Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) by Laura Anne Gilman Page B
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
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rock or a tree and shiver until it all blows through. And then the next morning, everything you own is sodden and mud-covered, including you and the horse.”
“It sounds delightful.” She was borrowing Molly’s tone again, sass and vinegar.
“It’s a hard thing, taking the road,” he said. “But if you’re meant for it, then yes. It can be.”
Izzy didn’t know if she was meant for it. She hadn’t chosen it; this wasn’t what she’d wanted, not what she’d expected. But it was what the boss wanted her to do. So she’d do it.
The first morning of her new Bargain, Izzy woke all at once, not the panic of the day before, but her body braced as though expecting something to happen. The morning light was clouded, the shadows darker than ghosts, and she lay still a moment longer, breathing in the air, feeling the linens cool under her skin. Distantly, she heard the floor clock downstairs chime, too muffled to count the hour, and she slid out of bed, each movement uncertain, as though she had a fever, or was moving in a dream. There were no sounds outside, as though the entire Territory slept, even the morning birds. It must be before even dawn.
Mister Kasun—Gabriel, he had told her to call him Gabriel—had said they would leave with the sunrise.
She lit the lamp and bathed quickly at the washbasin, then dressed in one of the three new outfits that had been laid out on her bed when she returned to her room the night before: a plain brown skirt falling to her ankles and buttoned halfway up the back to allow her to ride astride, the bodice a looser fit that she was accustomed to, with plain cuffs and no embroidery or ribbons anywhere. The stockings were a thicker knit than she was used to and dyed brown to match her dress. Over all that, a jacket made of a rough waxed cloth that was overlarge in the shoulders, as though it had been sewn for a larger body, or one wearing multiple layers underneath. The boots, too, were new: oxblood leather rising to her calf, with a slight heel, and laced on the outside rather than in front.
Dressed, she felt awkward, uncertain, her body unfamiliar in unfamiliar garb.
The sky outside her window was beginning to brighten. She brushed out her hair and then braided it again, a single plait hanging againsther back. Her face in the mirror didn’t seem quite hers anymore. She made a face, mouth drawn down, eyes wide, like a frog, to see if that helped. It didn’t.
Her bags were waiting by the door, the rest of her clothing already packed, but as she went to place her necessities into the saddlebag that had also appeared on her bed, she noted something on the dresser that hadn’t been there the night before: a plain hammered-silver band and a small leather journal with a pencil tied to it by a leather thong.
Izzy picked the ring up and slid it onto the littlest finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly, the cool silver warming against her skin, and felt right, as though she’d been wearing it since forever.
Silver was for cleansing and protection. Inside Flood, there was no need, but on the road . . . She wasn’t sure if such a thin slip could do anything, but wearing it made her feel better.
She picked up the notebook next, feeling the smoothness of the cover, the careful stitching of the binding, the double-looped swirl-within-a-circle of the devil’s sigil burnt into the front. There was no note, no clue as to who had left it there. Izzy frowned at it and then slid it into her saddlebag before leaving the room, closing the door behind her one final time.
Marie was the only one awake in time to see her go. The Right Hand was leaning against the bar, a mug of coffee in her hands, watching as she came down the stairs. Izzy reached the main floor and let her bags drop to the ground, bending down to check the tie of her pack again, even though she knew that it was secure. The canvas was scratchy against her fingers, the leather smooth, and she was afraid that she packed
“It sounds delightful.” She was borrowing Molly’s tone again, sass and vinegar.
“It’s a hard thing, taking the road,” he said. “But if you’re meant for it, then yes. It can be.”
Izzy didn’t know if she was meant for it. She hadn’t chosen it; this wasn’t what she’d wanted, not what she’d expected. But it was what the boss wanted her to do. So she’d do it.
The first morning of her new Bargain, Izzy woke all at once, not the panic of the day before, but her body braced as though expecting something to happen. The morning light was clouded, the shadows darker than ghosts, and she lay still a moment longer, breathing in the air, feeling the linens cool under her skin. Distantly, she heard the floor clock downstairs chime, too muffled to count the hour, and she slid out of bed, each movement uncertain, as though she had a fever, or was moving in a dream. There were no sounds outside, as though the entire Territory slept, even the morning birds. It must be before even dawn.
Mister Kasun—Gabriel, he had told her to call him Gabriel—had said they would leave with the sunrise.
She lit the lamp and bathed quickly at the washbasin, then dressed in one of the three new outfits that had been laid out on her bed when she returned to her room the night before: a plain brown skirt falling to her ankles and buttoned halfway up the back to allow her to ride astride, the bodice a looser fit that she was accustomed to, with plain cuffs and no embroidery or ribbons anywhere. The stockings were a thicker knit than she was used to and dyed brown to match her dress. Over all that, a jacket made of a rough waxed cloth that was overlarge in the shoulders, as though it had been sewn for a larger body, or one wearing multiple layers underneath. The boots, too, were new: oxblood leather rising to her calf, with a slight heel, and laced on the outside rather than in front.
Dressed, she felt awkward, uncertain, her body unfamiliar in unfamiliar garb.
The sky outside her window was beginning to brighten. She brushed out her hair and then braided it again, a single plait hanging againsther back. Her face in the mirror didn’t seem quite hers anymore. She made a face, mouth drawn down, eyes wide, like a frog, to see if that helped. It didn’t.
Her bags were waiting by the door, the rest of her clothing already packed, but as she went to place her necessities into the saddlebag that had also appeared on her bed, she noted something on the dresser that hadn’t been there the night before: a plain hammered-silver band and a small leather journal with a pencil tied to it by a leather thong.
Izzy picked the ring up and slid it onto the littlest finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly, the cool silver warming against her skin, and felt right, as though she’d been wearing it since forever.
Silver was for cleansing and protection. Inside Flood, there was no need, but on the road . . . She wasn’t sure if such a thin slip could do anything, but wearing it made her feel better.
She picked up the notebook next, feeling the smoothness of the cover, the careful stitching of the binding, the double-looped swirl-within-a-circle of the devil’s sigil burnt into the front. There was no note, no clue as to who had left it there. Izzy frowned at it and then slid it into her saddlebag before leaving the room, closing the door behind her one final time.
Marie was the only one awake in time to see her go. The Right Hand was leaning against the bar, a mug of coffee in her hands, watching as she came down the stairs. Izzy reached the main floor and let her bags drop to the ground, bending down to check the tie of her pack again, even though she knew that it was secure. The canvas was scratchy against her fingers, the leather smooth, and she was afraid that she packed
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