Silas woke in a soft bed that smelled faintly of cactus flowers and warm sweetness. Light from Dysol streamed through gauzy curtains, spilling across an unfamiliar ceiling. Dust motes lilted lazily in the beams. He had no idea how long he had slept. His memories returned slowly and out of order, retelling the story of how he found himself in Stroud's house. Sleeping in Stroud's bed. Wearing Stroud's clothes.

  He sprang upright, his head swiveling as he scanned the room. He expected Stroud to be lurking somewhere, watching and waiting for him to wake. But he was alone; the rhythmic sound of his even breaths was his only companion.

  His fingers curled around the comforter draped over his body. They felt stiff and scratchy. He freed his hands from the covers and held them to his face, appreciating the bandages wrapped around his digits. He had nearly forgotten how he ruined Stroud's gift—ripping his new gloves to shreds on Coldspire's unforgiving stone. Stroud must have treated the wounds while he slept.

  He saw a bundle of clothes draped over an armoire of rosy wood and polished metal accents. Silas stood and padded to it, dragging his too-long trousers behind him. Silas reached for the clothes—his clothes, now clean and pressed. When he pulled them free, a piece of parchment slipped from between the armoire's paneled doors and fluttered to the floor. Silas bent and picked it up—turning it over to reveal a succinct note written in Stroud's terse script:

  Your clothes are clean. Don't touch my things.

  —V

  Silas smiled at Stroud's dry wit. He laid the note and his clothes on the bed and began to change. He noticed his coat and gloves were missing, as well as his boots and socks. Were they too damaged or soiled for Stroud to clean them? Silas dressed quickly. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair. There was no comb laid out for him, and he didn't want to search through Stroud's things without her permission. Groomed to the best of his ability, Silas crept to the door and snuck into the hallway.

  It was terribly quiet. Somewhere, a clock ticked and tocked—the only sound brave enough to usurp the silence. Silas's bare feet slid across the floor. He winced every time the wooden boards creaked under his weight. He chastised himself for sneaking around like a burglar, but he felt like an intruder in Stroud's home. This was her private space, and he was invading it. Still, he couldn't keep his curiosity from suggesting he explore. And explore he did.

  A fine layer of dust coated nearly every surface, softening the sharp edges of furniture and frames. Bootprints trailing to and from the bedroom marked Stroud's path across the landing. Silas was reminded of 47 Brimthorne Lane. He stifled a sneeze, the dust tickling his nose. The walls were bare—their plaster naked without decorations or art. Silas came to the end of the landing and peered over the railing. He vaguely remembered Stroud dragging him up the staircase, but he had been so tired. The fuzzy memory evaded his attempt to capture it.

  The stairs were of the same wood as the floor—medium-hued and finely grained. They ran in a straight slant from the first floor to the second. Silas tested his weight on the top step. When it didn't protest, he climbed down—as quiet as a mouse.

  There was a small table at the bottom of the stairs. A single picture adorned its surface, displayed in a simple black frame. Silas's studied the image. It was a group portrait—painted on canvas by an adroit hand. Silas's eyes were drawn to a young woman standing in the center. It was Stroud! A faint, nervous smile perked the corners of her lips. A young man draped his arm over her shoulders, but she seemed to tense under the embrace. Silas didn't recognize anyone else, but he noticed they were all Arbiters. Was this Stroud when she was a Junior?

  Silas returned the picture to its table and continued down the corridor. He stopped before a room without a door and peeked inside. It was the study he remembered passing when Stroud was leading him to the washroom. He tiptoed inside, scurrying to the stuffed bookshelf. Silas scanned the spines, reading the titles. Nearly all the tomes were novels! Silas picked one up and flipped through its pages, inhaling the book's pleasant musty aroma. The novel seemed to be an adventure story. Silas returned the book to its shelf, stepping back to examine the room in its entirety. The longer he spent in Stroud's home, the more she seemed like a normal, ordinary person.

  Silas crept back into the corridor and slunk toward the kitchen. When he entered, he heard Stroud's muffled voice through the wall. Who was she talking to? Herself?

  Stroud hadn't cleaned up after feeding Silas. His empty bowl and water glass sat where he remembered them. Silas padded to the sink and glanced down. Unwashed dishes filled the basin—crusted in solid residues from past meals. The mess perplexed Silas. The Stroud he knew was, as Oscar had once said, fastidious about cleanliness. Was her neat persona an act she performed for the benefit of her colleagues? Or was she simply too busy with work to tidy up her personal effects?

