The mystique of the Inventors faded swiftly. By the third summit, Oliver doodled on scratch paper, more interested in his daydreams than the procession of incremental improvements on display. The warehouse admitted a chill breeze directly up his backside, the bleachers stank of stale bodies, and the help took far too long setting up each demonstration.

  An idea tumbled around the vault of his mind, more insistent by the day. He dreamed silver, sweeping metal that reached for the open sky…but the dream would not deign to flow through his pen.

  Instead, he toyed with an inferior design: a cage of metal suspended by air bladders. Slow, plodding, and difficult to steer, the design only taunted him with its inadequacy.

  Wings have been tried, the youth thought in frustration. Ramrod straight, flapping, or rotating…none are enough! Half killed their Inventors!

  “Newbie! Oliver!”

  He jerked upright like an errant schoolboy.

  “You awake, boy?” Novia chided.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Good! You have anything new today?”

  Setting the doodles on his bench, Oliver shook his head. “No, ma’am. My weather system prototype has accurately predicted the last three storms, but Lumia represents a fairly easy test case due to…”

  “Your dissertation can wait,” the first Inventor forestalled. She paused to hack phlegm, spat, and waved her hand. “If you don’t have anything to show, just pass!”

  “And try not to endorse any of the rest of us for election!” someone called from the other side of the warehouse.

  Oliver flushed. When would these jerks let that matter die?!

  “Shut your yaps!” Novia roared. “Tura, what do you have?”

  The Whistler stood and bowed to the assembly. “Nothing of an Inventor’s sort, dear Novia. The election proves rather more time consuming that expected.”

  “You’re the one that decided to run,” she drawled. “Politics is a sport for idle men.”

  Much of the auditorium stole glances at Inventor Alva, alone in a corner.

  “Very well. That will conclude our–”

  “I have something!” Alva rumbled.

  “Oh? Finally over your rut? Get on with it then,” Novia commanded.

  “Aure be praised!” shouted another heckler. “The drunk speaks!”

  Alva fixated the assembly with a glare of pure scorn. “Servants!”

  A Livery woman brought a silver tray to the center of the auditorium. She poised her fingers atop the lid, ready to reveal its contents.

  “He must have discovered a new shot!”

  “Alva, Inventor of whiskey!”

  Rolling her eyes, Novia raised her right palm. “Let’s see it, Alva.”

  Strange, discolored blotches marred her wrists and hands, though she quickly hid them in her sleeves.

  Not even a legend lives forever… A strange sorrow bubbled in Oliver’s throat. I will miss her. She was a mortal worth the effort.

  But he had met her only this season…

  Alva spread his arms. “Of course! I present the distillation of electricity; the storm tamed; the revolution in personal power…the battery!”

  The servant obediently yanked away the lid, revealing a lump of wires and cables.

  “By simple application of a completed current, this metal housing will distribute stored electric power to machine or man. No longer will we be shackled to the whims of the power cable! Why, in the future, a single one of my batteries will power an entire mansion for weeks at a time!”

  Oliver squinted at the lump. It looked more like a stick of dynamite than an Invention…

  As he squinted, his papers vanished in the claws of a squat, furtive imp.

  “Yes, yes, I know what you think. You think that this old drunk is a fraud, pulling another tall tale. Servant! The light.”

  The servant presented a lightbulb in her other hand. She connected two wires, and the bulb snapped to life.

  A few Inventors clapped politely.

  Odd, noted Oliver. What a familiar servant.

  Looking at her face too long set his temples to buzzing …

  Perhaps sisters, he decided, and the tension faded.

  Alva reddened like a tomato. “Come now! Don’t you fools see the applications?! All manner of mechanical marvels might be powered wherever a man might walk with this in his pocket!”

  Novia nodded. “Yes? Did you bring any?”

  Alva harrumphed. “I was only struck by inspiration at the very last second, and I have yet to finalize the mechanism for sustained transference. Next month!”

  “Excellent.” She waited a moment, letting the dead silence percolate. “Anyone else?”

  The Inventor of electricity stewed on the floor, fists clenched in his pockets.

  “Then the symposium is adjourned!” Novia roared. Then she slumped onto the bleachers and fanned herself, an old woman too thin for her blue robes.

   Stretching, Oliver patted the bench. Where had his notes gone? I need to keep them close…

  “Oliver!” Tura called, striding up.

  “Tura!” Oliver squeaked. “What can I do for you? Don’t hesitate to ask for anything!”

