"How fast is Santi healing?"
Thomas shook his head. Not fast enough. But they had to keep Beck's attention, and there was only one way to do that: show him the goods.
Jess wiped a dirty cloth over his face. It probably did nothing but spread around the dirt and grime, but at least it dried his sweat a little. "Have you done the pieces of type yet?"
"Not yet. What language should we start with, do you think? English or Greek?"
"Both," Jess said. "We want to impress them."
"Casting will take a day. Then it's just assembly."
"And then?"
"Then we show him what he wants to see," Thomas said, and smiled. It was not the same innocent smile he'd had before the cells, before the torments. This one was a cold, confident thing, and it made Jess worry when he saw it. It also made him think, They should be afraid.
Jess certainly was, for a moment.
Then the moment passed, and that unsettling smile warmed and shifted, and Thomas stood up. "Come on," he said, and took up the cloth that Jess had used to wipe his sweaty face. He used it to scrub away the charcoal-sketched plans from the wall. "There must be something left to eat. Perhaps Morgan will be back to tell us good news. And if not, you have a book to read and keep your mind off your troubles."
True. The promise of food, Morgan, and words on paper made Jess shake off the last of his weariness as he followed Thomas out of the workshop. They had to wake up Diwell on the way out, and he seemed chagrined about it, but grateful they didn't take the opportunity to lock him in.
It was just after sunset, and Jess saw Khalila in the park across the way; Dario was with her, and she had a small prayer rug that one of the other Muslims in the town must have lent her. She unrolled it on the grass and began her evening prayers. Dario stood silent watch, far enough away that he wasn't a distraction. He nodded to Jess and Thomas as they passed.
Morgan's was the first face he saw inside the prison walls. She looked as worn and tired as he felt, but she smiled as she set a few pieces of dried fruit and an entirely too small chunk of bread and cheese out. "The doctor sent this," she said. "You two look like you can use the first choice."
"You're a kind girl, Morgan," Thomas said, and raised his dirty hands to wiggle his fingers. "But we'd better wash first, I think. Charcoal and metal shavings make poor spices." He studied her carefully, seeing the same things Jess had, most likely, and asked the question they both were afraid to pose. "How is he?"
"Better," she said. "His fever is down, and the skin is healing faster. The infection's gone. He'll be scarred, and it'll be another couple of days before he's strong enough to join us, but he'll be all right."
Thomas closed his eyes. "Thank God. I prayed, as the Scholar asked."
Jess had, too. He normally wasn't much for it, but he'd quietly whispered one himself, last night in the darkness. It seemed to have done some good. "Now the problem is to keep him down until he's really healed."
A stray breeze stirred Morgan's hair and exposed a vulnerable patch of skin just below her ear, where the skin curved sweetly down toward her neck. Jess had kissed that place so recently the memory of it burned. "Well, you know the captain. As soon as he can get up, he will. Wolfe's finally sleeping. He refused to lie down until Santi woke up. His devotion is amazing, though I'm sure he doesn't want anyone to notice. Men. Always so worried about what others think."
Morgan smiled suddenly, looking directly at Jess, and his mind emptied. She gave him what he was almost certain was a wink, so quick he might have imagined it, and then she turned away to talk to Glain.
Jess flinched as Thomas clapped a huge, strong arm over his shoulders. "That girl," Thomas said, "is going to be very good for someone. I hope it's you."
"Oh, get off me, Mountain," Jess groused, but he wasn't angry. He was, in fact, feeling better. "Let's find a bucket and wash."
"And eat."
"If you want to call it that."
Once they'd washed and taken a meager meal, Jess slipped into Morgan's cell. She was sitting cross-legged on her mattress, and it pleased something deep inside to see that she, too, had chosen a book from Dr. Askuwheteau's vast collection. Hers was a biography. She smiled when she saw him, and closed her book.
"Here." He pulled out a blue feather he'd plucked from the grass outside. It was a rare piece of beauty in the dull rust and brown of Philadelphia-bent, but unbroken. The moment he'd spotted it on the walk back, he'd known it was meant for her. "I saw Wolfe using one as a bookmark. It seems appropriate."