Rowan returned to the solitude of the library against Eamon’s wishes. Without Arlette to hound him for bringing a stranger into the home, perhaps he could get some real work done.

  He’d at least determined that there was nothing scientifically wrong with what he’d done that night before his workshop blew. The tolerances had been there. What hadn’t been was the stability he’d expected. Fulminancy’s instability was a known issue, but so far it had been a predictable sort of instability. One that— with the right care— could be dealt with and avoided.

  Or so Rowan had thought.

  He’d been so sure of the quality of his own designs that he’d begun to think Fulminancy was only unstable at all because people wielded it. Tucked away in his little lanterns and tubes, it seemed mostly tamed. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Rowan set aside another charred notebook, having meticulously cataloged every remaining piece of information within. His eyes fell on a letter he’d been drafting before his interruption with the Bloodcrawler girl. He’d rewritten it several times already. The current draft was his most polished, but his most despairing.

  Lord Grandbow, it read. While your offer of funds is greatly appreciated, I’m afraid I will have to reject it on the basis of practicality. I imagine you have little time for trivialities with your current investments, so I will make it quick: Fulminancy in this application is not safe. You’ve seen this already in your dealings with the parlor in Redring. I, too, had hoped that this was simply a fluke, but the prototypes we’re releasing must be retracted. They are too unstable to be placed in homes and businesses. Perhaps after further research, these prototypes can be replaced, but I would not feel comfortable doing so at this time. I appreciate your interest in this endeavor and can only hope we have the opportunity to work together again.

  He’d signed his name at the bottom. Rowan stared at the letter again, barely seeing it. It was the right thing to do, of course. He knew that. So why did it feel wrong? Why did it feel like he was letting something slip from his grasp?

  It was then, sitting in the dim library, that Rowan realized it: he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t throw away years of work. When the people realized this new technology’s inherent danger, they would reject it outright, even once the danger was remedied. Rowan wasn’t a politician. Cashin’s faith in him had only emerged after a string of failures with other investors, and Cashin himself was only interested because of his more recent business failures.

  Rowan wouldn’t have another chance.

  If he threw this one away, there would be no other way forward.

  He had to leave those lights up in the city.

  Rowan’s gut twisted, protesting. Rowan was an honest man, but where had honesty gotten him? He’d been thrown out of his family home, disinherited, and made to fend for himself from a young age. He’d pushed Claire away with his honesty, and now threatened to throw away his one chance to make a difference in the city with it.

  And the city would be better for his work. People would be able to learn late into the night. The air was cleaner where his lights shone, and that steady light could bring clarity to otherwise muddy words. It would mean higher quality work for skilled trades who could now better see what they were doing, and, once its safety in illumination was assured, it could be applied to other industries to take some of the Downhill out of the back breaking labor that ran the city.

  There was a future here. The problem was convincing everyone else. And everyone else would be exceedingly hard to convince if they were worried about this new technology exploding on them at any given time.

  There were times for light, and there were times for shadow. Perhaps, with his lack of Fulminancy, Rowan would simply have to learn to be at home in the shadows.

  Rowan parsed his letter one last time, then gathered his several drafts together. He walked over to the hearth, stoked the flames, and stood there, letters in hand, for a very long moment.

  He threw them into the fire and went to find Arlette.

  “I need an alibi,” Rowan said. “A reason to be at court.” He leaned against a solid wall in the corner of Arlette’s study— one of his favorite spots in the manor— though occasionally the company was too much even for his patience.

  “Go on your father’s name,” Arlette said, barely looking up from a list of numbers so long it made Rowan dizzy.

  “That won’t work. You know what I did, Arlette. I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me out even with a good excuse to return.”

  She waved a hand dismissively, and continued to write. “You did your father a favor— saved his life, even. If the cloudspawn up there don’t understand that, then they’re not worth bothering with in the first place.”

  “You might see it that way but I doubt the rest of the Uphill will. I interfered with Fulminant business. I need something else— something separate from my family.”

  Arlette finally looked at him, though her pen remained hovered over the ledgers. “Rowan, do you know the odds of someone actually speaking to you up there in a useful manner?”

  “I don’t really think that’s something you can—“

  “One in three million, six hundred twenty eight thousand, Rowan.”

  Rowan blinked. “You made that up,” he accused. “Where would something like that come from?”

  Arlette returned to her work, unbothered by his accusation. “A myriad of calculations,” she said. “I set a weighted value to the odds of individuals speaking with you, depending on what they stand to gain from doing so, their standing at court, and the likelihood that they’ll talk at all. I also added in a bit of noise to account for human unpredictability, as well as the odds of those people being there on any given…you’re not listening, are you?”

