1

The House of Dawn operated from a four-storey townhouse on the Floor of Seventeen, two rows down from a Madam Tian’s. It has no redeeming features but for a doorplate of solid copper.

T’Lia stared at it. Every time she came, she made sure to remind herself that one day, she could buy one just like it: her very own gaudy sign, her own workshop, on this glitzy Floor where every minute detail was a competition for affluence. His house may not show it, but Cowen was rich. The man was rumoured to own a hundred thousand amblers all by himself.

Three the three-armed ambler hauled up her fourth suitcase. Two years ago, one large satchel had sufficed for the abomination’s maintenance; now she emptied the workshop every other month. With fresh cadaver so readily available, only weirdos like Cowen cared to fix the old toys – supposedly, he was part of the team that harvested the Floor of Nine. Supposedly.

T’Lia would not know. Unlicensed and blacklisted, no respectable guild would ever invite her to a harvest.

~

Sam boiled up the kettle and found in the kitchen cupboard a jar of pickles and a box of Airship Tea. She debated whether T’Lia would enjoy brine-flavoured water, but in the end, she sided with her conscience.

“Oh, darling, real tea? I don’t deserve this,” T’Lia murmured, inhaling the fragrance of two-hundred-seeds-per-gram.

“Would you like a pickle?”

“How about a kiss?”

“No.”

“Then hand over the pickle, darling.”

James looked ill. Two weeks out from the harvest and his wasting-away has only gotten worse. His cheeks were sunken and dull, his skin grey and dead-looking. The Green glittered in his eyes like two emerald chits. He nodded when Sam slipped three endorph pills into his cup; it was late, they had worked all day, but T’Lia’s appointments were always kept.

Pleasantries were exchanged. Congratulations were said. Complaints were made and heard regarding the possibility of invites to future harvests; they were promptly dismissed and laughed away.

“My rates have doubled.” T’Lia said. “I know you get off on haggling, Cowen, so let’s go. You say, ‘your compensation reflects your performance’, I say, ‘I dance, but not for free.’ You throw a fit, tell me times are hard, I say I get it, but it’s not my problem. And after the foreplay, you will pay me double. Shall we?”

“That third arm works perfectly.” James said, looking at Three the three-armed ambler. “One cannot simply graft an extra limb and expect it to work. Full functionally stems from augmentation beyond one’s natural recourse – that is to say, one’s Green must be made to deviate from the human template.”

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T’Lia laughed. “‘The human template.’ That’s a good one.”

“Three is special. You won’t find another like it, and I recall raising it for free.”

“What’s so special about it? Tell me.”

“I literally just told you, woman.”

“And I don’t care.”

Sam slipped out quietly, shutting the door behind her. The foyer greeted her with its frigid stainless-steel panels and electric tube lights. Both were unthinkable luxuries in the poorer districts, but Sam thought a fireplace would have been nice. Maybe a pot plant or two.

Her desk was slanted to one side, facing the entrance. It, like everything else, was stainless-steel. She had an overflowing file cabinet with which to manage James Cowen’s life, and a fountain pen to write down visitors’ names in a copper-threaded logbook. T’Lia’s name glittered alone under the date.

Sam sank into her chair. She had no duties except a hundred varieties of administration, evaluation, cost estimation, earnings projection, preparations for the lab, the storerooms, and dinner…but those can wait until tomorrow, or the day after that, whichever came later. Her right eye throbbed, the beginning of a migraine.

Three letters sat under the mail slot. Her broken hand was itchy, the cast heavy. One more month, and she will run out of excuses for putting off chores. Letters were not chores, however.

The first was addressed to Samantha T., House of Dawn. She put it aside. She was still on the clock.

The second was for Ma. James C., House of Dawn. For His Eyes Only. It contained a velvety invitation from one Jackson B. Finley IV to attend the 250th stakeholder plenum at the House of Solutions on the Floor of Twenty. Enclosed was a five-day itinerary and a metal pin featuring a grinning cartoon skeleton holding an upward-trending graph.

The third contained an invoice from Charlie’s foundry amounting to three hundred thousand seeds, which seemed a ridiculous sum for what the invoice described as ‘One Large Box’.

There was a knock. She glanced at the clock. 10pm. Strictly speaking, the House of Dawn did not have opening hours, but it seemed rude to sit here and pretend to be deaf.

It was fully dark outside save for a lone streetlamp. A woman no older than Sam stood on the front steps.

“Hi,” she said tentatively. “Is this a…a Necromantic House?”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“I need a Ritual.”

“We don’t do individual Rituals, sorry. The House of Juniper is down the road.”

“Their sign says ‘on vacation’. Please. It’s urgent.”

Normally, Sam would shut the door and put on earmuffs, but the woman had almond eyes and lashes that curled up at the ends. “I will ask the Maestro.”

James was unusually enthusiastic about the prospect. He threw on a cloak before Sam could finish explaining herself.

“Don’t run on me Cowen,” grumbled T’Lia.

“I’ll be right back,” he said cheerfully. “Give you a chance to reconsider.”

“Send your apprentice.”

“She can’t necromancy before passing the audition.”

“So, what is she, a…a theorist?”

“That’s a nice way to put it.” James considered a pair of gloves, then left them on the vanity. “You get started on Lucia. Lab’s open.”

“If I don’t get my money –”

“Don’t threaten me. Lucia can hear you.”

T’Lia closed her mouth with an audible smack.

The night was chilly. The woman gave the Maestro curious looks as she shook his hand. “I know you,” she said. “You are the one with the giant.”

“Callout fee’s two thousand seeds,” James said. “One Ritual is three thousand. You are not looking for a preservative conversion?”

“No,” the woman sniffed. “I need a moment with my grandfather. He passed away before he could finalize his will.”

“Ah. How long has it been?”

“Ninety minutes.”

“What say you, apprentice?”

“‘Cognitive remnants may persist up to three hours after what is commonly known as death,’” Sam recited. “‘If the cadaver is raised during this time, it may manifest a non-zero fraction of the faculties of speech and memory.”’

“There you have it,” nodded James. “Where are we going, by the way?”