  On the countertop, an empty coffee mug rested on a stained napkin. Silas spotted a small black phial perched beside it. He picked it up and turned it around. White text ran down the phial’s side, naming its contents: phlegmatite dust. Silas's eyes widened. So, Stroud did slip something into my food!

  Silas shrugged and returned the phial to the countertop. His suspicions were confirmed, but his opinion of Stroud remained reverent. It had worked, after all. Silas felt rejuvenated after his long nap. His head was clear. His limbs were agile. Silas's stomach growled. But I am hungry, he thought with a backward glance at the empty soup bowl.

  Stroud's muffled oration paused. Then, a new voice filled the gap where hers had been. Silas strained to hear, pressing his ear against the wall. He couldn't believe it. What was Oscar doing here?

  Silas moved to a closed door at the edge of the kitchen. Oscar's words were concealed behind the barrier. When Oscar stopped speaking, Stroud's raucous laughter boomed through the door, startling Silas. He stumbled back a step. That was one sound the door could not hide.

  Silas gripped the door handle and steeled himself. He took a slow, deep breath. Then, he turned the handle and threw the door wide.

  Silas blinked against the bright light that flooded through a large, uncurtained window on the left wall. A leather sofa basked in the window's radiance, faded in wispy whorls where Dysol's beams kissed its skin. The carpeted floor was a chaotic landmine of scattered parchment. Each step risked detonating precariously stacked boxes and thick tomes. A cluttered corkboard faced the window. Letters, newspaper clippings, illustrations, maps, and other articles were sprinkled across its surface—held in place by colorful thumbtacks. Crimson thread connected ideas in zig-zagging paths—a map of evidence.

  Oscar lounged on the sofa. Silas almost didn't recognize him; his civilian clothes caused the boy to mistake him for a stranger. The Warden wore a loose-collared shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Suspenders slung casually over his shoulders, clipped to the belt of his sturdy trousers. His feet were bare save for thick black socks frayed at the heels. Bandages still bound his nose, but the swelling and bruises were fading.

  Silas gawked at Stroud, disbelieving. She stood before the corkboard, pointing to it with a stylus. She wore a linen blouse, the muted color like fresh cream. A fitted waistcoat accentuated her figure. Her brown breeches were tucked into a pair of clean but worn boots. Her hair was unbound, the loose curls cascading down her back and shoulders. She no longer wore a bandage over her ear. Silas caught a glimpse of raw, pink skin before her head tilted—chestnut hair draping over the injury.

  Stroud and Oscar turned as one, watching Silas lumber into the living room. The trio froze, staring at each other in mutual shock. Stroud recovered first—her face alight with a relieved smile, her eyes shimmering.

  "There you are, Silas," she said, dropping her hand to her side. "Perfect timing. I was just about to check on you again."

  Silas sheepishly glanced between her and Oscar. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He twiddled his thumbs, his fingers clasped at his front. Silas felt awkward, like he had interrupted something important. He studied the corkboard, trying to read the print on the displayed parchment. Stroud was clearly holding a meeting, but what was the topic?

  "Oscar, scoot over," Stroud demanded, glaring at the Warden's spread legs. "Have some decency." She smirked at Oscar's irritated scowl.

  Silas rooted to the spot, shaking his head to show he was fine with standing. He didn't want to be near Oscar when the Warden was in a good mood. He had even less desire to cozy up to the bristling man—on Stroud's furniture at that! It was like climbing into a carrion wolf's den to spend the night snuggled against the slavering beast. Silas's heart rate sped up in anxious anticipation.

  Stroud huffed and rolled her eyes. Silas ducked his head, surrendering to Stroud's superior obstinacy. He trudged to the sofa and sat, his spine rigid with tension. Oscar grumbled something under his breath, but crossed his legs, giving Silas space. Stroud beamed once everyone was situated.

  "Now then," she began, raising her hand to point to the corkboard, "as I was sa—"

  Silas's stomach betrayed him with a thunderous growl, cutting Stroud off mid-sentence. His eyes widened, embarrassment flooding his cheeks with heat. Stroud tried to contain her amusement. She bit her lip, her shoulders convulsing to hold back the laughter that threatened to shatter her composure. Surprisingly, it was Oscar who succumbed first. Silas's head whipped toward the low chuckle escaping Oscar's throat. This was the first time Silas had heard the man laugh like that.

