Read Online Lost Covenant: A Widdershins Adventure by Ari Marmell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ari Marmell
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question; one that—like her earlier outburst—she hadn't meant to speak aloud. Still, Faustine shrugged. “I don't know, Robin. Came home after a crosstown delivery and found it on the stoop, along with my standard fee and an open note that just said ‘Sorry I missed you.’ It's not really the sort of thing I usually courier, but…” Another shrug, another bashful smile.
Robin nodded, cracked the wax, flipped open the paper…And would almost certainly have sprouted icicles had she frozen any more thoroughly.
Genevieve's grave. Now. Please.
“Robin?”
The girl barely heard. All she could do was stare.
“Robin, what's wrong?”
Was that her handwriting? It didn't quite seem to be—and Robin had spent more than long enough staring at that damned note she'd left behind when she ran away—but it was close. A little rough, a little sloppy…
Just the sort of difference one might expect in a missive dashed off in frightened haste.
“Please…Robin, you're scaring me!”
She finally looked up, and wondered what her own face must look like, to have Faustine's looking so stricken.
“I have to go.” Is that my voice? It sounds too hollow to be mine ….
“Go where? What does it say ?!”
“I'm sorry. I can't, I…have to go.”
Without another word to anyone, without a glance at the unserved customers, without so much as stopping to find her coat, Robin was out in the chill of the evening, skinny legs carrying her far faster than it appeared they ever should.
For the briefest instant, Faustine and Gerard caught one another's gaze. He knew Robin well enough; she had heard the stories more than frequently enough; neither had the slightest doubt who could inspire the girl to such haste.
Though her lips quivered ever so slightly and every muscle in her face went taut, Faustine bolted from her seat and followed.
Robin grew only vaguely aware that Faustine was following, could scarcely even register it as important. Nor did she attach any significance to the fact that the courier, who spent hours a day walking if not running across Davillon, struggled to keep up with her.
Her lungs burned with effort and chill; her breath steamed; people came and went in flashes of shocked or angry faces, shouting or cursing the girl who brushed past them or, in one or two cases, shoved them aside with a strength that belied her size.
None of it registered, none of it mattered. There was no world beyond her destination, the road she traveled, and the maelstrom of emotion that roiled around her mind, threatening to drag it under and drown it. Fear and anger and hurt and worry and more love than she wanted to admit and just maybe a tiny flickering ember of hate….
She knew she neared the cemetery by the smell, the scent of soil and growing things, otherwise alien to this time of year. The city and the Church made every effort to keep the various graveyards (or the wealthier ones, at any rate) lush or at least passable, regardless of season, though their efforts were often symbolic at best. It was another half minute before the gate itself hove into view.
Robin skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, her whole body shaking for reasons utterly unrelated to the cold. She braced herself against the iron with a hand, bent almost double, and still felt herself starting to collapse….
She didn't see or even feel the hands catching her until she hung almost limp from their grip. “I've got you, sweetie.”
“F-Faustine?” Was Faustine even supposed to be here? Was that a good idea? She couldn't think past the pounding in her head and heart…
“It's me. Come on.”
Arms wrapped around Robin's shoulders, helping her stand straight once more. Slowly the spots began to fade from her eyes, the agony and nausea from her gut.
“Faustine, I—”
“It's her, isn't it?”
Robin had swallowed enough tears of her own to recognize them unshed in someone else; the tremor of a word, the twitch of a face. Fully cognizant of
Robin nodded, cracked the wax, flipped open the paper…And would almost certainly have sprouted icicles had she frozen any more thoroughly.
Genevieve's grave. Now. Please.
“Robin?”
The girl barely heard. All she could do was stare.
“Robin, what's wrong?”
Was that her handwriting? It didn't quite seem to be—and Robin had spent more than long enough staring at that damned note she'd left behind when she ran away—but it was close. A little rough, a little sloppy…
Just the sort of difference one might expect in a missive dashed off in frightened haste.
“Please…Robin, you're scaring me!”
She finally looked up, and wondered what her own face must look like, to have Faustine's looking so stricken.
“I have to go.” Is that my voice? It sounds too hollow to be mine ….
“Go where? What does it say ?!”
“I'm sorry. I can't, I…have to go.”
Without another word to anyone, without a glance at the unserved customers, without so much as stopping to find her coat, Robin was out in the chill of the evening, skinny legs carrying her far faster than it appeared they ever should.
For the briefest instant, Faustine and Gerard caught one another's gaze. He knew Robin well enough; she had heard the stories more than frequently enough; neither had the slightest doubt who could inspire the girl to such haste.
Though her lips quivered ever so slightly and every muscle in her face went taut, Faustine bolted from her seat and followed.
Robin grew only vaguely aware that Faustine was following, could scarcely even register it as important. Nor did she attach any significance to the fact that the courier, who spent hours a day walking if not running across Davillon, struggled to keep up with her.
Her lungs burned with effort and chill; her breath steamed; people came and went in flashes of shocked or angry faces, shouting or cursing the girl who brushed past them or, in one or two cases, shoved them aside with a strength that belied her size.
None of it registered, none of it mattered. There was no world beyond her destination, the road she traveled, and the maelstrom of emotion that roiled around her mind, threatening to drag it under and drown it. Fear and anger and hurt and worry and more love than she wanted to admit and just maybe a tiny flickering ember of hate….
She knew she neared the cemetery by the smell, the scent of soil and growing things, otherwise alien to this time of year. The city and the Church made every effort to keep the various graveyards (or the wealthier ones, at any rate) lush or at least passable, regardless of season, though their efforts were often symbolic at best. It was another half minute before the gate itself hove into view.
Robin skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, her whole body shaking for reasons utterly unrelated to the cold. She braced herself against the iron with a hand, bent almost double, and still felt herself starting to collapse….
She didn't see or even feel the hands catching her until she hung almost limp from their grip. “I've got you, sweetie.”
“F-Faustine?” Was Faustine even supposed to be here? Was that a good idea? She couldn't think past the pounding in her head and heart…
“It's me. Come on.”
Arms wrapped around Robin's shoulders, helping her stand straight once more. Slowly the spots began to fade from her eyes, the agony and nausea from her gut.
“Faustine, I—”
“It's her, isn't it?”
Robin had swallowed enough tears of her own to recognize them unshed in someone else; the tremor of a word, the twitch of a face. Fully cognizant of
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