  The Whistler laughed, spreading his hands. “Still guilty, I see. Let the matter drop, my friend! The papers have moved on, and public opinion on my bid is already in the basement.”

  The Weaver guilds all but called for your execution, Oliver thought morosely.

  “Would you be interested in another movie, my young friend? I have made several improvements to the projector since last we spoke, and the picture is as stable as life!”

  “I thought you were going to show your motion picture to House Visage today?”

  “I’m afraid Lady Mirielle cancelled the engagement. My name no longer commands her attention, it seems…” Tura sighed. Then he shrugged, flicked back his hair, and found a smile. “But never fear! I have had several inquiries as to using the motion picture as a nursery soothing device. Once I can silence the reel, it will lull every babe in Lumia to sleep!”

  You want a baby to sleep through a gasoline motor?!

  Still, a stray thought struck Oliver – one born from within instead of the ever-roiling lullaby in the back of his head. “Have you tried showing the movies to common folk?”

  “Merchants, you mean? With the election afoot, the Guilds are quite hostile to my requests at the moment…”

  “No. Common folk.” Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he heard of an Inventor demonstration for the commoners. The Inventors existed in another other universe, flush with gold and pride. “Like a public event.”

  Tura blinked several times.

  “I know a farmer not far out of town with a nice barn. We could drape a tarp down the side. Set up some grills and buy some beer…”

  “You really think they would care for my pictures?”

  “They cannot offer a reception any colder than the Houses.”

  The Whistler laughed. “Now that I believe! Well, why not? Contact your farmer! We shall hold a public demonstration!” He warmed to the idea by the moment. “Yes, the common folk. A fresh audience! Ah, and that means a new reel is in order…and musicians…there must be suitable accompaniment!”

  Oliver smiled in relief. Finally a way to pay him back. “Whatever you need, Tura.”

  Behind the duo, the imp quietly dropped Oliver’s papers on the bench.

  “Let me speak to some of my countrymen,” the spry Inventor muttered. Biding his farewell, he swept away with a lively step.

  Oliver turned back to the bench, and his notes waited right where he had left them.

  How did I miss that?

  He folded the papers into his suit pocket. Then he paused, wondering if he should impose on Novia. He had yet to actually speak to her one-on-one.

  Unfortunately, a dozen Inventors competed for her attention, all eager to display their work to the Mother of Inventions.

  Let’s not bother her, he sighed. Next time.

  He only dallied in the face of his next appointment anyways. Worse than any contract negotiation or even his status updates with Mirielle…the Redeemers awaited.

  Just him, Lace, and the proof he needed to obtain.

  If half the constables weren’t crooked, word of those cages in her building would be enough…

  He thought of a witch and a fairy under matching tarps.

  …but those rules are only for the little people, aren’t they?

  If the Inquisition knew of the phoenix sleeping in his furnace, which set of rules would they apply?

  Was he the farmboy or the Inventor?

  We are going to make a better world.

  The lullaby spun him a new vision: a suit of white, a gaze far and regal, a burden secret and noble. His martyrdom in the pursuit of knowledge…

  What I would give for quiet in my head…

  Sighing, the Inventor ducked out of the warehouse and retreated along the wharf to the line of Livery cars. The sky roiled with thick, grey clouds, and the harbor spray nipped at his exposed skin. Tomorrow was the first of Solace, and the weather already played its depressing part.

  Oliver’s Inventor maid waited at his car.

  How strange to think it his car…

  “Oh, look who decided to show up when I’m awake!” he snapped. His own words echoed against his ears, entitled as the worst noble, and he swallowed his annoyance. “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to speak with you for a while.”

  She opened the passenger door for him.

  “You had best not be a spy,” he grumbled, stepping in.

  “Only for Lady Visage, and that should be no surprise,” she answered.

  She slipped into the driver’s seat, started the car, and began to drive without ever asking for a destination. Then again, the servant of Mirielle would already know.

  “Were you there when Lady Visage offered me this position?” he asked. Though he poked at the memories of that receiving room, he found his recollections in tatters – tangles of music and voices that might or might not have been his own.

  “Naturally.”

  “She assigned you to watch over me?”

  “Among other tasks, yes.”

  Oliver thought a moment. “So you take orders from me.”

  The maid arched an eyebrow. “Within reason, Oliver Oshton.”

  “Fair enough. And you are an expert in phoenix care because…?”

