Patrick relented. He dragged smoke into his lungs, felt the irresistible burn of it. “Lord,” he muttered, closing his eyes. It felt rapturous.
John lit his own. “I didn’t mean for any of this to take the turn it has,” he started.
“I don’t much care for what you meant,” Patrick replied. “Only what you did.”
John looked to the blanket sky. Swallows flying south. Even the birdsshied away from Scurry. “I’m hopin’ that one day, you’ll understand. You’ll see that I’d do anythin’ for you boys. For your ma. I always promised you that, didn’t I? That one day we’d have everythin’.”
“You promised more than just us. You promised the Union. You promised every Crafter man and woman.”
His father said nothing to that, only flicked the ash of his cigarette to the ground. “The thing is though, Patty. All those people? They ain’t my kin. A man takes care of his own lot first.”
“Gunner nearly died in that fight in the square,” Patrick said coldly. “Should have seen them all, Dad. Hundreds of navy blue dogs, all of ’em armed. Fire Charmers and Smiths. So many of our own throwin’ themselves on the blades to stop them from breaking out into the lanes.” Patrick closed his eyes on the memory. “If he’d died. It would have been your doin’.”
John grimaced and hung his head, finally contrite. “Walk with me,” he said.
They rounded chicken coops and garden stakes and overflowing tomato bushels. The grass here crunched underfoot, the frost setting in but not holding. The very last wilted stems of widow’s lace lay flat to the ground, red petals still somehow attached.
“That girl of yours,” John said, his breath puffing out in small clouds. “She truly is somethin’ else.”
Patrick did not show any outward reaction. He watched John pull on his cigarette.
“Will you marry her?”
“Don’t know if there’s much choice in it.”
John nodded. “Well, marriage ain’t for the faint of heart, let me tell you. Your ma? She got under my skin early on, when we were hardly grown, and she never left, you know? Not a thing I could do about it. When that fever took her—”
“That fever took her while you were venturin’ around the countryside, rallyin’ troops in a war you insisted upon,” Patrick said in a deadened way. “You should have been there.”
John looked at him with more remorse than Patrick thought him capable of. “The thing is, Pat, I ain’t all powerful. And I made the mistake of thinkin’ I was. Of thinkin’ I could fix anythin’, so long as I was willin’ to do what other men wouldn’t, to accept what other men would never, never accept. So long as I was willin’ to cross the line as many times as I had to.”
“Now you’ve crossed so many, you can’t see straight,” Patrick said.
“Wouldn’t you do the same?” John said. “Ask yourself, what wouldn’t you do for someone you loved?”
Patrick didn’t answer. In truth, he wasn’t sure he could. He’d already done things, crossed so many of his own lines. But none of that mattered against the promises he’d made to Nina, to his mother. Promises to take care of them. What sort of man was he, if he couldn’t keep his word?
“That girl,” John was shaking his head now. “I couldn’t have foreseen it. When you arrived at the House with Nina, you and her undid everythin’,” John wouldn’t meet Patrick’s eye now. “You and the Charmer, boy. Neither of you were willin’ to let sense prevail when it came to her. So, you see? You and I have made the same mistakes, son.”
Patrick felt his blood heat, but he said nothing. He only waited. He sensed his father hanging over a cliff.
“That fuckin’ Charmer boy,” John said again. “He went and broke us out. Stole that damned book. And I knew I wouldn’t talk you out of rescuin’ her. You were too far gone already. You would’ve burned down any bridge I tried to build. It wasn’t meant to go like this, Pat.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Patrick said, dread bubbling up in his chest. His father wouldn’t look at him.
“Two years I spent holed up in that city,” John spat bitterly. “Two years of buildin’ somethin’ more than we’d ever dreamed of, and we only needed the key. We needed Nina. But you’d gone and fallen in love with her. Squandered it all for the sake of a girl.” He shook his head. “But there’s still time to right it all, Patty. The army were always gonna march in. They were always goin’ to take control of the Seam. But they don’t have an Alchemist, son. They don’t haveyou.”
Patrick pulled his gun from his pocket and pointed it at his father’s head. He was shaking. “What did you do?”
“I’ve salvaged us a victory,” John spat, looking maddened, like the years in captivity had finally caught up to him. “And it wasmycall to make, son. You ain’t the chairman. Youain’tthe head of this family.”
Patrick cocked the gun. “Tell me,” he said. “Or I shoot you here, where you stand. That’ll be the lineIcross.”
John rocked on his feet, the capillaries in his eyes straining. He looked once more to the sky. “You won’t, Patty. I know you won’t. Your bullets are spent. And I can’t let you bury that Seam,” he said. “One way or another, that terranium is comin’ up.”
“And you plan on forcin’ Nina’s hand?” Patrick said. “You think I’dletyou?”
John shook his head manically. “I’m sorry, son. I had to do it, you understand? Theyneedher, and we’re the ones who can deliver her to them.” Tears now, streaking into his beard.
