"Hands where I can see them," barked the new voice.

  The people in gowns rushed to obey, chanting a chorus of fearful murmurs. They glanced at each other, their mouths moving behind their masks. Whoever had barged into the room must have cut them a silencing glare because their chatter abruptly ceased.

  "You too," said the newcomer.

  Dr. Korrel loomed above Silas, his hands on the boy's shoulders. In a flash, he seized something sharp from the table of glistening instruments. He grabbed Silas's hair, wrested the boy's head sideways, and stuck sharp steel to his skin. The instrument dug into Silas's flesh, its cold bite drawing warm blood.

  "Try anything," Dr. Korrel began, "And I'll sever his carotid."

  Now that Silas's head was elevated, he could see who had intruded the operating theater. An unfamiliar woman aimed a flarepistol at Dr. Korrel's head. The sight of the weapon stirred something in Silas's mind, but numbness subdued the memory before it could surface. Beside her stood a man Silas had never seen before. He hovered in the doorway behind the woman, fidgety with nerves. Elsbeth was among them, her hand resting on something strung to her hip.

  "Elsbeth, disarm the trespasser," Dr. Korrel ordered.

  Elsbeth obeyed. She freed a weapon from the sling around her hip—a small, collapsible crossbow. At the press of a button on its stock, the bow unfurled. Elsbeth slipped a bolt from a pocket and nocked it, aiming at the intruder's head. The woman sighed and relinquished her flarepistol.

  "On your knees," Elsbeth said. When the woman complied, she added, "Hands behind your head."

  Dr. Korrel relaxed his grip from Silas's hair. "Good. Let's cont—"

  Elsbeth swiveled her crossbow, aimed at Dr. Korrel's face. She pulled the trigger. The bolt hurled through the air to embed in Dr. Korrel's eye socket. Blood and a gelatinous substance burst from the wound, spraying Silas's cheek. Dr. Korrel collapsed. Silas's head crashed to the table. His eyelids twitched. He wanted to blink. Blood had sprayed into his eyes. It burned.

  The gowned people shrieked, scrambling away from the door. The unfamiliar woman must have gotten her flarepistol back because she approached them, brandishing her weapon at their faces. "Against the wall!" she shouted, spittle flying from her lips. "Oscar, tie them up."

  "Y-yes," a man stuttered in response. The voice must have belonged to the skittish man Silas had seen in the doorway.

  Silas was just remembering how to blink when the flarepistol woman rounded the table. When she peered down at him, her eyes moistened. "Oh Silas," she said, cupping his face with her hands. "We got here just in the nick of time."

  Since blinking was the only thing Silas could do, he rapidly fluttered his eyelashes. Maybe if he batted them hard enough, the resulting gust would blow this stranger away. Who was she? Why did she act like she knew him? Silas stopped blinking, fear curdling the blood in his veins. He decided the woman before him must be General Curne.

  At his wispy thought, the woman's features morphed. Her medium-length chestnut hair grew and twisted itself into a black braid. Soft brown eyes sharpened into a piercing green gaze. The fear in Silas's veins heated, flooding his frozen limbs with energy. His fingers twitched. Then his cheeks. His eyes widened as he shied away from the General.

  She wilted, releasing Silas and stepping back. "What's wrong?" she whispered, her green eyes searching his face. Reaching for him again, she said, "Silas it's me. Why—"

  Silas would hear no more of her lies. She could try to calm him with sweet words all she liked, but Silas would not fall for her ruse. Once his guard was down, she would attack, enacting revenge for what he'd done.

  There was something stuck to Silas's hand. A tube. He tore it free. His humors spilled onto the table. He launched himself to the floor. General Curne stumbled back, her hands covering her mouth. Silas barreled toward the open door. At least, he tried to. His legs weren't working right—stiff and ungainly. The unknown man—Oscar—caught him before he toppled over. Silas screamed and flailed, trying to shake Oscar off. Fear gave way to a tingly pressure between Silas's ears. It discharged violently.

  Everyone cried out and staggered. Oscar let go of Silas, his hands flying for his head. Silas would have used this opportunity to run if the discharge hadn't drained him. Shaking, he went slack in Oscar's arms. His brain felt like it was simmering—boiling over. No, that was the blood on his face. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on a hazy memory. Someone once told him something: a warning. They suggested that he'd die if his aether left him too quickly. He didn't know what aether was. Perhaps it was the energy that had just erupted from his skull.

