Three days passed in uneventful tranquility. Silas settled into life at Vera's home, quickly finding comfort in her abode. The dust and clutter, however, were a sore spot. After returning from the shopping district, Silas declared his intent to clean the place. Vera protested weakly, claiming her mess was not his to tidy up. But beneath her futile objections, Silas could tell she was appreciative of his offer.

  Silas set to work. First, a thorough dusting was in order. Silas covered his face with a dish towel to mitigate sneezing fits triggered by gales of white powder. The ground floor was tackled first, followed by the even dustier upper level. Vera fussed around him when his cleaning venture began, but she eventually tired of this and left him be. She disappeared into the living room, ironing out the "plan" she insisted she was working on.

  Vera's home soon glistened like a freshly polished boot. Silas was shocked at the difference. Her walls were not actually white, but a soft blue. The grain of the floors was a deep ebony wood, not the medium-hue he originally thought. Vera did have a few paintings littered here and there throughout her house that were originally blanketed under the thick white coating. Silas inspected them. It seemed that Vera liked landscapes, especially those devoted to the night sky. He wondered if she was interested in astronomy.

  When the dusting was done, Silas addressed the dirty dishes. The sink was full of plates and bowls crusted with food from meals consumed unguessable days ago. Silas did his best, but some dishes retained their stubborn stains no matter how much he scrubbed and wiped. While Silas rested between tasks, he listened to Vera work in the living room. Silas began to worry that she was doing less planning and more sorrowing. He couldn't tell if the sound she was making was laughter—or weeping. Silas was too timid to ask her if she was alright.

  Surfaces dusted and dishes cleaned, Silas was at a loss for what to do next. When he caught her between her living room deliberations, Silas asked Vera if he could borrow the books in her study.

  She glanced up from her steaming mug of coffee, the caffeine failing to wash away the darkening shadows below her eyes. "You like to read, do you, little mouse?" She grinned into her mug. "Go ahead, then, I don't mind. Just don't scribble in the margins! I hate when people do that."

  Silas promised to leave no evidence of his perusing behind. He dashed to her study, eager to tuck into the adventure novel he spied a few days prior.

  He devoured the volume in two sittings, reading late into the night beside the effervescent glow of a starbloom lantern. The story was about a young heroine journeying from her home and travelling far and wide in search of her purpose. Along the way, she encountered many hardships, but met people she soon considered family. The journey concluded with the heroine finally returning home, only to discover that such a place no longer existed. Silas couldn't stop thinking about that ending.

  Oscar came and went sporadically. He dropped by to inquire about the state of the plan—disappearing for long stretches with Vera in the living room. The pair would finally emerge hours later in a mood that dropped Silas's heart to his feet. He couldn't bring himself to ask what troubled them.

  "His coat is still not ready?" Vera asked the day before the Archarbiter's public address. She paced about the kitchen, her indoor boots leaving scuff marks on her recently mopped floor. She sighed at Oscar's cautious head shake—the Warden fearing she might shoot the messenger.

  "It's okay," Silas signed. He picked up his notepad to pen the rest. "Even if it's not ready by tomorrow, I don't mind."

  Vera huffed and stopped her pacing, watching Silas in case he signed or wrote anything else. "Well, I do mind," she said, crossing her arms. "I want you to look presentable. It's the least I can do."

  Silas had been teaching Vera sign language whenever possible. After meals and between planning sessions, Silas taught her simple words and phrases. She couldn't yet string together full sentences, but she could understand enough that Silas was finding it easier to communicate with her.

  "The shopkeep said it'll likely be ready by morning," Oscar said, adjusting the bandages over his nose. "I… believe he is growing impatient with my daily stops to his establishment."

  Vera humphed. "Well, what does he expect? He never specified a pick-up date, did he?" Vera resumed her agitated march. "It's only natural his customers would probe down the hole their money fell into."

  Oscar and Vera returned to the living room. When he was sure they'd settled, Silas crept to the door. He listened to the conversation uttered in hushed tones.

  "How fares the city?" Vera asked. Her muffled voice made Silas assume she was speaking while chomping on her fingernails.

  "It worsens each day. Tomorrow will be a grand spectacle, indeed." Oscar quieted, his words barely audible. "I think this next chapter just might go down in history."

  Vera groaned. She stammered, sounds spewing from her mouth before she could form them properly. "There's no other option, then."

