and let it slip loose. They were times her stomach tried to turn itself inside out and her throat tried to close, shutting down the panicking bellows of her lungs.

  She drew down a bigger breath yet, and it turned into a yawn.

  Caleb chuckled. “We are the ones growing bored out here, Jordan,” he teased, “you have no reason to yawn.”

  She bent over at the waist and rested her hands on her knees. She could do this, she repeated over and over again in her mind. She was among friends. Caleb would never hurt her—they had shared too much already. And Meggie adored her—there could be no doubting that.

  So she stayed leaned over, her eyes closed, her focus tight as she tried to regain control over her breathing and her racing heart.

  “Jordan?” Meggie’s voice so close startled her so much she straightened right back up and she grabbed the screen to steady herself, dizziness making her sway.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her eyes wide and soft.

  Jordan nodded stiffly, equally to convince Meggie as it was to convince herself. “Go,” she whispered. “Go sit down. I will step out momentarily,” she promised.

  Meggie chewed on her lower lip a moment, but she nodded and disappeared from sight again.

  The bed began squeaking again, but now it was slower, softer, a more tentative echo of her previous behavior.

  Jordan steeled herself, brushed her hand lightly along her shoulders and, setting them back and raising her chin as she’d been taught, she carefully stepped out to be viewed.

  Caleb examined every inch of the outfit. Or perhaps he was reading her body language, she thought, seeing a cast of disapproval color his face like a faint shadow. There was a line on his forehead she hadn’t noticed before. A worry line. It was prominent now. “You don’t like it?” he asked gently.

  “No.”

  “It’s pretty, Miss Jordan,” Meggie insisted, her tone reflecting puzzlement. “You’re pretty in it,” she specified.

  “Thank you, Meggie,” she whispered, though she didn’t feel thankful at being seen when she felt so horribly uncomfortable. But that was no reason to be rude. Especially not to Meggie.

  “What do you not like about it, sweetheart?” Caleb asked.

  Jordan froze. She had not expected to be asked something so specific. If she was going to be honest, what she didn’t like about it was the way it made her feel exposed. But that was irrational. She was fully dressed and many women wore things with an even more open décolletage. Her neckline was modest when compared to some.

  She cleared her throat and wiggled her jaw in thought. “It is pretty,” she remarked slowly. “Of that there can be no doubt, but it does not feel right to me.”

  “Ah,” Caleb said. He rubbed his chin, speculating. “If it does not feel right than it cannot be right, dearest one,” he agreed. “Go on, take it off and we will see another.”

  Shamed by the fear that kept her from enjoying something so lovely, Jordan dragged herself back to the other side of the screen and stepped out of it.

  Standing there in her shift alone, she was suddenly keenly aware of how little fabric separated her from the rest of the world. “Caleb,” she squeaked. “I am not sure I can …”

  His voice was low, soft, and soothing. So patient she wanted to cry at his generosity.

  “I shall have Meggie bring you the next one, love,” he conceded, “and you may stay back there between modeling for us. And you will only model what you like,” he guaranteed.

  She breathed out the words, “Thank you,” and this time she meant it.

  True to his word, Caleb sent Meggie around the screen with the next dress. Well, as much of the next dress as she could carry. It was a struggle for one so small to carry so many yards of fabric, but she gave it a most valiant attempt, only tripping over it twice.

  It was powder blue. Soft and light and free of cares and worries. It was a dress made for brighter days. A dress Jordan hoped someday she would wear merrily. So Jordan leaned over, kissed Meggie’s forehead, and sent her back without even trying it on. The next three dresses yielded similar results and Meggie began to huff and puff.

  Jordan couldn’t be sure it was from exhaustion or frustration.

  And then Meggie appeared with a dress that made Jordan’s heart stop.

  It was steel blue—the color of glossy gun barrels and threatening skies—the color of trepidation and promises yet to be kept. She loved it immediately because she knew it like it was her own scarred skin. She leaned over and Meggie closed her eyes, waiting for another kiss—another rejection—and she sank her fingers into the glossy satin fabric and pulled it out of Meggie’s hands.

  “Go,” Jordan whispered. “Let me try this one.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up and she grinned. “Yes!” she exclaimed as she disappeared back to Caleb. The bed squeaked faster now, and Meggie again was giggling in anticipation.

  Jordan worked her way into the dress timidly, unwilling to accept it—to love it and need it too fast. There were bound to be flaws with it, she imagined as she slid into it, her eyes scouring it for any imperfection. Finding no problem with it was nearly as frustrating as knowing there was no rational problem and yet being unable to enjoy it. She settled the neckline on her body and noted with satisfaction that it was the most modest of all so far. She turned, examining as much of the skirting that lay in heavy pleats behind her as she could. The bustl
e was large but not overdone. The sleeves were beautiful but not dripping with lace or ribbons that might be tiresome when working on Topside. And the fabric was the right weight for a Conductor.