  Bootsteps approached. Silas opened his eyes. General Curne was cautiously moving toward him. Tears welled and flowed, dripping off Silas's chin. Silas buried his face in Oscar's chest, clinging to the stranger, hoping he would protect him.

  "Why?" Curne said the word like a lament.

  "You must understand," came Dr. Veyl's voice. "He was made to believe that you and Elias Harrow were executed."

  Oscar stiffened. He wrapped his arms around Silas, hugging the boy close. Silas clenched his fists in Oscar's coat. A lie! It's a lie.

  General Curne hummed. "Oh. Is that all?" She paused. "And who told him this?"

  "Archarbiter Sorne," answered Elsbeth.

  General Curne said nothing. Silas shifted his head so he could look at her.

  She stared at the floor, her gaze hollow. Her fists shook, knuckles pale. Eventually, she raised her head, drawing her lips into a tight line. "Splendid," she said and tore her flarepistol from its holster. Silas didn't recall her putting the weapon away.

  "We must be off," Dr. Veyl said. He no longer wore the gown and mask, but his hair was still covered by a cap. Leaning over the operating table, he selected a syringe.

  Silas took one look at the long needle and whimpered. Poison. They still aim to poison me.

  Cautiously, Dr. Veyl approached, uncapping the syringe with his teeth. Silas's chest tightened. His lungs burned, screaming at him for air. His vision fuzzed—

  General Curne stepped between Silas and Dr. Veyl—blocking him and his needle with arms outstretched. Silas gasped in a breath.

  "What is that?" Curne asked.

  "A tranquilizer," Dr. Veyl said. "There's no time. The lad isn't in a state of mind to cooperate. I'm afraid this is the only way."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "No!" General Curne stomped her foot. "Get away from him with that needle, sir."

  "Oh, now you're adverse to drugging him?" Oscar said. Silas felt the stranger's voice boom through his chest.

  "Oscar, you're not helping."

  There was a loud, percussive sound. The ground seemed to sink. Then, it sprang up, quaking vigorously. Someone swore. Oscar scooted backward until his back hit the wall. Frantic bootsteps ran down the corridor. Kessara rushed into the room. Out of breath, she held the doorframe, patting down her clothes. Black dust rained down, collecting in a dark stain at her feet. It reminded Silas of a shadow.

  "We need to get out of here," Kessara said when she caught her breath, combing down strands of sooty hair. Beholding the scene before her, she added, "Now. The bombs will only hold them for so long."

  Dr. Veyl stepped forward, needle pointed at Silas.

  General Curne plucked the needle from his fingers, dropping it to the ground. She crushed it with her boot. When it shattered, a clear fluid dripped out.

  Silas sighed in relief. He didn't understand why General Curne would protect him from the poison. Shouldn't she be the one most bent on revenge? It didn't matter. As long as the needle stayed away, he didn't care.

  Dr. Veyl huffed. From his pocket he pulled a tall drinking glass sealed with a cap. Silas recognized the milky white liquid instantly. More poison. He clamped his lips shut, prepared to fend off the vile liquid.

  "Then at least get him to drink this." Dr. Veyl placed the glass in General Curne's hands.

  "What is—"

  "Powder of Neuroleptic."

  Curne sucked in her cheeks. "Whatever for? You know as well as I do the Voices he hears aren't delusions."

  "Of course I do!" Dr. Veyl's face flushed red. "Yet I fear what he sees now is not reality."

  Curne blinked. Nodding, she turned to face Silas. "I see," she said and bent low.

  Silas thought she was going to force him to drink the poison. Her fingers curled around the cap, about to twist it off. Then, her eyes shot upward, focusing behind Silas.

  "Congratulations, Oscar," she said, pocketing the sealed drinking glass. "The mouse likes you now. Let's take advantage of this opportunity to run."

  Dr. Veyl frowned. "But—"

  His protest was cut short by Kessara, who shook her head and disappeared into the corridor.

  "C'mon, pipsqueak," Oscar said, lifting Silas to his feet.

  Silas's knees held. Yet when he tried to take a step, his legs refused to move. His feet might as well have been encased in a block of cement. He clung to Oscar, trembling with the effort of standing.

