The next morning arrived shrouded in mist, as if wanting to catch the nighttime unawares. Wan sunlight leaked through the thick mist and washed the color away from everything it touched. The world was charcoal and dull, and it was the first day of Sepha’s new life.

Sepha had spent the previous afternoon forcing smiles, shaking hands, and listening to her fellow millers gush about everything they could do with the new mill. Expand their product line. Grow their bank accounts. Hire a dozen alchemists to replace Sepha.

They were saved. At least some good had come from this disaster.

When her hand had been wrung purple and her cheeks hurt from smiling, Sepha went from shop to shop, spending her hard-won money. She’d bought new clothes, her first in a very long time, and a knapsack big enough to hold them. She’d stolen an hour to visit a particular grave. To explain, and to say goodbye.

When she’d gotten home, Father had been snoring, dead drunk, in his room.

All the better for her.

All the easier for her to pack without him trying to interfere.

And now it was morning. In a few minutes, she would leave her home for the last time. With her homunculus in tow, Sepha descended the long flights of stairs from her room on the fourth floor, placing her feet carefully to avoid the creaks. She’d almost gotten to the entryway when someone knocked loudly on the front door.

There was a bellow from Father’s room on the second floor, and he burst into the hallway, letting his door bang against the wall. “What demon from Darkest After is knocking on my door?” he roared as he pounded down the stairs and shoved Sepha out of his way. She tripped over her homunculus and crashed into the wall.

In the few seconds Sepha spent righting herself and checking her homunculus for injuries, Father threw open the door to find Destry waiting, her gloved fist poised to pound on the door again.

“And what do you want?” Father snarled, apparently oblivious of Destry’s Court Alchemist ring and Military Alchemist jacket.

“I’m here to take the Lady Alchemist to the Institute,” Destry said, her voice cold.

Father glanced back at Sepha, his mouth twisting in rage. It seemed he hadn’t believed she was actually going to leave. His glare pinned her in place, and she huddled against the wall with her homunculus behind her.

She hated this. Hated that even today, after everything she’d been through, he could still paralyze her with a glance. She couldn’t look away from his fists.

If she was fire, he doused her. When he was nearby, she was only a shadow, a reflection, an image of the thing but not the thing itself.

But today was her last day of Father. Today, then never again.

And it was only that thought that allowed Sepha to straighten, curl her hands into fists of her own, and meet Father’s eyes as he hissed, “So you would shed me like an old skin, would you? Without even a fare-thee-well or a speck of gratitude for the chance to get your claws on all that gold? Without any respect for your mother’s restless spirit?” Sepha swallowed, and he bared his teeth at her before turning back to Destry. “I’ll not have some girl tell me what my daughter will do. She is mine, damn her, and she’ll do what I say! And I say that she will go upstairs and rudding stay there unless she’s needed at the mill, as always!”

“Sepha will come with me,” Destry said, and her voice went dangerous. “These orders come from the Magistrate herself.”

“Well, then the Magistrate can get off her ass and—”

Destry smacked Father so hard his head rebounded against the door jamb. Before Father could do anything but press a hand to his face, Destry said, “You’ll watch your tongue when you talk about the Magistrate. And Sepha is coming with me.” Destry’s ice-blue eyes shifted to the shadows where Sepha stood with her homunculus. “Unless she would like to delay by a day. That much can be allowed, but only if she wishes it.”

Sepha’s heart lurched as Father swung around to face her. There was a sly grin on his face, a triumphant glint in his eyes. He’d won a day. Which meant he could win more.

“No!” Sepha said, and it came out too loud. Father’s grin faltered, and Destry’s mouth spread into an approving smile. “No,” Sepha repeated, and her voice hardly shook at all. “I’m leaving today. Right now.” She picked up her knapsack and murmured, “Come,” to her homunculus. Head down, she barreled past Father and into the street with her homunculus and Destry close behind.

The cool, misty breeze was like life. Like freedom. Like awaking.

With a tip of her head, Destry turned and walked toward the train station, which was several blocks off. Sepha followed.

