"Are you okay back there?" Stroud asked, keeping her attention on the road.
Without lifting his face from the window, Silas raised his fist in a shaky thumbs-up. Stroud glanced at him over her shoulder. Doubt hardened her features; she pursed her lips and let out a short breath, but nothing more, her focus returning to the road.
The rest of the ride boiled on in silence, the gentle bubbling of the engine the only sound to fill the space where conversation may have been. In the passenger seat, Ravelin sat ramrod-straight, every muscle taut as a drawn wire. She was rereading her handwritten notes again and again, flipping back to the first page of the notepad each time she came to the end. Occasionally, she took out her stylus and scrawled a few words in the margins, drawing arrows to connect lines of thought. Stroud steered with a single hand, the other rubbing a hangnail between finger and thumb. When she tore the hangnail and it began to bleed, she cursed under her breath and sucked up the blood, popping her thumb into her mouth like a toddler.
Stroud braked gently as they reached the edge of Droswick and leaned forward, squinting into the dusk to weave her boiler down narrow, zig-zagging roads untended from syzygies of neglect. Her vehicle blustered along the dilapidated paths, bumping over potholes and deep crevices that scarred its surface. While the traffic and pedestrians were bustling in the heart of the city, the farther they drove, the more human activity diminished until it eventually vanished altogether. Where children once played, murders of crows picked apart stray carcasses, their squawks scattering potential scavengers. Couples holding hands as they strolled down the sidewalk faded away along with the infrastructure, the dusty, unkept pedestrian paths overgrown with taproots from invading cacti.
As Dysol began to sink below the horizon, the boiler passed a sign that indicated they had finally breached the municipal limit of East Gloam. Ravelin produced a map from the glove compartment and guided Stroud into a suburban sector. The houses here were identical. On either side of the road, small, two-story buildings of white stone crowded together. Only rusted yard decorations and the addresses printed on mailboxes and small placards beside front doors differentiated one property from the next. At one time, these townhomes may have been quaint, comfortable residences. The tight-knit community would have been ideal for raising a family or living out your golden syzygies. But time had taken its toll, nature reclaiming the settlement after syzygies without human inhabitants. Thick taproots erupted from the ground and wound around homes, shattering through windows and sneaking inside. Yards were overgrown with weeds, the foliage blanketing gardening equipment left outside and strangling out the last surviving perennials. Wildlife scampered into houses through doggy-doors and broken windows, flying and crawling back to their nests to prepare for the coming night.
"I guess we spent too much time at the Carrow's residence," Stroud noted as the last dregs of Dysol flared along the skyline.
As the twin moons rose in its place, Silas noted that they were eclipsed. Every four weeks, one of the twin moons disappeared completely behind the other one, leaving only one moon visible in the night sky. About twelve eclipses occurred every syzygy. While astronomers argued that the calendar should vary slightly from syzygy to syzygy to accommodate these minor fluctuations, the Empire had never made a move to change the status quo. It would be too cumbersome, they argued, for the citizens to alter their schedules to appease the astronomers' calculations. Silas did not mind either way, as long as he could celebrate Syzygy Day with Pa. He wondered if the last Syzygy Day, nine eclipses ago, had been their final celebration as a family.
"Here it is," Stroud said as she pulled the boiler along the curb. She removed the starter rod and leaned back in her seat to peer through the windshield. "47 Brimthorne Lane, East Gloam." Stroud unbuckled her harness and turned around to glance at Silas over the headrest. "Still no ideas about what we might find here?"
Silas shook his head, gritting his teeth against the Voices' incessant assault on his eardrums. He could hardly hear Stroud over the clamor, the snarling and shouting in his mind drowning out all sound around him. If he listened hard enough, he could just make out a few scattered, garbled words:
Imposter. Anomaly. Destroy. Silas could not discern a connection between these words. Did the Voices mean that he was an imposter and an anomaly that should be destroyed? Or were they a warning, alerting him to a danger that lurked behind East Gloam's abandoned houses?