  "Oscar, just carry him." Silas didn't catch who said that.

  Oscar grumbled something but did as he was told, picking Silas up like he weighed nothing. The boy looped his arms around Oscar's neck and pressed his ear to his chest. The stranger's rapid heartbeat and frenetic cycles of breath lulled him into a stupor.

  Time stretched and compressed. Silas was vaguely aware of his surroundings, only noticing conspicuous sensations. He remembered the smell of blood and smoke. The sound of running bootsteps. Shivering from the cold. A hot blast that singed his arm hairs. Oscar panting, out of breath. Noises so loud his eardrums felt close to bursting. People yelling. His bare feet on the floor. A blank wall. Oppressive silence. Something warm and soft draped over his shoulders. Kneeling in a growing puddle of blood, staring into a corpse's lifeless eyes.

  The corpse lay amongst other bodies. Various wounds afflicted the deceased. One had a crossbow bolt through his neck, the point poking through the skin where his windpipe should have been. Another's face was horribly burned, her flesh melting like wax off her cheekbones. But the corpse in front of Silas had no visible wounds. Blood poured from his soft green eyes and nose, dyeing his mousy hair scarlet. Silas felt certain he knew this corpse. Looking at it caused his empty stomach to somersault.

  There were voices nearby. An argument. Silas didn't want to stare at the bloodbath any longer. He tried turning his head in the direction of the sound. It wouldn't move. He shut his eyes instead. But the darkness couldn't shroud him from the warm blood pooling beneath his legs.

  "I said NO physick. You are not stabbing him with that needle, and that's final. How many of those things did you even bring?" Silas's heart skipped a beat. With his eyes closed, that voice almost sounded like—

  "Vera, at this rate he's going to kill us too," said Dr. Veyl. "It won't hurt him. If anything, it will help him heal."

  Silas's eyes popped open. Vera's dead. Someone had told him so. That voice belongs to General Curne, not Vera. Who was Vera? Why did her name hurt so much?

  She crouched in front of him, her boots squelching in the blood. Those piercing green eyes, that long black braid. When Silas looked at her, he knew she was General Ilyra Curne. He flicked his gaze between her and the corpse at her feet. They had the same eye color.

  Did I do this? The corpse's empty stare narrowed into an accusatory glare. Did I kill him?

  "Come here, Silas." Curne's gentle hands coaxed Silas to his feet. Over her shoulder, she said, "I'll go ahead with him. We'll meet the rest of you at the rendezvous point."

  Dr. Veyl sighed. Tip-toeing around splotches of spilled blood, he reached into his pocket. "By that time, he'll have drunk this." The glass full of poison was transferred to Curne's back pocket. The coat she had been wearing before was gone.

  "Do not bring him to the rendezvous point until then," Dr. Veyl asserted. "Do you understand?"

  Curne huffed. She pressed a palm to Silas's back, prodding him forward. "Loud and clear, physick," she said with a smile that didn't meet her eyes.

  Silas found it easier to walk when someone pushed him along. Slowly, General Curne guided him away from the blood and death. She said nothing, but glanced down at him often. Barely blinking, Silas stared straight ahead, watching her from the edge of his vision. The way she chewed the inside of her cheek made Silas think she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

  After a while of sluggish walking, she stopped. Silas was made to back up until his spine was flush against the wall. General Curne sighed, picking at a jagged thumbnail. When she reached into her pocket for the glass of poison, Silas began to shake.

  Curne knelt, placing the glass on the ground. Silas squeezed his eyes shut. When he died, he didn't want to see the face the General made.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Look at me, Silas."

  Silas forced his eyelids so hard together his lashes rolled inward.

  "Please, Silas. Look at me."

  Why did she sound so sad? Silas risked a peek at her face. She was biting her lip to stop from crying.

  "I don't know what you see when you look at me," she said, voice quivering. "But it's me, Silas. It's Vera."

  As much as he could, Silas shook his head. The movement was so small he wasn't sure if General Curne saw it.

  "It's true." Silas knew from her deep frown she'd seen it. "The Archarbiter lied to you. I wasn't executed. Elias—your pa—wasn't executed. We escaped the Sanctorium. We're both alive and well. Silas, your pa is awake and waiting for you to come home."