They’d only taken a few steps when Father said, “Wouldn’t stand on any high places, if I were you. She’ll kill you like she killed her mother. Push you straight over the edge.”

Sepha blinked. Felt the world grow a few degrees colder. And for a moment, she was six years old, playing in the rooftop garden with Mother. Standing with Mother on the rim of the roof, letting the wind tug them this way and that, listening to Mother’s stories about what it was like to be high in the sky with nothing but air holding her up. And then—

Sepha gritted her teeth against the memory. Not today. She would not remember that today. She sped up, boots pounding against cobblestones, breath shallow in her chest.

“You’ll send her back before long,” Father shouted after them. His voice echoed down the street. “You’ll find out she’s worthless but for her alchemy, and that’s only any good at my mill. You’ll sicken of her, and you won’t get any pity from me when you do.”

In front of Sepha, Destry abruptly knelt in the street, pulling an alchem and a small ingot from her holster. One pulse, and a small, deadly knife replaced the ingot.

In one smooth motion, Destry stood and hurled the knife at Father. It sank into the wooden step between his feet, and he leapt back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

“That’s enough of that,” Destry said, glaring at the closed door. Then, with a quick breath, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Sepha hurried after Destry. Rushing to speak before Father’s words could sink in, she said, “I didn’t push her. My mother, she—”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Sepha,” Destry said, looking at her sidelong. “You don’t need to talk about it.”

Sepha focused on putting one foot ahead of the other.

“Is he always like that?” Destry asked, when they’d reached the end of the street.

Sepha nodded.

Destry went silent for a few steps, and then said, “Deserved worse than he got, the bastard.”

Sepha’s lips tugged into a smile.

It was over. No more Father. It was over.

Something inside that had been tightly coiled for far too long began to unwind.

“Do you know much about the Institute?” Destry asked, a few blocks later.

“I’ve heard some things,” Sepha said. It was an understatement; everyone in Tirenia knew exactly what the Institute was. The Institute wasn’t just a research facility. It was where budding alchemists went to earn their place in the Court Alchemists’ Guild, yes. But it was also where the Military Alchemists were based. It was the center of all government-sanctioned alchemical activity in Tirenia, and Sepha had hardly dared to dream she’d ever see it, let alone belong there.

“Um,” she said, trying not to sound too eager, “isn’t it rather far from here?”

“All the way across the country, on the northern coast,” Destry said, clasping her hands behind her back. “Only a few miles away from Balarat, actually.” She paused. “After what I just saw, I should think the distance would be a good thing.”

“It is,” Sepha said. “Do you think they’ll have what I need at the Institute?” she asked, refusing to let Father sink her buoying spirits.

Destry nodded. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she said, “Well. There are the Spirit Alchemists, who are based not far south of here. Depending on how your research goes, we may need to travel to the Sanctuary at some point. It’s a good place to get away from things, if nothing else.”

Sepha raised her eyebrows. “The Sanctuary?”

Destry’s lips thinned into a flat smile. “The Sanctuary is what the Spirit Alchemists call their base. If you ask me, their theories are mostly hokum. But they do an entirely different sort of alchemy than you or I do, so they may be able to provide a fresh perspective if you hit a wall in your research. I’ve gone there a few times. My aunt runs the place.”

“Did they help with your research?” Sepha asked. Behind her, her homunculus let his new shoes scuff over the cobblestones. She’d noticed, while shopping yesterday, that he was limping. Upon closer inspection, she’d realized that his cap-toe shoes pinched his feet awfully. She’d bought him new shoes, stressing to the cobbler that they had to be comfortable. He wasn’t limping anymore, which was an improvement.

“No, not really,” Destry said, her smile turning into a grimace. “The Institute is the best place to start. And I’ll be there. At least for moral support.”

She gave Sepha a wry smile, which Sepha returned. She doubted that Destry had ever provided moral support to anyone before. But, seeing how Destry hadn’t hesitated to bring swift justice to Father, Sepha could see herself relying very much on whatever support Destry had to offer.