  Stroud lost control, laughter spilling from her in gasping fits until tears streamed down her face. A smile perked Silas's lips. He giggled shyly, staring down at his bare feet.

  "Well, Arbiter," Oscar said when he got his breathing under control, "I believe that confirms it. His appetite is back—stronger than ever before." Oscar glanced at Silas, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "Perhaps we should feed him before he starts devouring the furniture."

  "I concur," Stroud said, sniffing and wiping away the tears. "If we wait any longer, I might have to redecorate!" She rested her stylus on the corkboard's ledge. "I pray the mouse finds my culinary skills more impressive than Oscar does." She winked and exited the room, her hair flowing down her back as she rounded the corner.

  Silas and Oscar followed her into the kitchen. Stroud was busy clearing the table—hastily stacking Silas's used dishes, tossing them into the dirty sink. Silas sat opposite Oscar. He eyeballed the corner of the table, unable to meet the Warden's gaze.

  "Oh! Before I forget…" Stroud opened a drawer and rummaged inside. She hunted through the clutter, muttering to herself. "Aha! Here it is." She turned and dropped a black notepad in front of Silas. From her pocket, she produced a stylus, placing it beside the notepad. "A gift from me to you," she said warmly.

  Silas's lips parted. He held the notepad in his bandaged hands, running his fingers along the sleek cover. It was Imperial-grade, with the Empire's star and crown motif embellished on the front. Silas flipped it open. Its pages were blank, the parchment lined to facilitate neatness. A black ribbon parted the pages down the middle—a bookmark to help the writer flip to the correct location each time. Silas smiled at the ribbon, fondling the one that circled his wrist.

  "Isn't that the same notepad Imperial employees receive each syzygy at the—"

  Stroud silenced Oscar with a flick to the back of the head. Silas hugged the notepad to his chest, grateful for the gift. He turned to the first page and wrote, his words flowing with the new stylus's fresh ink.

  "Thank you for the gift, Stroud. I will treasure it, and take better care of it than I did the gloves." Silas handed the notepad to Stroud, who snorted a laugh while she read.

  "Silas, have you been calling me Stroud in your head this entire time?" She gave Silas the notepad back and considered him with a cocked eyebrow.

  Silas nodded slowly, unsure if she was angry with him or amused.

  She sighed, shaking her head. "It's Vera, Silas. Please call me Vera." She tittered, studying Silas with mirth. "What are you, my colleague?" She addressed Oscar, her voice lowering an octave in imitation of the Warden. "'Y-yes, Arbiter Stroud. Thank you, Arbiter Stroud. Right away, Arbiter Stroud.'" She waved away Oscar's stuttered retort, her voice resuming its usual cadence. "It's fine, Oscar. When I'm in my home, at least, I wish to be free from the stifling formalities of work."

  She turned on the stove by igniting the steam furnace and set a frying pan on the burner. Vera—Silas had to get used to calling her that now—zipped around the kitchen, flying between her pantry and cellar to fetch ingredients. She scrambled eggs, toasted bread, and fried bacon. Silas was ravenous. He stared at Vera in impatient greed while she cooked. He had to seal his lips to prevent drool from dribbling down his chin.

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  At last, Vera placed a heaping plate before Silas. The boy snatched his utensils, loading his fork with as much as it could hold. Vera seated herself and tucked into her plate, leaving Oscar the only one not served.

  He scoffed. "You serve the boy and yourself but not me. I see how it is." He pushed away from the table and shuffled to the counter, filling his plate while he grumbled in annoyance.

  "I apologize, Oscar. I figured you might get bashful if I pampered you so." Vera hid her snicker behind a steaming mug of coffee.

  Silas hesitated before taking a bite, his eyes drifting to the phial of phlegmatite dust. He reached for his notepad and wrote, "You didn't add anything… special to the food this time?"

  Vera read Silas's question, her expression neutral. She passed the notepad to Oscar when he returned to his seat.

  Oscar shoveled eggs into his mouth. When he spoke, he pointed at Vera with his fork. "I told you that was a foolish idea and that he would notice. Now look at what you've done! He doesn't trust you anymore." Bits of egg spat onto the table, flying from Oscar's full mouth.

  Vera grimaced. She handed Oscar a napkin. "Your etiquette needs work, Oscar. And you told me that after I did it. It was too late by then." She turned to Silas, placing the notepad into his open palms. "No draughts this time. I swear." She pressed a hand to her chest, palm stamped above her heart. "Just salt. And probably too much pepper, if Oscar's mien is anything to go by."

