The Clockwork Dagger by Beth Cato Page B

the ineffective latch and grabbed two towels from the rack. Overlapping each other, the two cloths covered the cage perfectly. She adjusted the satchel strap on her shoulder as she stood upright again.
    â€œPeople will assume there’s a bird under here. I hope,” said Octavia. She hoisted up the cage and checked the towels again. “That’s not an unusual thing on board, is it?”
    Mr. Garret shook his head, his expression one of composed amusement. Perhaps that was all this was to him—a diversion to liven up a monotonous day. He was a general’s son. He may be a steward now, but certainly he’d been raised in the high society of Mercia.
    Maybe I’m a mere country curiosity to him, but it’s only fair. I find him equally intriguing.
    Most everyone else still ate dinner in the promenade. Mr. Garret walked at a brisk pace downstairs to deck B and along a corridor. The clatter of pans and the heavy scent of stew revealed the kitchen on the left. He opened the “Crew Only” door, and with a quick finger to his lips, led her down another hallway. Gaping doors showed berthing stacked three beds high, the wood panels torn from the wall to reveal steel. Another door opened, and the warm light of the hallways vanished in an instant.
    Dim rows of glowstones illuminated a gloomy cavern suited for hibernation, the space perhaps fifteen feet in length. A musty stink pervaded along with the heavy rumble of machinery. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a few tall stacks of boxes covered with blankets and strapped to the walls.
    â€œYou risk too much in bringing me here,” Octavia whispered. Instead of being fearful, she felt an excited tingle of secrecy set her body alight.
    â€œYou risk yourself.” Mr. Garret frowned, shaking his head. “You are too trusting of me, m’lady. If most men took you to a place like this . . .”
    You’ve already proven you’re not most men. “So what are your motives, Mr. Garret?”
    â€œYou recognized my surname, did you not?” he asked. She nodded as she set down the cage and tossed the towels aside. Leaf’s black eyes glistened in the dimness, but the rest of his green skin seemed to blend with the shadows. “Then you know that my father was not . . . regarded well for his style of command.”
    â€œI know he invented the buzzer, and about how he died.” She paused, surprised. “I never thought of it that way, but it is unusual for a general to die in such a manner.”
    â€œSoldiers are considered expendable, not generals.” His deep voice softened. “But for missions of particular danger, he knew the buzzer best, and took the risk himself.”
    He’s as haunted by the crash of the Alexandria as I am. Octavia had been the only survivor from her village. She had never known another person who suffered—who even remembered—the events of that night.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she whispered.
    Mr. Garret met her eyes, gaze fierce. “Too many have died these recent years. I am weary of men being regarded as wood for a fire, and I will not see gremlins treated as such either.”
    â€œYou fought at the front.” That’s where he lost his leg.
    He looked away. His answer needed no words. She felt the profound urge to hug him, to tell him she understood about the death of his father, about the horrors of war, but she couldn’t quite move. Awkwardness thickened the air.
    Leaf trilled, the sound so sudden and silly that Octavia couldn’t help but laugh. A smile warmed Mr. Garret’s face.
    â€œAh, we cannot forget about the beastie. Move the cage into the shadows here.” The cage rattled as Octavia shuffled it over a few feet. “Later, the smoke room will be busy, but the kitchen will not be. Duck in there, if you must. If a crewman catches you in the hallway, you can play as innocent and lost.”
    She arched an eyebrow.