Florence held fast to his forearm. “I’m coming with you.”
“What?” It came from Powell and Nora at the same time.
“This was what we came here for,” she explained to the Alchemists. “To speak with the Vicar Harvester about the rebellion.”
“The Vicar Harvester was undecided,” Nora reminded her.
“That Vicar Harvester is dead. And in light of recent events, I think we have a better case to make.” Florence squeezed Powell’s forearm. She wanted him to feel her strength and certainty. She wanted to be as strong as Arianna was when the woman had pulled her from the depths of the Underground and told her everything would be all right. “Powell, we would like to request this of the Masters.”
He looked back to Max who was halfway to them, no doubt having heard the better portion of the conversation. He was tall for a Fenthri or Chimera, nearly Arianna’s height. His sharp blue eyes assessed her.
“The vote won’t be a place for a Raven.”
“I’m not a Raven,” Florence replied on instinct.
“What are you, then?”
She stopped short of her usual response of “Revolver.” Instead: “I’m Florence.”
The man raised his eyebrows. But his response was interrupted by a solemn bell toll from a nearby assembly hall. He pulled out his pocket watch, inspecting the time.
“Very well, come along. But they sit in the back,” he cautioned Powell, as if the man was now solely responsible for the three of them. Judging from the train, it wasn’t an unfair assessment.
Usually, a filled hall would seem like a joyous occasion. The rising of a Master, the appointment of a new Vicar. Every seat was packed with journeymen and handfuls of initiates.
But nothing had ever looked sadder than the three men and two women who were seated in the center of the floor. No one spoke for a long minute. The room was as still as a tomb.
Max stood. “Today, on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month, in the year one thousand eighty-one, we, the Masters of the Harvesters’ Guild, have been called together to elect a new Vicar Harvester from among us.”
Florence shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was short enough that she had elected to stand in the back of the room on a small box to be able to see. Plus, even if she didn’t fully agree with them, Max’s words stayed with her. While she believed that any Fenthi from any guild should be able to witness the changing of a Vicar, this did not impact her in the same way it did the journeymen and initiates who lined the room. They deserved to be closer.
“Do any have a nominee from among us?”
The first journeyman stood. “I nominate Maxwell.”
“I second.” Another stood as well.
“I nominate Theodosia.”
“I third Maxwell.”
“Second Theodosia.”
“I nominate Powell.”
Florence watched with more interest the moment Powell’s name was added to the ring. Whoever the other two Masters were, they didn’t seem to have the same type of fervor wrapped around them. Eventually, the only names that mattered were Powell and Theodosia.
When it was clear that the room was split, the two stepped forward, away from the Masters, to face their peers. Chosen from a select group, supported by the guild on the whole, now the most experienced men and women would cast their votes for who would lead.
“I vote for Powell.” Max was the first to cast his ballot.
“I vote for Theodosia,” the second woman decided.
The final man thought it over a long moment. Florence wished she could ask him what ran through his head. What did one think while they were deciding the future of a guild? How did someone even approach a situation like that? It was a skill Florence wanted to imitate and learn.
He took a deep breath and made his choice. “I vote Powell.”
Max stood again, as the woman at Powell’s side stepped away. “Powell, Vicar Harvester, so voted on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the year one thousand eighty-one. Lead with wisdom.”
“Lead with wisdom,” the room repeated, Florence included. Even though she had never seen a Vicar voting ceremony, she had read about them. And, while this was certainly an unorthodox situation, falling to convention felt right. It harkened back to the old days of the guilds and the traditions they kept—the things the Dragons could only take from Loom if the guilds let them.
“Sow and reap.” Maxwell placed his hand on Powell’s shoulder.
“Sow and reap.” Theodosia did the same.
“Sow and reap.” The other Masters spoke the words and joined as well. Soon, the room was one large, spoked wheel with Powell at its center. “Sow and reap” filled the air and connected the Harvesters as much as their physical contact.
“Sow and reap, Powell,” Florence whispered, apart from the group. To her surprise, Derek and Nora echoed the same.
It was a dark stroke of luck, but a stroke of luck all the same. Florence leaned against the wall, content to let Powell have his moment and to let the Harvesters find comfort in it. For she was no longer worried about finding time or sympathy from the Vicar Harvester.
41. Yveun
Yveun was awoken with a sharp knock on the door. He gave a low growl from the back of his throat, expressing his discontent at whatever fool would dare disturb him this early in the morning. He chose to ignore the offender. Instead of flaying them, he curled toward his queen.
Let no one claim he wasn’t a benevolent ruler.
There was another knock. Another low growl. And a voice that changed the pace of the early hours of dawn.
“Dono, Dono, I have returned from the Xin Manor.” Finnyr.
Yveun narrowed his eyes in the dim light. Finnyr of all people would not be so bold before him. Which meant whatever he had learned at the manor was worth risking Yveun’s ire. He bared his teeth in the twilight dawn, as if the scent of wine and poison could still waft through his open balcony.
Coletta stood without a word. She drew a sheer vermillion robe around her that floated like an aura of freshly broken sunlight as she excused herself without word into a small side room. They rarely let themselves be seen together, especially fondly. It suited their image better when the perception was the fearsome King and his unwanted Ryu.
Yveun stood, walking to the door. He paused briefly. There was a different magic in the air. Muffled by the door, it was hard to make out. But, judging from its ferocity alone, it was certainly not Finnyr’s.
He eased open the door. His posture was relaxed, but every muscle in his body was taught and primed, ready to explode. The claws of the hand behind the door were already unsheathed.
“Who is your guest?” Yveun asked directly, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar Dragon at Finnyr’s side.
There was no time for Finnyr to formulate a response.