Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century 5)

Three more bullets answered him, but nothing hit close to home. One more windowpane broke. That was a shame, but he’d figure out how to repay the Lincolns later. Maybe he could sue Haymes for the damages. The thought put a smile on his face.

Now, where were the rest of them?

A small orchard began where the lawn ended to the west. One or two men might be hiding there, easily. To the north lay the road, and on the other side of the road a ditch. Beyond the ditch, nothing but woods—all of them too far away to provide shelter for anything but a supernaturally skilled sharpshooter. No, the onslaught came from nearer than that.

He kept a wary eye on the lawn, until one bright assailant finally thought to shoot out the carriage lamps that lit up the sides of the house. It took him a few tries each, but a climactic shot took down the little lantern that illuminated the stoop, and now the playing field was more or less even.

Another bullet pinged inside the house, striking a tall clock hard enough to rock it.

Not much to be done about the windows and their frailty, but what about those curtains…? He wanted something heavier than the decorative cotton gauze. Something more like the blanket on the back of the couch in the parlor, come to think of it. Staying in a crouch, he went back to retrieve it, then used the door for cover as he hung it up over the window, blocking their view if not their ammunition.

But the window on the other side of the door was still a gaping hole in their defenses.

“Mister President!” Polly whispered. She’d snuck back down the stairs, her shape a doll-like shadow in the gloom. Only then did he realize how small she truly was.

“Polly, get back upstairs with Mrs. Lincoln!”

“Sir, I can’t. Mrs. Lincoln came downstairs before me. She’s in the library with Mr. Lincoln. I couldn’t stop her. If you know her at all, you’ll understand, sir, and you won’t yell at me about it. ”

He grinned, though she undoubtedly couldn’t see him. This one had a little spice in her. Good. He would’ve bet against it an hour ago. Maybe he had three soldiers, if you dared give a girl a gun. Well, that Boyd woman had a gun, didn’t she? And that Haymes viper, too. Fine. He had three soldiers.

“Polly, have you ever shot a gun before?”

“No, sir, because I’m scared of them. ”

“Are you scared right now?”

“Deathly, sir. Very, very deathly, if you don’t mind me saying. But I saw you cover the window with the blanket, and I had an idea about the other window. ”

“Excellent. Tell me. ”

“There’s another quilt down here. Robert’s old bedroom. ”

“Can you get it for me?”

“Yes, sir. ”

“Polly, be careful. But be quick. ”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and she was off.

More shots. These worried him, for they came from the other side of the house. He couldn’t leave his post, so he’d have to trust Gideon and Nelson. He had to believe that they’d regroup when they were able, but it was taking too long. They should’ve been back already.

In less than a minute, Polly returned with a quilt bundled under her arm. She collided gently with him in the darkness, partly because it was hard to see, and partly because things had gone quiet, and the poor girl had enough instinct for self-preservation to keep herself quiet, too.

“Here you go, sir,” she whispered close to his ear. “It’s not too heavy, but it’ll make it good and dark. ”

“Excellent. Here, stand up right behind this door. It’s thicker than a Bible, and it’ll protect you. Hold up that side, and I’ll hold up this side. We’ll hang the ends over the curtain rods, all right?”

“Yes, sir. I think I can reach it. ”

She had to throw her end of the blanket, but with a foot on the windowsill to give her a moment’s boost, she fulfilled her end of the assignment.

“Well done, dear,” he said to her, though now he could scarcely see her at all.

The interior of the house was as black as a tomb, except for soft, warm glows where the fireplaces yet burned—though they did little to warm the space anymore, or light it, either. Not with the windows gone and the wind screaming outside, driving around the eaves and wailing down the gutters. The blankets flapped and let shadows and light flicker through, a second at a time. But the weak glow showed them almost nothing.

Gideon Bardsley manifested behind the stairs once more, warning, “It’s me—don’t shoot. ”