She straightened up, tried to smooth out her skirts by feel, and stretched her arms out at her sides. Her fingers brushed two walls. The place was the very definition of small. In the inky black she hesitantly reached around in hopes of discovering some bench or stool. But, after circumnavigating the grim space, she was back to where she had started with no appropriate seat on which to sit.

She stood until her feet ached and then, with a ragged sigh, she sank to her knees to wait for the Weather Workers to realize they’d been wrong all along and that she should be set free immediately.

The place wasn’t so bad, she thought, her fingers finding the heart on her sleeve, when you knew you wouldn’t need to suffer such indignities for long.


On the Road from Philadelphia

If there was one thing Rowen could say for his father, it was that the man was a fine judge of horseflesh. When he had suggested King’s Ransom for Rowen’s escape, he had surely made the best choice.

They rocketed down the main trail away from the meadow where he’d just murdered a man, their backs to the city, Ransom leading by a good few lengths with Silver stretching his long glossy legs to close the distance.

Hooves beat out a rapid rhythm as they raced toward safety, the only thing beating faster their panicked hearts. They had sprinted a solid mile when Silver finally caught Ransom and Jonathan pointed to an opening in the brambles at the trail’s side. “There,” he shouted, “follow me!” Silver slipped around Ransom and shoved his way into the winding deer path, brush slapping his haunches.

Rowen forced Ransom up beside Silver so he could speak rather than shout over the thundering of horses’ hooves. “Where are we heading?”

“I believe it is prudent to stay off the main path and far from the road,” Jonathan said. “We will keep the city to our back and the arc of the sun’s path ahead of us and I believe we will find the cottage of my second cousin before nightfall.”

“And water?” Rowen asked, looking down at the lather that made his horse smell pungent. “Will we need to cross water before we get there?”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “Undoubtedly so. And the horses will require some to drink. As will we when we empty our canteens.”

Rowen nodded solemnly. “How far upstream from briny water are we?” he asked and, if Jonathan had wondered why he was worried about water, he had no doubt now.

“We will need to be prepared for Merrow and their allies, good sir,” he said. “Keep your sword and pistol at the ready.”


Philadelphia

Marion shifted his feet off the stacked stone fence he had claimed for sitting, refolded the newspaper across his lap, and rolled his lips together in thought. He had avoided asking after his family for years now, determined not to bring trouble to them if he could avoid it. But something wriggled in the back of his mind, insisting it was time to return to the family who had loved him and Harbored him and lost everything because of those things.

Now he would have to ask about them to track them, although he was relatively certain they would not be found on the Hill anymore. He stood and stretched, rolling the paper to fit beneath his arm again, and walked to the edge of the park. Here it butted against the steep side of the Astraea’s estate, a narrow rock wall the only thing holding most of the properties back from falling headlong into the Below. From here one could see nearly all the rest of the city tumbling down the Hill and filling the space between the tightly woven edge of the Below and the high sea walls that kept more than the water at bay. The wealth, too, rolled down the city’s Hill, dissipating as it went. Where he stood was the apex of power—the homes of families who had come from money and power in the Old World but were mostly younger brothers of far too healthy male siblings. Dissatisfied by the standards of primogeniture, they sought out a new land where second and third sons might rule.

The wealthiest took what they wanted most. Land high up. Defensible and with a ready view. They locked down the things they could not control like magick among the masses and worked to eradicate such offensive traits. The ones that followed settled the Hill below the slopes occupied by the First Families and the Ranks that came to denote their stations filled the slope in nearly perfect descending order until the last bits of society, the dregs, took the least defensible spots nearest the water’s edge. They were the workers on which the walls were built. They were the butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. The musicians, artisans, crafters, and clockmakers, the ones who maintained the sewers and guarded against Merrow. They were all replaceable. And they knew it.

Still, it was better than what most had left behind. “The War across the Water,” as the Americans now called it, was the most treacherous sort of war: a magickal one.