Silas was so lost in thought—and drowning in the wave of Voices dampening his senses—that he neglected to notice Ravelin and Stroud exit the vehicle. When Stroud opened the door he was leaning on, he fell forward and smacked his head against the frame. He reeled back, rubbing the bump already swelling along his hairline. Stroud was speaking to him, but he could not hear her. He pushed out his arm to force her back and unbuckled his harness, climbing out of the vehicle on trembling knees. He stooped down when his balance threatened to fail, making a big show of tightening the laces of his boots. When he came to his feet again, shaking his head to clear it, some sound began to trickle through the high-pitched whine searing his tympanic membranes.
Silas listened to the sound of the wind whistling through empty houses, rustling the detritus of scattered plants along the road and driveways. Darkness descended, the murk impenetrable without starbloom light to guide the way. What lampposts remained standing were unlit, their algae and oil long dead and evaporated. Glass from lamps shattered by wildlife and invading plants littered the road under Silas's feet, his boots crunching over the shards as he stepped away from the boiler. Stroud spread her feet and stood like a gate, hands bracketed at her waist.
"I said, are you well, Silas?" Leaning in, she studied him head-to-toe, nostrils flaring faintly as she judged his color. She noted the way Silas's hands shook and head jerked left and right as Voices drew his attention elsewhere.
He took a tottering step back, threatening to topple over. Stroud steadied him by grasping his biceps, pressing her palm against his forehead. Silas swatted her hand away, stepping around her to face 47 Brimthorne Lane. It was the only building whose door stood ajar, swinging gently against the wind. It was as if the house was waving them on, beckoning them inside.
"Well, you're not feverish, at least." Stroud came to Silas's side, looking at the house with her hand resting on a holster at her hip. "But the pallor and sheen of your face worries me. Perhaps we should head back and try again tomorrow morn?"
"I second that idea," Ravelin muttered, clutching a starbloom lantern protectively in front of her, its dim glow wavering in her trembling hands. "Something about this place feels wrong." Her voice lowered, the whisper nearly swept along by the wind. "I have this horrible feeling that we are being watched."
As if to confirm her suspicions, a figure darted from the shadows, scurrying between 47 Brimthorne Lane and a nearby house. Ravelin sucked in a breath, stifling the gasp in her throat. Stroud drew her weapon, the small flarepistol catching the moonlight on its brass finish as she trained its barrel on the retreating figure. It leaped silently from shadow to shadow, flitting down the row of houses until it disappeared from sight. Stroud clicked her tongue and lowered her weapon.
"Probably just a vagrant scavenging these houses for supplies," she said, returning the flarepistol to its holster. While her words were certain, her weak tone betrayed her unease. Spinning around, she locked her attention on Silas. "I'll leave it up to you. We can explore tonight if you'd like, or we can come back again tomorrow."
Silas had already made up his mind. He pushed past Stroud and Ravelin, stepping onto the curb and into the overgrown yard, marching determinately toward the open door.
"That answers that," Stroud said, jogging to meet his pace. "Silas, walk behind me. Elsbeth, you bring up the rear."
The Junior Arbiter reluctantly fell into line, swiveling her head around as she maintained constant vigil of their surroundings. Stroud's hand never left the holster on her hip—ready to draw at the first sign of danger. Her eyes darted around, searching rooftops and dark corners for hidden threats. Finally, Stroud came to a stop before the open door, watching it wave open and closed, open and closed with the breeze, each iteration punctuated by a squeal from the unoiled hinge.
"How splendid. The previous tenants were kind enough to leave the front door open." Stroud let out a short laugh and gave Silas a crooked, teasing grin. "Rejoice! I won't be needing to kick this one down."
