Not all the food in Sunward City meets the standard set by our first meal here, but it’s all very good. Even pre-made protein cubes and fruit bars taste like they were made recently using fresh ingredients.

  Ever since Xan pointed out the obvious role magic must play in the continued existence of this place, I see signs of it everywhere.

  The walls of our temporary home are made of some kind of clay, with what I thought at first was a floral pattern. When I look more closely I realize there are actual tiny vines and tendrils curling and winding into natural flourishes in the clay.

  The many lights must be powered by magic. The fresh food must be somehow growing underground, like the trees in the center of the town circle. Certainly the random scattering of live mushrooms on the surface doesn’t feed this city.

  Xan’s right that the mage or mages who vaulted the ceilings and power the daily life here must have significant power. If the Citadel knew such mages existed outside of the Committee they would have strong opinions—and bullets—to express on the matter.

  I find myself wearing a grim smile, thinking of Rowena and Medore’s assurances that power is spread out among the people of this city. Whatever their policies might say, and whatever Rowena tells herself to keep that smile pasted on, the power here resides in their mages. If they decided to stop their magic flowing into this place, it would cease to exist overnight.

  True to her promise, Rowena moves us from the tiny clay room to a cozy clay house with a bedroom for us each. They once again ask if we’d rather be separated, and we once again decline. I’m a little surprised by the offer—if they want to keep us captive, you’d think keeping us apart would be step one. They must be really determined to be the most accommodating kidnappers a hostage could ask for.

  We are still under guard, however. Our house is on the same level as Rowena’s, and the door is never unmanned. Xan could easily take any of our guards out but when I suggest this to her, she shakes her head.

  “The guards aren’t here to overpower us, they’re here to raise the alarm,” she says. “We’re too far in to make it out without being caught, and even if we did we’d just be rounded up by the scouts on the surface again. Besides, they have my knives.”

  “I know you don’t need knives to fight,” Lucas says with a laugh.

  “Of course not, but I’m not leaving without them, am I?”

  Our new lodgings come with clean, running water and soap. It never gets hot but the coolness is pleasantly refreshing. In our bedrooms we find fresh clothes made of soft, flowy linen that feels incredible against my skin. The beds are firm and comfortable in a way that is sensible rather than luxurious.

  Our clothes and packs are not returned to us, but every few days we’re issued another set of the soft linen trousers and tunics, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of cloves.

  With every little pleasure my resentment increases. Under other circumstances I could easily relax into this life. My body aches for rest and fresh food and hot, rich coffee every morning and each time I enjoy it a stab of guilt follows. I don’t like how quickly I could get used to this. I don’t like how quickly Xan and Lucas appear to be getting used to it.

  They seem determined to enjoy our time here since we have no choice about it. To me that feels like letting our enemy conquer us without so much as a complaint.

  “How long does it take to call a cogging meeting?” I grouse as we finish supper on our third day. “At this rate we’ll never get out.”

  Xan says nothing, but offers me a cup of something warm and spicy and strong. She’s apparently been able to refill her flask since our arrival.

  “We should ask Rowena about it tomorrow,” Lucas says. “It really is getting ridiculous.”

  Xan snorts. “As if they have any plans of letting us anywhere near Rowena without being summoned. She can say what she wants about community rule—I know a leader when I see one.”

  “Well we have to do something! We can’t just sit here and wait while the train goes on and Antissa dies.” I take too large a swallow of the liquor by way of emphasis and have to choke back a violent cough.

  Xan looks thoughtful but doesn’t pipe up with any brilliant ideas like I hoped she would.

  “Maybe we can sneak out at night?” Lucas suggests. “Xan can sneak up on the guard from behind and kill him before he can raise an alarm.”

  “I’m not killing the guard,” Xan says. “It isn’t his fault. For all he knows, we’re dangerous criminals.”

  “What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “So it’s fine to kill Matthew in cold blood, but when it comes to helping us escape, that’s where you draw the line?”

