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Patrick watched me curiously. “A lighter. You don’t have none in Scurry?”

“If we did, would I bother askin’ about it?”

Patrick smirked. “This particular one is me father’s invention. Here,” and he held it up for closer inspection. “This wheel here, it sparks the flint. The oil in the canister keeps the flame burnin’.”

I eyed it warily. “Your dad, you say?”

Patrick winked at her. The flame danced in his irises. “Not all genius belongs to the swanks.”

My eyes fell to his lips as he spoke. He was quite a bit taller than me but as close as he’d yet been, and my stomach came alive, networks of sputtering bursts erupting from my gut up into my chest. I felt suddenly shy. My cheeks heated. “We should leave,” I whispered to him.“Now.”

He was far from panicked. In fact, his smile widened. “You followed me in,” he stated. “Didn’t think you would.”

“What?” I spluttered, the reverie broken. “You gave me nochoice.”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “There were plenty of choices.” The lighter flickered as he held it higher, as though to see me better. “You chose to come in with me.”

My stomach twisted once more, and he seemed to see it.

His eyes glinted. “You like me, don’t you?”

Heat flooded my face. “What?” I blustered. “Ugh!You’re disgust—”

Patrick threw something at me then. I only just saw it before it hit my stomach. Something round and heavy.

A little cake sat cradled in my hands.

“Eat up,” Patrick said. “Then we’d better go. You’re a bad influence on me, Nina Harrow.”

I hesitated, but the rumble of my stomach soon silenced any other thought.

I said nothing as I ate, but I found myself smiling around the pieces of cake in my mouth and wondered whether the pounding of blood behind my eyes was fear or furious excitement. The two seemed tightly braided.

Patrick paced around the shelves that lined the walls, illuminating small patches as he went with his lighter. It appeared we were in a storage space of some kind. It stunk of moisture and fouling vegetables. There was movement in the corners: Patrick’s light sending rats back into the walls. Stack after stack of crates were organized in aisles. All were identical except for the brands burned into the wood, marking their contents:BRUNDLE’S CANNERY;TIMPTON AND SONS CO.;LIPSHORE LINENS.

He almost didn’t see where the floor fell away. His lighter caught on the edges of the hole before his feet did.

“Stop!” I hissed, my hands outstretched, and I pointed down. His foot hovered over the abyss.

He held the lighter into its depths. Shallow steps led to a cellar’s hatch. Anopencellar hatch.

“What do you s’pose they keep in here?” he asked, and I saw that manic stupidity in his eyes return.

“Don’t even think of it.”

But Patrick had already begun to descend the steps. He lowered himself carefully onto the ladder. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “Might as well look around.”

I dithered for a moment, then followed him in.

The cellar was cold, with a floor of compacted dirt. But as for what itcontained, I couldn’t tell. Patrick stood with his lighter held high, blocking all else from view. I had to shunt him aside to see.

Shelves and shelves of shallow crates stacked against one wall. The very same crates I’d seen discarded by the siphoning officials’ feet.

“Fuck me,”Patrick intoned. He held his lighter to the brand singed into the wood grain of one of the crates.PROPERTY OF BELAVERE TRENCH, it said. “You don’t think—?”

“Of course I bloodythink,” I rasped, my throat suddenly closing. “Don’t touch it!”

Patrick lifted the lid of one of the crates immediately. He pulled a small vial from its insides, dark viscous liquid sloshing within. “Holy shit,” Patrick said. Then louder. “Holyshit!”