Silas ignored her, staring at the crack between the open door and its frame. He pushed past Stroud and thrust open the door, blinking through the darkness as he stepped into the foyer. Blind in the gloom, Silas let his nose guide him, inhaling the damp aroma of rotting wood and mildew, the air stagnant and stale. Under this was a sharp odor that tickled at the nose and scorched the throat. It was acrid, like the residue left behind after igniting incendiaries. Stroud and Ravelin stepped in behind him, illuminating the foyer with Ravelin's lantern. In the haze, dust particles fell like snow, blanketing the surface of the floor and furniture like a ramshackle blizzard. Ravelin sneezed, the resulting gust like a gale, kicking up the dust until it settled again in heaping drifts. Stroud used her boot to pile the dust into clusters, unveiling the wooden floorboards hidden beneath. She kneeled—her jaw clenching—to examine spidering black stains etching the wood.
"What caused this?" Stroud asked, poking at the charred wood with her forefinger. It disintegrated under her touch, the ash blending with the surrounding dust as it settled into the thick white blanket coating the ground.
Ravelin walked over to a wall and—covering her nose with one hand beneath her mask—wiped away the dust with the other. She gulped down another sneeze, pinching her nostrils together as her vision swam with tears.
"It's on the walls as well," Ravelin noted, her voice nasally behind her pinched nostrils. "Could it have been a fire?"
Stroud stood and ambled to Ravelin's side, biting her lip as she studied the arcing black lines.
"It looks like lightning," Stroud observed, tracing the bolts with her forefinger. "Perhaps a bad storm blew through, and the house was struck?"
"I doubt that could have caused this," Ravelin rebuked, setting her lantern down on a side table with a poof of dust. She procured her notepad and began to draw, inscribing the zig-zagged marks in as much detail as she could manage. "This looks man-made. Perhaps it was some sort of alchemical malfunction?"
"Well, this is all highly fascinating," Stroud began, stepping away from the wall. "However, I doubt Alastair Carrow sent his charge here to appreciate dust and char marks. Let's dig deeper." Stroud exited the foyer through a hallway and disappeared farther into the house, her departure marked with a swirling of dust kicked up by her boots.
Ravelin remained for several moments to finish her illustration. She then replaced her notepad with her lantern and followed after Stroud, leaving Silas alone in the dark foyer. No longer under Stroud and Ravelin's inspection, he allowed his legs to give out and sank onto the dusty floor, holding his head in his hands. The pain had reached a crescendo, hammering against his temples with each nauseating heartbeat. Silas swallowed, forcing down the sickness crawling up his throat.
Don't make a scene, he told himself, repeating the phrase in his head like a mantra. Finish what you started. Find what Pa wanted you to find.
"Silas, what's wrong?"
Stroud was there, sitting on her knees in front of him. Silas dimly wondered where she came from. How did she pop up from nowhere?
"I'm not stupid, mouse boy. I know this is one of those episodes of yours." Stroud forced Silas to look at her, leading his head upward with a finger under his chin. She scrunched up her face. "Your nose is bleeding."
Silas sniffed and wiped, dabbing at the trickle with the sleeve of his coat. He waved Stroud away and stood, swaying slightly as the pain intensified with the change in posture.
"Really now, we can continue with this tomorrow. You're clearly not well—"
Silas cut Stroud off by walking away from her, stumbling into the hallway while leaning on the wall for support. At the other end stood a humble living room. Motes of dust smothered the furniture, the sofa's paisley pattern buried beneath a thick white coating. Ravelin's lantern sat on an end table, its weak light casting murky, shifting shadows that animated the furniture, giving the illusion that they were moving. Or perhaps the shifting, swaying perspective was due to Silas's unsteady gait. Dragging his feet, Silas felt his toe catch on something protruding from the floor. Failing to react fast enough, he sprawled, face-first, onto the floor with a mighty billow of dust to cushion his fall. Sputtering through the dust coating his mouth and throat, Silas sat up and swiveled around, palpating the floorboards with his fingertips. He paused, grasping a metallic ring lodged in the ground, hidden beneath a threadbare rug.
