Free So Silver Bright by Lisa Mantchev Page A

means you probably have ten sorts of pox, as well as the clap.”
    That assertion wiped the satisfied look from Nate’s face, replacing it with that of an indignant feline whose tail had just gotten caught under a rocking chair. “I don’t know any such thing! An’ I certainly haven’t th’ clap! D’ye see any sign o’ such on my face or my hands?” As punishment for such an outrageous accusation, he bit her just where her neck met her shoulder.
    She retaliated by pinching him somewhere wholly indecent and improper, adding to the assault a long-harbored suspicion. “You’ve probably bedded dozens of girls from the Ladies’ Chorus, no doubt every one of them incubating a different love malady!”
    “I ha’e not!” He caught hold of her pinching fingers and pinned them behind her back.
    “You haven’t had any women, or they haven’t given you the gift that keeps on giving?” Her free hand reached out and jabbed him in the midsection.
    Rather than take the not-quite-a-game a step further, Nate carefully set her back on her feet before retreating far enough to give her space to breathe, to think. “Why are ye bringin’ this up now, lass?”
    Unable to determine if she was disappointed or relieved he’d let her go, Bertie turned to the tiny window, jerked it open, and leaned out in search of fresh air. A chill wind snaked its way through the Caravanserai, raising its serpentine head in spine-numbing gusts, and she was grateful to it for clearing the fog in her head. “Because I can’t help myself.”
    “Because yer afraid.”
    Bertie couldn’t lie to him. Not because she’d traded her mask to Serefina, but because she realized she wanted no falsehoods between them. “Yes.”
    “Because o’ Ariel?”
    “That’s partially it.”
    “An’ what’s th’ rest?”
    She refused to look at him, instead turning her eyes to the night sky. There was still no sign of the Scrimshander, though the crescent moon slanted blue-tinged light over every surface. The events of the day caught up with her all at once, and her teeth started to chatter. “There’s something about me, Nate, that drives people away. Ariel. Ophelia. My father.”
    “I’m still here.”
    “Until I do or say something completely unforgivable, simply because I can’t seem to help myself—” He took a step toward her then, but Bertie shook her head, desperate to make him understand. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but I seem to manage it quite nicely on occasion.”
    “I’m not afraid o’ yer words or yer bite, lass. Say what ye like t’ me, it won’t change what’s between us.” After a long moment, Nate added, “An’ push as hard as ye need t’. I’ll give ye as much space as ye want.”
    “That’s a new development,” she said, half choking on inappropriate laughter. “You’re a champion hoverer.”
    He ducked his head. “Aye, well, some time spent captive at Sedna’s mercy might ha’e somethin’ t’ do wi’ it, never mind ye handled yerself against th’ witch wi’out any help from me—”
    Tiny hands frantically hammering on the door to the caravan interrupted whatever else Nate had been about to say.
    “Bertie!” Peaseblossom’s voice was wood muffled but insistent. “Waschbär is back!”
    “The Innamorati are here as well,” Mustardseed added with the singsong of a practiced tattletale, “and Aleksandr wants to speak with you!”
    “Chef Toroidal brought us a get-lost pie!” called Moth.
    “Stupid, it’s shoofly,” corrected Cobweb.
    “Oooooh, I thought that meant good riddance.”
    “Good riddance pie wouldn’t be this sticky,” Peaseblossom said, her voice muffled a bit as though her mouth was full. “You don’t get rid of someone who’s sticky very easily. Speaking of which, get your hands off me, Mustardseed!”
    “We should get out there, before one o’ them tries t’ eat th’ arm off th’ other.” One hand on the doorknob, Nate hesitated. “Did ye mean what ye said about