Crosswind by Steve Rzasa

Author:Steve Rzasa [Rzasa, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Christian, Futuristic, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9781935929833
Google: X4K2NAEACAAJ
Amazon: B00A7K2S3U
Publisher: Gilead Publishing
Published: 2012-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

Friday

Lysanne Sark removed her gloves, both of which were stained with grease and dirt. She wiped the sweat off her brow. It was nearly noon, and she’d been in the greenhouse since seven in the morning without much of a break, save ten minutes for a glass of iced tea her mother had kindly brought.

Besides, the vent pipe before her would not yield to her efforts. It would not shut off the flow of warm air. It was fine now, in early spring, but come summer, the greenhouse would have no need for steam heat from the city’s thermal wells.

“Mother?” Lysanne called. “I’m stepping outside for a spell. This vent pipe won’t cooperate, and I need to rethink my strategy.”

Lysanne’s mother, Joan Brownrigg, stood halfway down the greenhouse aisle from her. She had a pair of trimmers in one hand and the vines of a hanging philodendron in the other. The blades made a snickt with each stroke. Oval leaves fluttered to the gravel floor. “Of course, dear. I’ll manage.” She reached up to brush a leaf from her hair. “Don’t stay too long, or I’ll send one of the shop girls out after you.”

Lysanne headed out the front of the greenhouse and into the flower shop, which was attached to the greenhouse like a puppy to its mother.

One of the young women who worked for Lysanne’s family waved from behind the counter as she rang up a gentleman’s purchase of posies on the cash register. Two more women, older than Lysanne’s mother, perused the floral arrangements in the store. Their hushed argument over which flower was the superior made Lysanne laugh softly.

Pine Street was moderately busy. A dark blue motorwagon that Lysanne assumed belonged to the gentleman in the store waited silently by the wooden walk, its steam engine shut off. A pair of carts drawn by diprotodons rumbled by. She returned a wave from the lead driver.

Lysanne leaned up against a slender aspen. She inhaled the diffuse fragrance of the bright pink flowers—shooting stars—at the base of the tree. She gazed at the mountains to the south. Winch was out there somewhere—in Trestleway, she hoped. She’d prayed for him every night and morning since he’d flown off in Cope’s biplane. She had no fear for her brother-in-law—he was headstrong and a skilled survivor of practically any situation. But Winch was just a reporter. What did he know of espionage?

“Keep him safe, Ifan,” Lysanne whispered. “Don’t let my love get in over his head, please. Emin.”

She felt strangely disquieted by the sight of those southern mountains. They were ominous today—more like encroaching giants than the comforting bulwark they usually presented. Lysanne took in a deep breath of the cool, alpine air and resolved to read more from the Writ over lunch.

That saddened her. Sometimes Winch would join her for lunch. But not today. She walked up to her front steps and climbed them to the door.

A messenger boy in the familiar silver and blue livery sped up to her on a rickety bicycle.

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