  She assessed him, not a shred of deference in her cold gaze. At length, she humored him. “The elemental beasts are equal parts flesh and power. Understand the aspect that molded them, and you understand their needs.”

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  “Are you a witch?”

  “A church label of limited imagination. As such, I cannot say what they would call me.”

  “Phi would have died without your help. Thank you.”

  She nodded.

  Though Oliver quietly wondered what devil’s bargain she signed with Mirielle, perhaps he would be better to hold his tongue.

  They arrived at the Dreamer’s Den soon after. By the glint of day, the shopfront sagged on itself, faded and chewed at the corners. The light only revealed the cheap cut of the curtains and the gilt on the signage.

  “I will not be long,” he told his maid. “There’s parking in the alley if you want. For better or worse, nobody messes with the guests here.”

  He was past the point of attempting to hide his attendance to the Den. It seemed rather silly to fret over the matter when he had seen half the noble scions in town peek in at one of Lace’s frequent séances.

  The Mishkan family had not asked, but he had attended several other séance sessions by other witches in the last month. He wanted a proper basis of comparison, after all.

  It had been a total waste of his time, of course. Oliver began to understand why the nobles tittered through the sermons on fire and doom; the same story could be bought from every street corner. He understood apocalyptic fantasies for laborers, their lives toil from dawn to dusk, but why would noble sons yearn for the scouring? They were the ones on top!

  And why do I concern myself with the thrill-seeking of scions? A voice within wondered quietly. Am I here to make a better world or to win a Harvest crown?

  Not that the lullaby let such rebellious thoughts surface.

  Shaking his head, Oliver admitted himself into the Den. The chapel beyond the séance chamber was deserted and dusty. Lace held fewer sessions now that she had caught her harvest of rich fools, and the mystically inclined drifted to other witches. Those who remained sought another kind of succor.

  Sought fire.

  He much preferred the idle nobility who tittered in the pews, but the liturgy gathered dust. He walked like a ghost through the ruin of Donovan’s dream. The new management wore it like a skin, fraying at the ends.

  Lace descended from the western stairs a moment later. “Good afternoon, Oliver. Always so prompt, aren’t we?”

  “Where is everyone?” he asked, sweeping a hand over the disused chapel.

  “Busy, dear. Bringing the word to the masses.”

  He scowled skeptically.

  “Come, Oliver, no pouting. Would you be satisfied distributing fliers on the corners? You can do so much more.”

  As though you even bother to print leaflets.

  “I hope you have anticipated our second tete-a-tete as much as I have, dear. Shall we?”

  She fastened her fingers around his wrist and tugged him up to her receiving room. The central carpet had been rolled back, and two chairs faced each other on the pitted wood. A circle of white chalk encompassed the chairs, tiny symbols in Alisandra’s rune language peppering the perimeter.

  Lace stepped into the circle, tucked her skirts, and sank into a seat. “Please.”

  The memory of Lace discussing her baqa rune and dead bodies sent a trickle of sweat down his spine, but he sat. What business shall we discuss today? If you’re looking to sell me a phoenix, I already have one.

  His skinny knees brushed against her skirts, and there was nowhere to look but directly into her sweet face.

  So close he could see the make-up that covered the pockmarks on her cheeks.

  Lace tilted her head and smiled.

  “Prompt, dutiful Oliver,” she hummed. “Surely you have noticed the dip in attendance at sermon. I suppose the election is more interesting…yet you return, week after week.”

  All the hairs at the back of his neck jolted to attention.

  “One must wonder what inspires such dedication. Why are you here, Oliver?”

  “I asked you to spy on Mirielle Visage,” he objected quickly.

  “Were the reports not informative?” Lace agreed.

  “Not really,” he deadpanned. Though I suppose this charade requires you to deliver me something, useful or not. The illusion of mercantilism.

  “Unfortunately, she is a difficult case,” the witch continued, ignoring his mutterings. “But that is merely the dance of witch and her patron. What draws you here?”

  She rapped her heels, and the ritual circle began to faintly glow.

  “Why am I here?” Oliver repeated dumbly. Something queer tickled at the back of his throat, attempting to loosen his lips faster than a shot of liquor.

  “You donate the exact average every sermon. You hold yourself above the acolytes. You avoid Reed’s men – yes, it is obvious you know them – and pretend that Alva does not visit. What are you waiting for, little Inventor?”

