It wasn’t a question but Shannra nodded anyway. “By the time I fully realized how he was using my work, it was too late.”
“He had enough information on you to get you thrown out of the guild.” Under Dragon law, being exiled from your guild meant death. Florence finished the story in her mind, a simple, cautionary tale central to the Revolvers’ Guild itself: just because one could, didn’t mean one should.
“It doesn’t really matter now. The vicar knows of my involvement with Louie because of all this. I suspect the only reason he hasn’t kicked me out yet is because Loom is so short on manpower. Especially the Revolvers.”
“So why stay with Louie then?” Florence crouched down again so that way she could speak in the quietest voice possible. “He doesn’t have anything on you anymore. And even if you do get kicked out, the guilds are reverting back to what they were before the Dragons. There are no more death sentences. There’s nothing keeping you to a single guild or location.”
“Yes, that may be true. But if I’m kicked out, I have nowhere else to go.” Shannra picked up her gun parts, slowly assembling her weapon once more. “And if that’s the case, I would rather stay in the company of someone who will actually appreciate my work.”
Florence had always thought of Louie’s lackeys as greedy bottom-feeders, hungry for the payout that his jobs brought. Or people with such wretched histories that they had no other option than to associate themselves with the gremlin of a man.
But Shannra’s story was relatively benign; if anything, it made her association with Louie borderline normal. For a moment, Florence wondered if, under a different set of circumstances, she would’ve ended up in Louie’s service, too.
For all that she’d thought those on Louie’s payroll were loyal because of the money, she realized now it was because he offered something far more valuable: a place for wayward souls to call home.
“I appreciate your work.” Florence grabbed Shannra’s hand. “And many others will, too.”
Shannra stared at the initiated contact and gave a small laugh. “You have no idea how good it feels to hear someone say that.”
Florence did. In that moment, she was veca away from the dark cavern and back in her and Ari’s flat in Old Dortam. She heard Arianna’s first praise of her work keenly, felt her chest swell with phantom pride.
“I do, actually,” Florence whispered.
“It feels good to hear you say that.” Shannra turned her head, their noses almost touching. “I want to always be there to appreciate your work, Florence.”
It’s not your appreciation I want, Florence realized suddenly.
She was shaken to her core by the revelation, but in the same instant, so was Loom’s fragile reprieve. Gunshots echoed from some faraway location.
Florence was on her feet, ready. The Dragons had made their first attack.
Arianna
She had an hour all to herself.
There was no one around her, nowhere to be, no one to interrupt her. Arianna laid out on one of the couches, worn to the perfect softness by countless hours of occupation over the years. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
The smell of leather, the size and shape of the furniture, vaguely reminded her of what she had procured for her and Florence’s home in Old Dortam. She’d chosen those beaten-up sofas more carefully than she’d ever admit. The hours they’d spent on them, discussing, debating, reading quietly.
Arianna opened her eyes, returning to the here and now. Here was the masters’ wing of the Rivets’ Guild. Now saw Florence no longer a girl, nor a wayward student in need of an educational guide and protector.
Sitting, Arianna looked back to the corner where she could still read Master Oliver’s name clearly on the door. He, too, had taken in a girl curious about the world and educated her. But Arianna hadn’t been ready to give up his tutelage; she would still accept it now if she could.
After the events on Ter.0, she had little doubt Florence did not quite feel the same.
A door down the hall opened unexpectedly. Arianna’s feet were on the floor, a hand on her dagger hilt, before the echo of squealing hinges faded from her ears. She coaxed her hand to relax, reminding herself that she was once more around friends and allies.
After spending so much of her life in secret, it was an odd feeling.
“Oh, hello . . .” The coal-skinned man seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him.
“Hello, Master Charles.” The name plaque on the door confirmed her suspicion. But it was an easy deduction; Willard had said there was only one other master in the guild presently.
“And you are . . .?” His body was still tense. His light gray eyes scanned her face, no doubt making note of her lack of guild mark.
“Arianna.”
“Arianna . . .” he repeated, bringing his fingers to hook his chin in thought.
“Master Arianna.” The title was odd on her tongue, unfamiliar. “I was Oliver’s pupil.”
“Oh . . . Oh.” Comprehension lit up the man’s eyes and he crossed the room to her. His hair was cut short, and shone like an oil slick in the light. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Whatever you’ve heard, I’m sure it’s greatly exaggerated.” Arianna leaned back into the sofa.
“It is fairly fantastical to think I’m in the presence of someone who supposedly created the Philosopher’s Box.”
“I did create it.”
“I believe that’s what’s to be discussed with Mas—Vicar Willard soon.” Arianna didn’t miss how his instinct was still to refer to Willard as “Master,” rather than “Vicar.”
“I believe so.”
He produced a watch from his pocket, clicking it open. “It’s early yet, but I doubt the vicar has many other priorities right now. Would you care to walk with me?”
She stood and fell into step behind him as they wandered through the guild hall toward the vicar’s wing. “So, what’s been all the rave at Garre while I was gone?”
“Automations along the line,” Charles responded easily.
“Sounds interesting.”
“It is.” Rivets and their “get to the point” nature weren’t exactly known for small talk.
“And what happened to Master Oliver?”
“I killed him.”
Few statements could stop a conversation as abruptly.
Vicar Willard was in the lavish workshop attached to his private residence. His hands were occupied when they arrived, focusing on making space on the long central table.
“You’re early,” he observed. “Well, since you’re here, help me clean this off.”
Arianna and Charles set to work moving the various parts and tools back to their supposed places around the room. Taking over someone else’s workshop was like slipping into someone else’s shoes. Nothing fit right about it.
“So, I was thinking we would start with building a working model of the Philosopher’s Box that we can use to design the line for mass production,” Willard started.
“It really is true?”
“Yes, she has supplied—”