Read Online The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregillis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian Tregillis
Ads: Link
rested in the red.
“
Scheisse
!” He skidded to a halt against the far wall of the theater. The bricks gouged his palms.
By the time Klaus emerged outside, the prisoner had nearly entered the trees near the pump house. His path put him back in view of those assembled on the firing range. Apparently Reinhardt had depleted his battery, too, because the running man didn’t burst into flames. Not so the telekinetic imbecile. Buhler gesticulated at the escaping prisoner with one hand as he yanked on Kammler’s leash with the other. “Crush! Crush!”
The prisoner slammed to a halt as though he’d hit a glass wall. His body folded up, bones crackling like china.
But Kammler, in his simpleminded zeal, also crushed the pump house. The building disappeared in an implosion of splintered timbers and powdered brick. A plume of spring water erupted through the debris. Gretel unfurled her umbrella, looking amused. It rained on the Reichsbehörde.
Himmler and Greifelt left soon after that, soggy and shaken. And though Doctor von Westarp kept his medal, he punished them all.
Heike received the worst of his rage. Her screams emanated fromthe laboratory. They trailed off after a while, either because he’d made his point or because her vocal cords had given out.
The doctor locked Reinhardt in the ice house.
Klaus’s part in the debacle won him a day in the crate. Mewling apologies did no good. Von Westarp stripped him of his harness before kicking him inside the coffin-sized box. Steel bolts clanged into place. Klaus pounded on the lid. Claustrophobia turned the trickle of breathable air rank. He grappled with the urge to hyperventilate, meting out his breaths against the rhythm of his heart. The knowledge that he’d disappointed the doctor created a nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
Later that night, Pabst gave Gretel new bruises. “It is your duty!”—thud—“to warn us!”—slap—“of such problems!”
Her laughter echoed through darkness and coffins.
8 March 1939
Soho, London, England
W inter had receded in recent days, as though resting up for a big finale. But as a rule, the Hart and Hearth kept its fireplace stoked from October to April. Which was one reason Lord William Beauclerk found it a fine place for a proper tête-à-tête with old friends.
Firelight shimmered on the polished oak beams and cast fluid shadows across the ridges and swirls of horse hair plaster in the ceiling. With an occasional pop that launched a whiff of pine into the room, the sound and smell of the fire melded with the fog of conversation and tobacco.
Six o’clock, so the place was filling quickly with a solid cross section of the working class, just off work and stopping for a pint on the way home. Loudmouthed tradesmen, lorry drivers, a newspaper vendor with ink-stained fingers. Also a few artists and playwrights. And a lovely pair of shopgirls at the next table. The frumpier one had her back to Will; her companion wore an embroidered cloche over a bob of auburn hair and a dusting of freckles on milk-pale skin.
The Hart had a cozy little snug. He made a mental note to invite thebird for a private drink later. Working-class women, he’d found, could be less reserved with their affections than those from other stations in life. Another factor in Will’s fondness for the Hart. Although his brother had become a bit of a prig lately, prone to worrying about bastards turning up on the doorstep.
Aubrey could go on at length about what was proper and improper and the responsibilities that came with Will’s station in life. To hear him tell it, Will would destroy the country by having it off with a shopgirl. Will had little patience for Aubrey’s obsession with noblesse oblige.
He preferred the company in places like this, though he sometimes felt conspicuous. Somewhere along the line he’d taken to wearing a bowler, almost as a form of camouflage. But his shirt cost more than some of these people earned in a week. Thus
“
Scheisse
!” He skidded to a halt against the far wall of the theater. The bricks gouged his palms.
By the time Klaus emerged outside, the prisoner had nearly entered the trees near the pump house. His path put him back in view of those assembled on the firing range. Apparently Reinhardt had depleted his battery, too, because the running man didn’t burst into flames. Not so the telekinetic imbecile. Buhler gesticulated at the escaping prisoner with one hand as he yanked on Kammler’s leash with the other. “Crush! Crush!”
The prisoner slammed to a halt as though he’d hit a glass wall. His body folded up, bones crackling like china.
But Kammler, in his simpleminded zeal, also crushed the pump house. The building disappeared in an implosion of splintered timbers and powdered brick. A plume of spring water erupted through the debris. Gretel unfurled her umbrella, looking amused. It rained on the Reichsbehörde.
Himmler and Greifelt left soon after that, soggy and shaken. And though Doctor von Westarp kept his medal, he punished them all.
Heike received the worst of his rage. Her screams emanated fromthe laboratory. They trailed off after a while, either because he’d made his point or because her vocal cords had given out.
The doctor locked Reinhardt in the ice house.
Klaus’s part in the debacle won him a day in the crate. Mewling apologies did no good. Von Westarp stripped him of his harness before kicking him inside the coffin-sized box. Steel bolts clanged into place. Klaus pounded on the lid. Claustrophobia turned the trickle of breathable air rank. He grappled with the urge to hyperventilate, meting out his breaths against the rhythm of his heart. The knowledge that he’d disappointed the doctor created a nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
Later that night, Pabst gave Gretel new bruises. “It is your duty!”—thud—“to warn us!”—slap—“of such problems!”
Her laughter echoed through darkness and coffins.
8 March 1939
Soho, London, England
W inter had receded in recent days, as though resting up for a big finale. But as a rule, the Hart and Hearth kept its fireplace stoked from October to April. Which was one reason Lord William Beauclerk found it a fine place for a proper tête-à-tête with old friends.
Firelight shimmered on the polished oak beams and cast fluid shadows across the ridges and swirls of horse hair plaster in the ceiling. With an occasional pop that launched a whiff of pine into the room, the sound and smell of the fire melded with the fog of conversation and tobacco.
Six o’clock, so the place was filling quickly with a solid cross section of the working class, just off work and stopping for a pint on the way home. Loudmouthed tradesmen, lorry drivers, a newspaper vendor with ink-stained fingers. Also a few artists and playwrights. And a lovely pair of shopgirls at the next table. The frumpier one had her back to Will; her companion wore an embroidered cloche over a bob of auburn hair and a dusting of freckles on milk-pale skin.
The Hart had a cozy little snug. He made a mental note to invite thebird for a private drink later. Working-class women, he’d found, could be less reserved with their affections than those from other stations in life. Another factor in Will’s fondness for the Hart. Although his brother had become a bit of a prig lately, prone to worrying about bastards turning up on the doorstep.
Aubrey could go on at length about what was proper and improper and the responsibilities that came with Will’s station in life. To hear him tell it, Will would destroy the country by having it off with a shopgirl. Will had little patience for Aubrey’s obsession with noblesse oblige.
He preferred the company in places like this, though he sometimes felt conspicuous. Somewhere along the line he’d taken to wearing a bowler, almost as a form of camouflage. But his shirt cost more than some of these people earned in a week. Thus
Similar Books
