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I sat down across from her. I held her infected hand. I looked into her dark eyes, the same shade of amber honey as mine.

“We have to do it,” I said.

Her fingers curled into a fist, hiding the stain of black.

“We can’t wait until morning.” Mama and Papa had gone sofast.“No one has lived with their blood stained black. No one but those who cut it from their bodies.”

Nessie was my baby sister by only twenty-three minutes. But she seemed so small in that moment, so helpless, like we were years apart.

Papa kept grain liquor under the sink in a glass jar. I poured Nessie a shot and watched as she drank it, and then I poured her another one, and another. She kept clenching her hand into a fist, as if memorizing the way it felt for her fingers to fold over her palm, for the muscles to tighten and the skin to stretch and the bones to obey her will.

I pulled out Papa’s toolbox. The hacksaw, the teeth still stained with sawdust. The sharpest knife from Mama’s drawer. A needle, thread. Towels. Every towel I could find. Papa’s leather belt.

I stretched the belt out on the table and hacked off a piece, then used a punch to make more holes. I handed Ernesta the smaller piece of leather.

“What am I supposed to do with...?” Her voice trailed off. She lifted the leather to her mouth and bit down on it. It was as much pain relief as I could give her.

I put the cast-iron skillet on the stove, letting it heat up. My grandmother had cooked on that skillet, my mother.

Silent tears leaked down Nessie’s face. Her fingers clenched, relaxed, clenched again.

“More,” I said, pushing the jar of liquor at her. She downed the rest of it, choking on the burning liquid, then took up the bit of leather again.

My heart raced, thudding against my ribs as if I’d just run for miles.

“Are you sure we can’t wait?” she asked in a small voice.

If I could give her anything, it would be time. I wanted so much to give hertime.

“No,” I said.

Papa’s jar was empty.

The rope I’d intended to use as a lead for the mule now tied my sister to her chair. “Try not to struggle,” I said. “It’s instinct, but... try.”

I took Nessie’s hand in mine, turning it palm up, and stretched her arm on the table. Oh, Oryous. How quick could I make this? I couldn’t take her pain, not now, not when I needed my strength. I could only be fast. Fast as I could while still getting the job done.

“Neddie,” she whispered.

I shook my head. I couldn’t be Neddie right now. I had to be Nedra Brysstain, the top alchemical student at Yugen, the girl who volunteered at the quarantine hospital.

There had been blood on my hands many times before. Just never my sister’s.

“Here,” I said, running my finger over an invisible line above her elbow, more than three inches from the faintest tint of black under her skin.

Ernesta nodded.

A human thinks of the pain, of the suffering. A human sees a hand and also sees the person attached to it. I couldn’t be a human in this moment. I had to be an alchemist. An alchemist sees the skin that must be sliced apart. The arteries that must be tied off. The bone that must be sawed through. An alchemist knows to hold the arm down so it doesn’t wiggle too much.

An alchemist folds the flaps of skin and flesh over the raw wound and stitches it. An alchemist moves to the stove quickly, picking up the hot cast-iron skillet and pressing the bottom against the wound to cauterize it.

An alchemist doesn’t hear the screams.

FORTY-FOUR

Nedra

When i finished,Ernesta was still awake, staring at her hand on the table. I untied her from the chair, then moved through the scent of blood and burnt flesh to pull the golden crucible from my bag. She watched me with deadened eyes as I clutched her shoulder and pulled the pain out of her and into me. I took it all without a drop of hesitation. It roared over me like an ocean wave, and I fell to the floor, whimpering. Nessie sighed and slumped against the table.