  The floorboards warmed beneath his feet. Was there a boiler beneath? No, the boiler was usually in the basement, and he would have seen the piping.

  “You can speak to me.” She leaned closer.

  Speak to me.

  The circle glowed hotter.

  Confess.

  The floorboards burned like coals, and the lullaby in his mind grew distant. For the first time in months, he was alone in his mind, and he was shocked to find it lonely.

  He began to sweat, adrift in a strange place.

  Lace frowned. The ritual circle sizzled against her heels, penetrating her slippers with ease, but she ignored that familiar warning and shifted her avenue of attack. “I wrote to your teacher in Oshton,” she purred. “He praised you as a devout and dedicated student. Said you memorized the catechisms by ten.”

  Oh, Aure above, she knows where my family lives!

  The heat pried at his lips, demanding he babble secrets like a burst dam.

  “You stray from Aure. Does it not torment you? The rural areas are so very pious, aren’t they? Aure on every breath…” She slipped forward, skirts spilling across his belly, and straddled him. Close, heavy, and warm, she brushed her fingertips across his lips. “Everybody wants something, Inventory boy. Everybody extracts their price! What do you desire?”

  The chalk circle smoked, and her Will pounded against him like a drummer.

  Demanding he bend, Lace erred. The witch squeezed both her thighs and her Will, forcing the subtle whisper of ritual into a crushing pressure…

  And Oliver felt something deep inside, sleeping in the pit of his navel, snap in response.

  We are growing tired of being pushed around! growled this new voice. A woman’s voice, familiar as his own mother; a whisper buried deep beneath the earth; a dragon slow to wake. Whose garden does she think this is?!

  He could not hear the lullaby; the strength was his own.

  The price must be paid, instructed the shadow that followed in his footsteps. For who among us is truly pure? In ages past, we knew the thrill of divine fire, but that power was shattered so that worlds might endure. Even these scraps exact their toll…

  Lace desired his truth. She demanded that he confess. She was willing to pay in pain and blood.

  Yet there are more ways to pay than just blood.

  The way cleared, and Oliver understood. His mind quieted, and he Willed.

  Then let us bare our truths.

  “I have seen demons,” he said. Even he was surprised by the confidence in his voice. “I have felt the burn of holy words.”

  He raised his hands, flexing the scars that showed no signs of fading.

  Lace tensed. “Holy fire…”

  “But you already know about demons, yes? Donovan’s preachings of demiurge and conspiracy.”

  “He does speak of such things,” she admitted, sliding back to his knees. “Just a bigger class of monster.”

  And what is a monster? murmured the voice within. A monster. A heretic. A demon. Names to paper over our ignorance.

  “He abandoned you too,” Oliver continued. “For a book. For a few more scraps.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she dismissed. “I sold him to the Deepbloom authorities for the cost of postage.” Her eyes flashed, alight with danger. “Does it dismay you that your champion is dead?”

  “Donovan?! He abandoned me for scrap in the laboratory! He left me facing servitors and constables!”

  Half-built shells with strangely familiar faces…

  Focus, guided the voice from his garden, gently steering. Truth is a sword, and it will cut as surely as Alisandra’s dread blade.

  “You would have me believe you weren’t one of his agents?” Lace scoffed. The truth wormed at her speech, dissolving that affected, refined accent for something hardened as a blade and born of the streets.

  “I was his roommate!”

  The Redeemer laughed in bafflement. “His roommate?!”

  Ah, but you have no Livery spies on hand in the boonies, do you, Lace? No one eavesdrops on the proles.

  Still the circle burned, locking them together like lovers. He could only race the wire just ahead of the flames and pray he survived.

  “Donovan, Edward, and I. We shared a barn – the rent was fantastic – and chatted on the morning wagons into work. Two day laborers and a stone mason. That’s what I thought. I suppose it was true, in its own way, until Donovan claimed his prize. He betrayed Edward and I both, and Edward crawled home.”

  He could speak truth, but Lace would hear what she wanted.

  “But you remained,” she murmured, stroking a finger down his neck. “You felt the kiss of holy fire…”

  “The only damn thing Donovan cared about was that book! He threw me to the flames to buy ten minutes!”

  Lace laughed, dark and sour. “He knew nothing of fire.”

  “Lumia is my home now. This city is on the verge of toppling, and I am not going to sit on the sidelines! I am going to make things better, and no demon, witch or noble is going to bar my way. No matter the cost!”

  Though the cost will be great, agreed the guardian of his garden.