He would ask no questions about his family’s whereabouts until he reached the Below, and he would take the long way down. Past the Vanmoer estate. It seemed there were more roses that needed some of his particular form of attention.


Holgate

In the dark of her Reckoning Tank, Jordan Astraea held two words in her head: be brave. It was these two words that kept her from crying out when something rustled in the straw beside her. It was those two words that kept her from screaming when something scurried across the top of her right foot.

Be brave.

She clutched the pin hidden in her sleeve and willed herself to follow its engraved instructions, simple as they were.

Whereas most of her fellow prisoners were dragged from their Tanks needing to be pushed and prodded to bring them before the Maker for the Reckoning, Jordan Astraea walked proudly (if not a bit stiffly, worn as she was from travel) all the way down the remaining dank hall, up the stairs at its far side, and all the way to him as a proper lady should when faced with the knowledge that someone’s comeuppance was due.

The room was large and filled from floor to ceiling with books, their shelves sporting stormlight lanterns so there was no spot wanting light.

With no introduction, the first instructions came. “Remove her accessories.”

The Wardens made quick work of it, taking her shawl, plucking her bracelets and even the fan off her hip.

The man giving orders looked up from behind a desk where he tallied the objects she’d come in with. “Gloves, too,” he reminded a moment before the Wardens peeled them off her arms. “Leave the necklace.”

Jordan would have worried about the proceedings were she not certain everything would be handed back (in a most apologetic manner) momentarily. Besides, she still had her butterfly wing necklace, the paper star, and Rowen’s heart to remind her of who she was.

The man behind the desk could not have been more than a dozen years her senior. Golden-haired, he had barely looked up from where he was scrawling notes in a journal when Jordan had entered the room flanked by two Wardens. She gathered her wits, gave a disdainful little sniff and a rattle of the leather manacles and metal links connecting them that they’d again placed her in for her appearance.

A towheaded little girl appeared from behind him, sipping from a cup, a stuffed toy with long ears tucked in the crook of her elbow. She blinked at Jordan. And then she smiled.

“Go on,” the man urged the child. “I need to return to my work.”

The child looked back at him. “Is she a—a—abom…?”

“Abomination?” Bran said, matter-of-factly. “Yes, little love, she is, so steer clear.”

The child’s eyes grew wide and she obeyed, giving Jordan and her Wardens wide berth.

Bran looked up at Jordan then, brow wrinkling. “Name?”

Be brave.

“It doesn’t matter, as you will not need to enter it in whatever that book of yours is,” she assured. “I am no Weather Witch. I cannot be Made.”

Bran drew in a deep breath and tapped his pen against the inkwell’s lip. “Name?”

“Are you deaf or daft?” Jordan retorted. “I am no Witch. I cannot be Made. You must set this horrible situation to rights before we have a problem.”

Bran’s eyebrows rose on his forehead and his mouth turned up at its very ends. But his expression hardened. “Do you know how many times I hear that on a Reckoning Day?” he asked, stepping around his desk to better make clear that he was the dominant force in the room. The pen still in his hand dripped once on his boot, leaving a mark like a black teardrop. He was unfazed. “Cooperate and things will go easier on you.”

“But—”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Hold her.”

The Wardens clamped their hands around her arms and dragged her closer to him.

“Name,” he repeated.

She opened her mouth to refuse him again, but saw something spark in his eyes and thought better of it. “Jordan of House Astraea,” she whispered.

He stepped back around and brought his journal forward. “City?”

She again tried to protest and was again shut down by a look from his sharp golden eyes. “Philadelphia,” she replied.

“Excellent well. And”—he dipped the nib of his pen into the ink and tapped it off again—“when did you first discover your affinity for weather and storms?”

“I have no affinity for either,” she said, her tone sharp.

He shook his head. “Why do they never simply admit to the fact?” he asked the Wardens.

They remained mute as was their nature.

“If you only admitted to being what you are we could move along with the process. And it would go ever so much more gently.”