  Dammit.

  With a sigh she stepped out from behind the screen and presented herself to them.

  Caleb stood. And clapped. “Lovely. Simply lovely,” he repeated, shaking his head admiringly. “You, my dear, look stunningly powerful in that dress.”

  She felt heat rise in her cheeks and she brushed her hands across the skirt, feeling the way the rough skin of her hands tugged slightly at the fine fabric. “I will ruin it,” she said sadly, but Caleb just laughed.

  “Do your worst, child!” he challenged. “Any dress would be lucky to be worn to shreds by a woman of your power and talents.”

  She couldn’t help it. She smiled.

  “I think we are done here,” Caleb said to the girl standing by, arms still open to receive the dress, having seen so many rejections. She blinked and, shrugging, gathered up the discarded gowns and left the room.

  “Well,” Caleb said with a grin, “I think we have time to play a game and then it’s off to dinner!”

  “A game, a game!” Meggie shouted. “What shall we play, Caleb?”

  “Hmm,” Caleb rubbed at his chin in thought. “We could play hoops, or the Game of Graces or jacks …”

  Meggie scrunched up her face at the offerings, and drawing herself up to her full (yet inconsequential) height, she asked in a very serious voice, “When was the last time you played hide-and-seek?”

  Jordan blinked and Caleb laughed.

  “The last time I played hide-and-seek,” Jordan admitted, “I was your age or a year older.”

  Meggie let out a long, low whistle. “That long ago?” she asked, her eyes wide and unblinking.

  “It’s not so awfully long ago,” Jordan sputtered, crossing her arms. “And I was quite good at it, I will have you know.”

  “Mmhmm, yes, yes of course you were,” Caleb said, though his tone was clearly mocking. “For we all gladly stop doing something we are aces at.”

  “I outgrew it,” Jordan clarified.

  “You don’t outgrow having fun,” Meggie said, shocked and disapproving of such a radical idea.

  Jordan smiled at her wistfully. “That is a good way to live your life,” she said. “By never stopping doing what’s fun.”

  “That is a good way to live a life,” Caleb agreed. “I wish everyone were allowed to live in such a fashion—having fun and no worries.”

  “Then we are agreed. We must play,” Meggie commanded.

  “We must?” Jordan quirked an eyebrow at her. “And just who do you think should be ‘it’?”

  Caleb’s mouth unrolled into a savage grin as he swept Meggie back into his arms. “Well, I believe the one who is the hunter should be the most professional of the lot of us, since I can say with fair certainty we will be most excellent hiders.” He gave a generous wink to Meggie and she mimicked the move.

  “I agree,” she said. “Miss Jordan, it is your ship. It seems only fair you be the one to root us out, as we are merely passengers.”

  “Your logic is impeccable,” Caleb whispered.

  “And how high am I to count?”

  Meggie’s mouth swished from one side of her face to the other and she looked at Caleb for counsel. “Fifty?” she whispered.

  “Oh, dear little fawn, I fear I am far too old to find a good hiding spot by the time she reaches fifty. I say go higher.” He motioned with his thumb for her to raise the number.

  “Seventy-five?” she asked.

  “Higher still,” he urged.

  “One hundred?”

  He looked to Jordan and said, very slowly, “Why yes, I do believe that one hundred will do quite nicely.”

  Jordan placed her hands on her hips and said, “Fine. One hundred it is. I shall turn around, cover my eyes, and count, and you shall hide—on this floor of the ship only,” she clarified. “If I have to hunt the whole ship through we shall never make it to supper!”

  Meggie nodded in very serious and sage agreement while fighting down a smile.

  Jordan turned around, covered her eyes with her hands, and began to count. Very loudly. She heard the door open and close and she continued counting, occasionally exchanging a nonsense word for a number just to make things on her end more interesting.

  “One hundred!” she shouted, spinning around. With a quick peek under the bed she determined her room was empty of geese (though it would have been brilliant in her opinion to hide in the same room as the hunter and go uncaught). She threw open her door and poked her head out, scanning the hallway.

  She had told the truth. When she was round about Meggie’s age she had been very good at playing hide-and-seek. But things had changed—her sisters had been promised, one was soon wed, and they were both gone far too fast. So it was not a lack of interest that had stopped her from playing, but rather a lack of participants. Her parents had never been the playful sort—there was decorum to remember—and so, at five or six, Jordan had simply stopped playing and started conforming.