  Oscar gulped down water, his face red and clammy. "This woman is a fiend with spices," he coughed, slamming his empty glass on the table.

  Silas smiled at his plate. He shoved the loaded fork into his gaping maw. The peppery tang of Vera's slightly burned eggs ignited his taste buds. To his starved senses, it was the best thing he had ever tasted. He inhaled his food, clearing his plate in minutes. Oscar and Vera stopped chewing to watch him, their eyes wide and mouths hanging open in awe. When Silas was finished, he helped himself to another serving. Then another. The murmur of cutlery clattering and clinking against plates was the only conversation for some time.

  "Impressive, Silas," Vera said when the boy finally pushed away his plate, his belly full for the first time in days. "You single-handedly emptied my pantry. Are you satiated now?"

  Silas nodded with enthusiasm, his smile wide and genuine. He flipped open his notepad and wrote, "Thank you, Vera. I feel much better now." Silas glanced at Oscar, who was struggling to finish his peppery eggs. The boy chuckled to himself and added, "For the record, I found the pepper-to-salt ratio tastefully proportioned."

  When she finished reading, Vera thrust the notepad at a flustered Oscar, declaring, "Ha! This confirms it. The problem is your delicate palate, not my culinary prowess."

  Oscar rolled his eyes and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "I can eat no more. Let's return to the living room and elucidate our findings to the pipsqueak." Oscar smirked at Silas's indignant reaction to the nickname.

  They rose from the table. Silas moved to clean his dishes, but Vera insisted he leave them. "A later problem," she assured him.

  Silas cradled his new notepad, enjoying the weight of it in his hands. Vera's eyes flicked to the implement. "When we have time, I promise to learn more sign language. Oscar does too."

  "I never said that. My decisions are my own to make, not yours, Vera." The Warden eased himself onto the sofa, groaning in pleasure when he sank into the worn leather.

  Vera took her place before the corkboard. She huffed at Oscar. To Silas, she said, "In Oscar-speak, that means he has already decided for himself that he will learn more sign, too. Isn't that right, Oscar?"

  The Warden and Arbiter exchanged banter. Silas sat, head ducked to hide his upturned lips. After some more back-and-forth, the two quieted. Silas sat tall, the palpable change in atmosphere straightening his posture. Vera examined a spot on the corkboard, frowning as she thought. She gnawed a fingernail, indecision reinforcing the nervous tic. Finally, she snatched a small slip of parchment from the corkboard, ripping it through the thumbtack.

  "Here, Silas," she sighed, offering him the parchment with an outstretched hand. "Let's start with this."

  Silas took the slip and placed it in his lap. He stared at the carpeted floor, hesitating. This was the parchment Vera and Ravelin found in Pa's study—the same parchment that elicited such strong suspicion from the Junior. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Surely, whatever it was couldn't be more shocking than Pa's Coldspire notes. Silas studied it.

  Human matter alone cannot resonate. That is why the boy was made of both. One vessel to hold two worlds, one heart to save us all.

  Silas read the message again and again, the furrow in his brow deepening. An annoyed grunt bubbled up from his throat. Why did Pa always have to speak in riddles? What did this mean? Silas broke the message down one word at a time. The word "resonate" stood out to him. If he hadn't read Pa's Coldspire parchments, he wouldn't have had any idea what it meant. Silas strode to the corkboard, where Vera had secured Pa's notes with a thumbtack. When he approached, Vera stepped aside, watching him closely.

  Vera must have noticed the same thing. When Silas flipped through the pages, he found that she had circled each iteration of "resonate" in red ink. Silas was slightly vexed that she annotated the parchments without asking first, but his annoyance quickly dissipated. This was not the time for pettiness.

  "Do you think he means my abilities when he says 'resonance' and 'resonate?'" Silas wrote in his notepad.

  Vera nodded. "That part is clear, but the second sentence confounds me. Oscar and Elsbeth had similar shortcomings—the answer eluding them much the same. Silas, do you have any hypotheses?"

  Silas started at the mention of Ravelin. Was she still helping Vera, or had she completely turned to the Archarbiter's side? He wanted to ask, but didn't want to be impertinent. Silas shook his head and shrugged, thoughts reeling. He was supposed to save someone? Who was "us all," and why did they need saving? Silas returned to the couch. He sagged forward, chin resting in his hands. He swallowed around the dread crawling up his throat. How could Silas save anyone from anything? He was just a boy.

