Free Carousel Sun by Sharon Lee Page A

hardly ever leaves the booth.
    Intent as I was on this goal, I didn’t see him bearing down from my right until it was almost too late—and truth to tell, I didn’t see him so much as register something too big and too close. I’d been trained in the arts of war—House Aeronymous core princess curriculum—and training will out.
    . . . usually at the worst possible moment.
    I ducked, kicked, and connected.
    “Hey!” was the first shout, quickly followed by, “Ow! Hey! Ms. Archer!”
    I’d ridden the kick into a spin, now I straightened, staring up into a wholesome face that was at the moment wearing an expression more pained than pleasant.
    Despite which, I recognized him.
    “Kyle,” I said. “Sorry about that. You startled me.”
    “Guess I did,” he said ruefully, bending down to rub his knee. I felt a pang, remembering the solid connection I’d made.
    “You okay? Let’s go over to Tony Lee’s and get you some ice.”
    “Nah, hey, it’s fine,” he said, sending a quick glance down, then back up to my face. He grinned, sort of.
    “Good thing you weren’t wearing boots, though.”
    That was the truth. I’d’ve crushed his kneecap if I’d been wearing proper footwear instead of sneakers. Still . . .
    “Ice’ll keep it from swelling. Doesn’t hurt to be proactive.”
    “I’ll ice it and elevate it and do everything good when I get home, promise.” He was looking more pleasant and less peeved now. “I’ve studied martial arts, off and on. You’ve got good technique.”
    I laughed. “Good technique includes being certain of your target. I didn’t even get a look at you.”
    “I was too close, and you were spooked.” A shadow passed over his face. “Sometimes, the past does our thinking for us.”
    I felt the truth of that echo along my link with the land. It saddened me to think that even wholesome apple-cheeked boys learned that lesson, and I gave him a small bow, in acknowledgment of a truth said well.
    “I take it you’re headed home, now?” I asked, deliberately breaking the seriousness of the moment.
    “Roundabout,” he answered. “Ms. Anderson doesn’t have any work for me today, so I thought I’d come by and see the carousel, like we talked about.” He held up his hands.
    Which was why the lad had been lurking by the front door. True, I’d asked him to give me some notice for a private tour, but it wasn’t unreasonable to think I might be at the carousel half an hour early on an open day, and be grateful for a little company.
    “Be glad to give you the quick tour,” I said, and firmly closed my lips before if you think you’re up to it got loose. A man is the best judge of his own injuries , my grandfather’s arms master used to say, and add, after a wink and a beat, until he swoons .
    Fishing the key out of my pocket, I turned, unlocked the padlock, and opened the door.
    “Go on in,” I told him, putting my hands on the gate’s edge. “I’ll just push the walls out of the way.”
    It didn’t really surprise me to see him set his shoulder against the opposite side, and push.
    The storm walls moved, clattering and groaning as they went back on the track, meeting the stops at the sides of the maintenance shed with a clash of steel against steel.
    I jumped up on the carousel, crossed the platform and dropped down into the pit, pulling open the panel, and flipping various switches. One switch snapped the lights on along the sweeps, and the outer ring. Another lit the fancy facade that hid the center of the machine from view. A third illuminated the orchestrion. I opened the door and ducked inside to kick the motor on.
    By the time I was out, door latched behind me, Kyle was on the platform, both hands resting on the charger’s gilded saddle, looking around, as wide-eyed as any kid. I waited at the center, loath to jump onto the platform and shatter his moment of wonder.
    Slowly, as if he stood by a living animal, he raised one hand, and ran his fingertips down the