  The burning power released him, and his lips became his own once more. Wrung like a towel, sweating like a mule, but his own.

  We have paid in truth. Observe, dear Oliver.

  Lace regarded him pensively, chewing the inside of her lip. Some inner battle played out in the flick of her fingers and the twitch of her eyelid.

  She must match in turn.

  The witch hissed between her teeth. “You would be branded a heretic…”

  “Heresy is name-calling for churches,” he retorted bitterly, echoing that deeper voice. “Guildsmaster Reed could run a parade of elemental beasts down Main Street, and nobody would bat an eye!”

  She laughed in surprise, and the spell caught her. For once, her dread guardian left her alone. Drunk on her power, she never thought to wonder why as she confessed all on her own.

  Lace grinned, savage as an alley cat. “You’ve seen, then.” She rode higher on his lap, skirts crumpled against his belly, and ran her thumbs over the ripples of his burns.

  “You have felt fire. Felt the lie in that noble façade. What God gives a handful of families the right to own this country? Why should they send their pets to proclaim truth at the pulpit when all they know is lies? Heresy is their scourge – heresy for bakers and schoolmarms, dancers and singers! Heresy for families! Why should our fathers and mothers burn for traditions celebrated in Wave’s Lament, Deepbloom, the Plateau?! Why are witches sentenced and executed on site when the nobles are the one demanding our services?!”

  Our fathers and mothers? No…your own. He swallowed against a sudden, queasy notion. Sympathy. A dangerous sympathy for a dangerous woman.

  “Lace…” His eyes fell to her high collar, kept so tight and prim. Surely it could not be comfortable, but she wore nothing else. “Are you branded?”

  Nodding, the witch laid her fingers on her collarbone. “The Inquisitors arrived in the dead of night, but they had no questions. I was but a child. In their vaunted mercy, they spared me the pyre.”

  She unclasped the collar slowly, letting the fabric drop to her shoulders. The skin beneath was maimed beyond recognition, the rings of a brand lost among the savaged flesh.

  The kind of damage that came from a wound left to rot and heal, rot and heal..

  “Aure above…” he muttered reflexively.

  Hear the lesson in this, whispered his guardian. Even the dangerous have their reasons, real or imagined.

  An orphaned child, branded by the irons…

  No family would accept her, he realized in horror. Even strangers in the streets would avoid her!

  “As though Aure cared!” Lace spat in return. “The nobles that plied my family’s services were fined ten gold each, and I was left to starve!”

  “Until you found the Redeemers.”

  “Oh, Donovan was ripe for the picking. Obsessed with his scraps, searching for truth in ancient prayers. For all his rhetoric, he never shed the leaf priest. He could claim to pine for the ancient days, but he really only ever pined for his slumbering goddess. He could talk of fire, but he did not know how it feels to burn.”

  She pressed closer, rocking her hips.

  “But you have felt it. Oh, I am so glad that you stumbled into my Den. We are the same! We remember the smell of our flesh as it died!”

  She was going to kiss him.

  “We are going to burn the rot from this fetid world. We are going to make things better. We who are truly awake.”

  Her tongue slipped between his lips, and Oliver entertained a mad notion. Metaphor and history, echoes and consequences. If demons stood against the flow of history, wielding their Inventors to reshape the future, then what path did they carve with each resounding step?

  Who else might hear the call to glory? agreed the voice of his garden.

  The circle of chalk began to sputter, spent, and the faint lullaby began to worm its way back into Oliver’s head.

  Lace savored the kiss a moment longer, an invitation open.

  Unfortunately, Oliver kissed with all the skill of a teenager.

  She withdrew, drawing her collar back over her neck. “Well. That was invigorating.”

  He flushed bright red. Surely she felt the mass against her inner thigh, achingly tight in his pants. Yes, she was completely insane, but the rational mind did not control some things!

  “Thank you for the little talk, Oliver.” She slid from his lap and brushed down her skirts. Smirking, she made a show of turning to examine her desk for a long moment.

  Long enough for Oliver to adjust himself into decency.

  That was almost a very bad idea, he admitted to himself.

  He half expected a teasing whisper from that voice, but only the lullaby rose to remind him of Inventions not yet forged…

  “My apologies if I was a touch forward,” Lace hummed, pulling on her refined accent once more.