  "Move on to the Covenant business," Oscar said impatiently, shifting in his seat. "Like I've said before, the answer lies there."

  Vera narrowed her eyes at Oscar. The Warden's eyebrows ticked up, daring her to argue. Vera harrumphed. She held her chin high as she changed the topic, pointing at an envelope tacked to the corkboard, adorned with the Empire's crimson wax seal.

  "From what I have gathered—"

  Oscar interrupted Vera by clearing his throat.

  She leveled him a withering glare and started again. As she spoke, she pointed at components on the corkboard with her stylus. "From what we have gathered, the Covenant of Fallen Stars was a covert collective of diverse individuals with a singular mindset. Among their ranks were logisters, scholars, physicks, nobility, philosophers, and other miscellaneous members of society. They sought to understand and reconcile with the Unspoken. As I am sure you know, Silas, the Empire does not condone treason of this caliber."

  Her words sent an electric bolt of fear shooting down Silas's spine. He clutched his notepad in trembling hands, squeezing so hard his healing fingers ached. Pa was affiliated with this collective. The moment his identity was revealed, the noose was strung about his neck. It would only take one kick to send him swinging.

  Vera saw Silas's grim face and spoke before the boy fell into despondency. "Before I discuss what maddeningly little I could find about Project Concordia, allow me to introduce Dr. Elias Harrow." She pointed to a map of the Badlands, running her finger along a path. At the end of the trail, her finger stopped. She tapped the marked location. "Elias Harrow was born in a small, backwater village just beyond the Badlands. In his youth, he travelled to Droswick to study neuralchistry. An erudite logister, young Harrow graduated at the zenith of his class, winning Imperial accolades for his dissertation on neural grafting—a surgical procedure that implants brain tissue from one individual into another."

  Vera's eyes flicked to Silas as she said this. The boy instinctively scratched at his scalp.

  "This is where things get interesting. After he graduated, his Records went silent. I could find nothing. No taxes filed, no property purchased, no identification cards renewed, no border checkpoints crossed, no jobs held. The man simply vanished without a trace." She turned her back to the corkboard, absently worrying at a hangnail as she studied Silas. "That is, until his death certificate was issued fourteen syzygies ago."

  Vera tore a newspaper clipping from the corkboard and passed it to Silas. He skimmed the article. It was verbose and vague—describing an ambiguous disaster at an unnamed laboratory located somewhere northwest of Droswick. Listed at the bottom of the article were the names of the deceased and missing. Naturally, Elias Harrow was among them.

  When Silas finished reading, Vera pointed to a document on the corkboard. "According to his death certificate, he perished from exsanguination secondary to shrapnel injuries. This would be convincing," she grinned at Silas conspiratorially, "if he hadn't raised a boy after his supposed death."

  Silas penned a question, asking if there were specifics regarding the laboratory's location or name. Based on Pa's notes and the newspaper clipping, incendiaries were detonated to destroy the laboratory. But after Coldspire, Silas wasn't convinced that everything had been wiped clean. If there was anything left behind, he wanted to find it.

  While he wrote, Vera chortled and teased. "I have to admit, Silas, I was surprised to learn that you are fourteen." Silas peeked at her over his notepad. She caught him and sneered. "You're quite short for your age. I thought maybe you were around twelve."

  Oscar guffawed. "Now, now, Vera. He's a growing lad. By this time next syzygy, he might be taller than you." The Warden offered Silas a sly wink.

  Silas made a disgruntled face at their antics but laughed softly; he knew they were trying to keep the mood light for his benefit. He rotated his notepad so Vera could read it.

  "Unfortunately, I could not find specifics, no. As I mentioned before, anything concerning Project Concordia has been redacted. Whatever the logisters who created you discovered terrified the Empire enough to bury it twice." Vera's voice faltered when Silas flinched at the word "created."

  Oscar sighed. "And we are going to dig it up, I assume?"

  "With care," Vera replied, peering down at her feet. "And perhaps a very sturdy shovel. That brings us to this Quin Warren fellow."

  Vera rubbed her chin, eyes narrowed at the corkboard. "This man is even more of an enigma than Elias Harrow. Where do I start?" She turned so her back faced the sofa, her hands on her hips while she scrutinized the corkboard. "Eh, might as well just go in order. The man named Quin Warren was a small business owner—a seller of books and novelties. As Harrow mentioned, he opened the Foundry School for Education and Asylum—conveniently around the time Harrow and an infant Silas were settling into Droswick.

