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Floria s voice said distinctly, The White Hand. It was her mortal challenge, her last declaration to the
men and women she killed. The aristocrat stooping over him shrieked. One of them kicked him again, but
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it was a glancing blow, and there came a second cry, higher and hoarser. . . . shoot and we ll burn . . .
We re burning anyway Stop! Stop, Lightborn! You re killing us. He heard them scrambling away
from him, and felt the fever of sunrise on his skin. He felt her spring over him to harry them out the door
in pitiless, miraculous pursuit. He struggled to raise his head, to make the last thing he sonned be her, but
he was too weak to do more than roll it, and his sonn was a whisper. He heard her say from beside him
as he lay against the paper wall, Bal, Bal, please talk to me! Burning, he thought, was not so terrible
after all.
Telmaine
At the train station at Bolingbroke Circle, Telmaine had second thoughts that had nothing to do with the
propriety of allowing Ishmael di Studier to escort her through the city so he could meet her husband and
lay his case before Bal.
Is that thing . . . magical? she said doubtfully, pulsing sonn over the conveyance in which he proposed
they travel.
Not in the least, Ishmael di Studier said cheerfully. I admit the design is based on the Lightborn
horseless carriages, which are, but the engine burns a mixture of alcohols and petroleum. We are
experimenting to find the best possible mix.
She had not expected him to share the fashionable mania for machinery, given his disdainful response to
the display automaton. Yet here he was, showing off a polished and decorated machine that was clearly
his pride and joy. The thing was like a low open coach, except that there was no horse and it had grafted
onto the rear a casing that he claimed housed the propulsion mechanism. Above the axle and between the
wheels ran a bundle of piping. She sonned it dubiously, trying to convince herself that it was no more than
a single small, trackless train engine, while Amerdale clutched her skirts and Florilinde sidled closer to the
thing, fascinated. The baron had spent much of the train journey exerting his charm on them, to good
effect. Papawould like this, Flori said slyly.
Telmaine surrendered. Balthasar would indeed like it. Sunrise was approaching, and she could not risk
having to take shelter with Ishmael, of all people. She said briskly to her daughters, Then do get in.
Need t prime the engine, the baron said, which he did with a vigorous pumping motion on a lever in
the front of the car.
The racket was astonishing. Heaven s heart, Baron! Can you even hear to sonn . . . ? Amerdale had
her hands clamped over her ears, and even Florilinde s expression was dubious.
Pardon? the baron bellowed back.
Can you even hear she tried again, although she felt her point amply illustrated.
Not th same frequency!
That might be, Telmaine thought, maneuvering her skirts, but the whole neighborhood was still going to
know they had arrived.
They started with a lurch. Telmaine, watching the baron over her shoulder, thought that, compared to
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driving a carriage, steering seemed a remarkably onerous procedure involving levers and pistons and a
large wheel. The baron plied them like an organist playing a fugue with more enthusiasm than skill. At
least so close to sunrise the streets were largely empty, though Ishmael seemed oblivious to the
occasional shying horse and cursing coachman. She hoped the children were similarly oblivious. Their
vocabulary was quite diverse enough.
It wasn t a relaxing trip, with the noise, the starts, the stops, the sudden swerves and jolts that threatened
to pitch her and Amerdale on the floor and tumble the incautious Florilinde into the street. Still, it was
swift; she could say that for it. She was surprised to sonn a carriage standing at their front door. The
baron deftly pulled in behind it, and the sober horse did not bolt, though it stamped restlessly.
When the baron turned off the engine, she thought she had gone deaf.
Papa! cried Florilinde, and scrambled down from the car. Papa, sonn what we came here in!
The baron came suddenly to life. Hold her! And she sonned on his face the expression that he must
wear as a Shadowborn charged out of the brush, as the door opened and two men came reeling out.
Both men had narrow, oozing brands across faces and chests. They blasted her with a shock of rude
sonn, making her blanch. Who . . . she began.
Ishmael di Studier vaulted from the carriage, snatching at Florilinde. His hand closed on the child s collar
and then the other man swung at him with something like a black sock. With a crack of weight on bone,
the baron went to his knees. But he was no sooner down than he was dodging sideways, and Telmaine
heard the swish of the sap as it missed its second blow.
Mama! screamed Florilinde as the first man snatched her up.
Another blast of sonn, directed at her, which must have stripped her practically naked. He said, We get
Tercelle Amberley s bastards, Hearne gets his daughter back. Tell him that.
And they ran for the coach. Florilinde thrashed futilely in her kidnapper s arms. Mama! Telmaine
slithered from the carriage and scrambled after the coach as it began to move. She came close enough to
clutch at a wheel that tore itself from her hands as the coach inexorably gathered speed.
She turned wildly to find Ishmael leaning against the carriage. What are you standing there for? We
have to go after them.
The baron was sweating with pain, supporting his left arm against his body. Can t drive, he said
hoarsely. Need both hands. And we must tend t your husband.
She dithered in a torment of indecision, and then pulled the daughter left to her from the carriage, holding
her smotheringly tight as she ran up to the door. Her feet crunched on broken ornaments, her skirts
snagged on an overturned table. Amerdale sobbed, clinging to her. Into the receiving room, into the
kitchen, into the pantry, out into the garden, her panic mounting. Dimly, over Amerdale s sobs, she could
hear another voice, like an echo.
Lady Telmaine! She whirled. Ishmael di Studier stood bracing himself in the doorway. He s upstairs,
he said, more quietly. Can t you hear? So prompted, she could hear the voice of Floria White Hand,
crying her husband s name.
Balthasar was in the study, lying curled up against the paper wall. At the sound of their arrival, Floria s
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voice demanded, half a hiss, Who s that?
The baron answered for them both. Ishmael di Studier, mistress. Baron Strumheller, and Lady Telmaine
Hearne.
Baron Strumheller, thank the Mother. It s Floria White Hand, the Lightborn assassin said. What s
happened to Balthasar?
The baron went down on one knee. He grimaced and set his teeth on the fingertips of the glove, pulling
at it, finding it too new to yield. M lady, he said, help me get my glove off.
Telmaine ignored him. She fell to her knees, spilled Amerdale from her arms, and stripped off her own
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