  “Is the guard grooming children?” Xan asks hopefully. “I could work with that.”

  “He’s keeping strangers captive! That’s got to count for something.”

  Xan looks as if she’s seriously considering this argument for the first time, mentally weighing the scales. Finally she shakes her head again.

  “He may not have any more choice than we do. He might deserve killing, but unless I can be sure...”

  “Perfect. What a perfect time for you to explore the finer points of your personal killing people ethics.”

  Xan smirks. “I’m not the one who got all stressed out about the child rapist getting murdered.” I glare at her. Now that she wants to talk about my killing people ethics, I don’t love it.

  Lucas rolls his eyes. “Okay so don’t kill him. Just knock him unconscious or something.”

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  “Non-lethal tactics are trickier than you might imagine, especially if you’re trying to do it quietly,” Xan says. “Any number of things can go wrong. You hit the wrong spot and instead of passing out he screams. You hit the right spot too hard and kill him by accident. And don’t get me started on trying to choke people.”

  I narrow my eyes at Xan, wondering if she’s not just a little too hesitant to get out of here. Or maybe she’s just drunk.

  “So what? We just stay here? Ren and Amiyah can go fuck themselves?”

  Nev can get off scot-free? I don’t add.

  “I didn’t say that,” Xan says. “I just need a little time to think. If we go off half-cocked because we’re in too much of a hurry to think things through and we cog it up, it will only make things harder. Maybe next time there are more guards. Maybe they don’t ask us politely if we want to stay together. Maybe they don’t tell us where each other are. We don’t even know how many circles and corridors this place has.”

  I sigh. At least she’s not being flippant I suppose.

  I have, as necessity dictated, been largely successful keeping thoughts of Charlie at bay. The danger looming over Ren and Amiyah has by no means eclipsed my desire to clear my name, but it gives me another target at which to aim my anxiety.

  Maybe it’s the butter-soft linen pajamas provided by our captors or the comfort of a real bed that makes it more difficult tonight to keep that particular mental door closed.

  The moment I allow it to crack, everything comes flooding in, unstoppable, inevitable. I miss him. Charlie was my first real friend—my first and only comfort after my mother disappeared when I was a child. He’s the older brother who raised me in her absence. To everyone else he’s the Conductor. A member of the Committee. A powerful mage. To me, he’s the voice of kindness that broke through a young girl’s grief and despair.

  I remember the look on his face when he saw the ring and thought I’d betrayed him and with the memory comes a physical ache.

  All this time I’ve allowed myself to think about getting back to the Talavar to undo the injustice done to me, to expose Nevalya’s duplicity, to save Charlie from her scheming, and eventually to save Ren and Amiyah’s people. I have carefully avoided thinking about Charlie himself, and this is why.

  The grief is so powerful it constricts my lungs. It’s a small house and I would rather not let Lucas and Xan hear me sobbing in my bed, so I get up and head for the kitchen. I pour a glass of water, embarrassed, though no one can see me at how my hands tremble, and step outside the front door.

  The guard sitting in a chair outside looks up at me and I recognize Ahmad’s perpetually cheerful face.

  I sigh.

  “Did you volunteer for this job? Keeping strange women prisoner make you hard or something?”

  He looks startled by my crudity, which makes me feel better but only for a moment.

  “Having trouble sleeping?”

  I scowl at him. “So being a genius isn’t one of the job requirements I take it.”

  He points to the empty chair on the other side of the door.

  “Have a seat. If you don’t want to talk, you can pretend I’m not here.”

  “I should be so blessed”.

  But I sit down. The air feels a little less oppressive out here, and I can feel the tears at the back of my eyes ready to spring forth if I retreat to my bed. At least I know I can trust myself not to break down in front of this asshole.

  The sconces lining the walls and the strings of light that decorate the open space beneath the ceiling are still on, but they’ve changed to a dim silver, I assume to mimic the feel of moonlight. It does a surprisingly good job, I begrudgingly admit to myself. It’s no replacement for a starry sky, but it does have a gentle, nighttime feel. Only the air is too still.

