A violet bubble surrounds the Scholar’s House. Between it and the scarlet cloth shading the busy market, they dye the morning in bright colors. If only it was as pleasant as it looked. The bubble buzzes with a static that makes it hard for Mary to think.

“How can you stand to touch it? It puts my teeth on edge,” she says.

“It’s crude and unpleasant, true,” Eratosthenes says, taking his hand away from the spirit shield, “but given the neighbors, I imagine it’s necessary.”

The neighbors. Mary eyes the shadows gathered on the surrounding rooftops like vultures waiting for prey to die. Organized. They’re definitely organized, but the source of their organization remains elusive. The handful that Eratosthenes captured only knew their own compulsions and nothing else.

A young man walks past with a slip of shadow clinging to his neck. The woman next to him wears hers like a cloak. Mary flicks her staff to waft the scent of frankincense towards them. The shadows fall away, repulsed by the smell.

“The little ones don’t matter,” Eratosthenes says.

“They matter to the people they’re afflicting,” Mary says. “Possession is no small thing to the one possessed.”

“I don’t disagree, but we shouldn’t waste our energies. Think about it. Why are the shadows out in the open like this? We’re meant to spend ourselves against them. They’re here to distract us, to tire us and lure us into another ambush. If we’re not careful, we could win every battle but lose the war. There’s a cunning intelligence at work.”

“We need a local guide and allies,” Mary says.

“Yes,” Eratosthenes says. “At least until Hallon recovers.”

“Will she? The damage was—”

“She will,” Eratosthenes says. “You don’t know her like I do.”

Mary sighs. “Be that as it may, we’re not enough as we are now.”

“Have faith, Mary Featherwise. There are guardians here. Not many and they hide well, but I can smell traces of them still. We’ll find them and show them that they can trust us.”

“Like the witch behind this shield?” Mary asks.

“That we don’t know. Not yet anyway.” Eratosthenes says.

Mary hears a faint echo, a chorus of flowers singing of home and hearth to remind her that she’s journeyed long away from her body. “It’s time I head back,” she says.

Eratosthenes nods in understanding. “I’ll continue the investigation. When do you expect you’ll return?”

“Two days. I can feel myself stretched thin, but if I can come back sooner, I will.”

“Until then,” Eratosthenes says, “good journey.”

“Thank you,” Mary says before letting her herself slide away.

###

Mary leaves in a flicker of green light, and Eratosthenes returns to his examination of the spirit shield. He sighs. The Green Witch is right, of course. The people of Dawrtaine can’t be left to the shadows. Each and every person is a nexus of choice, helping to shape the future to come. Each one is a battleground in the war between light and shadow. None can be left to chance. Only, they are so short-handed. It’s as if all the pieces were removed from a chessboard, leaving only the knights and a handful of pawns.

“I ask, what are you thinking?”

The gods don’t answer. For whatever reason, Eratosthenes and Mary are on their own. Well, not quite, he thinks.

Milo steps clear of the shield, he and his guide discussing a place called Groud’s Factory and Metalworks. They’ve secured work for Milo. More importantly, the spirit shield hasn’t interfered with the magical interventions still working within him. His spirit lines continue to stabilize.

Eratosthenes fades from view. He desperately wants to ask Milo about who is inside in the shield—to see if they can be recruited to the cause—but the last thing Milo needs is another shock. No, Eratosthenes will just have to wait until Milo has had more time to adjust, to his new surroundings and to the seeds Hallon planted. Until then, Eratosthenes and Mary will do their best to nurse Hallon back to health. Even now, his puppets stand watch over her unconscious body; they wander over the city looking for allies in this shadow-infested place.

###

Mary opens her eyes—her body’s eyes—to find her son Isaac sitting on a stool by the bed. He has dark hair and watchful eyes, just like his father. He is as solemn a seven-year old as you’ll find, and the center of the Green Witch’s world.

Issac offers a cup of sweetened milk and a plate of honeyed oat cakes. “The vervain said you were coming.”

“And right they were,” Mary says, taking the offered food. She’s ravenous and eats quickly, licking the last of the honey off her fingers before easing out of bed. She walks around, helping herself to remember what it feels like to be inside a body, and Isaac trails behind to give her the news.

The garden herbs are fine and have missed her. His father Tom is out tending a dispute in Ralloway. A messenger from the Coven stopped by, but left no messages. A pair of foxes made a den east of the cottage and had pups. Issac was careful to let them know that the chicken coop was off limits, but that if the foxes were good neighbors, they’d find good fortune in their hunting.

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“Did I do right,” Issac asks.

“Yes, well done.” Mary pats him on the head.

It’s good to be home, to be wrapped up in her life again, even if only for a day or two. It’s not good for a witch’s spirit to travel for too long.

“Is there anything I can help with?” Isaac asks, watching her.

“You’re already a good help taking care of the cottage while your father and I are away.”

“I’d like to do more if I can.”

“Then help me with the ingredients for the next spirit journey. Do you know which ones I need?”

Isaac nods. “The belladonna and the vervain, water from the still pool, a butterfly’s wings.”

“And?”

The boy looks to the side as he thinks. “A bit of yesterday’s dream?”

Mary smiles. “Yes, that’s it.”

Isaac nods and runs to gather the necessary materials. It’s not too early to start; the potion will brew until she’s ready to journey again.

The cottage doesn’t need much care, but Mary putters and straightens anyway, putting things already in order into even more order. Her fingers tremble, but whether it’s from traveling too long or from fear—she doesn’t know.

