Read Online All the Windwracked Stars (The Edda of Burdens) by Elizabeth Bear - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
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too.
What use scrip, to an angel?
Moreso, it turned out, than one might have expected.
She stayed in a courtyard industrial building on the water-front, which might be said to have been converted to a studio, if one were speaking charitably. The heavy doors of wire-mesh-reinforced glass unlocked to her key and thumbprint; when they swung open, she found herself in a slate-tiled entry. The door beyond led to the workspace.
The foundry.
The glass wall to the courtyard admitted natural light, three stories’ worth. Much of the main room had always been open space, high and airy for the absent mill machines. Where it had not been, Muire had torn out the second and third floors, leaving only the support members—beams thick with the memory of such trees as no longer grew on Valdyrgard, notched into the red-brick walls—and a four hundred square foot section of the overseer’s office, reached by an iron spiral stair, as her apartment.
For now, the whole space stood empty and full of morning light, the only motion her neighbor in the courtyard, his head down over his watering. She didn’t garden, herself, and it seemed a kind of sin to let it go uncultivated.
Within the door, she paused and threw the locks. The evidence of her long tenure was everywhere in her studio. The slate floor was scarred, and splashed metal had congealed in gouges left by the feet of giant machines. She hung Nathr on her hook, stripped off the ruins of her cloak—fumbling one-handed—and left a trail of armor behind her as she staggered toward the shower. And if her neighbor happened to glance up and catch a glimpse of her sexlessly bony frame right now, she couldn’t be bothered to care.
The water was hot, at least, the catch basin on the rooftop full after last night’s downpour. The pressure dropped occasionally—Sig filling his watering can or rinsing his hands—but Muire didn’t care, any more than she cared about the soap and water squelching unpleasantly between her skin and the inflatable cast.
The hot water was strength, at least temporary strength, and she took it, leaning against the wall of the shower, eyes closed, breathing.
Eat.
Her eyes opened. She realized that she had been sliding down the tiles, that bent knees and a braced hand were not enough to keep her from collapsing under the water.
Eat , Kasimir repeated. Sleep. You will be of no service if you find him and are too weary to make an accounting.
It was better advice than she was likely to offer herself, though she hated to take it. She rinsed off under colder water, hissing at the sting against her face, awkwardly dried herself with the scraper, and found her robe and a towel for her hair. The stairs were too much to consider; instead, she wandered out into the sun barefoot, wincing.
Her neighbor was crouched under the arbor, hand-pollinating sweet peas.
“Sig,” she said.
A cheerful grunt emerged from under his hat. That was her entire image of him; the torn corduroy trousers, the floppy hat with the plaid, frayed fabric band, the mass of keloid scarring along his jaw, his blue eyes bright against the purple-red flesh. “The blackberries are in,” he said, and squatted down to hand up a bowl. “And you need to eat some of this squash. It’s taking the place over.”
“I’ll make bread with it,” she said, a yawn cracking her jaw. “You know, Blodwyn the Adamant and her men would most likely have fallen because of scurvy when they were holding the pass above Arden, if it had not been for the blackberries. They only had flour and salt, and they hunted rabbits. There wasn’t much to a rabbit except protein. But there’s thirty milligrams of vitamin C in a cup of blackberries.”
“You talk about these people as if you knew them,” Sig said, amused.
Muire licked her lips. “I was a historian.” When she reached for the bowl of berries, he paused.
“Your hand.”
“I had a bad night,” she admitted.
He regarded her, the blue inflatable
What use scrip, to an angel?
Moreso, it turned out, than one might have expected.
She stayed in a courtyard industrial building on the water-front, which might be said to have been converted to a studio, if one were speaking charitably. The heavy doors of wire-mesh-reinforced glass unlocked to her key and thumbprint; when they swung open, she found herself in a slate-tiled entry. The door beyond led to the workspace.
The foundry.
The glass wall to the courtyard admitted natural light, three stories’ worth. Much of the main room had always been open space, high and airy for the absent mill machines. Where it had not been, Muire had torn out the second and third floors, leaving only the support members—beams thick with the memory of such trees as no longer grew on Valdyrgard, notched into the red-brick walls—and a four hundred square foot section of the overseer’s office, reached by an iron spiral stair, as her apartment.
For now, the whole space stood empty and full of morning light, the only motion her neighbor in the courtyard, his head down over his watering. She didn’t garden, herself, and it seemed a kind of sin to let it go uncultivated.
Within the door, she paused and threw the locks. The evidence of her long tenure was everywhere in her studio. The slate floor was scarred, and splashed metal had congealed in gouges left by the feet of giant machines. She hung Nathr on her hook, stripped off the ruins of her cloak—fumbling one-handed—and left a trail of armor behind her as she staggered toward the shower. And if her neighbor happened to glance up and catch a glimpse of her sexlessly bony frame right now, she couldn’t be bothered to care.
The water was hot, at least, the catch basin on the rooftop full after last night’s downpour. The pressure dropped occasionally—Sig filling his watering can or rinsing his hands—but Muire didn’t care, any more than she cared about the soap and water squelching unpleasantly between her skin and the inflatable cast.
The hot water was strength, at least temporary strength, and she took it, leaning against the wall of the shower, eyes closed, breathing.
Eat.
Her eyes opened. She realized that she had been sliding down the tiles, that bent knees and a braced hand were not enough to keep her from collapsing under the water.
Eat , Kasimir repeated. Sleep. You will be of no service if you find him and are too weary to make an accounting.
It was better advice than she was likely to offer herself, though she hated to take it. She rinsed off under colder water, hissing at the sting against her face, awkwardly dried herself with the scraper, and found her robe and a towel for her hair. The stairs were too much to consider; instead, she wandered out into the sun barefoot, wincing.
Her neighbor was crouched under the arbor, hand-pollinating sweet peas.
“Sig,” she said.
A cheerful grunt emerged from under his hat. That was her entire image of him; the torn corduroy trousers, the floppy hat with the plaid, frayed fabric band, the mass of keloid scarring along his jaw, his blue eyes bright against the purple-red flesh. “The blackberries are in,” he said, and squatted down to hand up a bowl. “And you need to eat some of this squash. It’s taking the place over.”
“I’ll make bread with it,” she said, a yawn cracking her jaw. “You know, Blodwyn the Adamant and her men would most likely have fallen because of scurvy when they were holding the pass above Arden, if it had not been for the blackberries. They only had flour and salt, and they hunted rabbits. There wasn’t much to a rabbit except protein. But there’s thirty milligrams of vitamin C in a cup of blackberries.”
“You talk about these people as if you knew them,” Sig said, amused.
Muire licked her lips. “I was a historian.” When she reached for the bowl of berries, he paused.
“Your hand.”
“I had a bad night,” she admitted.
He regarded her, the blue inflatable
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