The air in the workshop of Elmsworth smelled of lightning and of peat.

  Strife hung heavy in the scent. The sharp bite of Aether-coils hummed with blue light, fighting the heavy reek of the grease and iron model that squatted upon the far bench.

  Upon the wood the model sat like a toad. A squat, ugly toad, dripping black sludge upon the floorboards.

  Arabella stood at her workbench, and her hands held steady. Steady they had to be. She polished the brass casing of her machine, a silver locket swinging beneath her neck.

  A clockwork spider of many limbs crouched there, the sum of three years of wakeful nights and every copper she had scraped together.

  The rag moved in small, true circles.

  But her belly churned, a knot of acid.

  "I've set the main guide true to a hair's breadth." Her voice came tight, and she did not look up. "If the judges look at the aether-mouth, they'll see the catch. They'll spot the second guide."

  "If they look upon the pipes," a voice rasped from the shadows, "they shall see thou hast a wit sharper than their own. That is a danger, girl. The Council fears cunning more than it fears rust."

  Master Elmsworth stepped into the light. She stood sturdy as a smith rather than a clockmaker, grey hair pulled back in a hard bun tied with copper wire. She wore a heavy leather apron stained with grease and flux.

  She held a red-hot boiler plate with a pair of thin leather gloves.

  The heat shimmered the air about her hands, and Bella could feel the warmth from five paces away. Yet Elmsworth did not flinch. She did not grimace. She held the glowing metal as if it were a loaf of bread.

  Elmsworth set the plate upon the anvil. She took up a heavy wrench and twisted a glowing rivet. Her movements jerked with ire, for the rivet would not seat.

  "Damn soft brass."

  She growled, hand tightening on the wrench.

  Crunch.

  The solid brass handle of the wrench gave way. It bent like tallow, folding in on itself under the grip of her hand.

  Bella stopped polishing to stare at the ruined tool.

  "Master," she whispered. "The wrench."

  Elmsworth looked at the twisted metal in her hand. She blinked, as if surprised by her own strength, and tossed it into the scrap bin with a clang.

  "Bah. Soft metal. Things are not as they were of old." She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the "toad", the fire engine. She kicked a barrel of black oil sitting next to it.

  Thud.

  "Heed me, Arabella. This," she pointed to the sludge, "this is our safeguard. Wrinkle not thy nose. Staying alive bears a stench."

  Bella looked at the barrel. Rock-oil. Foul stuff. Old. The Guild called it a lie.

  "It's loud," Bella said. "It shakes the floor. And the smoke..."

  "Smoke signifies life. Aether is clean, for it is but a ghost. This?" Elmsworth patted the cold iron of the engine. "This is real. Fire and weight. No magic. Just gears and sweat."

  Bella turned back to her machine. Her spider shone beautiful in a stark, hard way. Exposed gears, brass rivets, no fancy gold work. It stood built to work. To fix the Wall that kept the city alive.

  "We have to go." Bella checked the clock. "The gate closes in an hour."

  She locked the machine in its travel box. Before she closed the lid, she paused to look at the small, hidden drawer in the base of her bench.

  She unlocked it.

  Inside lay a stack of letters. Old. The paper yellow and brittle.

  They came from him. Her brother.

  The last one bore a date from six years ago. I found something in the deep halls, Bella. A drawing. It doesn't make sense.

  Then silence.

  She touched the paper, just for a moment, as a token.

  I'll find you, she thought. I'll get that boon. I'll buy my way into the halls. And I'll find you.

  She locked the drawer.

  "Ready," she said.

  Upon Kogsworth Avenue, the light usually flowed like a river.

  Folk called it the "Gilded Mile." The heart of the District. It lay as a dale of brass walls and crystal windows, lit by the Aether-lamps that lined the street like soldiers.

  But the lamps flickered. They did not glow with that steady, true blue hum. They buzzed, like dying flies trapped in a jar. The light dimmed, casting long, jagged shadows across the stones.

  Bella pushed the cart, the wheels rattling. Every jolt sent a spike of dread through her chest. The spinning-rings. Please let the rings hold.

  The street teemed with learners, Masters, and the staring folk. But the mood held no gladness. Fear reigned.

  "Did you see the price of Sunstone dust?" a man in a velvet coat muttered to his friend as they passed. "Risen a tenth again."

  "It is not the price," the other man whispered back. "It is the store. The mines in the Greyfang tell that a third of the harvest is lost."