A cunning intelligence, is it? Well, her parents didn’t raise a dunce, and you don’t become the Green Witch for nothing. She’ll just carry her weight and more, if she has to.

Isaac comes back inside with a bundle in his arms.

Mary stills her hands and puts a smile on her face. No sense in scaring the boy, and there’s work to be done anyway. The potion won’t be making itself.

###

Milo returns to the Standing Goat for dinner, but before he can sit down, the General finds him and tells him that Hallon is upstairs. They’d moved her earlier in the day. Milo runs up the stairs and spends two hours just holding her hand and telling her about the market and the things he saw there, the people he met, and his new job. He thinks he’ll eventually run out of things to say, but he doesn’t. He’s still talking when Rahima kicks him out of the room.

Downstairs, the General and Noor invite him to sit with them. The food is wonderful—a roast chicken shared between the three of them—and he watches them play chess afterward. The General is the better tactician, but Noor manages to escape all his stratagems and win the game. It’s a strange feeling to be included in their friendly banter, but Milo doesn’t find it unpleasant.

Rahima comes back downstairs to quirk an eye at Milo, and her behavioral model tells him it is a hint for him to get going. The General is confused about why Milo isn’t staying at the Goat, but he doesn’t press when Milo stutters in response.

Across No Town, Karam’s room turns out to be even smaller than the small rooms at the Goat, but the sleeping mat is soft and the neighbors mind their own business. Milo doesn’t get any sleep—there’s too much to think about, too many mathematical models to build and tweak—but he’s comfortable enough. Karam comes in through the window just before dawn, and they trade places on the mat. The water in the wash bowl is cold and helps wake Milo up.

Groud’s Factory and Metalworks is located on the north side of No Town. Milo double-checked and triple-checked the route to make sure he wouldn’t have any problems getting there. Along the way, he runs into the old man selling atayef. He buys two—one for now and one for later—but eats both by the end of the street.

The factory is surrounded by a fifteen foot wall interrupted by an open gate. Milo is a drop in the river of workers flowing inside and washes up against a man in a blue uniform, who checks his name against a list before sending him inside. Great banks of machines occupy the factory floor, conveyor belts sliding between them. The machines chomp and crash as they work, and people have to yell to be heard.

Milo is directed to someone named Lana Hepedil, who introduces him to another, this one named Orange Daniel, who in turn hands him over to Wael al Rashad. This Wael walks Milo over to a young man peering under a press who doesn’t even look up to send them further down the line.

Milo’s head swims with all the numbers. Or maybe it’s the fumes from the machines. He can’t tell. Someone calls his guide away, and Milo’s left standing in the middle of the shop floor to wait. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes pass. People walk by, all looking like they’re doing necessary and important things. Thirty minutes, forty minutes.

A sound clacks, the noise out of place among the factory’s patterns. An old man stands behind Milo. His metal tipped cane rises and strikes the concrete floor again. He wears a faded suit with patches at the elbows and knees. A woman in her forties is beside him, a clipboard in hand. One of her eyes is brown, the other gray.

“Who is this,” the old man says, “and why am I paying him to stand around?”

“Milo Rabbit,” the woman says, checking her clipboard. “The Scholar sent him for the machinist position.”

The old man loses steam. “The Scholar, you say. All right, but why is he just standing here?”

“I recommend we ask,” the woman says.

They both look at Milo.

“I. Well. You see, I was.” Milo gestures helplessly in the direction his guide went.

The old man sighs. “Put him with the coal shovelers.”

“Young man,” the woman says, “my name is Mrs. Bagouti, and this is your employer, Mr. Groud. You have exactly one chance to impress us. What is the value of 23 plus 54?”

“77?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” she asks.

“Sorry,” Milo says, “an answer. I was expecting a harder question.”

“Easy, was it?” Mrs. Bagouti smiles. “What about 23 multiplied by 54?”

“1,242.”

“And the square root of that?” she asks.

Milo blinks. “35.2420203734.”

Mr. Groud grunts. “You have any experience with machines?”

“Yes, sir. I—”

Mr. Groud cuts him off. “Give him to Elias. If he works out, move him to Gearing or Compositions, depending on who needs the extra pair of hands more.”

Mrs. Bagouti says, “What about the Lion?”

Mr. Groud is surprised. “You get that feeling?”

She nods.

“Huh.” Mr. Groud’s equations are hard to read. “All right, if you say so. Start him with tier one. Then, if he proves himself, get him a security pass and move him to the garage.”

As they decide his future, Milo’s eyes are drawn to the panels of sheet metal being stamped and folded. The metal can’t help what happens to it—dug up and smelted, shaped by forces beyond its understanding into—Milo smiles when he recognizes the outline for the mechanical lions he saw at the market. Maybe he should recommend they make toy rabbits too.

He sighs. There are windows high above, but the light and air feel far away. He almost wishes he was back on the mountain with Hallon. He’d been hungry and hurt, but at least she was safe then.

“—do a good job, and you’ll be rewarded,” Mrs. Bagouti says, interrupting Milo’s thoughts. She calls a young boy over and hands him a chit. “Follow Nadim here, and he’ll take you to your station.”

Nadim covers his mouth and ears to show that he’s deaf and mute. Milo nods to show that he understands. Mr. Groud and Mrs. Bagouti walk off without a second glance, while above, the dragon perched on the roof cranes his head to watch the boy lead Milo deeper into the factory.