Stroud jogged into the room—appraising the scene with an irritated grimace. She stopped before Silas, watching as he pulled upward on the ring, grunting with the effort. The floorboard shifted and then caught, refusing to budge further. Stroud knelt and grabbed the other end of the ring, leveraging with her upper body. Under the burden of their combined effort, the trapdoor flung open with a decisive bang. Ravelin scurried into the room from behind a closed door and scooped up her lantern, her expression wide and fearful.
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"My, my, my," Stroud purred, taking hold of Ravelin's lantern and shining it down the square hole. The illumination revealed a vertical shaft with an iron ladder stretching into the abyss. "A super-secret cellar trapdoor. Exactly the type of thing we were looking for."
Stroud cocked an eyebrow at Silas, who nodded in acknowledgment. Shrugging, she handed the lantern back to Ravelin, who took it eagerly, cradling the glowing orb to her chest like a shield. Stroud perched at the edge of the hole and dangled her legs into the darkness. Her feet caught the rungs of the ladder and held when she tested her weight.
"Down the hatch!" she called as she quickly descended the rungs, hand-over-hand. The reverberations of her footfalls and hand slaps echoed up the shaft, the hollow sound eerie in the darkness.
"W-what do you see down there?" Ravelin called softly, her grim expression accentuated in the lantern glow.
"Absolutely nothing," Stroud answered sarcastically. "Some light would be helpful, dear Elsbeth!"
The Junior Arbiter sighed deeply. Her shaky hands clutching the ladder rungs like a lifeline, holding so tightly that the color bled from her knuckles. Awkwardly, she descended the shaft, biting down on the lantern handle to free her hands for the climb. Silas watched the light plummet with her, deeper and deeper into the belly of the cellar. Finally, she stopped when her feet hit the ground and stepped away from the ladder, carrying the light with her.
"What in the frozen hells…" Ravelin's voice trailed off, the lantern light dimming as it passed out of Silas's line of sight.
Silas listened to Ravelin and Stroud's murmuring voices as he followed them down into the cellar. He went slowly, his hands and feet uncertain as the ladder rungs seemed to undulate and swim beneath his grip. Finally, his feet met the ground at the bottom, the firmness of the hard-packed dirt steadying him. Still gripping the ladder for support, Silas turned around, taking in the scene before him in unfettered awe.
Immediately drawing his attention was a large chalkboard enveloping the entire posterior wall. The board was covered in neat, detailed script, every margin of its surface marked with methodological notes, calculations, and illustrations. Drawn at the board's midline was an intricate anatomical model. The way it was drawn—with organs reflected from the body cavity to accentuate subtle anatomical nuances—made it impossible to say whether the specimen was human or otherwise. The anatomy of the brain, however, confused Silas. Unlike the four lobes of the brain Silas was familiar with from his human anatomy classes, this brain had a fifth lobe squeezed between its temporal and parietal neighbors. He had to force his attention away from the drawing to observe the rest of the cellar.
Stacked neatly in each corner of the rectangular space were wooden boxes and crates of myriad sizes, all printed with an insignia, the symbol of which was novel to Silas. He pushed away from the ladder and walked to the cellar's far-left corner, crouching low to inspect the insignia up close. It was a seven-pointed star inscribed within a circle. The point of the star was missing a line, distorting the symmetry of the design. The stars were printed in an ink of deep, indigo blue surrounded by a circle of shimmering silver, like a halo or a star's corona.
Ravelin was digging around in a crate, pulling out objects and setting them to rest on a tall workbench. She emptied a crate and moved onto the next one, covering the workbench with chipped glass beakers, alchemical tubing, and phials of pharmaceuticals.
"I've got something over here," Stroud said, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a metal box propped open in her lap. She leafed through stacks of parchment, their texture warped as if they had been submerged in water. "Damn, the ink's all murky. I can hardly read any of this." She paused, a puzzled concentration coming over her as her eyes darted across something written at the bottom of the pile.
Ravelin stopped unpacking crates and circumvented the workbench, coming to a stop behind Stroud. She stooped, reading over the other woman's shoulder.
