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Wait—there hadn’t been a window before.

“Did you make that?”

“I’m not entirely useless.” Finally, Gwen smiled, a crooked little thing that made her eyes sparkle. “You should eat, while it’s still warm.”

She slid the tray across a great divide, metal scraping loudly against the obsidian. Orpheus clenched his hands in his lap, but his stomach had different plans. It grumbled loudly. Too loudly for either of them to ignore.

“It’s safe, I promise,” Gwen said, and Orpheus believed her.

Ignoring the ache in his still healing fingers, he scooped up the bowl and drank.

Gwen watched him closely while he ate, Sanctuary’s hymn drifting on the wind through a window that shouldn’t be there. His unspoken Why? hung between them, manifesting only after he set the bowl aside and met Gwen stare for stare. She bit her lip before breaking eye contact, looking down at her lap as if the piece of tech she held had all the answers.

“It’s for you…no one likes to be kept in a…a box.”

She said it like she had personal experience with it, like Gwen had been where he was once, despite her young age and the fact Atticus had not once torn her down from the pedestal he kept her on. And it was tempting to let it be. Tempting enough Orpheus felt a part of himself unravel, familiar desperation taking its place—an ache for a kind word, or a new friend.

She’s not your friend.

“Can you keep a secret?” Gwen said it so conspiratorially Orpheus leaned in close. And maybe she was still the enemy—still held all the power—but for a moment he was a child again, tucked into the dusty shadows of his library, finding a co-conspirator amongst the stacks.

Heads bent together, Gwen said, “I can make…holes in things. Tunnels. Paths. It’s all I’ve ever been able to do with my magic. But...” She met his eyes, hesitating for a breath. “Atticus doesn’t know. He thinks I’m safely tucked in bed for the night. I rarely am.”

“You just told me your most precious secret?” Orpheus snapped. “What would Atticus do if he found out?”

“Probably not collar me like you.” Gwen lifted the mechanism in her lap and shrugged. “Figured I owed you something, for agreeing to teach me.”

“You’re keeping my secret, lest you forget!” And she better not, at least not until he—

What? Stole her magic? Turned her into the same miserable magicless wretch he was, then left her to Atticus’ whims? Well, better her than him. At least Gwen didn’t have any idea what she’d be losing—not yet at least. Not until Orpheus taught her what incredible, monumental things her magic was capable of.

Just in time to steal it for himself.

Orpheus swallowed down bile, crossing his arms over his chest while staring at the two other pieces of tech Atticus had sent.

He recognized their shapes immediately. Lanterns. All three of them. Simple, useful things Sanctuary had likely taken for granted until perpetual night fell and they’d been replaced by candles. And now that his eyes had adjusted, a whole pile of them waited in the corner by the door. Hundreds of dead lanterns that would have once glowed with the same Netherflame now flickering between him and Gwen.

“You couldn’t fix these?” he finally demanded.

The distance between them grew into a chasm. Gwen played with the lantern stiffly, turning it over in her lap like she’d never seen it before in her life. Orpheus knew she had.

“I put the Netherflame in them, but it doesn’t do anything. I can’t power the flame indefinitely either, and the symbols make no sense.”

“Give it here.” Orpheus held out his hand.

He didn’t recognize the design. Like the rest of Sanctuary, the lantern was covered in sigils that were not native to their world. But that was merely a detail, the real work was in understanding their intention, and Orpheus did not stumble over identifying the logic fueling the spell.

Here was an intent to create a stasis, but for a source of power no longer within reach. It was different from the self-contained systems he’d worked with, when his own magic was the one reliable source of Netherflame for those not willing to trek into the Rim. All he needed to do was isolate some of the sigils and he could easily alter their intent. This was child’s play—if that child were him.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” Gwen breathed, like the real magic was Orpheus’ mind. “Show me? Please?”

Orpheus lifted his chin. “And if I don’t?”

Gwen bounced a knee while her eyes flicked between him and the lantern, over and over. “You need my help, remember?”

It was a pathetic play at manipulation—he’d seen her do better. “Are you going to tell Atticus I can’t do magic?”

Gwen jerked still, eyes widening. “What? No—”