Page 30 of Monsters and Mocha

“Yes.”

Robertson raised an eyebrow. “Then it seems foolish and unkind to place the blame for its loss on Miss Shelton’s shoulders. You chose to throw yourself on that powder ball; she chose to put you back together.”

Fitz leaned his head back and sighed, the fight drained out from him. “What do I do now?”

“That’s between you and Deus. But I suspect you could start by apologizing to Miss Shelton.” He gave Fitz a pointed look. “It’s a sad truth that friendly fire is often the cause of more casualties than the enemy.”

The truth of Robertson’s words hit him squarely in the chest, and his clockwork heart squeezed with regret. “I should go back.”

Robertson was already on his feet, rifling through the contents of a coat tree that stood in the corner. He pulled off a blue jacket and held it up, as if gauging to see whether or not it would fit. He grabbed the left shoulder and tore the sleeve off at the seam. “Here.” He tossed it to Fitz.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s still chilly outside, but that sleeve wouldn’t have fit over your arm.” He gestured for Fitz to put it on. “The rain has stopped for now, but I can feel in my bones that the storm isn’t past yet. You’ll have to hurry back if you don’t want to get caught again.”

Fitz looked down at the jacket uncertainly. “But people will see.”

“So let them see. You’re not a monster. You don’t have to hide in the dark.”

The clouds parted just long enough for Fitz to catch sight of the sun dipping below the horizon. The lamplighters were out, the light from their torches reflecting off the rain-covered streets. Fitz kept his head down as he walked, both to keep himself from slipping and to avoid the eyes of fellow walkers on the streets. He could hear the sharp intakes of breath and the whispers that followed as he passed, but he forbade his mind from focusing on anything other than getting back to Darby as quickly as he could.

I was rude and unfair. She has poured every ounce of energy she has left to spare into helping me heal, and I rewarded her by treating her like the enemy. Deus, forgive me…and let Darby forgive me, too.

He turned down the alley that ran behind Clerval’s just as dusk was settling. A flurry of black feathers suddenly filled his vision, and Raven’s agitated cawing rang in his ears. “Sorry I’m late. Where is it? Make it work. Sorry I’m late.”

He waved his arms in front of his face. “Raven, stop. What are you doing?”

The crow flew to the ground, where he hopped and flapped his wings in anxious, unsettled movements. “Sorry I’m late. Sorry. Sorry.”

A deep sense of foreboding washed over him, and his heart stuttered, seizing painfully before resuming its steady beat. “Raven, what’s wrong?”

Raven flew to the back door and back, repeating the same words over and over again. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late. Where is it?”

The moment Fitz pushed open the door, Raven took off like a shot to the door that led down to Darby’s workshop. He pecked and scratched at the handle. “Make it work. Sorry.”

Henry, elbows deep in the sink, looked over his shoulder in surprise. “What’s wrong with Raven?” He tilted his head to look past Fitz’s shoulder. “Where’s Darby?”

“She’s not here?”

“I thought she was with you.”

Their eyes met, both widening in horror as they realized at the same time the reason for Raven’s agitation. Fitz lunged for the door to the basement, throwing it open and nearly falling over his feet in his haste to make it down to the landing. Henry followed on his heels.

The workshop door was ajar, but no light glowed from within. Raven was already inside, his distressed calls carrying through the tense silence. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m late. What do you think you’re doing?”

Fitz pushed the door open slowly, then had to use it to catch himself as his knee buckled underneath him.

The room was a mess. Tools and materials were strewn about, as if someone had emptied the shelves by throwing everything onto the floor in a fit of rage. The cushions of the chair had been sliced open and the stuffing pulled out, and the cot was overturned against the wall.

And sprawled out on the floor, pale and lying in a pool of blood, lay Darby.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DARBY

“You can both stop hovering. You’re worse than a couple of mother hens.” Darby winced as she touched the lump on the back of her head, feeling for any additional damage or swelling. She pulled her fingers away, checking them to ensure that the bleeding had finally stopped. Her eyes struggled to focus on her fingers so close to her face, and the effort made her stomach roll. She gripped the edge of the bed she sat on to steady herself.

“When you stop looking so pale that you might fall over at any moment, we’ll stop hovering,” Henry countered. “I told Fitz we should have taken you to the hospital.”