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“Wait,” I call to his retreating back. “Sorted how?”
“Figure it out.” He raises a hand and disappears around the corner without once looking back.
I stare at the corner. Fine. He’s not getting rid of me that easily. I roll up my sleeves and pull a ribbon from a pile to tie my hair up.
I dive in.
A knock sounds at the door, startling me out of the trance I’ve fallen into. My stomach growls. How many hours have I been here? I drop the last of the black feathers upon a heap of its brethren and stand.
Could it be Izamal? I shouldn’t wish for it to be him. I’ve only known him for what, a day, and I’m already expecting him to rescue me the moment things get tough? My stomach turns. I’m stronger than that.
The door opens to reveal Casvian’s pointed features.
“I should have mentioned that apprentices are given a break for luncheon.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“It’s the law.” With a grimace, he peers down at the pile of feathers at my feet. “How interesting. A heap of feathers and dust. I look forward to your explanation of why those two things belong together.”
I grit my teeth. Sure, tangled in some of the feathers—feathers I’ve been finding in every nook and cranny, as if a vulture from a book of fairy stories swanned in through a window and exploded—are tufts and strings of dust. “When I’ve finished, I’d be happy to explain everything. The day hasn’t ended yet.”
Casvian leaves without another word. I kneel and pluck a fluff of dust off a feather.
My stomach growls again, but I don’t have time to take a break. I need to figure this out.
I slump against a box filled with blue stones and draw my knees close. I bury my head in my arms.
In the shelter of my body, I search for an answer.
Everything I know of ikonomancy could fit in a thimble. But what I know of Pa could fill a dozen books. I can almost taste the hints hidden in the edges of my memories, in the way Pa organized his secret room, in the detailed orders he used to give me when I went to the market for supplies, even in the way Pa prefaced every childhood story with each character’s background history. Hints to the organization of Pa’s mind. To how an ikonomancer thinks.
I can almost hear his voice telling me what to do.
Casvian returns when the sky is dark, looking vaguely surprised to see me. “Well?”
I jump to my feet, and a cloud of dust rises off my body. “Well. I thought about the ways I could’ve sorted this. By color? By size? By function? But then I thought of the poma. I thought about the names of all of these things, of what an ikon representing them might look like.”
I point to one wall. “Those are things that can be used as fuel, consumed for light or heat.” Cubes of wax, scraps that can be used as kindling, strips of wood, a lump of coal. “Those are things that have been used up, things that must be replenished or recycled into something new.” The bin of glass bulbs, pens with broken nibs, empty jars, a crate of broken blades. “These are things that belong somewhere else, that may have been lost, that were once part of a greater whole.” The lone red glove, several leather-bound books with titles likeElementary Ikonomancy, Volume Four,a half of a torn love letter, a half dozen boxes of odds and ends. “Those are elements, ingredients, raw materials, building blocks for something else.” The feathers, rolls of beast skins, a lump of marble, a few dozen sheaves of unmarked parchment.
“And those are mysteries, things I don’t dare touch until I betterunderstand them.” The three locked trunks, the skull, a music box, and a handful of objects I have no name for.
Casvian stands with his arms crossed, frowning at every inch of the room.
The silence stretches on, and I try not to fidget. “Well? Did I pass?”
“Pass?” He turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “You cleaned out a closet.”
He sweeps out the door. My palms sweat.
“Tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder. “Same time.”
The next day, Casvian says nothing when I show up ten minutes before dawn. He turns on a heel and marches off without waiting to see if I follow. I jog to keep up, rolling my eyes at his back. Today, I’m prepared. In my tunic pocket is a lunch of flatbread and bean paste, and I’m fortified with half a night’s worth of sleep.
A lantern dangles from the crook of his arm. Why would anyone need a lantern in the Ven? Could he be taking me to the old city?
Casvian disappoints me. He unlocks a door identical to yesterday’s. A plaque beside the door frame reads Experiment Room No. 8. Under it, scrawled in chalk on the wall: BEWARE—MISHAP Level 3.
Cas pushes the door open with a flourish. It sticks halfway. He puts his shoulder to it, and it slowly screeches open. A dark, tarlike substance covers every surface of the room, from the table in the center to the walls. A layer of it covers the lone lamp and the two windows, sealing them all so completely that no light, not even a faint glow, shines forth.