  Silas stopped shaking. He froze completely—his muscles, his breath, even his heart seemed to still. Time itself stopped, thwarted by the weight of Curne's words. Silas didn't know how to process this. He felt nothing and everything at the same time—numbness and overwhelming emotion competing for the right to rule his mind. No more of that tingly pressure remained between Silas's ears. Still, something tried to break free. It made Silas's nose bleed and his vision blur.

  "Drink this," Curne pleaded, picking up the glass, placing it in Silas's waxy fingers. "Whether you want us to or not, we're getting you out of here. You just need to be brave for a little while longer. If you drink this” —she unscrewed the cap— "you'll get to go home faster."

  Silas's fingers loosened around the glass, but not enough to drop it. He focused hard, willing his muscles to obey, to let go of the glass.

  General Curne is so cruel, Silas thought, staring into her green eyes. All of this performance, just to make me drink this poison. Silas didn't understand why she didn't do it herself. She should have just stabbed him with one of her blades and gotten it over with.

  Silas's stare drifted to her hip, where a flarepistol was snug in its holster. That was strange. The Curne he remembered wielded blades. It was Vera who shot a—

  Someone wobbled into view. General Curne failed to notice because she was intently focused on Silas. His eyes widened. It was impossible. Ludicrous. What he was seeing could not have been reality.

  A second General Curne teetered toward Silas. She wore a gown that matched his. Her skin was ashen and clammy; limp tendrils of her loose hair clung to it. In each unsteady hand she held a blade, pointed at her doppelganger's back. Another blade was fastened to a sheath wrapped around her thigh. Silas tried to cry out. A small, strangled noise was all he could manage.

  The flarepistol-wielding Curne heard it. Before a blade was thrust through her skull, she swiveled, drawing her flarepistol in the same motion. The blade bit into the flarepistol's sleek brass finish, eliciting an ear-piercing squeal.

  Silas looked back and forth between the two Curnes, uncomprehending. Maybe he was mad after all. Maybe the white liquid really was Powder of Neuroleptic.

  Flarepistol-wielding Curne studied Silas's face, noting the way his gaze bounced back and forth. "Oh," she said, her lips parting. "I see. So that's how it is."

  Silas wanted to drink the white liquid now. Inch-by-inch, his arms jerked upward, the glass moving toward his mouth.

  Flarepistol Curne stood. Her kick sent the other one sprawling. As her adversary was struggling to sit up, she rushed to Silas, helping him tip the glass's contents into his mouth.

  The taste was shockingly bitter. When the flavor hit his tongue, Silas shuddered so hard he nearly choked. It was over before he knew it. Flarepistol Curne dropped the glass and turned.

  Back on her feet, the blade-wielder coughed, covering her mouth with her elbow. When the fit was over she smiled. Blood stained her teeth.

  The poison—no, Powder—was doing something strange to Silas. As he watched, two Ilyra Curnes became one. The sickly blade-wielder looked the same. But the flarepistol-wielder—

  Silas was bawling. He slid to the floor and covered his face with his hands. The fact that he could move again didn't even register. The only thing he knew was that Vera was alive. She was alive and had come to save him. The irony transformed his sniveling into hysterical laughter. All along, he was right. The Archarbiter never had control over Vera and Pa like he claimed he did. Everything Silas had done was to protect them, but it was all a lie. Part of him wished he'd never drunk the Powder. In his delusions, at least, he didn't know who Vera or Pa were. He didn't remember how many he'd killed trying to protect them. Silas wrenched his gaze up. Ilyra was still alive. Maybe he hadn't killed as many as he feared.

  Vera and Ilyra circled each other, weapons aimed. Vera's twitchy eyebrow stilled as Silas quieted.

  "You… must be” —cough— "Vera Stroud, former Arbiter of… Aberrations." Ilyra spat a wad of blood onto the tile.

  Vera offered her a lopsided grin. "The displeasure is mine," she said with a sardonic bow. "And you are General Ilyra Curne, I take it? I almost didn't recognize you." Vera pouted mockingly. "What happened to you? Touched by the common cold?"

