He found the fissure in the rock that would split it in two. The pointof separation had to be precise, or the bluff within was ruined. He went to those leering shelves, pulled down a single vial, then held the lump of ore over it. He felt along its ridges with his calloused fingertips, then closed his eyes.
When terranium was split correctly, it was musical, like glass—a high-pitched crack. It sang now as Patrick separated two perfect pieces, no shards or fragments coming free.
The ink spilled out, untainted, dripping into the vial, onto the lip of the counter, onto his shoes. Just enough. That was all he needed.
He felt consciousness leave him the moment he tipped the vial to John Colson’s gaping mouth.
Then there was only fire in his shoulder, ink on his hands, a ringing in his mind like a cathedral bell, swinging back and forth.
He dreamed of his kid brothers screaming down a yellow hill, lit firecrackers in their hands, grass stalks sighing, their father pointing at the clouds marching across the heavens, promising something existed beyond them.
CHAPTER FOURNINA
I was confined to a servants’ quarters, with yellow walls, a cot, and a neatly folded blanket. If there was ever any other furniture in the room, it had since been removed.
I stared for long hours at a map of Belavere Trench—all the provinces stitched together in a great tapestry. I wondered how long it had taken the Artisan to weave it, all for it to lay on this floor like any common rug, in a room that seemed a wardrobe.
The Gyser River ran down the map’s middle from wall to wall, splitting the richer provinces from the rest like Idia herself had meant it a blockade. I raised my hand, the wound along my forearm now heavily bandaged, and traced in midair the path from Scurry to the city. Down the belly of the Trench where I thought the train line went, around the farming towns, the black-brick factories, across the Gyser, and into pasture.
I did not look to Kenton Hill, a pinprick in the far northeast corner of the brink.
The door to the room was locked twice on the outside and opened three times a day for the purposes of keeping me fed, and, I presume, to ascertain I had not found a way to jump four stories to the courtyard below.
I counted three days since I’d arrived. I did not feel a scratch of idium left in my veins. Every so often I pounded on the door, frustration spilling over. Was it truly their intention to keep me locked away in this room until they had use of me?
I thought of Ma and Patrick and Gunner and Theo and Polly as though they spun on a carousel, blurring into soup. Sleep was no remedy—their faces hounded me there, too.
Where was my mother? What was Patrick doing this very moment? What of Theo? Had Gunner survived that knife between his ribs?
Where was Polly? For surely it was her who’d given away Margarite’s tunnel.
My finger was tracing the outskirts of Sommerland when the door rattled again, someone on the other side snicking the locks. The timber resisted as it opened.
This time, there was no maid or guard with a dish.
It was Theo.
There was a soldier behind him, baton already in hand, knees prepped as though he might lunge. Theo, contrastingly, looked ready to make a quick retreat.
I sat upright, not bothering to straighten my blouse or flatten my hair. I noted that there were no more binds around Theo’s wrists, that the guard’s eyes were trained on me and not him. I noted the Artisan blue Theo wore, the lapels as sharp as ever. His hair looked clean and freshly combed.
And I think he sensed my blood lashing hot. He stalked in, eyes averted.
“Hello,” he said, and then, in a ramble, “I came to see you yesterday, but you were sleeping.” He gestured to the bandage around my forearm, as though wishing to grasp at any topic to stave the silence. “Have they changed your bandages today? Mine were redressed when I woke, but if no one has come yet—”
On he continued, hands clenched behind his back and voice warbling. I barely heard what he said, too absorbed I was by the high shine of his shoes, the crisp whiteness of his shirt, the emblem on his navy breast.
“—they haven’t much bluff on hand, but I could send for a tonic if—”
“You’re wearing Ministers’ robes,” I interrupted. My voice sharp, jolting.
His mouth opened and shut wordlessly, his ears reddening. I watched his throat bob, and he turned to address the guard instead of me. “Leave us, please.”
“Can’t do that,” the man said, jutting his chin in a manner of self-import. “Lord Shop said I was to stand by.”
“Then you can do so three paces from the door,” Theo said firmly. “And allow me some privacy.”
The guard seemed to contemplate, but in the end, straightened, replaced his baton at his belt. “Yes, my lord.” He walked out of sight.
