Ironskin by Tina Connolly Page A

doorway. She nodded at Cook and reached up to hand her a circular. She was nearly as short as a dwarf, Jane thought—not that the dwarves were seen much anymore either. And for Jane—
    “A letter?”
    Bright eyes gleamed, but the butler didn’t answer the obvious. As Poule reached up to hand Jane the letter, Jane saw a stray flash of light from her sleeve, as if light glanced off metal. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Just what kind of roles were Mr. Rochart’s servants really playing? The woman turned and left, her worn black shoes stirring up a small puff of flour that Dorie had spilled.
    Jane slit the envelope with a silver paring knife and tugged out a thick fold of heavily written-on paper. “It’s from Helen!” she said. “I was almost getting worried. I’ve written her twice.”
    “And she not once?” said Cook. “Tsk.”
    Jane laughed and dismissed the implied rebuke. “Helen probably has twenty letters started to me by now—seventeen of them mislaid. Goodness knows what the flat looks like anymore.” She unfolded the page, pleased that Helen had managed to get a letter actually out the door to her. “Dearest Jane…” began the letter, and then, typically Helen, it launched into a flowery description of the latest ball she and her fiancé had attended, replete with tidbits of gossip about people Jane had never met. The flow of minutiae was occasionally interspersed with a command for Jane to return to the city immediately and have as delightful a time as Helen was having.
    Jane flipped over the page, and an engraved card fell out and fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up—and stopped.
    “It’s a wedding invitation,” she said.
    “As should be,” said Cook. “You said she was betrothed.”
    “Yes, but I thought she was waiting till the summer,” said Jane. “When the family left on their summer travels.” A familiar worry tugged at her inside—that Helen was busy making rash decisions without Jane there to advise. Not that Helen always listened. Jane was not entirely certain about the character of Helen’s fiancé, but when she had dared mention any concerns, Helen had stormed about, insisting that she adored him, that any faults were easily mendable, and what did Jane know about marriage anyway.
    “Soonest’s best,” said Cook. “Otherwise the man might be finding a new lass, or the woman getting in a spot of trouble.” She beat the batter hard, her wooden spoon hitting the side of the bowl with muffled thumps.
    “Helen would not,” Jane said positively. “She is not, I’m sure of it. Likely she’s lonely without me, and dying for something new to happen. Neither of us were born with much patience.” Jane flipped the engraved card around in her fingers, the attendant letter almost forgotten. “The wedding is soon—just after her eighteenth. Do you think he’ll grant me leave?”
    “Only way of finding out is asking,” said Cook.
    Jane looked up at the older woman, startled. “Am I allowed to go up there? To his studio?”
    Cook tapped the cake tin full of batter against the counter, leveling it with sharp thwacks. “He’ll not be having any appointments today, so I expect you’d be safe. Mind you, you’re not to be saying I said so. And knock first.”
    “All right,” said Jane. She stood up, brushing her dark skirts clear of flour and crumbs. “I’ll go.” She glanced down at Dorie, now lying on her back and pointing her toes at the ceiling for no discernible reason.
    “Sure and I’ll watch her,” said Cook. “This is her I’ll-be-an-angel-if-no-one-is-crossing-me stage. I know it well.”
    Jane nodded, folded the unread letter in her pocket, and took a breath. “I’ll go,” she said again. “It’s just a studio.”
    Just a man.
    *   *   *
    She repeated that to herself as she climbed the stairs outside the kitchen. Where they opened on the first floor she stopped and peeked out, calculating that this should be the damaged wing she had studied from