  "But half of his Records contradict themselves. His signature suddenly changed fourteen syzygies ago. His documented ages are inconsistent. His hair color morphed from blond to brown, his eyes from blue to green—as per his identification documents. It's as if halfway through his life, Quin Warren became someone else entirely."

  "With all of these inconsistencies, how did he not raise suspicion until now?" Silas wrote, frowning at his notepad. "He runs an educational institution; shouldn't he have had a background check?"

  "Because, little mouse, his Records were clean. There are a lot of people living in Droswick, and the Empire does not labor over the documents of every law-abiding citizen." Vera and Oscar shared a knowing look. "The question is, what happened to the original Quin Warren, and who is the man that now wears his skin?"

  Silas shivered. What was the price Pa and his colleague paid to erase their affiliation with the Covenant of Fallen Stars? He hoped it was not financed in human blood.

  Vera clapped her hands, startling Silas. "Our next trial will be to interrogate whoever this Warren man is. So he doesn't flee before we can get to him, we will be visiting the Foundry School during business hours."

  Silas inhaled sharply. This would be his first venture to school after the attack.

  Vera nodded grimly. "Unfortunately, this is where Malrick Sorne managed to worm his way into the coming operation." Her nailbiting increased in fervor. When her finger escaped her mouth, she said, "He plans some sort of 'public outreach' to address the citizenry's concerns after the attack. Oscar and I assume he aims to make a spectacle of you—to announce your existence to the public." Her volume dropped, her final words no louder than a whisper. "To show the audience that he alone has control."

  Silas trembled. He recalled Baron Dannel's outrage at the Sanctorium when he visited Pa the night of the attack. Silas remembered the crowd gathered around when the nobleman assailed him, demanding to know why the boy walked free. Nobody in the mob helped Silas—if anything, they approved of the nobleman's aggression. Silas could only imagine how they would act after the Archarbiter told them the truth. How would Silas ever walk the streets again after Sorne announced his origin?

  With a shaky hand, Silas wrote, "What do we do?"

  "I will not let the Archarbiter have his way with you," Vera affirmed. She locked eyes with Silas, her conviction felt across the room. "Not while I still breathe."

  Oscar cleared his throat. "Words alone will not protect him, Vera."

  "Thank you for belaboring the point, Oscar." Vera glanced at him fleetingly. "That is why I am working on a plan."

  Silas averted his gaze. He appreciated Vera and Oscar, but what could they do against the Archarbiter—the highest ranking legal authority in the Empire? Silas hugged himself, the foreboding climate a chill against his skin.

  "You forgot to tell him about Project Concordia," Oscar said. The Warden feigned nonchalance, but he kept peeking at Silas from the corner of his eye.

  "I didn't forget, Oscar. There's simply not much to say." Vera sighed. She grimaced at the corkboard. "Silas, every document I could find was redacted. The Archarbiter irks me. 'Clearance granted,' my foot. All I know is speculation, but I am convinced Concordia was the experiment that gave rise to you. What I don't know is why the Covenant did what they did. It vexes me that Sorne clearly does, and is guarding the information like this is all some jest, and he aims to have the last laugh."

  Silas nodded. He put on a brave face. "Thank you for everything you have done. The truth will come to light eventually. The Archarbiter is so confident he will win it has made him shortsighted. He thinks he has won the battle, but he doesn't realize that we seek to win the war."

  Vera stepped to Silas, reading upside-down while he wrote. She laughed. "The mouse waxes poetic with a touch of cliché." She ruffled Silas's hair, much to his chagrin. "But I appreciate your appreciation."

  Silas flattened his ramified locks back against his scalp.

  "Now to the next task!" Vera spun so fast she kicked up a gust that fluttered Silas's hair. She waltzed to the door. Over her shoulder, she said, "Before our field trip to the Foundry School, you will need a new coat, Silas. Yours was ripped at the back, I believe, from those cryo-whatever they were called chambers at Coldspire."

  Silas blinked at her. "You would buy me a new coat?" he wrote in an oversized font, large enough that Vera could read from across the room.

  She hummed. "And new gloves. We can't have you looking like a wraith in front of Droswick's populace, now, can we?"

  "Thank you!" Silas wrote. He blinked hard to dam the tears that wanted to fall.

  "Don't be so grateful just yet." She winked, mischief lighting her eyes as they flicked toward Oscar. "You'll have to don my articles in the meantime, and you've yet to see my taste in outerwear."