“Who keeps you going?” she asked into the dark.

“Thomas.”

She nearly pulled back in surprise at him naming another man. But his delivery of the name, so soft and sweet and … loving, made her brow furrow, and not thinking of her own imperfections or the wrinkles she’d surely earn, she squeezed his fingers tight, whispering, “Tell me all about him.”

And they rested that way in the dirt and the straw, neither of them worrying over filth or social convention, holding hands and remembering a brighter, better time when love was fresh and new and within reach. It was remembering those things that next spurred Jordan to action. Caleb was right, she was holding on to someone and realized then in her Tank how lost she felt without him.


En Route to Holgate

Rowen was lost and he’d been lost for days. How was it that a man of his education and breeding could be so utterly turned around in a forest? He sat with a huff at the base of a tree and ran his hands across his face, scratching at the stubble growing there. He growled out his despair. He no longer had clean clothing, a ramrod for his pistol, or his horse, and, to make things worse, he was growing whiskers to rival his grandfather’s. Soon he’d have a full beard and mustache and children would flock to him and call him Father Christmas …

How did people stay reasonably clean shaven before barbers and razors and straps? Did they use other knives? He looked at his sword. He’d cut his head clean off if he tried to shave with it. The natives. What did they use? Flint? He glared at his pistol and its firing mechanism. No flint to be had as they’d made the fashionable switch to percussion caps not long ago. They fired better most times, but one could hardly get a good shave from a percussion cap.

Flint was merely a piece of rock that could be sharpened. Surely he could find that. Even if he couldn’t find the horses. Or Holgate. Or Jordan.

His stomach rumbled. Well, no one would mistake him for Father Christmas, as lean as he was becoming. He threw a rock he’d managed to sit on and cursed at the thought it might have been flint. And no one would ever mistake him for being jolly.

Damn it all! His best friend was dead, his steed was missing along with most of his remaining possessions, he hadn’t had a meal of substance since Frederick’s house, and he was absolutely certain he had sat beneath this same exact tree raging about his failures before!

By the time he reached Holgate Jordan would already be gone. If he ever reached Holgate. His chance at a happily ever after was slim at best and his chance of being a hero? Worse.

He dragged himself back up to his feet and held onto the tree. He had to take desperate measures. He had to find Ransom. Or Silver. Or both.

And he might just have to do the thing he’d never dreamed of doing—ask for directions.

Damn it all!


Holgate

There was something about a child and spreading kindness that did not sit well with Bran and his title of Maker, so he summoned Councilman Stevenson to his laboratory to conclude business. “I have not the stomach for this job anymore,” Bran admitted, his gaze traveling over the Councilman’s head to rest on the sightless skull in its makeshift place of honor—the skull belonging to the child who reminded him so much of the little girl who now frequently shadowed his steps. The same little girl that looked up at him with worshipful eyes and suggested he try patience above pain.

“And precisely what do you mean by that?”

“I mean…” Bran looked down, his brow pinching together over the narrow bridge of his nose. “I cannot be your Maker any longer.”

The Councilman hopped back, shaking his head in surprise. “You cannot…?” Again he shook his head. “I fail to see how you have come to believe that you have a choice in such matters.”

“Of course I have a choice. I have a family now. I must make this choice for their good as much as my own. Perhaps more for theirs than mine.”

“A family?” the Councilman chortled, holding his stomach with one hand. “You have a bastard daughter by a whore and a maid warming your bed until you tighten your purse strings or she finds someone more interesting.” He shook his head, still laughing. “A family?”

Bran crossed his arms over his chest and spread his feet in a broader stance. “I will Make no more Conductors.”

“Then who do you think will? Who will provide our most valuable energy resource except you? Who will power our lights and our carriages and our airships?”

“There is talk of a better power source: steam,” Bran suggested.

The Councilman’s head snaked forward. “Steam?”

“Yes. Steam.”

Lord Stevenson raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Do you have any idea of how a change to steam—only a possibility of power, truly—would change our entire society? Can you fathom what such a thing might mean?”