  “Needs a breeze,” I mutter aloud.

  “That would help,” Ahmad agrees.

  “Are you not from here then?” I ask.

  “I am. Grew up here. But I’m a scout,” he says, answering my unasked question. “I’ve spent plenty of nights on the surface too.”

  “So you could leave if you wanted to?”

  “I suppose.” There’s a frown in his voice. “It never occurred to me.”

  I look at him but he’s gazing up at the vaulted ceiling and faux stars.

  “Never? Is it really that good here?”

  He shrugs. “Better than anywhere else I’ve been.”

  “But you don’t actually know if you’re free to leave. Has no one ever tried?”

  He’s silent for several seconds.

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Do you guys put meds in the water or something? No place is that good, least of all the kind of place that doesn’t let you leave.”

  He surprises me again by grinning at this. He’s really beautiful to look at with that smile. I frown and banish the thought. Maybe there really are drugs in the water.

  “No water tampering that I’m aware of,” he says. “But this place is… special.”

  Special like a cult, I don’t say.

  “Special how?” I do say.

  “Stick around and you’ll find out.”

  Okay yeah. Definitely a cult. I should have known. There’s no normal town where literally everyone wears body glitter all the time.

  “No thanks.”

  We’re both looking forward now, but I feel his nod rather than see it.

  “You’ve got people you want to get back to. I get that.”

  “You really don’t.” I’m suddenly angry. “There’s a whole city full of people, just like this one but without the sparkly skin, who will die if we don’t get out of here.”

  His gaze snaps back to me, startled.

  “Wait really?”

  “Really. Have you ever seen what it looks like when hundreds of people are drained of blood and stacked like empty cartons against a wall? Because I have, and I’d rather not see it again.”

  His eyes are wide now, full of innocent shock. This annoys me.

  “Shit. I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I’m about to say when a movement from the other side of the circle distracts me.

  A woman is walking toward us, dressed casually in the same linen trousers so many people here wear, and a soft sweater. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail, and under the lights I can see the glint of glitter on her pale skin.

  For a moment I think she’s going to speak to us, but she stops when she’s still fifty yards away and turns to the wall where one of the sconces is flickering and threatening to go dark.

  She reaches out to touch it, letting her fingertips linger on the bulb for a few seconds, and with a surge that brings it almost back to daylight before settling once again into a comfortable silver glow, the light restores itself.

  I frown, wondering what she did to fix it. She isn’t carrying any tools and she didn’t seem to adjust anything. The light didn’t react as if a mod had been activated and there was no hum. In fact, now that I notice it, there’s no hum of magic anywhere. The constant low buzz that I associate with the activation of mods as they make the world function is entirely absent here.

  She acknowledges us with a smile and a quiet “Good evening” as she passes, then stops at another light a few doors down. This one has gone out completely, but with the same touch of her fingers and gentle focus, it too flickers back to life.

  With a start, I realize I’m looking at the Sunward City mage, or one of them. A Committee-level mage, Xan said. And she’s wandering around at night attending to dead light bulbs.

  This thought gives me pause too. I haven’t seen much live magic performed—only the flashy, extravagant kind that produces fireworks and glittering lights for Citadel galas. Outside of that magic is mundane and comes in modules that keep the train running without fuel and the freezer climate controlled between stations.

  What both have in common is that they require tools like the potions and mystical implements in Charlie’s train cabin. Nobody just goes around softly willing things to work—not even Charlie.

  A thrill of understanding flutters in my stomach. Even though she’s only fixed a few lights, the ease and efficiency with which the woman did so instills in me the certainty that we were wrong to think the mages here were Committee-level. They are far, far more advanced than that.

  No wonder they work so hard to keep this place secret. It doesn’t lessen my anxiety to get out—if anything, now that I understand the stakes a little better—I think with a sinking feeling that there’s no chance of the Council ruling in our favor.

  We will probably have to take things into our own hands.