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“And you want terranium to be your medium?”

“I want anythin’ but pen and paper to be my medium.”

“And yet, you’ve got a bindin’ of parchment shoved down the waist of your trousers,” he grinned. “Saw it when you dropped your skirt.”

Her cheeks pinkened, a small victory. He chucked his chin at the place near her hip. “Can I see what you wrote?”

“No,” she said immediately. Patrick thought of animals with their legs caught in traps and decided it was best not to press her. He rolled his eyes and didn’t ask again.

Around them, conversations of similar nature were happening simultaneously. Boys and girls sitting or standing and waiting as the crowds thinned. Waiting for the name of their birthplace to be called through the crackling microphone. In the meantime, they debated the hierarchy of the Artisans.

Mediums known as the lesser arts: painting, drawing, writing, composing, were the pastimes of swanks. Most Artisans excelled at doing oneor more of these. Some showed aptitude in all. And then there were the more highly ranked classifications…

A Scribbler’s medium was, quite simply, ink. They could make it appear from half a world away.

Cutters specialized in precious stones: diamond, quartz, amethyst, and the like. They were the pretty decorators, the designers of finer things. Cutters could mold gems into any shape a rich mistress pleased. Patrick thought them rather useless.

Smiths molded copper, iron, nickel, gold, and silver. Patrick admitted the intricacies of their work could be admired.

Masons were a higher order of Artisan. Wood and stone were vital resources in a world made from little else.

Alchemy was most important, of course. Only an Alchemist could crack open a lump of terranium. Without them, there was no idium. No siphoning ceremonies. No Artisans. There was only one other order that might match the class of an Alchemist.

“What if you were a Charmer?” Patrick asked her now, this girl who wasn’t going home.

Her answer was instant, as were all her answers, as though she’d already thought of every question the world might demand and banked her thoughts on the matter. “Earth,” she said.

“Why not fire or water?” Patrick liked quizzing her. Liked hearing the sureness in her voice.

“Not hard to guess why.”

“I suppose it’s the glory?” he guessed. “You’d be the only earth Charmer in a hundred years or more.”

She frowned, reproaching him. “More earth Charmers means fewer mine collapses,” she explained, rather like she were teaching a bug to count. “Imagine if each mine had a Charmer to keep the tunnels from folding in.”

He didn’t care to imagine it. To imagine it was to think of his dad and brother back in Kenton Hill, readying themselves for passage down the shaft. He didn’t want to think of tunnels that closed in like card houses.

Instead, Patrick peered at her, trying to pick off the peculiarities one by one. There were scratches on her throat. Her fingers kept finding their way back there, worrying absently at nothing. He’d never seen a person itch for something so much it found its way onto their skin. But Nina itched. Lord, did she.

She pointed to the spired roofs of the buildings over the courtyard ramparts and named each one of them as though they were well acquainted. She crossed and uncrossed her legs in different directions, sometimes remembering to be proper, and sometimes reverting back to a kid from a town like Scurry who sat like sitting was meant for comfort. She had blond curls spiraling in every direction, flushed skin, a thousand freckles, and widely spaced teeth. She had dancing fingers and dark brows that rose and fell with each word. Her hazel eyes seemed to see everything. Nina pointed to the clock tower and told him it was crafted by a blind Artisan named Jeffrey Waltzer. This made him smile widely.

“Me brother Donny don’t see too well,” he told her. “Bet he’d like that story.”

“It chimes a different tone at every hour,” Nina continued, “so that one needn’t look to tell the time. They can hear it.”

“Heartime,” Patrick scoffed. “Artisan bullshit.”

Nina sighed. Her shoulders fell dramatically, and Patrick suddenly became worried that she’d had enough of him. “It is clever, though,” he added hastily.

“Liar.”

He grinned. “I just don’t understand it, is all.”

“Don’t understand what?”

He fumbled for an answer that didn’t sound like an insult. “All that artsy stuff… hearin’ time and feelin’ colors and whatever else. Artisans talk like the wind blows just for them. But wind is just wind. There’s no meanin’ to it.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, not angry, but animated, sparkling eyes big as planets. “There’s meanin’ in everythin’ if you look hard enough. There’sjoy in it, too. That’s the problem with Crafters,” she sniffed, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Too worn out to feel anythin’ other than angry. Do you know what my dad hates most?”