Page 10

Suddenly, his head reappeared. Patrick’s eyes peered around the doorjamb and spied me in the hollows between crates.

The smug bastard raised an eyebrow.

Get back here!I mouthed to him, gesturing frantically. My eyes darted to the servants and drivers, all of whom were so harried that none spared a glance for the children playing cat and mouse by the door.

Hurry!I mouthed.

But Patrick Colson did not budge. Instead, he rolled his eyes, as though he’d never met a girl quite as hysterical as me, then disappeared once more.

The servants and drivers carried on with their scrimmage, and truly it seemed no one took notice of a damn thing besides. I imagined what else Patrick would call me, should I stay safely outside.Wimp. Wuss. Coward.I could already see the smirk on his face.

There was that other niggle, too. The one that longed to see the inside of this building.

Suddenly, there was an earsplitting crash as two drivers ran their wagons into each other. Horses whinnied. Men swore. The rabble intensified.

A switch inside me flipped.

Over the bleating and braying of the traffic, I bolted from my hiding place, bounded over a slew of fallen potatoes, and slipped inside the National Artisan House.

A long hallway stretched ahead, and at its end, I saw the oak desktops stretch within an open hall. Five men with bored faces sat along its length, vials in their hands, queues of children before them.

The siphoning ceremony.

Only it wasn’t so ceremonious. The officials called “Name?” as new children approached them. They ran a focusing glass down long, long lists. They retrieved a tiny vial from the crates stacked haphazardly at their sides and put it down again on the desk in front of them. “Drink,” they said.

The children did. I watched entranced as they uncorked the vial and brought it to their lips with shaky hands. They drank the solution and cinched their eyes closed as it went down. Then the officials pointed to a box of lumpy items that sat on the desk before them. “Hold each one in your hand.”

The children did as they were asked, questions in their eyes, wondering if there was something they should be feeling. They picked up and replaced each item in the box like they were shopping for ripe fruit. When nothing happened, the officials barely looked up from their lists. “Crafter,” they said. And the children’s eyes either fell or widened with relief.

There was only one child who earned a different reaction. A boy, well dressed and well groomed. He stood with his back straight and his chin high. He looked so thoroughly highborn that I couldn’t help but stare. “Theodore Shop,” he told the woman behind the desk. He drank his idium, and when he put his hand toward the box, a drinking glass filled with water quaked threateningly.

Both child and official reared back, eyes wide.

“Easy, boy,” the official told him. “Let it come to you.”

Theodore Shop frowned in concentration. Instead of lifting his hand, he simply stared at that glass.

The water within rippled with increasing intensity, swirling in violent circles, until finally the glass tipped, and water dashed across the tabletop and seeped over its sides.

Quickly, a servant approached with a rag, sopping up the mess before it dampened swaths of lists.

“Artisan. Charmer!” the official said, clapping, smiling—the first smile of any. “Medium: water!”

Theodore Shop merely stared at the mess he’d created with his mind, and a small, rose-cheeked grin emerged.

In the next moment, a hand closed over my mouth and dragged me sideways into a dark room. A door closed and smothered all light. I was pressed abruptly to a wall, and some instinct bid me to bite down.

“Ouch!” Patrick’s breath washed over my face. His fingers disappeared. “Fuck!”

The sound of footsteps in the hall approached, and we both froze. But they didn’t slow or stop, didn’t open the door to inspect. They passed by, the sound softening, and Patrick and I sagged and stifled laughter in our cuffs.

I put a hand against my thundering heart. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” there was a grin in his voice. “Holy shit.”

There was a click. A flicker. A flame spluttered to life in Patrick’s hand, illuminating his face.

For a moment, I gawked at it. It came from a tiny silver tin. “What is that?” I hated how awestruck I sounded.