  Ilyra growled and threw one of her blades, but not at Vera. Silas couldn't react fast enough. While he could move now, he was tired—so exhausted he was nodding off against the wall. He was abruptly roused by the resonant boom from Vera's fired flarepistol. The white-hot burst of flame skewed the blade's trajectory. It fell short of its target, clattering harmlessly to the floor. Silas blinked at it stupidly. Vera opened her mouth to shout something at him.

  Ilyra used Vera's momentary lapse in attention to attack. Her second blade struck the mark, sinking deep into Vera's left shoulder. Silas reacted more to Vera's wound than she did. Seeing her get injured brought him back to the day she was shot shielding him from Baron Dannel's phlogiston rifle. Vera got hurt because of him. Again. For the third time. His anguish threatened to override the effects of the Powder he'd just consumed.

  Vera merely chuckled. She plucked the blade from her shoulder, inspecting its wicked edge. "I thank you for the gift," she said, winking at Silas. "I foolishly brought a flarepistol to a knife fight. Now we can play on equal footing." Slipping her flarepistol back into its holster, Vera flourished the blade, judging its balance.

  Me being here is putting her in more danger. Silas rose to his feet, sagging against the wall for support. Where did this fatigue come from? I'm in her way. I'll go back to the others. Maybe bring her backup. Silas figured Vera could handle Ilyra, especially in her current state, but he didn't want to risk it. Not when he'd finally been reunited with her. Plus, he didn't know if her wound from being shot was fully healed. It probably wasn't, and she was putting on a brave face for his benefit.

  Silas was staring at the ceiling. When had he fallen? His head felt strange, lighter than a cloud. It was supposed to be filled with something. Where did the filling go? On hands and knees, Silas continued, crawling away. He wasn't sure if he was moving in the right direction until he heard the sound of metal clashing against metal behind him.

  Back on his feet, Silas lumbered back to the bloodbath. It wasn't hard to find his way; all he had to do was follow the trail of bloody footprints. Silas craned his neck, appraising the drying humors covering his legs. He lifted his arms, examining the long sleeves.

  I'm wearing Vera's coat. He smiled, wrapping his arms around himself.

  "YOU!"

  Silas spun, searching for the voice's owner. Something behind him snapped. Silas pivoted, receiving an eyeful of black cape.

  A blow knocked him to the ground. Air was expelled from his lungs by the force of the impact. Before he could orient himself, a strong hand wrapped around his neck.

  Silas was yanked off the floor. The fingers tightened. Silas couldn't see! He thought his eyes were closed, but opening them didn't work; he saw nothing but inky darkness. His nails dug into the vice-like hand, clawing desperately. The grip loosened after he was slammed against the wall. His vision swam back into focus.

  Malrick Sorne had never shown such emotion. Thick veins in his temples pulsed in time with his furious heart. Spidering, bloodshot vessels reddened his bulging eyes. They glared at Silas, unrelenting. Silas kicked weakly, unable to reach Sorne's sensitive bits. He went back to scratching, attempting to dislodge Sorne's hand using his nails. It didn't matter what Silas did—the Archarbiter wouldn't let go.

  "It's always you," Sorne hissed. "Everything has gone wrong. Everything in my life has been ruined because of YOU." With his free hand, Sorne pointed at Silas. "For fourteen syzygies I have waited. To find you again. To ruin you like you have ruined me. How do you always manage to get away with this?" The Archarbiter waved, gesturing like the corridor would corroborate his claims. "If only you were terminated like you were supposed to be all those syzygies ago, none of this would have happened."

  The Archarbiter said nothing else, tightening his grip around Silas's throat until his air supply was cut off. Silas didn't understand—Sorne was talking nonsense. What could he have done to Sorne as an infant to enrage him so? Silas's struggling hands fell limply to his sides. Far away, someone was calling his name.

  Sorne grunted. The fingers cutting off blood supply to Silas's brain fell away. Silas crumpled, sucking in deep gulps of air. Through bleary eyes he saw the Archarbiter on the ground beside him, a crossbow bolt jutting from his left hip.

  Ravelin towered over Sorne, aiming another shot at his heart. Her usual mask was absent, her ragged scars on full display.

  "Why, Elsbeth?" Sorne cried, his fingers fumbling at his wound. "I thought you, at least, were on my side."

  "Because, Malrick," she said and kicked Sorne's injured hip. His face paled, eyes going glassy. "I thought you were a good man. I thought you sought justice. I believed in you, in your ideals." She laughed dryly. "I followed you, hoping your connections would grant me the revenge I've craved since—" She cut herself off, touching her scarred face.