Curious, Silas took a step forward, eager to know what the Arbiters found so riveting. But Silas's foot seemed to sink through water, pulling him down to the ground before his legs collapsed underneath him. He screamed, clutching at his head as bloody tears poured from his eyes, his vision swimming red. It felt like someone had placed a nail against his cranium and was pounding against it with a hammer, driving it deeper and deeper with each swing.
Each iteration hit like a blow, sharp and brutal. Silas curled his legs up and pressed his forehead against his knees, trying to protect himself from the Voice that detonated like a bomb, annihilating his awareness until the only thing he could perceive was pain. And touch. Someone was gently shaking him, their fingers digging into his shoulders.
Silas forced open eyes he didn't remember closing, blinking away the bloody tears. Stroud hovered above him, her forehead creased with worry, her lips moving without making a sound. Ravelin wobbled into view behind her. The young woman's gaze was glossy, dazed. She stumbled toward Stroud drunkenly, her upper body limp, legs carrying her forward hypnotically. Ravelin crashed into Stroud; they rolled away from Silas. Ravelin trapped Stroud’s body beneath hers, pinning her down with fists pressed into her shoulders. Too stunned to act, Stroud lay there as Ravelin removed the flarepistol from her holster. Ravelin turned the barrel to press against Stroud’s temple, her hand steady.
Ravelin squeezed the trigger. A concentrated beam of white-hot flame burst from the muzzle and bit into the ground beside Stroud's head. Stroud had jerked her head aside at the last moment, narrowly escaping the blast. But her ear smoldered, smoking and charred where the heat scorched the skin. Silas heard the shot faintly, as if it had hit miles away. He watched, frozen, unable to move, as the Arbiters wrestled with each other, somersaulting along the ground, crashing into crates in their struggle, and cutting their faces and hands on shards of glass.
Silas bared his teeth and pushed against the Voice, forcing it out of his head. He felt the Voice falter briefly before it resumed its attack, rebelling against Silas's defense. Around him, Stroud and Ravelin paused, looking at each other in horror. Ravelin shot up, backing away from Stroud, her eyes wide and clear, her lower face bare without her mask, which was ripped off in the spar. A thick, uneven scar ran from her bottom lip to her chin, the skin pitted and jagged. Stroud reached for her, her hand wavering. Ravelin retreated farther, her back hitting the wall behind her. She shook her head, trying to hide her scarred face beneath her hands as she fixed her mask back onto her face. Stroud was telling the younger Arbiter something, her expression pleading, consoling. Ravelin's eyes overflowed with tears, her body shuddering as sobs hiccuped from her chest.
Suddenly, they stilled, muscles coiling as they craned their heads up, hearing something from above. Ravelin and Stroud stared at each other for a moment before Ravelin inched toward the ladder, her focus skyward. Stroud picked up the flarepistol and stood, cupping her injured ear in her other hand. Ravelin paused, watching as Stroud walked to her and placed the flarepistol in her grasp. Stroud's fingers closed over Ravelin's, and she nodded to the younger woman, her lips moving to pass along a reassuring message. After a moment, Ravelin nodded back in acknowledgment, placing the weapon carelessly in the belt of her trousers. She then ascended the ladder, pausing at the trapdoor to peek into the living room before climbing out and disappearing from view.
