Page 5 of A Slipper in the Smoke
Halfadozensmallautomatons whirred around the room, clicking and screeching, cutting off Elena’s path from the semi-conscious woman on the floor of her workshop. Her leg was bleeding, and there was a bloody mark on her forehead beneath a tangle of black curls.
Elena knew she should call the authorities. Whoever this girl was, she had broken into her garage, and clearly had nowhere to go despite her wounds, which meant she was likely on the run from the law. Given what had just happened at the plant within the last hour, Elena was willing to bet she was likely one of the rebels.
A criminal. An outcast.
Yet it was her bleeding out on a dirt-covered floor, not a palace guard or soldier. It was she that was afraid.
The Holy Book had a lot to say about how to treat those in need, and if Elena called the guards on her now, she was fairly sure she would be ignoring a lot of it.
Instead, she turned to a nearby drawer and whisked out the cleanest rags she could find. The automatons scurried around her face and ankles, as if waiting to see what she would do. She placed the rags to the girl’s wounds and rolled her over, kicking the discarded weapon out of reach. Just to be safe.
“Are you… helping me?” the girl whispered.
“As long as you don’t shoot.”
She levered her into a sitting position and tore through her medical kit. There wasn’t much in it—the Baroness didn’t much care if Elena was hurt—but there was cleaning fluid and bandages. Elena wasn’t used to applying them on anyone but herself, least of all a random stranger, and her actions were clumsy with nerves.
“I didn’t mean to break in,” the girl murmured. “I was searching for somewhere else… got confused…”
“How did you break in?”
“The bots…” She pointed a trembling finger at one of them, which reached out to nudge her, the way the horses on Elena’s farm did, long ago. “They’re good like that…”
Elena inspected the gash on her leg. “I think this needs stitches,” she said. “But I can’t help there.”
“I can do those,” said the girl, and pointed to a bloodied pack in the corner. “Just pass me my bag.”
Elena did so. The girl tore open the pack and bought out a small suture kit, together with a flask of something pungent and alcoholic. She doused half of it on her wound and took a long sip of the rest, offering the remainder to Elena. Elena, knowing the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach, declined.
The girl shrugged and necked the rest, tossing the flask back into her bag. She laid out her equipment, tore a wider hole in the dark leg of her trousers, and started to sew.
Elena turned away, trying not to gag.
“Squeamish?” The girl laughed. “You look tougher.”
“Muscles don’t necessarily equal non-squeamish,” Elena said tartly. “Sorry.”
“You’re apologising to the person that broke into your workshop?”
“I…” Elena stalled, once more reminded of how ludicrous this all was. “I suppose so.”
“Ha! You’re odd. I like you.” The girl paused, hissing quietly. Elena didn’t want to look at what she was doing. “What’s your name?”
Elena paused for a moment, wondering if it was safe to share her name, if this wasn’t all some trap, a lead-up to thievery, before realising she had nothing in the world that could be taken from her as long as the girl didn’t know about the container under the workbench.
“Elena,” she said softly, “Hernandez.”
“Navarran?”
She nodded.
“Don’t get many Navarrans in Petragrad, especially not…”
Poor ones.If you could afford a ticket out of your city, you had money, or the government had paid your fare because they thought you had a skill you could offer. Mechanics, even good ones, were common enough in the clockwork cities. No Crown would buy them in.
“My father was a minor noble, a merchant,” Elena said. It had been a long time since anyone had asked for the story. It was almost a relief to tell it, the proof she came from somewhere. “A few of his shipments were destroyed by Spartan forces. We lost nearly everything. But then he met a wealthy woman who coveted his title. She married him and brought us back here. They made some bad investments together, then…” A shudder rocked through her, and she couldn’t quite find the words for the next part, even when she sensed the girl’s frown. “Your name?” she asked, filling the silence.
“Snowdrop,” replied the girl. “It’s a codename, obviously, but I’ve grown rather fond of it.”