 

 

 

 

By the time the clock above the ticket counter chimed six, Destry, Sepha, and Sepha’s homunculus were standing quietly on the wood-planked platform beside the train tracks. Only ten more minutes until the train was scheduled to arrive. Ten more minutes, and Sepha would be out of Three Mills, and out of Father’s reach, for good.

People began to drift onto the platform in ones and twos. When they noticed Destry’s jacket and well-stocked holsters, they made sure to stand as far away as they could. Ordinary alchemists, whose skills brought steady trade to little nothing-towns like Three Mills, were one thing; Military Alchemists, who’d applied their already unnatural abilities to war and violence, were another thing entirely.

A quiet, scuffing tread along the wooden planks drew Sepha’s eyes to the end of the platform.

Ruhen, the man from the Wicking Willow, was walking cautiously toward them. In the strange, snuffed-candle light, he looked even handsomer than before and at least twice as mysterious. The curls which, two days before, had been drenched and unruly were now combed into an orderly side-part. Slung over one shoulder was a knapsack, as if he, too, was starting a journey.

Sepha gave him a brief smile and waved. It was all she could manage. There was an unaccountably powerful feeling somewhere around her heart, and it momentarily drowned out everything else. A feeling of relief, almost, although why she should feel relieved, she couldn’t guess.

“Hello again,” she said when he reached them, feeling grateful that this time, at least, she looked presentable. The cut on her temple was all but healed, and she wore her new dark, fitted jacket to shield against the nip in the air. She’d even cleaned most of the mud off her boots in preparation for the journey.

Ruhen smiled with one side of his mouth and said, “Good morning.” He looked almost nervous, but Sepha dismissed the thought. Why should he be nervous?

Destry eyed Ruhen before looking at Sepha in a silent question.

“This is Ruhen Salmarre,” Sepha said. “He’s, um, I met him the other day. There was a Wicking Willow,” she finished lamely.

Destry’s eyes widened. She gave Ruhen an appraising look. “A Wicking Willow? And you both survived? Well, that’s something!” She paused. “Wait—Salmarre? The Salmarre who aced the Institute’s entrance exam?”

Sepha gaped at Ruhen. She knew someone from town had passed the entrance exam—everyone at the mill had been buzzing about it—but no one knew who it was. And now to find out it had been Ruhen—

Ruhen was unable to suppress his wide grin. “The very same. And you are?”

“Destry Beronsic,” she said, thrusting her hand out. They shook, a quick up-down-release, and Destry said, “Impressive scores. How long have you been studying?”

“A while.”

“I didn’t know you were an alchemist!” Sepha said belatedly, and it came out sounding like an accusation.

Ruhen’s smile went sly as he shrugged with one shoulder. “You never asked.”

Sepha clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, and he laughed.

“Are you traveling to the Institute too, then?” Destry asked.

“I am.” Ruhen’s eyes flicked from Destry to Sepha, and he said, “Can I travel with you, since we’re all going to the same place?”

Sepha went crimson as Destry said, “I don’t see why not.”

The other two paused, waiting for a response from Sepha, so she coughed and said, “Oh! Yes, of course! It’ll be fun!”

You sound so stupid, remarked the snide voice.

Ruhen smiled. “Thanks.” His smile faded and he said, with a look in his eyes that Sepha was probably just imagining, “I’m glad you made it out all right. From the whole—” he gestured toward the town square “—the straw. Transmuting it.”

Sepha’s face went hot. So Ruhen had been in the crowd! Thoroughly disconcerted but pretending not to be, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Well, I didn’t have anyone lined up to save me at the very last second, so I had to solve the problem myself.”

Mock sternness replaced the other look in Ruhen’s eyes, and he said, “Well, I would’ve saved you again if it came to that, but I have to tell you I’d’ve done it very grudgingly.”

“Oh, so you saved me from the Wicking Willow, did you?” Sepha asked, squinting up at Ruhen. “Because I seem to recall more of a teamwork situation.”

Ruhen faked a confused grimace. “If you say so.”