  Ravelin cleared her throat, her aim steady. "Now I know the folly of such greed. Through you I've seen how revenge sours the soul. I refuse to allow myself to give in to such sins. I once looked to you as my role model. I still look to you, but as a reminder of what I might become if I succumb to weakness."

  "MALRICK!" Ilyra screamed.

  Still fighting for air, Silas perked up, drawn by the General's pitiful outburst.

  Ilyra's right arm hung uselessly from its socket. She reached with her left like she could bridge the distance with her fingers. Calmly, Vera raised her flarepistol and pulled the trigger. Ilyra's agonized shriek dissolved into a guttural rale as her face liquefied. Silas rested his forehead on the ground, wishing he couldn't still hear her gurgling, rattling attempts to inhale. He figured such a sight would stave off sleep for the rest of his life, yet the moment his eyes closed he felt himself slipping toward slumber. As the nightmares pulled him down, he heard someone crying. It sounded like Malrick Sorne.

  A detonation went off close by. The tile underneath Silas fractured. Chunks of plaster pelted him from above. He barely felt it.

  "There's no time left!" someone said. It sounded like Kessara, the young machinist. "We need to get outside. Now."

  "Did he drink the Powder of Neuroleptic?" Silas knew without hearing his voice that was Dr. Veyl.

  Vera groaned. "For the love of… Yes. He drank the stupid Powder. Oscar—"

  "I know, I know."

  Silas didn't bother wrapping his arms around Oscar's neck this time.

  Kessara started counting down. The octave of her voice increased with each lower number. Silas didn't know what would happen when she hit zero, but everyone else seemed to understand. They feared the countdown, running faster and faster as Kessara's squeaky voice ran out of numbers. A cold wind slapped Silas in the face. He opened his eyes in time to watch the Garrison Mordant be swallowed by hell.

  Silas saw the fire before the ground quaked. The heat of the explosion slammed into him, forcing him to shut his eyes again else they'd burn out of their sockets. When the ground finally heaved in dissent, Oscar's balance failed. He let go of Silas lest he injure the boy when he fell to his knees. When a piece of shrapnel struck Oscar in the back of the head, he collapsed onto Silas regardless, pinning the boy beneath him.

  Ears ringing, Silas stared at the night sky. He marveled at how warm it was. Night had never been so comfortable. It got cold again when Oscar was pulled away. Silas's hearing began to return. He pushed himself upright.

  "Oscar, are you okay?" Vera was slapping Oscar's cheeks, trying to wake him. He wouldn't open his eyes.

  "He's bleeding really bad," said Ravelin, turning Oscar to the side, his head resting on her lap. "Where's that physick?"

  Dr. Veyl hurried over as fast as his arthritic joints would allow, toting a rectangular white briefcase. He flicked his chin at Silas; Vera followed his gaze.

  "Go on without us, Vera," he said, procuring another sealed glass of Powder from within his briefcase. Giving it to Vera, he said, "I'll dress his wound and follow in Kessara's vehicle. If we don't reconvene in the next six hours, have him drink this second dose."

  Vera raised her eyebrows at the glass. "Seriously, how much can you carry in your pockets and bag?" Before the physick could answer, she offered Silas her hand.

  Silas took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He shook his head to ward off the drowsiness. That only made him dizzy.

  Silas focused on putting one foot in front of the other. How far away was Vera's boiler? His bare feet were tingly, the sand beneath ice cold. The numbing pins-and-needles sensation helped him stay awake.

  "I'm sorry little mouse," Vera said at some point, holding her stomach. "I can't carry you, I'm sorry."

  Silas bit his tongue until he drew blood. Everyone was risking their lives to save him. Vera was still recovering from her first ordeal, and now sported another wound. Because of him. Oscar had a severe concussion at the minimum, possibly worse. Because of him. The least Silas could do was keep his eyes open. What was he, an infant who skipped nap time?

  The boiler was parked somewhere in the drifting sands, hidden from sentries by tall dunes. Vera opened the door for Silas. He slid into the seat.

  The harness! He'd forgotten about the harness. Silas peeled his cheek off the window. Pa told him to always wear his harness when in a moving vehicle. If he didn't—

  "Here." Vera brushed away his clumsy attempt at working the buckle.