Stroud waited until Ravelin safely finished her ascent before returning to Silas's side. She crouched low, reaching for him with gentle hands. Silas perceived everything, yet his focus was fixed elsewhere, completely absorbed in the battlefield of his mind. The Voice was relentless, battering against his defenses incessantly. But he refused to back down. Silas reached deep within himself and poured everything he had into a counterattack. He thought of all the syzygies spent grappling with the Voices, trying to fit in at school, but always feeling like an outsider. He recalled the embarrassment he felt each time he experienced an episode in public, the shame consuming him and leaving him hollow. He remembered every insult thrown at him by Trobuk and his cronies, spelling out all of his flaws in total transparency. The fights with Pa, who had kept so much hidden from Silas for a purpose yet to be known. The attack at the Foundry School, watching his friends and family fall around him, and being blamed for their demise. Silas directed all of these feelings and more at the Voice, crying out against it in an intense, concentrated projection:
Silas felt the Voice's assault drop away, flinching back in response. Instead of letting it retreat, he pursued it, chasing it down to its source. The Voice cowered, throwing up defenses to ward him off, but he brushed them aside easily. Silas paid back in full, treating his adversary with the same hospitality it had shown him. An immense satisfaction overwhelmed Silas, and he heard himself laughing as his hearing suddenly returned, along with his other senses. He was surprised to find himself no longer in the cellar. Instead, he was in the living room, his back propped against a wall. He wondered how Stroud had managed to drag him up the ladder.
Silas's laughter sputtered out as he studied the scene before him. Stroud and Ravelin were standing off to the side, their backs rigid with tension, their expressions cold and sinister. Ravelin was staring at Silas, her face shifting between various emotional states: shock, confusion, and fear. Stroud was beside her, her flarepistol back in her hands, aimed at an Unspoken lying motionless on the ground.
Silas's breath caught in his throat, his mouth falling open as he studied the creature. Its wide, black compound eyes leaked blue-green hemolymph, the goop collecting under its articulated neck in a viscous puddle. Its manus clutched at its cranium, its digits pressed so hard into its exoskeleton that the outer cuticle was ruptured, leaving fine cracks along its carapace. Stroud raised her head at the sound of Silas stirring, meeting his bewildered stare.
"Would you look at that, Elsbeth! He has returned from la-la-land to grace us with his presence." Stroud relaxed, her shoulders dropping away from her ears. She eased the pistol back into its holster, her shoulders loosening as she turned to face the Junior Arbiter. "Why don't you catch him up to speed on the recent events?"
Ravelin either ignored Stroud or did not hear her. She kept her focus locked on Silas, flinching as he climbed to his feet. He was fatigued, but otherwise well—a clear contrast to how he had felt a few hours prior.
Stroud rolled her eyes at Ravelin, scoffing her impatience, before marching toward Silas, stepping ungainly over the body of the Unspoken. Silas leaned his head back to meet Stroud's scrutiny, staring into her searching gaze.
"Elsbeth, look at the similarity!" Stroud said, turning from Silas and kicking the fallen Unspoken's head with her toe.
The creature's head lolled, its neck twisting at a preternaturally sharp angle. Silas made a face, his repugnance evident.
Stroud's voice dipped low. "They sport matching facepaint. The only difference is in the color." Stroud crouched, dabbing up some of the Unspoken's green hemolymph with two fingers before standing once more. Turning back to Silas, she reached with her opposite hand, wiping under Silas's eye, her touch gentle.
Startled, Silas winced, watching in confusion as Stroud raised her hands, palms facing away from her body. Her right fingers were painted with the Unspoken's green hemolymph, her left dyed from Silas's crimson blood.
"Elsbeth, your working theory holds much weight. After all, these two"—Stroud pointed between Silas and the Unspoken— "share clear morphological similarities. They could practically be family!" Stroud's voice dripped sarcasm, yet her mouth was tight, her expression hard.
Ravelin's face darkened with defiance, but she said nothing, still staring at Silas as if he was threatening to detonate an incendiary and blow them all to smithereens.
The cogs in Silas's mind began turning, piecing together the scattered evidence before him. He followed his memory back in time, placing each piece of the puzzle in its rightful place: The fallen Unspoken, clutching its head as if in pain; Ravelin and Stroud in the cellar, suddenly staring upward as if they heard something crash or fall; the figure darting between houses outside, retreating under the cover of shadows; the Voice in Silas's mind, its attack slowly growing stronger and stronger the closer the boiler traveled to East Gloam.
