Once tea was finished, Zayle led Twist down into the engine room, buried in the dim, windowless, gas-lit stern on the lowest deck. Twist walked carefully on the dark boards, acutely aware that they were the only thing between him and an unimaginably long fall to the rough, frigid waters of the English Channel. Arabel followed behind, out of pure curiosity.

  The steam engine made up the bulk of the stern of the ship, spanning it from side to side, and filling the space below the second deck. Pipes, gauges, valves, and burning hot metal shuddered with a constant growl, struggling to contain the pressure of the superheated steam that fed the propellers outside. In the low light of the gas lamps and the blazing fire that was held back by a small door near the floor, the steam engine looked every bit a manic and raging beast to Twist.

  “Well, go ahead and touch it, I guess,” Zayle said to him.

  Twist remained silent as he stared at the horror in front of him. He couldn't remember another moment when he'd been frightened to open his Sight to a machine.

  “Go on,” Arabel said excitedly.

  “You're not scared of it, are you?” Zayle said, a smirk barely hidden in his voice.

  “Oh, leave him alone,” Arabel said, swatting at him with the back of her hand. “Don't listen to him, Twist,” she added gently. “Now go on. Don't be frightened.”

  The visible tightness in Twist's jaw betrayed his pride, though he still remained silent as he stepped closer to the colossus of steam and fire. A valve wheel stuck out significantly from the front, promising to be cooler to the touch than the rest of the hot metal. Twist took a breath to brace himself, and then reached out his slender fingers to fall on the metal wheel.

  Fire, pressure, rage, and steam rushed through Twist's mind like a wild beast with a feral power beyond anything he had ever felt from a machine. He saw—knew—felt every bolt, pipe, chamber, and gear as if it were his own. The raw energy of the engine, so precariously contained in weakened steel, burst into him as if sensing a chance for escape, and stole the breath from his chest. In the moment before Twist lost his grip on consciousness, he caught a glimpse of a small, stinging pain in the raging chaos. Too much pressure was crushing in on too small a point, overheating the oil and forcing it to break out where it didn't belong.

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  Twist's fingers slipped from the wheel as his form sank to the coal-blackened floor. Arabel reached for him instantly, but stopped herself just before touching him. Twist's breath returned the moment the connection was cut, and he gasped as he knelt, hunched into a small ball before the still-growling, raging engine. Arabel and Zayle both knelt close beside him, peering fearfully at his face, now hidden behind his unruly black curls.

  “Does this happen every time he touches anything?” Zayle asked, staring down at him.

  “Well, at least he's not shaking this time.”

  Twist's blood still thundered with the reckless might of the engine, filling his heart with fire that didn't belong to him. He rose to his feet so quickly that the others jumped back a step in shock. Twist's cold blue eyes locked onto Zayle's, steady and fierce as a hungry wolf. He smiled subtly, his form held relaxed, still, and ready to destroy. Zayle stared back at him blankly, though something not unlike fear began to show at the edges of his eyes.

  “Are you really so small, that you can only bolster your own meager ego by belittling me?” Twist asked, his voice level, cool, and razor edged.

  Zayle opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out, as confusion and alarm bloomed awkwardly on his face.

  “Um...” Arabel began gently. “Twist? Are you all right?”

  Twist looked to her with mild distaste, but something in her eyes steadied his thoughts. She was confused as well, bewildered, frightened, and somewhat disappointed in him. Something was wrong. He struggled to separate his own emotions from those of the vision, shaking his head to clear out some of the chaos. He reached for the watch in his pocket and held it tightly in both hands. It's tiny, constant, gentle heartbeat cooled his anger and soothed his disdain. He took a deep breath. By the time he exhaled, the fire in him had all but gone out.

  “I'm sorry,” he said softly.

  “What did he say?” Zayle asked.

  “I'm sorry,” Twist said again, pushing his small voice harder. “Please disregard what I said,” he added to Zayle. “There is a lot of anger in the heart of that engine.” Zayle looked to the engine uncertainly.

  “It has feelings?”

  Twist looked back at him silently for a moment before he answered again. “There's too much pressure on this side,” he said, pointing. “There is a weakness in the metal near the back and the pressure is overheating the oil and forcing it out through the seals. Lower the pressure on this side and the leak will stop on its own.”

  “Of course!” Zayle exclaimed, slapping at his own forehead. “I've checked the seals three times and never found a fault. But if there is even a small point of weakened metal then the pressure...” he said, rushing to the controls.

  “See?” Arabel said happily. “I told you he could figure it out.”