It was the least she could do, even as an ache settled deep within her own chest.
Pretty Face had been part of the core of the Half-Breed Squadron. Generally liked by everyone and a leader among them, especially in the past two weeks when Fieran had been absent. A gaping hole had been left, now that he was gone.
Gone, but not dead. She repeated that to herself yet again. Gone like Merrik was gone. But not gone like the others who were dead and gone.
She glanced around, taking in the faces who were still there, seeing all the echoes of those who were not. Fieran’s training squadron had started with thirty-eight back in Fort Linder. Through all the losses, they were down to twenty-one of thatoriginal group, counting Merrik and Pretty Face in those losses. A few of those who’d been lost in the attack on Bridgetown were also alive gone and not dead gone.
Seventeen, wounded, lost, or dead. And that was only the losses of Flight B.
It wasn’t even the worst losses experienced by a squadron. The late Capt. Kentworth’s squadron had been all but gutted, only a handful of the original members still remaining.
They were only months into the war. How many more would they lose before the war was over?
She shook that thought away, pasted on a smile, and moved to the next group. As she paused before them, she waved to the table at the other side of the hangar. Paperboard boxes filled the table while halves of oil drums sat below the table, filled with ice created by Tiny. “There are donuts and sodas, if you want some.”
She, Mak, and Tiny had made a trip to Defense City, and Tiny’s girlfriend had been happy to provide the donuts. Some more scrounging had located enough sodas for the squadron.
She finally made her way to where Fieran sat with Mak, Stickyfingers, Lije, Tiny, and Aylia. Lt. Rothilion sat a few feet away, not quite a part of the group but not fully alone either.
Without Merrik and Pretty Face, the group seemed small. Empty.
All of them already had sodas and donuts, although the donuts were only nibbled and the sodas were mostly full.
Pip sank to the floor next to Fieran, close enough that she could lean her head against his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“About as well as you are.” Fieran wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easy and loose rather than tugging tight. “Thanks for rounding up donuts and sodas for everyone. I appreciate it.”
“Mak and Tiny did most of the work.” Pip tipped her head in her brother’s direction.
Mak gave a roll of his shoulders that didn’t even slosh the root beer he held. “It was your idea. I just provided the grunt labor.”
“Still. I appreciate how you look after the squadron.” Fieran laced the fingers of his other hand with hers.
“It was the least I could do.” She could repair their aeroplanes. Scrounge up a feast of donuts and sodas. Be here for Fieran.
But she couldn’t repair the gaping hole Pretty Face left behind in the squadron.
They lapsed into silence for a moment, as if lost in thought. Stickyfingers, especially, stared sightlessly at the floor. He probably felt partially responsible.
Lije rolled his unopened soda from hand-to-hand. He probably shouldn’t open it anytime soon. “Should we…for Pretty Face?” He held up his bottle of soda.
Pip swallowed. Right. The tradition of leaving a full glass for a fallen comrade.
“No.” Stickyfingers sat up straighter, life flaring back to his eyes. “He’s not dead. He will get back to the squadron.”
“Yes, he will.” Tiny slapped Stickyfingers on the back. “Pretty Face is smart.”
Not a word Pip would have applied to the flirtatious nobleman when they first met. But he’d proved he was more than a just a pretty face, especially recently.
Aylia gave something of a snort. “This is Pretty Face we are talking about. He will charm a farmer’s daughter and probably convince her to lend him a horse or wagon so he can ride out of Mongavaria in style.”
“And thanks to our efforts, he will probably even be respectful about it.” Lije knocked Sticky’s shoulder with a fist. “Which will improve his chances of actually charming her instead of insulting her to the point of her turning him in.”
“You’re right.” Stickyfingers gave an approximation of a grin, though Pip could see even from across their little circle that the expression didn’t fully reach his eyes. “He will be back before we know it.”
“That he will.” Fieran raised his soda—the raspberry one that was his favorite. “To Pretty Face.”
“To Pretty Face,” the others echoed as they also held up their sodas.
