The wealthiest took what they wanted most. Land high up. Defensible and with a ready view. They locked down the things they could not control like magick among the masses and worked to eradicate such offensive traits. The ones that followed settled the Hill below the slopes occupied by the First Families and the Ranks that came to denote their stations filled the slope in nearly perfect descending order until the last bits of society, the dregs, took the least defensible spots nearest the water’s edge. They were the workers on which the walls were built. They were the butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. The musicians, artisans, crafters, and clockmakers, the ones who maintained the sewers and guarded against Merrow. They were all replaceable. And they knew it.
Still, it was better than what most had left behind. “The War across the Water,” as the Americans now called it, was the most treacherous sort of war: a magickal one.
He would ask no questions about his family’s whereabouts until he reached the Below, and he would take the long way down. Past the Vanmoer estate. It seemed there were more roses that needed some of his particular form of attention.
Holgate
In the dark of her Reckoning Tank, Jordan Astraea held two words in her head: be brave. It was these two words that kept her from crying out when something rustled in the straw beside her. It was those two words that kept her from screaming when something scurried across the top of her right foot.
Be brave.
She clutched the pin hidden in her sleeve and willed herself to follow its engraved instructions, simple as they were.
Whereas most of her fellow prisoners were dragged from their Tanks needing to be pushed and prodded to bring them before the Maker for the Reckoning, Jordan Astraea walked proudly (if not a bit stiffly, worn as she was from travel) all the way down the remaining dank hall, up the stairs at its far side, and all the way to him as a proper lady should when faced with the knowledge that someone’s comeuppance was due.
The room was large and filled from floor to ceiling with books, their shelves sporting stormlight lanterns so there was no spot wanting light.
With no introduction, the first instructions came. “Remove her accessories.”
The Wardens made quick work of it, taking her shawl, plucking her bracelets and even the fan off her hip.
The man giving orders looked up from behind a desk where he tallied the objects she’d come in with. “Gloves, too,” he reminded a moment before the Wardens peeled them off her arms. “Leave the necklace.”
Jordan would have worried about the proceedings were she not certain everything would be handed back (in a most apologetic manner) momentarily. Besides, she still had her butterfly wing necklace, the paper star, and Rowen’s heart to remind her of who she was.
The man behind the desk could not have been more than a dozen years her senior. Golden-haired, he had barely looked up from where he was scrawling notes in a journal when Jordan had entered the room flanked by two Wardens. She gathered her wits, gave a disdainful little sniff and a rattle of the leather manacles and metal links connecting them that they’d again placed her in for her appearance.
A towheaded little girl appeared from behind him, sipping from a cup, a stuffed toy with long ears tucked in the crook of her elbow. She blinked at Jordan. And then she smiled.
“Go on,” the man urged the child. “I need to return to my work.”
The child looked back at him. “Is she a—a—abom…?”
“Abomination?” Bran said, matter-of-factly. “Yes, little love, she is, so steer clear.”
The child’s eyes grew wide and she obeyed, giving Jordan and her Wardens wide berth.
Bran looked up at Jordan then, brow wrinkling. “Name?”
Be brave.
“It doesn’t matter, as you will not need to enter it in whatever that book of yours is,” she assured. “I am no Weather Witch. I cannot be Made.”
Bran drew in a deep breath and tapped his pen against the inkwell’s lip. “Name?”
“Are you deaf or daft?” Jordan retorted. “I am no Witch. I cannot be Made. You must set this horrible situation to rights before we have a problem.”
Bran’s eyebrows rose on his forehead and his mouth turned up at its very ends. But his expression hardened. “Do you know how many times I hear that on a Reckoning Day?” he asked, stepping around his desk to better make clear that he was the dominant force in the room. The pen still in his hand dripped once on his boot, leaving a mark like a black teardrop. He was unfazed. “Cooperate and things will go easier on you.”
“But—”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Hold her.”
The Wardens clamped their hands around her arms and dragged her closer to him.
“Name,” he repeated.
She opened her mouth to refuse him again, but saw something spark in his eyes and thought better of it. “Jordan of House Astraea,” she whispered.
He stepped back around and brought his journal forward. “City?”
She again tried to protest and was again shut down by a look from his sharp golden eyes. “Philadelphia,” she replied.
“Excellent well. And”—he dipped the nib of his pen into the ink and tapped it off again—“when did you first discover your affinity for weather and storms?”
“I have no affinity for either,” she said, her tone sharp.
He shook his head. “Why do they never simply admit to the fact?” he asked the Wardens.
They remained mute as was their nature.
“If you only admitted to being what you are we could move along with the process. And it would go ever so much more gently.”
“But I have no…”
Putting on a pair of gloves, he slid open a drawer in his desk and withdrew a long needle. “No worries about infection. It is freshly cleaned and as sterile as anything in Holgate gets.” He walked back to where she stood, pinned in place by the cruel grips of the Wardens, their fingers looped into the links binding the manacles and pressed into her flesh. “Now tell me what I need to know or I Reckon we’ll get it out of you the hard way.”
“No,” she whispered, struggling. “I can’t … I’m not…”
“Jordan of House Astraea, ranked Fifth of the Nine, your rank is forfeit, your life is ours, our pleasure your duty, and that duty a great one.” He grabbed her right hand and turned it over so that her palm was face up. It trembled like a frightened animal, independent of Jordan’s will. “Say the words,” he urged.
But her brows arched over the delicate bridge of her nose and she shook her head as tears welled up at the edges of her eyes.
He sighed and dug the needle into the tip of her finger until she screamed. Sparks flared all along the beautiful embroidery of her dress, and danced across her bare skin as she screamed again.
“Thank you,” Bran whispered, tugging the needle free. He held the journal open before her. “Please sign.”
Whimpering, she asked, “A pen?”
He chuckled and grabbed her bleeding finger. “Not necessary. Sign with your internal ink, please.”
Quivering, she signed his book in blood.