  "There has to be another way."

  "There isn't, Oscar! There's nothing else that can be done." Vera gasped, perhaps startled by her own volume.

  There was a pause, then came Oscar's voice. It was gentle, placating. "You're sure you're willing to go that far? I-I will follow you in this, but only if your conviction is true."

  "I am. I have made my choice."

  "In that case, so have I."

  Silas retreated from the door, his throat clenched tight. What kind of plan were they plotting? It sounded dangerous, whatever it was. Silas left the kitchen and flew up the stairs. He sat on the top step, his face buried in his hands. Vera and Oscar were in this mess because of him. If only he didn't exist—

  "Silas, come here!" Vera called from the kitchen.

  Silas jumped. He bolted to his feet, his heart hammering. Had he been caught eavesdropping? Guilt gnawing at him from multiple jaws, Silas lumbered down the stairs, his head hung in defeat.

  Oscar was seated at the table. He kept shooing away Vera's attempts to offer him coffee. Silas blinked. This didn't look like a setup for a reprimand. Vera pulled back the chair opposite the Warden with a grating squeal from the floor. She waved at it, motioning for Silas to sit.

  "Oscar has been neglecting his lessons lately." Vera shot the man a lopsided grin. "Buckle up, Warden. The mouse is an uncompromising lecturer."

  Silas hesitantly approached and sank into the chair, uncertain he had escaped notice. Vera plopped a bowl in front of him. He studied it, then peered up at her, his head tilted in question.

  "Graham-cracker, your favorite, yes?" She smirked at Oscar, who was nervously wringing his hands. "I have a feeling you're going to be here for a while. We can't have you going hungry while Oscar bumbles through his education."

  Silas was taken aback by Vera's sudden change in demeanor. Whatever choice she had come to had grounded her resolve. Silas just wished it didn't sound so perilous.

  Silas placed his notepad on the table, shoving the bowl of crackers aside. He decided to play along. If Vera and Oscar were to pretend that nothing was amiss, so would he. Silas steepled his fingers—something he had always wanted to do. He pressed them to his lips and raised his brows at Oscar. The Warden narrowed his eyes on the boy.

  "What is this, some clandestine business meeting?" Oscar set his palms flat on the table. "Well, I'm ready whenever you are, pipsqueak."

  Silas held the pose a heartbeat longer before snatching his stylus. He flipped to a fresh page and wrote, "Before we begin in earnest, you, my pupil, must survive a tailored review session." Silas chuckled, proud of his jest. "Your previous attempts at sign language were less than satisfactory. Get comfortable. This will be a long day for you."

  "I'll get it!" Vera said, jumping from her seat at the knock on her front door. The gold fastenings on her Imperial uniform caught the light and gleamed. She hurried from the kitchen, her breakfast forgotten on the table.

  Silas frowned at his toast, unsure if the charred bread was safe to eat. Today was the day of Quin Warren's investigation and, to Vera's increasing apprehension, the public address. She had been so distracted this morn that she nearly burned her house down trying to cook breakfast. Silas scrunched his nose at the caustic smell permeating the air. He turned his gaze to the stove, watching wisps of smoke billow from the frying pan toward the ceiling, carried on a lilting draft from a nearby window.

  Vera returned a moment later with a disgruntled Oscar in tow. The Warden's expression crumpled after sampling the air. He glanced at Silas's plate and considered Vera with amusement.

  "Did an arsonist visit you in the night?" he asked, setting down a box beside Silas's chair. The boy stared at it, wondering what was inside.

  Vera's fist clobbered the back of Oscar's head. "I've no patience for your antics today, Warden. Seal your lips before I seal them for you."

  Oscar whistled through pursed lips but held his tongue. He kicked at the box. "Your tiny little coat is ready, pipsqueak," he said with a sneer.

  A soft, delighted sound escaped Silas. He was surprised his new articles were ready so soon; he figured he'd be dressed in Vera's attire for the address. He sighed inwardly. I'm saved from embarrassment on that front, at least.

  "What are you staring at it for?" Vera asked, smiling for the first time today. "Go on, put it on."

  Silas nodded. He slipped from his chair and sank to the floor. Sitting on his knees, he removed the box's lid to reveal its contents. He gasped, marveling at his new coat's fine craftsmanship. The fabric was a deep navy blue, so dark it could be mistaken for black. Silas grabbed the coat by the shoulders and lifted it from the box. Silver thread accentuated the hemming of the cuffs and vent. The buttons were a silver that matched the threading. They glinted as he turned the coat over in his hands.

