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bound himself with clean bandages. Next his chest: once the skin was clean, he tucked the end of a bandage under one armpit and wrapped it around and around himself down to his waist. A jolt of pain shot through his knees as he bent to attend to his legs and feet, but he took his time. It was important to cover every wound, lest more infection set in. The Poison Kitchens harboured every type of infection.

When he was done, he dressed himself carefully in his old tweed suit and tried to regain his composure for the day ahead. Every inch of him felt raw and brittle. He placed his spectacles on his nose. Though his sight was fading, his eyes still looked clear and warm. Once handsome in a roguish sort of way, his was a good-humoured face, still etched with smile-lines—a face that people would instinctively warm to, were it not for the cracks and blisters and weeping skin.

Devon’s flesh knew the touch of poison.

Morning filtered through the gauzy drapes of his bedroom window while, outside, the bricks and tarred roofs of the Depression basked in sunlight. Birds chattered incessantly, nesting here in thousands, away from the egg-thieves and from the scroungers who had stripped this derelict district bare so long ago. Devon closed his eyes, letting their melodies wash over him. Far away, the mourners’ bell chimed solemnly in the temple.

Elizabeth would have loved it here. He had looked forward to showing her this place once its conversion was finished; it was to have been a surprise. Clay pots and trenchers still littered the warehouse roof, while pebbles marked meandering paths through heaped mounds of imported Plantation soil. He’d planted orangegrass, bluewisps, and roses; put up trellises; and built a slender whitewood gazebo. But the flowers he had planted were all withered now, the soil dry and dead. He’d taken too long to prepare his surprise. Now only traces of her survived: the faded stains in the sheets he’d brought from their Bridgeview townhouse, a few of her perfume bottles, all empty now, and the painting of her that had cost him half a year’s salary to commission. Devon shared his new home with memories.

He picked up one of Elizabeth’s perfume bottles, and inhaled deeply. Even the scent was faint—like the ghost of some long-dead flower—but it bolstered his resolve as it always did. Gently he replaced the stopper and set the bottle down, his hand lingering on the smooth glass.

The sound of sobbing could be heard from his laboratory next door. Good, the girl was awake. He ought perhaps to make her some coffee and try to calm her down. But the coffee might interfere with the sedative he planned to use on her. He sighed. Maybe he would speak to her softly, and try to ease her pain. It wasn’t going to be easy, though: there would be a lot of pain. The poor thing would struggle desperately.

But life, after all, was full of little challenges.

6

The Sending

The odour of limewax pervaded the corridor, but its sickly-sweet veneer did little to mask the smell of decay. Iron chandeliers hung from chains fixed in the vaulted ceiling, and tiny candle-flame reflections glowed deep in the marble floor, but the light they provided seemed thin: stretched by the vastness of the space.

At the innermost end of the corridor, Dill stood by the Sanctum doors, and wished there were windows. Shadows crawled all around him, like things moving at the edges of his vision. But whenever he turned to look, there was nothing.

Something creaked above him. A chain moving in a stray draught, probably.

Dill avoided looking up; the things up there were worse than anything in the shadows to either side. Instead he fixed his eyes on the stable doors, anxious for them to open, yet hoping they’d stay firmly shut. Borelock tended the stables.

Another creak above, and Dill looked up.

On tall columns hung the remains of the Ninety-Nine, displayed like ghoulish puppets in chains which held their skeletal arms in place and their tattered wings outstretched. Some wore scraps of armour or peered over dented shields, but all of them brandished weapons: swords, spears, halberds, or pikes, all pitted, scarred, and rusted.

Dill shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His uniform felt stiff and uncomfortable; the sword hilt dug into his ribs. He clasped and unclasped his hands, studied the floor, loosened some buttons, and tugged at his collar, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from