  Rowan stared out the window at the Drystorm, the dark clouds whipping into a frenzy now that Lightstorm season was approaching. Soon the city would be lit up by bright flashes of lightning, and half the Downhill would spend their days and nights putting out fires. “I’m trying to figure out people, Arlette, not numbers.”

  “People are numbers, Rowan.”

  “Be that as it may, I have a problem we can’t solve with numbers,” he said. “I need a miracle.”

  Arlette said nothing for a few moments, her auburn hair falling into her face as she wrote silently. Rowan was about to give up on her help entirely and seek Claire’s advice when she finally pushed aside the ledger, leaned back, and studied him pointedly.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll help. Here’s the truth of it, Rowan— you’re already done for anyway. When you told Cashin and the others what happened, you—“

  “I didn’t tell Cashin and the others.”

  Arlette paused, mouth half open.

  “You…what?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” Rowan said calmly. “I burned the letter.” He trailed over to one of the chairs near her desk, and sat down, hard, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just couldn’t do it. It was too much work to throw it all away now. If people know what happened— if they understand the risk— it’ll all be for nothing. They’ll reject it even if I find a way to fix it.”

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  “Fanas and Faleas,” Arlette swore, her voice low. She seemed to be trying to reconcile the Rowan who sat in front of her with the Rowan who spent most of his time chiding her for her gambling addiction, picking up random messes throughout the manor, and readjusting picture frames on the wall. Rowan had to admit, he hadn’t quite figured it out himself, either. “You’re going to try politicking, Rowan? The last time you tried to play politics, you told my father I was running a gambling ring behind the manor.”

  Rowan grimaced. “Well you were gambling behind the house, Arlette— with half the neighborhood.”

  “That,” she said, sitting up to put her hands on the desk. “That right there.” She loomed over him, as if trying to decipher something, then shook her head. “You can’t play politics, Rowan. It’ll destroy you. It requires dishonesty. Withholding information. Putting your needs above others’. What will you do?” she asked. “Go up there and convince them that your lights are safe because someone truly decent works tirelessly to make them so?”

  Rowan avoided her eyes. The thought had crossed his mind. “If you’re going to do this,” Arlette continued, “you have to be willing to lie, Rowan. For your own benefit. Maybe even for the benefit of others.”

  “The good of the many in return for harming the few,” Rowan whispered.

  “Exactly. A trade off. Can you do that, Rowan? Can you really make that kind of moral trade?”

  Rowan stared at his hands. He’d had this exact debate in the library, but he’d burned the letters, hadn’t he? This was the right path forward— but at what cost?

  “I— I don’t know,” he finally said. “But I have to try. This is all I have left.” He locked eyes with Arlette. Rowan thought he could sense understanding there. Arlette of all people knew what it was to be cast aside for seeing things differently. She would understand his dire need to move forward, even as it chafed against his very nature.

  Finally, she sat back in her chair, still regarding him. “Well, the odds of you succeeding are one in eight hundred thirty seven thousand, four hundred and sixty two, but—“

  “I need a distraction,” Rowan interrupted. “Another reason to be Uphill. If I show up now, people will wonder why I didn’t do so years ago. They’ll start asking questions, digging…”

  “And they’ll find your little…incident.” Rowan nodded, and Arlette seemed to consider, her eyes falling away from her ledgers.

  “Take Claire,” she said. “If you go back Uphill under the pretense that you’re hoping to show off a potential bride to the world, it should give you some modicum of respect. She doesn’t have connections, but she should be able to get information you don’t have access to— not to mention she’d distract from the real reason you’re there.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Rowan admitted. “But Claire has a Council seal from her training as a healer. They’ll recognize her.” And she’d rather go dancing in a Lightstorm than be with me, he thought.

  “We’ll just switch out her sash,” Arlette said. “I still have a cousin who—“

  “It’s not on her sash. It’s a brand. On flesh.”

  Arlette let out a low whistle. “She never told me.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have let that one slip.

  “Well I certainly can’t go, Rowan,” she said, laughing slightly. “Clouds, they’ll haul me off in chains.”

  Rowan smiled. “I don’t know about chains, but your presence might be so distracting that they might just forget about me entirely— before they throw both of us off the side of the mountain, anyway.” He wiggled his leg while he thought. “We need someone new to court. Someone with fresh eyes and a new perspective, but someone we don’t have to worry about turning loose.”

  “Someone with the right mannerisms and training,” Arlette agreed. “I don’t imagine you have time to bring someone up to snuff on court manners.”

  “No,” Rowan said. “The sooner this gets sorted out, the better. Done correctly, and I might be able to maintain the illusion of safety while I create the reality of it. If I can solve it before something happens, then all the better.”