  Silas draped the coat over his chair and picked up the gloves nestled at the bottom of the box. They matched his new coat of navy fabric and silver thread.

  Silas beamed, hugging the gloves to his chest. He set them on his lap and signed, "Thank you!"

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  Vera clicked her tongue. "Don't thank me, thank my purse." She waved—the motion like shooing away a pest. "Try them on, now. We have to make sure everything fits properly."

  Silas pulled the gloves on first. They felt soft yet sturdy, the material not irritating his recently unbandaged hands. He curled his fingers into a fist, then stretched them back out again. The gloves fit, well, like a glove! Silas gave Vera a thumbs-up, showing off his dexterity.

  She nodded in approval, humming softly. "Now for the coat."

  Silas stood and peeled the coat off the chair. He tugged his arms through the sleeves. The cuffs sat in the correct place—flush against his wrists. He worked the buttons, enjoying the satisfying sensation of the metal clasps sliding through the material. Silas stepped forward and looked down. The coat rested just below his knees—the perfect length. He did a little twirl to show off the fit.

  Vera circled Silas, grasping her chin contemplatively. "Well, look at you," she said, stopping in front of him. "You almost look like you belong in polite company."

  Silas's face flushed. His gaze fell to his feet, bashful. He fidgeted where he stood, shifting from heel to toe.

  "Nice. Now you look less like the ghost of a widow." Oscar snickered. His eyes widened in feigned terror when Vera moved to smack him again.

  Vera released a drawn-out exhale. She bit her lip, studying the floor. "I suppose we should head out now," she said, her voice trembling. "Oscar, help me collect my things." She left the kitchen, the door to the living room hanging open behind her.

  Oscar followed, yanking the door shut after him. Silas stared at the wall, listening to the unintelligible voices behind its barrier. Shaking fingers found his notepad and dropped it into a pocket of his new coat. Will Vera's plan succeed? What will happen to us if it doesn't?

  Silas was afraid of what the Archarbiter had up his sleeve, and he could only imagine how the people of Droswick would react to learning about his artificial inception. But he was more concerned for Vera and Oscar. What would be the consequences of their involvement with him? What would be their fate after enacting their dangerous scheme?

  Instead of sleeping, last night Silas tossed and turned. When he gave up on rest, he stared out the window and fantasized about running away. If he left, he wouldn't have to face the angry crowd at the Foundry School. Vera and Oscar wouldn't be implicated in his case any longer, and they could continue with their lives. But where would Silas go? He doubted he could survive outside the city, where the Unspoken were lying in wait for him. And he suspected Vera would chase after him, which would only cause her more heartache. No, he had to be strong. He had to be brave for himself and for those around him. If he could just make it through today…

  The door swung open with a thud that startled Silas. Oscar and Vera waddled into the kitchen, lugging an overstuffed box between them.

  "Silas, could you be a dear and help us carry this to the boiler?" Vera panted, veins in her neck bulging under the strain.

  Silas hurried to the front door and held it. They hobbled onto the porch. Silas dashed ahead to open the backseat door. Vera stepped aside so Oscar could slide the box across the seats. He wound a harness around it and buckled it in. Silas gave Vera a questioning look.

  She pushed down a strand of hair spilling from her bun. "Evidence I will be presenting to Quin Warren," she explained. She kicked a piece of gravel. The stone bit into Oscar's ankle. He yelped and spun, glaring at Vera while she chuckled.

  "Overprepared as usual, Arbiter Stroud," Oscar said, slamming the door shut to punctuate his words.

  "Warden Oscar, would you rather be overprepared or fumbling for excuses in front of the accused?" She batted her eyelashes. "I'd take my chances with a heavy box over uncertainty any day."

  Oscar rolled his eyes but didn't protest. Silas thought Vera's reasoning was sound.

  Vera clapped. "Time for our field trip," she said with a twitch from her eyebrow. She shuffled to her boiler and climbed into the driver's seat.

  Silas rushed past Oscar and slipped into the passenger's side.

  "Hey!" Oscar shouted after him. "What a cheeky little brat. Who gave you permission to ride up front?" He crawled into the back, grumbling his dissent while he fastened his harness.