Realization dawned. Silas covered his mouth with a shaking hand. He stared at the fallen—or rather dead—Unspoken, comprehending what he had done. He had killed the creature. It had attacked first, but he had fought back, overpowering it until it succumbed to Silas's stronger barrage. How did I do that? he asked himself. Humans can't kill with thoughts alone. Stroud watched him, nodding her head as he worked it out.
"Indeed, mouse boy. My thoughts exactly." Stroud sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers and muttering obscenities. She snapped her head up, clapping to punctuate the tense atmosphere.
Ravelin and Silas jumped, startled at the sound. Stroud huffed, wiping the blood and hemolymph from her hands onto the fabric of her trousers.
"Well, I don't know about you two, but I would like to leave this cursed house." Stroud glanced at both Ravelin and Silas before turning and beginning to march down the hallway toward the front door.
Silas skipped after her, also eager to vacate the premises. He was wondering where he'd be sleeping from now on: his house, or the jail cell Warden Oscar put him in a few nights before, when Ravelin interrupted his musings.
"Arbiter Stroud, if I may be so impertinent, this case is clearly larger in scope than you and I can handle alone." Ravelin rushed past Silas, coming to a stop in front of Stroud. She held her arms outstretched on either side of her body, blocking the others from moving past her and exiting into the foyer. "We must contact the Archarbiter."
Stroud clicked her tongue. "I am your superior, Elsbeth. You report to me, not anybody else."
"I report to you and nobody else when it is appropriate to do so." Ravelin held firm, even as Stroud attempted to sidestep past her. "The Academy teaches us to report first and ask questions later, especially for matters that put the Empire at risk." Ravelin hit Silas with a glare so fierce he was forced to look away, his heart hammering in his ears at the implication of her words.
"Elsbeth—"
"No, Vera." Ravelin spat, stamping her foot. "I will not back down from this."
The two Arbiters stood off against each other in a silent battle of wills. Silas hid behind Stroud, his attention swiveling around as he contemplated an escape route. If things escalated, should he run back down the hallway and try to flee out a window? Would that be marked as treason?
Stroud sighed. "Impertinent indeed, my dear subordinate." She leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other. "How about this, Elsbeth. We put this aside temporarily" —she emphasized the word as Ravelin stiffened, preparing a rebuke— "just until tomorrow. Today was, quite frankly, dreadful. If you would permit me to do so, Elsbeth, I would like to go back to Crownhold, figure out what I'm going to do with Silas for the foreseeable future, investigate this" —she held up two pieces of parchment, one Silas recognized from the desk in Pa's study, the other new, its material bumpy and waterclogged— "and then take a much needed rest. Does this satisfy you?"
Ravelin considered this, her lips pursed as she allowed Stroud's words to marinate. Finally, she relented, her arms falling back to her sides. But as Stroud attempted to walk past, Ravelin impeded her by placing a hand on her shoulder. Staring at Silas over Stroud's shoulder, Ravelin whispered something into her superior's ear—the one not burned by flarepistol shot. Silas blinked, the memory of the two Arbiters trading blows resurfacing. What was that about? he wondered, returning Ravelin's suspicious glare. Why did Ravelin attack Stroud like that?
The Arbiters broke away from each other, Ravelin walking ahead. Silas watched her cross the foyer and depart out the front door, carrying her lantern and its light outside. Silas stood in the dark with Stroud for a swollen moment, his vision adjusting to the darkness in the pause. He saw Stroud lean against the wall again, her head tilted forward over her crossed arms, lost in thought. Silas was afraid to move, to disturb the Arbiter's rumination. Finally, she spoke to him, her whispers loud in the marked silence.
"Tomorrow," she said, the word hanging heavy in the air. "Give me until tomorrow. I trust there are numerous points of confusion for you, but I need a bit of time to collect my thoughts." She pushed away from the wall, chuckling in a low, husky wheeze. "I can say this, though: you are a real piece of work, Silas Carrow." With these words, Vera Stroud exited the hallway, passing through the foyer and out the door, leaving Silas staring after her.
Mind reeling, heart racing, he trudged along after her, both excited and anxious for what the next day would bring.