Their eyes met, and Sepha couldn’t fight the smile that crept across her face. Ruhen smiled too, and she noticed that he not only had crinkles beside his eyes when he smiled, but deep creases in his cheeks, too.

And she was staring again. She blinked and looked away, casting about for some sort of distraction, something that would keep her from being such a damn idiot, and failed.

Luckily, Destry came to her rescue. With the barest sideways look at Sepha, Destry said, “Where did you study alchemy, Ruhen?”

“I taught myself, mostly,” Ruhen said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ve made friends with all the right librarians.”

“You even taught yourself practical alchemy—not just theoretical?” Sepha asked, surprised. Even she had needed extensive teaching, at the beginning. She’d never have learned on her own.

“Even practical,” Ruhen said. He grimaced. “Took me a long time.” Before Sepha could think of anything to say in response, he said, “Oh! Before I forget.” He reached into his knapsack and pulled out the axe Sepha had made at the Wicking Willow. “I, um. Found this.”

He found the axe! Not only that, but he brought it with him! But why? So he could return it if he ever saw her again? But then that would mean he’d wanted to see her again, or had at least thought about the possibility of seeing her again, which meant that—

Don’t be stupid! snapped the snide voice. Just take the axe.

Trying to hide her blush, Sepha took the axe from Ruhen’s outstretched hand, and inadvertently brushed her fingers against his. Her eyes flicked up, and her gaze collided with Ruhen’s.

That uncomfortable, sticky silence welled up between them.

“And there’s the train, thank all the good in the After,” Destry said as the train, a monster with shining gray sides, rumbled up to the station. It slowed to a stop, releasing jets of steam into the misty air.

For a few minutes, there was the organized chaos of passengers jockeying for the best seats. Sepha, the first of her little clan to board, led the others to the back of the car. Sepha, Destry, and Ruhen claimed seats facing each other, but the homunculus stood in the aisle, blocking the other passengers and generally causing a ruckus, until Sepha told him to sit beside Ruhen.

At last, everyone was settled, and the train eased out of the station. The engine sped down the mountainside and into the rolling foothills, curling around rocky outcrops and crossing bridges whose supports were lost in misty depths far below.

The door at the far end of the car slid open and shut. “Tickets!” cried a bored-sounding voice. “Get your tickets out.”

Destry produced two tickets from her jacket pocket, and Ruhen pulled one out of his knapsack. The ticket master, a plump man with narrow eyes and a mouth that seemed too big for his face, stamped their tickets one by one. He was about to move on when his eyes fell on the homunculus, who was swaying with the motion of the car.

“That can’t be in here,” the man said with a cruel glint in his small eyes. “It belongs in the baggage car.”

Sepha glared at him. “But he isn’t baggage.”

“It’s taking up a seat,” said the man. “If it’s not baggage and it’s taking up a seat, then it needs a ticket.”

He gave her a smug smile, as if he’d just won a debate. No one in their right mind would buy a ticket for a homunculus.

Sepha studied her homunculus, whose mouth was still obediently frozen in a placating smile. He wasn’t a person, not quite, but did that make him an object, deserving of the same treatment as a trunk or a knapsack? The homunculus blinked and used the toe of his shoe to scratch an itch on the back of his leg.

Baggage didn’t blink, or itch, or scratch.

And she would not be the type of person who treated a being under her protection as something lesser. Something worthless.

“I’ll take one more ticket to the Institute, then,” Sepha said, lifting her chin.

The ticket master snorted. “Suit yourself. Six livres.”

Sepha handed him six gold pieces—a shocking amount of money—and he moved on to the next car, shaking his head.

Destry studied Sepha with an expression somewhere between pity and respect. “That was a kind gesture,” she said, “but it was misplaced. Homunculi are alive, but they don’t feel gratitude or loneliness or anger. He would’ve been fine in the baggage car.”

“It wouldn’t’ve felt right,” Sepha said. This homunculus was her responsibility now, and it was up to her to decide how to treat him. He wasn’t baggage. And that was that.