  “Well,” Arlette said, shutting her notebook. “I suggest you start shopping around, then— finding someone good looking wouldn’t hurt your cause either. Men forget to think when their eyes are on your date.”

  She winked at him, and Rowan shared a wry smile with her before a thump on the door made them both look up. One of the guards Tio peeked his head in, his young face covered in a mop of light brown curls.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, nodding at them both. “There’s something outside the two of you should see.”

  “Clouds above,” Rowan said softly as he stared out at the city. Twilight had nearly fallen, but Rowan could still make out the dark, twisting smoke as it rose into the inky sky. Lanterns and Fulminancy alike reflected off the low clouds, casting the city with a faint glow.

  It was enough to see the rubble where buildings had stood. The manor afforded anyone on the rooftop the ability to see for several miles, though most of their view was located Downhill. It wasn’t much to look at, but Rowan had long ago memorized the skyline from nights spent on the roof, pondering a problem or question in his studies.

  A significant chunk of it was now missing.

  “Faleas take me,” Arlette swore, her knuckles white as they gripped the railing. “That’s close enough to Riverside that it might affect the fights tomorrow. I need to go figure out how much money I just lost. If the Riverside fight doesn’t happen, it’ll throw off the entire thing.”

  She began muttering a series of numbers and stalked from the roof, leaving Rowan with a fidgeting Tio, who kept trying to rest his hand on his sword before flinching and taking it away, as if burned. Rowan hid a smile, though Tio’s reaction was natural enough. He’d be condemned anywhere else in the city for learning swordplay, though both Rowan and Arlette insisted that their guards at least attempt to do so in spite of the social conventions.

  Whether it was frowned upon or not, it had saved Rowan’s life on more than one occasion— more than a spear would, anyway.

  “Tio,” he said quietly. The boy started, then straightened as he looked towards Rowan, carefully folding his hands behind his back. “You don’t have to carry it around, you know— not while you’re training, anyway. We have spears, if you’d be more comfortable with that.”

  “I…” Tio trailed off and looked at his feet. “I’d like to keep it, sir. I want to learn it— maybe even learn to use something like the Witchblades do.” He shrugged, blushing. “I mean, it seems like learning a regular sword would be the first step, right? And it’s more convenient anyway, and I…”

  He trailed off as Rowan couldn’t completely hide a smile.

  “My mother says I talk too much,” Tio said, fiddling with the sword handle. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” Rowan said. He looked out over the horizon again as a thought occurred to him. “When did the watch report that smoke?”

  “Well, sir, there was a change in guards about the time you brought that girl inside. The roof watch had me report it to you all before coming up to my post here, but I couldn’t find you for a good few minutes.”

  Rowan stood there for a moment, trying to parse through the information. “Which direction did the girl come from?” he asked.

  “West, sir.” Tio frowned, then looked out towards the crumbled buildings. “From Riverside. But she can’t have had anything to do with it— even the worst Fulminant accidents I’ve seen Downhill are usually something small like a room, or maybe a tiny tavern.” He shook his head as he looked at the wreckage. “That has to be at least two city blocks wide, doesn’t it? …sir.”

  Rowan leaned over the railing, looking for signs of life in that section of the city. The lighting was dimmer that direction— in fact, without the rest of the city to silhouette the buildings, it would be hard to see that they were damaged. “Is that part of the Downhill completely abandoned?”

  “Never heard or seen anyone come from there ‘til today, sir— except on fight nights. No one wants to be underwater during the next Floodstorm, so not even the beggars set up down there. It’s not even worth crashing in overnight because of the mold.”

  Tio winced a bit, then yawned, his curls sticking up at odd angles. Rowan smiled again and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Did Eamon give you double duty two nights in a row?” he asked the boy. Tio blushed furiously, trying to straighten his hair with a flattened palm.

  “I overslept, sir.”

  “Twice?”

  “Twice,” Tio agreed, a bit forlornly. “I’m not really a morning person, sir. But I might become one at this rate. I, uh…” He trailed off, hesitating. “I really couldn’t find either you or Lady Arlette, but one of the reasons I was late telling you two is because I fell asleep waiting. I’m probably not supposed to tell you this…”

  “Get some sleep,” Rowan said, giving him a light nudge towards the stairs. “If Eamon asks, tell him to send Tad up— he’s up all night anyway.”

  Tio yawned again and nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The boy was gone in seconds, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave the roof. Eamon meant well, but sometimes he could be too harsh to boys who were mostly looking for a safe place to be employed in a confusing city.

  Rowan looked one last time at the smoldering ruins by Riverside, then turned to head downstairs again. It seemed that his Bloodcrawler might have a bigger story to tell.

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