  She turned left down the hall, thinking the way seemed somehow brighter and that a child would be drawn to light, especially if she knew soon she’d be hiding in the dark. She popped open door after door, peering inside and rifling her way through the rooms until she came to one that held prisoners.

  Stache stood outside, leaning against the wall, one foot propped up on the wall. He glanced at her and smiled.

  Jordan’s pace slowed to a walk and she gave a toss of her head in the door’s direction. “How are they?”

  “Angry and disenfranchised,” he said with a smirk. “But they are decently behaved for their ranks and expectations. They are fed and watered, though I am careful of the amount of liquid they have access to so they cannot Draw Down and Light Up all willy-nilly.”

  “Good,” Jordan nodded. “Good. May I—”

  “What? Take a look-see?”

  She nodded again.

  “I don’t see why not. They constantly seem to be looking for you. They ask after the Conductor nearly every day.”

  Her brow furrowed at the thought. “Whatever for?”

  “They only wish well for the Stormbringer,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh. Ohhh. They think I’m the Stormbringer? Well, as flattering as that might be, they are most certainly wrong.”

  Stache squinted at her and turned to the door, brandishing a key. “If you say so. Only, don’t say that to them—they’ll likely rip you to shreds.”

  Jordan cleared her throat. “Then perhaps—just this once—I should continue on my way …”

  “No one would say such a thing was wrong of you,” he assured. “If I was you,” Stache said gruffly, “I’d be try’n find your little sister first.”

  Jordan paused, but rather than correct him, she simply went on her way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A man ain’t got no right to be a public man, unless he meets the public views.

  —Charles Dickens

  Philadelphia

  “I will not reveal my agenda to you,” Catrina hissed at her uncle. “It is for Rowen and Rowen alone to know.”

  “Catrina,” Rowen warned. “Damn it.” He reached out and smashed a lamp resting nearby.

  “Clumsy boy!” Catrina giggled.

  “You’re insane,” Rowen said, finally having regained her attention.

  “Perhaps I might help,” her uncle insisted. “One never knows what sort of person may be useful in an uprising.”

  “Wh—what?” Catrina fluttered her eyelashes innocently, and shot a look at Jack, the stranger.

  Jack pocketed the money she had handed him and kept a wary watch on Rowen.

  “Tell Rowen what you’ve planned.”

  “Stop it,” she said, shooting him a glare.

  “Tell him how you’ll fix things for your kind.”

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she shoute
d, stamping her foot so the sound of her heels rioted through the room.

  “Maybe, if you tell him, he’ll stay.”

  Catrina’s face stretched in fear and she gaped at Rowen.

  “Look at him carefully, precious,” her uncle said. “As a man who wants nothing but to leave you, I know what it looks like when someone feels the same way.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Tell it true, Rowen,” her uncle said. “You aren’t interested in staying, are you?” He reached toward the wall and pulled a chair away from it, slumping into it to watch.

  “Nothing she can say can make me stay,” Rowen said through clamped teeth.

  “Oh, no, Rowen,” she begged, placing her hands on his forearm.

  Her uncle nodded. “Do at least listen to her before you go. Hers is such an intriguing idea. And tell her what it is you’ve been too much a gentleman to say. One good turn deserves another,” he added. “She should know what’s in your heart.”

  “None of that matters,” she said. “He was put in my custody by this good fellow—Jack. He is mine. I paid the reward money.”

  “And you paid that because Jack delivered me to you. The money does, in no way, guarantee I will stay.” Rowen unrolled the poster. “See? Delivery to.” He held it out before her so the paper brushed the tip of her nose. “I do not have to stay. And I won’t, Catrina.”

  She grabbed the poster and pulled it down and out of his grasp, hurling it onto the floor. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” she agreed, chin quivering. “Only give me a chance to explain.”

  Rowen and Jack exchanged a glance.

  Jack shrugged.

  “It is entertaining,” her uncle goaded.

  “Go,” Rowen said.

  “I wanted to keep you nearby—that is no secret,” she said. “I never before felt the way I do about you. But my motivation goes beyond that, Rowen. I have plans to change the world—to make it better. To be rid of the ranks that keep us all separated.”

  Rowen’s eyebrows rose. “You? Get rid of the ranks?”

  “Yes, of course! Ranks are such an old-fashioned notion. We are centuries (and an entire ocean) removed from true knights, fiefs, barons, and things of that sort. They are very much why people used ranks—to show their connection to the crown. But we have no crown, so should we not be ranked according to our capabilities and not by simple ancestry?”