  He could still taste her lipstick…

  “I simply had to determine your loyalty,” she explained. “It simply would not do to have a dog of the nobility sniffing around. And, of course, you could be another one of Reed’s little games. He thinks himself very clever…”

  “You think I would work for Reed?!” Oliver demanded, aghast. “You’re the one taking his money!”

  “Yes, Oliver. Taking his money.” Lace smirked. “Just like you take Mirielle’s.”

  The young man grimaced.

  “We take their money, and they believe that they own us. Ah, but it is useful to maintain that pretty little lie, isn’t it?” Lace swished to her seat behind the desk and pet the finish like a schoolmarm. “Now then. A touch of business: put in a word with Tura that I wish to speak with him.”

  “Tura?! I can say with absolute certainty that he does not care one golden ounce about either Aure or the nobility!”

  Better if the Whistler remained ignorant of this foul place anyways.

  “Oh, yes, the Whistlers are notoriously secret with their Song,” she agreed. “Donovan would constantly waste resources trying to…Ah, no matter. That is the past. I have no intention of harming your friend, dear Oliver. I merely ask that you gauge his interest. If he declines, then the matter may end there.”

  “He has no authority of note,” the young Inventor pressed. “Even if he won election by some fluke.”

  “We are hardly going to cleanse the rot with imps and tricks,” Lace smirked. “The whole of the task must remain occluded. After all, you have admitted yourself that demons lurk among us.”

  He grimaced, forcing a cheap lie. “I will try to see where he stands. Anything else?”

  “Be patient, Oliver,” she counseled. “The true fun will begin in the Spring.”

***

  Lace descended the stairs after the boy left, humming to herself. How wonderful to meet another with the eyes to see! Perhaps he could be included in the festivities to come…

  For now, best if he did not have to worry about the details. He was a sweet boy, and she might need that gullible face later.

  After all, he can walk right through Mirielle Visage’s wards…

  Though Lace had sent worse than imps, nothing had returned from that manor.

  Emerging in the back alley, Lace found rough men waiting in the afternoon shadows. They escorted four covered carts that shook from within.

  “You have done well for your first assignment,” she praised the sailors.

  “This isn’t our first job,” the first mate growled in return.

  “Your first job for me,” she replied coolly.

  “Our work was good enough for Jessica.”

  “Then get her to pay you. You know where to dig.”

  Beneath her gown, Lace quietly fingered a warm, black scale. Just in case.

  The first mate spat. “She-witch!”

  The scale pulsed against her fingertips, tempting her…

  No, no…not yet.

  “Check the merchandise,” Lace ordered.

  One unlucky sailor began to release the edges of the tarps. He plucked with care, ready to leap away at the first sign of–

  A great, black paw swiped at the man between the bars of its cage, and only raw animal instinct saved the man’s life.

  “Hells and fire!” the sailor swore, scrambling back. After a few moments, four thin lines of blood welled across his chest.

  “Oh, my. He’s hungry,” Lace hummed.

  The largest sailor snarled. “He’s killed–”

  “I don’t care,” Lace interrupted. “Not how many, not how much. I don’t care if you had to depopulate that festering jungle to the last damned man.”

  Barely visible in the shadows of the cage was a sleek, furious form…

  She stepped closer, smiling in. “The legend of terror from deepest jungle. Oh, my, you are a bit cranky after such a long trip, aren’t you?”

  The shadow walker known as Father Panther surged into the bars, and the metal flashed with brilliant energy.

  How long could wards last against one of the Verdant’s greatest children? There would be no placid bonding with this creature; it would maul Lace with glee no matter how well she fed it in its cage…

  Some tools are scalpels, and some are hammers…

  Behind her back, the sailors shared a conspiratorial glance. The largest quietly shook his head as if to say, “Not yet.”

  She tapped the scale in her skirts, letting them play their games.

  “Do you want to check the others?” the sailor asked.

  The other three crates rattled on queue. Two of the cages rattled, hissed, and dribbled a black ichor, thick as whale oil. The final cart vibrated, emitting a high whistle like a tornado.

  “No, good sir. If you can ward Father Panther…you can handle the lesser ones.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re free.”

  “I suppose not,” she agreed loftily. “Please let your captain know that I would like to meet over dinner to discuss payment. You are all invited as well.”

  How the scale throbbed in anticipation for what would come…

  “Just you,” the sailor clarified. “You and a briefcase of gold.”

  “Of course.”

  The cages rattled again.

  Lace smiled. “Now, now, my sweet pets. Don’t fuss. I won’t keep you cooped for long.”