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  Bella slowed down.

  "Keep your voice down," the first man hissed. "If the lenders hear the harvest is down, the papers will be worthless by noon."

  Bella looked at Elmsworth, who walked beside the cart, heavy boots thudding on the stones. "Did you hear that?" Bella whispered. "Thirty counts."

  Elmsworth snorted. "Hopeful fools. It is fifty. The prize purse weighs light this year, Arabella. Half the coin. Enough to pay thy father's debts, yet barely enough to buy passage into the halls to find the lad."

  Bella's grip tightened on the cart handle.

  "Half?"

  "The Third Law of Share." Elmsworth's voice turned grim. "They seek to hide it, but the Wall strains. Look upon the lamps. Half-strength. They hoard fuel for the heart."

  Bella looked up at the flickering lights. The brass towers of the Royal College loomed at the end of the road, dark against the grey sky.

  It felt like walking into a tomb. A very dear, very shiny tomb.

  They came to the staging ground. Chaos reigned with shouting voices and clanking metal. Learners polished their works in haste.

  Most looked like mere toys.

  A clockwork swan that beat its wings. A singing garden dwarf. A wain that drove itself in circles.

  Useless. Pretty, gilded junk.

  Bella parked her cart and checked the pressure gauge on the machine's water pipes. Stable.

  Then she saw him.

  Silas.

  He stood near the judges' booth, a knot of followers about him. He wore no Artifice mail, for he needed it not. Instead, a fitted tunic of blue silk and light leather greaves clad him.

  He stood out, a glowing beacon.

  In truth.

  The air about him shimmered, twisted by heat.

  Silas, an Aura Warrior. An Initiate. One of the "Iron Lungs."

  Bella watched him breathe.

  He breathed a set rhythm. Not natural.

  In-two-three. Hold. Out-two-three.

  A living time-keeper.

  With every breath, he sifted the trace Aether from the wind. His lungs worked as nets, stripping the power from the air and storing it in the stone knots within his chest. A living vessel of aether.

  He turned, and he saw her.

  A smile spread across his fair face. No kind smile, but the smile of a wolf seeing a hare. He walked over, and the crowd parted for him.

  "Dost thou still play with dolls, Arabella?"

  His voice came smooth. High.

  "I deemed thou hadst grown beyond clockwork ere now." He leaned against her cart, tapping the wooden case. "What is it this year? A dancing bear?"

  "It's a high-force mending engine, Silas." Bella did not look at him, her voice cool as she fixed a tension spring. "It mends the web that keeps your tunic clean."

  Silas laughed. "The Barrier."

  He tapped his own chest. A hollow thud.

  "The Barrier is of the past. I breathe the power for which thou must beg. Wherefore build a machine, when a god may be bred?"

  Bella looked up to meet his eyes. They burned bright with the inner fire he hoarded.

  "Gods shouldn't need to eat three times the food of a normal man just to keep from burning through their own flesh, Silas," she said quietly. "I've seen the mess hall bills. You burn hot, but you burn fast."

  The smile of Silas faltered. His rhythm hitched, just for a split moment. A skipped beat.

  "Take heed, artificer," he whispered. "Thou speakest to thy betters."

  "I'm speaking to a jar," she said. "And jars run dry."

  He scowled and pushed off the cart, jarring it.

  "Farewell," he spat. "Thou shall need it."

  He stalked away, the heat haze trailing behind him.

  Bella let out a breath she knew not she held. Her hands shook.

  "Well struck," Elmsworth grunted from behind her. "He liked not that sting."

  "He's right though." Bella looked at the flickering lamps. "If the air runs dry... he starves. But if the Wall fails... we freeze."

  "Then win," Elmsworth said. "Win, and set it right."

  "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

  Perfume and poison dripped from the voice.

  Lydia Veras.

  She stood at the next bench, her table draped in velvet. She had three helpers, fresh-faced first-years, polishing a great, gilded cage. Inside sat a clockwork phoenix.

  It looked beautiful, pure art, and wholly useless.

  Lydia leaned against the barrier between their places. She looked pure. Her hair fell in perfect curls, her dress the latest style from the Inner Ring. She smelled of lavender and gold.

  "Greetings, Lydia," Bella said. She opened her case. The spider unfolded, brass legs clicking into place. It looked rough. Ugly. Real.

  Lydia wrinkled her nose.

  "My father saith the College accepts no charity cases this year." She examined her clean nails. "Something about 'holding standards'."

