The Electrical Menagerie by Mollie E. Reeder

Author:Mollie E. Reeder [Reeder, Mollie E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780692124284
Google: RDVPtwEACAAJ
Amazon: 0692124284
Goodreads: 44511917
Publisher: Writeratops
Published: 2018-06-02T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

RUNAWAY THINGS, II

Huxley sat in a chair in the dining car and didn’t move for at least half an hour. Dominic came in, trundling about like he always did, as if nothing was wrong. Took out a silver dustpan and a small broom. Swept up the pieces of the broken teacup, and then began to dust the furniture.

Huxley felt strange, as if he’d become a part of the decor. But he didn’t get up.

“Are you still alive?” Dominic asked him finally.

“Am I alive?” Huxley turned to him. “Yes, I’m alive. Why would you ask that?”

“You were uncharacteristically motionless and quiet. I thought you might be dead.”

Huxley blew air through his teeth. “Did I make a terrible mistake, Dominic?”

“The probability is high. But you’d have to be more specific.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Dominic said without a trace of irony.

“I suppose I didn’t mean it,” Huxley went on. “I can’t really fathom Sylvester Carthage bashing anyone over the head. He’d have to ask their permission first.” He pushed himself out of the chair, regretting his accusations.

He had shouted, from the cracks of his own broken heart, that he didn’t know Sylvester Carthage. But that wasn’t totally true. Perhaps he wasn’t quite sure what Sylvester Carthage was. But he did know what Sylvester Carthage wasn’t.

Carthage held nothing but gentle wonder for the world and its inhabitants. He didn’t sneak up behind people in the dark. He didn’t sabotage, tamper or bribe. To suggest otherwise was nothing short of what Huxley was sure that newfangled psychotherapist his parents had forced him to see once or twice during adolescence would call “projection”.

Sylvester Carthage was not a cheat.

Pacing to the other side of the car, Huxley leaned to look out the window and glimpsed a figure headed back toward the train. His mouth ran dry. He felt contrite, but he also felt angry. What was he supposed to say when his companion returned?

Favoring flight over fight this time, he decided his best recourse was to make himself scarce. He was about to leave the dining car and hide in his compartment when somebody gave a polite knock on the door.

Huxley turned back. That wasn’t Carthage.

He answered the door to find Andromeda Skyhawke standing on the railroad ties and holding a bottle of wine.

She seemed hesitant, and there was a moment of silence.

“Are… you alright?” she asked at last.

“Am I alright?”

“You look like you’ve been run over by a train,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, and scrambled to rake his fingers through his hair and fix the tuck of his shirt.

“No, no…” She bit her lip. “The look on your face.”

“I was just…” He looked around, like the right words might appear. “I was just… you know.”

Of course not, but she was polite enough not to press the issue.

“Well,” she said, hesitating. Her eyes flicked away. “I know I last left things somewhat… awkward. And, since we’ve both had the happy news of traveling to Celestia… I wondered if it was too late to take you up on your request.

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