  "Now, now, boys," Vera said, her boiler hissing to life. "Let's be civil." Her eyes flicked to the mirror, watching Oscar fumble with the box. Her lips curled into a crooked grin as she drove down her driveway and onto the road.

  Silas focused on his breathing as Vera's boiler chugged down Droswick's narrow streets. You can do this, he kept telling himself. You've survived worse. You can do this.

  Silas stared out the window, his breath fogging the glass. The day was promising to be dreary. A heavy cloud of dust blanketed the sky, obscuring Dysol behind a murky orange cloak. Lightning arced through the pall, sparks crackling from the storm's friction. Each of Silas's deep inhales brought the weather's acrid smell to his nose. It seemed Vera's boiler lacked quality filters.

  Silas avoided eye contact with street vendors, who perched along the road, advertising their wares to drivers and pedestrians alike. His own face stared back from newspaper stands, lampposts, and shop windows, each flyer competing with the next for the most scandalous title. Some claimed Silas was the progeny of a traitorous woman who had relations with an Unspoken. Others argued he was a being not of this world—an intruder from the stars, sent to wipe humanity from the planet. Silas drew up his new coat's hood, hiding his face within its folds. Vera's attention darted to him often. She gripped the steering disc with such force that the metal dimpled.

  Silas read the sign that announced their entrance into the Foundry District. Towering steam stacks dominated the skyline. White tendrils of steam belched from their throats—the mist bleeding into the orange dust and diluting it to the color of sand. They drove under one of the Archarbiter's "Public Address" banners, and Vera started muttering under her breath.

  "Nothing says transparency like making a child's life into a street performance," she said monotonously, her nostrils flaring.

  Silas turned to her and put on a mask that he hoped conveyed his ease and confidence. By Vera's grimace, he doubted his act was persuasive. He ducked his head and slouched in his seat.

  Eyes glued to his lap, Silas heard rather than saw their arrival at the Foundry School for Education and Asylum. The clamor swelled with each turn of the boiler's wheels. The angry cacophony of hundreds of voices rose from the growing crowd, each fighting to be heard above the others. Silas risked a peek through the windshield and immediately averted his gaze. He gripped his knees until the fabric of his trousers bunched beneath his fingers. There were already so many people! They were all pushing toward a podium placed before the Foundry School's main entrance. Silas would have to walk past the mob to get inside.

  "I thought the address wasn't supposed to start until after school was done for the day," Oscar said heatedly. "That's hours from now."

  "You thought correctly, Oscar," Vera said through gritted teeth. "I believe these fine people are all early arrivals." Vera turned her boiler around and left the full parking lot.

  We'll be walking in, then, Silas thought, heart galloping.

  "Are you alright, Silas?" Vera asked. It took several attempts, but she managed to park parallel to the curb a few blocks down. She swiveled in her seat, studying the boy huddled in his coat. "If I were you, I'd be feeling a bit daunted."

  Silas couldn't meet her gaze. He nodded in his hood, his hands slinking from his knees to his coat pockets. He fiddled with his notepad's bookmark, wrapping the ribbon around his forefinger.

  "Let's get this over with." Vera patted Silas's hooded head and exited the vehicle.

  Oscar followed a moment later. "Are you going to make us bring this cumbersome box with us?" he asked incredulously. Silas watched him through the mirrors. The Warden unbuckled the box's harness and stared at it with distaste. "I don't think it'll survive the swarm of onlookers."

  "You're probably right," Vera grunted, already digging through the box. She piled pieces of parchment and files onto the seat beside it. "Just the most telling proof, then."

  Silas finally left the boiler. He shuffled to the back of the vehicle, coming to stand behind Oscar. Vera turned and offered Silas a weak smile. He stared at her blankly.

  "Could you carry these for me, Silas?" She handed him a thick bundle of folders.

  Silas juggled them before they settled in his grasp. Vera snorted at his clumsiness and winked before spinning on her heel.

  Vera studied Oscar's twitchy form. "Oscar, do you have the warrant? Good. How about your manacles?"

  The Warden held them up for her to see. Silas rubbed his wrists, remembering the painful clasp of the harsh metal against his skin. He hoped he never had to wear those again.

  They set off toward the school. Silas clutched Vera's evidence to his chest while he stared at Oscar's back. Vera walked behind Silas; the boy was sandwiched between the two. There was no conversation, only the steady thudding of their bootsteps. Soon, all sound was swallowed by the horde's racket. A sandy gust dropped Silas's hood. Vera yanked it back up.

