Florence’s mind immediately went to the home she’d shared with Ari in Old Dortam and a melancholy ache filled her chest. “There is no guild hall,” she murmured.
“They’ll rebuild it.” Shannra finally turned her head, her eyes searching, begging. “What do you think of that idea?”
“I think I love sharing my days with you.”
Florence left before she could soak in Shannra’s reaction and affirm her suspicion that the response was not the one her lover was looking for. Right now, the only thing Florence could let herself think about was seeing Loom survive another day.
Through a back door into a narrow alley, Florence slipped from above ground to under in a mere moment, dropping down through what looked like an open sewage grate. It led her into a tunnel, straight to one of the still-open passages for what had become Loom’s unofficial capitol.
She found all the vicars gathered in Ethel’s makeshift receiving room, just outside the Vicar Alchemist’s sleeping chamber.
“Ah, Florence, thank you for coming.” Powell was the first to notice her.
“A Revolver always heeds their vicar’s call.” Florence wasn’t quite sure if Gregory was speaking to her or Powell.
“I heard there was a letter?” She cut right to the chase.
“Yes, here.” Powell shifted, passing a carefully sealed envelope. Its thickness was more like a folio than a letter, and Florence looked at the curious marking on its front.
To Florence
From Arianna
“Vicar Gregory suggested that we open it, but since it was addressed to you specifically, I wanted to make sure it found its way into your hands foremost.”
“Thank you, Vicar Powell.” Florence could feel the curiosity burning off Gregory to the point that the temperature in the room might have been rising.
Wasting no time, she broke the seal and slid out the papers.
Every leaf was marked over in many places. Layers of text betrayed years of work from different hands. Some, Florence recognized as Arianna’s scribbles. Others were foreign to her.
“Don’t hold us in such suspense,” Vicar Dove practically yawned.
Florence read over the notecard twice. She knew what she was looking at without Arianna’s hasty explanation.
“It’s schematics for a gun . . . that could fire through a corona.”
“Does Arianna now fancy herself a weaponsmith?” Gregory seemed amused, dismissive.
Florence didn’t even bother to combat her scowl. “Given what she’s accomplished to date, I wouldn’t put it past her. Furthermore, it looks like the work wasn’t started by her, but the late Master Oliver and the Vicar Revolver I believe you replaced.”
Gregory clearly was not pleased with her tone. “Let me see those,” he demanded.
Florence had little option but to pass them over.
He read over the papers once, twice. Everyone in the room was attentive, waiting for his assessment.
“Ethel, let me use a pencil?” Gregory dropped to the ground, scraping away pebbles and dust to lay out the schematics on what had now become his work surface. The Vicar Alchemist produced the requested utensil and he set to making hasty smudges and drawing lines across the notes.
“Could such a weapon actually exist?” Powell was the only one who risked breaking the silence.
“I would’ve said no a few minutes ago. But this . . . this should work.”
Florence stepped over, looking at Gregory’s sketched calculations. She followed his adjustments, the accounting for an extra feedback of magic, using a canister for priming . . . Her eyes stilled on one line he’d smudged out.
“I think I could make these modifications to something I have currently. It’ll make the gun quite large, but I shouldn’t need anything too special.”
“But that’s . . . what about—” Florence tried to point at the spot she’d gotten stuck on.
“Thank you, Florence,” Gregory said curtly. “In the future, please inform Arianna to send such things to me directly, as the vicar. Now, we need you to return to your post.”
Florence stared at Gregory for three long breaths. She thought about speaking up. She wondered if she should try to make him listen. But this was Loom, where your failures were your own, and you bore the burden of them.
“Should any of the vicars require anything else, you know where to find me.”
Florence gave a tip of her hat and left the room, saying nothing about the explosively critical error she’d noticed in Gregory’s calculations.
Cvareh
Something about that woman changed him. All was right with the world when she was near, yet she made him want to alter everything for the better.
Arianna had come to Nova for him. His boldness had not pushed her away, had in fact brought her to him. Cvareh gripped the feathers of his boco and stared toward the horizon as he raced back toward the Temple of Agendi.
She needed him as the Oji, to fulfill Petra’s promises. Petra’s memory needed him to defend House Xin. All of Xin needed him to work with Loom. So much rested squarely on his shoulders, and it was time he got to work—starting with arranging transport of the remaining flowers to Dawyn’s family’s plot.
He didn’t even spend half of a day on the task, but when he arrived back at the Xin Manor many hours later, it felt as if he’d been gone an eternity. He had scrubbed himself to bleeding at Dawyn’s, but still imagined he could smell the combination of Rok blood and Loom on his skin.
Oddly, Cvareh found it difficult to muster concern over the fact. Let Finnyr and Fae smell their fallen kin and Loom rising to defeat them, his mind whispered dangerously.
As soon as he landed his boco, a servant rushed out to greet him.
“Cvareh . . .” There was a long pause following his name, proof the man clearly had no idea how to address him.
“What is it?” The lack of formality suddenly seemed more obvious than it had before—a matter long overdue to be settled.
“I was asked to send you to your brother the moment you returned.”
“Did he say what for?” Cvareh had half a mind to ignore the request and attend Finnyr later, just to send the message that he did not jump at his brother’s every beck and call.
“No, just that he would be waiting for you in the main hall.”
Cvareh trudged down through the manor, exhausted from the lack of sleep and still recovering from combat. But instead of finding every step harder than the last, he found it easier. Life returned to him in the form of anger, frustration, and a small bit of hard-earned triumph. He had shed Rok blood, hidden the fact, and thwarted what was no doubt a very clear plan to put a swift end to Loom’s rebellion—and with it, Xin’s hopes.
He had done it all before Finnyr had likely even woken for the day.
That anger reached its peak when he entered the hall and his eyes fell on Finnyr, seated on Petra’s throne. Where Petra commanded the seat and it cradled her in return, Finnyr was dwarfed by the stone chair. For the first time, Cvareh wondered what he would look like in such a seat.
“Seems an uncomfortable place to wait.”