  "Standards?" Bella did not look up, checking the seals. "Is that what we call buying the judges wine?"

  Lydia laughed. A light, tinkling sound.

  "Wit, Bella. A true Artificer uses every tool. Even the ones that spin not. Thou art desperate. I can smell it. It smells worse than that sludge thy Master hoards."

  Bella froze. She looked at Lydia.

  "My father knows of the debts." Lydia's voice dropped to a mock whisper. "He knows thy house is pledged to the hilt. He knows thou needest the prize gold just to keep the roof over thy father's head. It is sad, truly."

  Heat rose in Bella's cheeks. Shame. Hot and sharp.

  "Need builds bridges, Lydia." Bella's voice held steady. "Wealth just paints 'em."

  Lydia's eyes narrowed. She reached out, finger hovering over the frail intake valve of Bella's machine.

  "Ah," she whispered.

  Bella grabbed her wrist.

  Her fingers dug in hard.

  "Don't," Bella said.

  Lydia smirked and pulled her hand back.

  "Touchy. Peace, Arabella. Thou art doomed to lose regardless. Why lengthen the pain?"

  She turned back to her helpers, barking orders about the polish.

  Bella stared at the spider.

  I must win, she thought. For Father. For the house. For him.

  She thought of her brother. His laugh. The way he used to make gears out of wood scraps.

  I am coming, she promised.

  The Master of Ceremonies rang the bell.

  "Apprentice Veras! Presenting: The Eternal Flame!"

  Lydia wheeled her cage out and opened the door. The phoenix fluttered out. It flew in circles, trailing sparks. The crowd made sounds of awe.

  A simple floating spell. Basic. Dull.

  But pretty.

  The judges wrote notes. They looked bored.

  Then came Bella's turn.

  "Apprentice Elmsworth! Presenting: The Grid-Walker!"

  Bella pushed her cart onto the iron stage.

  This year, a new thing sat over the test wall, a thin brass tower filled with coils and crystal blades that made a slight, stinging sound.

  Bella had seen it before in College books: a test "catcher" meant to quell the surges in the city's aether wall. It caused the hair on her arms to rise.

  The crowd murmured. It was not pretty. It looked like a weapon.

  Bella took a deep breath. She wound the main spring and woke the Aether-heart.

  Hummmmm.

  The spider woke up.

  Its eyes, simple glass lenses, glowed blue.

  "The Grid-Walker," Bella called, voice reaching the back of the crowd, "is made for high-risk work. It can fix live lines, and find its way up steep pipes, and withstand high power surges."

  She pointed to the test site, a tangle of live wires and broken pipes set up on the stage.

  "Go."

  The spider moved.

  It did not roll. It skittered.

  It moved with fluid, fearful grace. Four legs held it to the floor, while the other four worked the tools. It climbed the steep pipe. It found a break in the copper line.

  It began to weld.

  Sparks flew. The crowd gasped.

  No toy moved there, but a worker.

  In the judges' booth, Valerius leaned forward. The young scholar pushed his spectacles up his nose, writing frantically.

  "The force is... great," the Head Judge muttered. "And the balance?"

  "Balance-wheel, my lord," Bella called out. "Jointed springing on each limb. It can fix a pipe in a storm."

  "Strange," Valerius muttered to himself. "She tunes the gear-count to the Aether-song. She treats the magic as water flowing. She forces it not, but flows with it."

  Silas, standing near the edge of the stage, crossed his arms. He looked bored.

  "It is a toy," he sneered to no one. "One lightning strike and it fuses."

  Bella heeded him not. She smiled.

  The spider worked truly. It wove a new copper seal over a leak. Precise. Bright.

  She had them.

  She looked at the judges. They were nodding.

  Even the bored one leaned in.

  I am going to win, she thought. The relief was dizzying. I am going to save us.

  The spider reached for the last link. The frail Aether-bond.

  Bella looked past the stage.

  In the background, near the street, a young stone-worker knelt by a rut. Unseen. Unimportant. Just a worker fixing the road.

  He stopped.

  He dropped his hammer.

  He grabbed his head.

  Bella frowned. The air suddenly felt... heavy.

  The lights flickered.

  Not a buzz. A drop.

  The hum of the spider faltered.

  Then, a sound.

  No. A feeling.

  A shriek tearing up from the ground, vibrating through the stone.

  The mason screamed.

  The world turned white.