  Silas snuck fleeting glimpses of the crowd. He was surprised at the variety of onlookers. Citizens of all stations mingled as one—united by their curiosity and yearning for answers. Parents held children on their shoulders so the little ones could see above the crowd. Elders were given space for their canes and walking sticks. Silas recognized faces in the audience. There was Mrs. Paddington, a severe woman who taught arithmetic. At the fringe was Mr. Antley, the athletics coach. Were the faculty given the day off? Perhaps they had chosen not to work today.

  A hush descended when the throng spotted Vera and Oscar in their Imperial uniforms. They pointed and whispered, their leers drifting to Silas.

  "Is that him?" cried a woman leaning against the podium. She held a flyer in front of her. Several people gathered around, comparing the caricature to the real boy.

  Oscar slid in front of Silas, blocking him from view. Vera tugged the boy's hood so low he could hardly see the ground and led him toward the double doors.

  "That's the boy! I saw him conversing with an Unspoken the night of the attack!"

  Silas spun in the direction of the voice. He scanned the crowd, determined to know who spoke. There! Silas recognized the man as the phlogiston rifle-wielder who had shot Echo with an alchemical ampule. The man was still shouting, but he could no longer be heard over the chaos. Vera's fingers wound around Silas's arm and pulled him through the doors. The force of the wind at the threshold sucked Silas's hood back.

  Oscar mumbled obscenities under his breath. A girl peeked her head out of a classroom and stared. Oscar struck her with a glower so savage she ducked back inside, whimpering a sob. Moments later, the classroom door slammed shut.

  "Behave yourself, Oscar," Vera ordered, returning Silas's hood to his head. "We are not here to terrorize schoolchildren." She set off down the hallway, pulling Silas along beside her.

  Silas tried to ignore his surroundings. His thoughts traveled back in time to when he last walked these halls. He recounted the events of that day and mourned the future he could have had if things had gone differently. Where did he go wrong? Was there a single moment—a lone catalyst that prompted the spiral of events that led to where he now stood? He marveled at the fragility of volition. Does autonomy pilot our lives, or are we hostages balancing on the revolving cogs of inevitability?

  Children and teachers walked the halls. The moment they spotted Silas and his retinue, they fled into classrooms or offices. Children whispered. Teachers glared. All eyes watched Silas with suspicion. All lips spoke accusations and blame. Silas inhaled a shaky breath and held it. He let it go suddenly, the air escaping his lungs like a wheeze.

  "Pay them no mind," Vera said. "This will all be over soon."

  They stopped in front of the door to the headmaster's office. Oscar handed Vera the warrant for Quin Warren's arrest. She drew her flarepistol and nodded to Oscar before aiming at the door. Silas was ordered to take a few steps back in case things got heated. He cradled Vera's files, his legs trembling, his pulse fluttering so fast his vision blurred. Oscar hovered with his knuckles inches from the door. He gave Vera one last look before his fist fell, the percussive knocks deafening in the muzzled air.

  "Quin Warren, you are under arrest on suspicion of—"

  The door flew wide. The headmaster stood calm and composed in the doorway. With how fast he opened the door, Silas wondered if he had been standing on the other side, waiting for them.

  Vera cleared her throat. She dropped her weapon back into its holster and flashed the warrant. "Quin Warren—if that even is your name—you are suspected of treason against the Empire with your affiliation to the Covenant of Fallen Stars."

  The headmaster didn't so much as twitch. His gaze slithered from Vera to Oscar and finally landed on Silas. He stepped aside, holding the door open.

  "Do come in," he said.

  Vera and Oscar exchanged glances. They came to a silent understanding. Vera tucked the warrant into a pocket and marched inside, Oscar following at her heels. Silas took a reluctant step forward. When Vera waved him on, he lunged the rest of the way. The door closed quietly behind him.

  For the first time, Silas was standing in the headmaster's office. But he was not here to be scolded for misdeeds. He watched Quin Warren casually slink to his desk and glide into a lush, high-backed chair. The headmaster clasped his hands together and held them under his chin as if in prayer.

  "Go on then, Imperial Arbiter Vera Stroud," Quin Warren said. He glanced at the files in Silas's arms before his attention returned to the Arbiter. "Tell me my life story."