Page 14

And perhaps she found him dumb and foolish, but she buried her forehead into his chest just the same, gripping the back of his shirt with both hands.

He felt her warm breath permeate his shirt and shivered. He felt inexplicably reluctant to let her go. “We need to leave, Nina.”

“I know.”

“Now.”

“I know.”

But before they slipped back up the ladder and through the hatch, out into the hall, the lane, the courtyard, Patrick plucked four vials of idium from their resting places and shoved them deep into his pockets.

Two with wax seals, and two without.

CHAPTER 7NINA

Scurry, Sommerland,” called the Artisan woman at the microphone. Her voice was bored.

In the pockets of my skirt were two differing vials of Idia’s blood. I gripped them tightly as I moved forward toward those wide-open doors.

Patrick was gone. Kenton Hill had been called along with Lavnonshire already. Hours ago, it seemed.

What do we do?I had begged.

Nothin’, he’d said, pulling me back from the alley into the rabble of waiting children.Nothin’ to be done.

It’s all pretend. All decided!

Yeah.He’d looked as though I’d taken the words and beat him over the head with it.

I’d stomped my foot.There’s always somethin’ to be done. Always. We cannot simply do nothin’.

And for a moment, Patrick had stirred there in the courtyard, filling with something. But then he let out a long breath, and his head fell forward. He had wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and looked away. He said,I was gonna be on that train home, one way or another.Then,Fuckin’ dictators. And, with more venom,I could kill every last one of ’em.

For a frightening moment, I’d believed him.

I’ll never… I’ll never be an Artisan, I’d whispered. The hidden parchmentjabbed into my stomach. He looked at me with so much pity that I wanted the earth to swallow me.

I thought he might invite me back to Kenton Hill again.

I thought I might say yes.

“Kenton Hill!” came the call. “Lavnonshire!”

Patrick cursed. He picked up the hands laying limply by my sides, and I felt cool glass press against either palm. His blue eyes, now afraid, were still astonishing.You’ve got a mind of your own, he reminded me.Don’t let those fuckers take it.

Then he leaned down, pressed his lips briefly against my cheek, then walked through those double doors the way a man walks to the gallows.

He turned to look back at me once, mouth quirking upward awkwardly and then falling. He looked brimming with things to say but pressed his lips tightly closed. All the weight of Belavere Trench held in the mouth of a miner’s boy.

Thus, Patrick Colson was gone, and I believed I would never see him again.

The children of Scurry and Sommerland pressed through the doors to the National Artisan House to find out how they would spend the rest of their lives.

I felt a deepening pity for them all. I wondered if there were any like me, who had been banking on a life better than the one they’d left.

“Five lines,” the Artisan woman called and I heard the familiar clacking of heels on the tile.We’ve got just about all the Artisan children needed this year.

The hall inside was splendid and overly decorative. Ornate paintings hung from the walls, none of them smaller than me. The vaulted ceiling unbalanced me, every inch of it artfully reticulated in gold. But nothing glistened anymore. It didn’t swallow me the way I always imagined it would; the way it might have, if it weren’t a lie.