“It might mean that Councilman Braga was right. It might mean revolution,” Bran said matter-of-factly.

Stevenson snorted. “My God.” He turned his back to Bran, smacked his palms onto the countertop, and lowered his head, rolling it back and forth on his thin neck. “And you would do this because you no longer have the stomach for your family’s line of work?”

“And because of my family,” Bran said, grating the word out from between his teeth.

Stevenson raised his head and a chill raced over Bran’s arms when he realized what the Councilman’s gaze had come to rest on.

Sybil’s fragile skull.

Stevenson’s tone of voice changed, frustration falling away and, although Bran could not see his expression, he was certain he now spoke through a smile. “For the sake of your family,” Stevenson said, “I would continue being the Maker, if I were you. Such a dramatic upheaval as you suggest can be especially hard … on a child.”

“Are you threatening me?” Bran asked, his voice thin, eyes dangerous.

Stevenson turned to face him. “Threatening? Why, no. I am merely suggesting—strongly—as I did to Councilman Braga before his untimely disappearance that you reconsider what might happen if things around here changed too much. Perhaps with a good night’s sleep and a bottle of bitters you might find you still have the stomach for this work after all.”

* * *

Jordan folded the paper star and tucked it back up her sleeve not far from where Rowen’s heart was pinned, and, standing, waited by her Tank’s door. The watchman shuffled by on his rounds, pausing at her door. There was a clatter as he adjusted the things on the tray. “I have no care to know what it is you do to have curried the Maker’s favor enough to give you a proper tea, but I sure as Hell wish you’d give it a rest.” He fumbled with the keys and she envisioned him balancing the tray, teapot, and teacup between his hip and the door like any good servant would when struggling so.

With a grunt he opened the door and Jordan took the tray from him with one hand and a gracious nod while slipping the folded star into the void the door’s handle needed to connect with in order to give a proper lock.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jostling the tray so that tea spilled and soaked the watchman as he struggled to catch pot, cup, and saucer all at once. “How horribly clumsy of me … so very sorry…”

He righted the tray and its contents and scrambled back from the door cursing. The door slammed shut and Jordan heard him storm away.

“Take your chance now,” Caleb urged. “While he’s gone. Take your chance!”

“I’ll bring you with me,” she said, slipping out her door to stand outside his.

“No. There’s no time for such foolishness. Grab his cloak and throw it over your chain to make it look like you’re carrying something. But go,” he urged. “This is your chance. Run with it!”

Exasperated, she did as he ordered, promising, “I’ll come back for you!”

The door at the end of the hall closed behind her and she never heard him say, “No, you won’t.”

She pounded her way down the stairs and burst out the bottom door and onto the main square of Holgate before the watchmen spotted her and neatly brought her down.

“I promised I would come back for you,” she announced to Caleb, moping as the watchman threw her back into her Tank and slammed the door, this time making sure the lock held.

“Although I find your willingness to keep your word awe-inspiring, I did not quite imagine it happening like this,” Caleb admitted.

They said nothing else to each other then because after such a defeat there was truly nothing to say.

It was not long before the Maker summoned her.

“You realize what this means?” Bran asked.

Jordan looked away, unwilling to answer.

“I cannot trust you. Now I must chain you to your Tank’s floor. I wanted so badly to avoid this,” he said, spitting the words out. “I wanted so badly to avoid all of this,” he said, the words somehow about far more than chaining Jordan and distrusting her.

“How do I explain to Meggie what I must now do to you?”

“Meggie?” It was the first time he’d dropped his guard enough to name his daughter. “Tell her the truth,” she suggested, raising her chin as he strapped her to the boards. “Tell her that you are a cruel man who has nothing but dark designs.” She screwed her face up, eyes squeezed tight, and braced herself for his inevitable retaliation.

Finally she opened her eyes and relaxed her jaw.

He stood a few feet away. Silent. His eyes seemed fixed on the floor as if he’d suddenly discovered some great secret about its construction. No hand was raised against her, no tool was poised to bite into her flesh. “I wish things were different,” he muttered.