  Harness secured, Vera started the engine and sped away. Silas sniffed. His stomach growled loudly. Something smelled good. He didn't care what it was—he was so hungry he'd eat anything.

  Vera chuckled. "I figured you'd be hungry. That's why I brought snacks." With one hand on the steering disc, Vera reached behind her seat, rummaging through a crinkly-sounding bag.

  "It's not a meal, but perhaps this will curb your appetite until we arrive at our destination?" She plopped a box of graham crackers in his lap.

  Silas tore into it, stuffing his face with the crunchy sweetness, washing it down with great gulps of Vera's offered water. Then, he promptly fell asleep, his neck hanging awkwardly between his harness and the door.

  "Silas."

  Someone was annoyingly shaking him.

  "We're here, Silas. Wake up."

  He swatted away the pest. For a moment, he was left alone.

  A sigh. "It's just a little farther, I promise."

  Silas yawned. It was too early for whatever this was. He rolled over to face the other way and realized he was not on a bed. Bolting upright, Silas thrashed, confused and disoriented. Vera stepped back, blinking in surprise. He fumbled with his harness. Vera had told him it was just a little farther. Soon, he could sink into a soft bed and finally get some real sleep. He didn't know how long he slept, but by the aching fatigue behind his eyes he suspected it wasn't very long.

  "Drink this before you get out," Vera said, thrusting a glass in his face.

  Silas frowned. Dr. Veyl had told her to give him the next dose after six hours. It couldn't have been that long.

  But it was no longer night. Dysol poked above the horizon, heralding the dawn of a new day. Silas drank as quickly as he could, sticking his tongue out at the bitter kick.

  How funny is this? Silas thought as he exited the vehicle. I didn't need Powder of Neuroleptic before, and now I actually do.

  Vera led him into a dense copse of succulents. Silas stepped carefully to avoid pricking his bare soles with fallen spines. Once safely within the barbed barrier, Vera removed a rectangular object from her pocket, along with a tiny key. Humming softly to herself, she inserted the key and pressed the button.

  Her boiler exploded.

  Compared to the Garrison Mordant's vehement demise, this detonation was inconsequential. For Silas—who had not been expecting it—the blast knocked him off his feet. As he sat on his rump, sputtering and goggling at her smoldering vehicle, Vera grinned down at him, struggling to hold in her mirth.

  She didn't warn me so she could entertain herself with my reaction, Silas grumbled to himself. He stayed sitting until Vera forced him up, hoping the posture would allow him to siphon energy from the ground. It did not.

  "This way, we're less likely to be found," Vera explained, frowning slightly at the charred remains of her boiler. "Yet I fear if anyone found this mess, it'd look more suspicious than an abandoned boiler." With a shrug, she waltzed deeper into the succulent forest.

  Silas wished he could ask Vera where they were. The only succulent forest he knew of was in Droswick. Such questions could come later, after he'd slept. If six hours didn't do the trick, perhaps a full eight would. Silas trudged along behind Vera, growing more tired with every step.

  Somehow they came to be underground. Silas only knew because the rock beneath him was wet and Vera's voice echoed like they were in a cavern. He didn't know what she was saying, only that she was repeating the same thing over and over again. Silas kept his eyes closed, letting Vera tug him along by the sleeve of his coat. Her coat, rather, since she had given it to him at some point.

  Soon the tug wasn't enough. Vera draped her arm around him and ushered him onward. Silas was trying very hard to fight the tiredness, but it refused to let him go. He feared he'd broken something very important when he took a figurative sledgehammer to his aether. Still, he couldn't feel the power that usually swelled from within. He had a sinking suspicion that what he'd done had caused lasting damage.

  They were no longer in a cave. Silas could tell because it was warm and the ground was no longer wet. It felt like tile—like the logics wing of the Garrison Mordant. Silas wanted to run—afraid that he was back there—but didn't have the energy. Was that Pa's voice he heard? That didn't make any sense. What was Pa doing here? Where even was here?

  Finally, finally, Silas found himself in a bed. A real bed, not that firm cot at the Garrison Mordant that made his joints sound as bad as Dr. Veyl's in the morning. Silas was asleep before he could draw the covers to his chin.