Drowning in a dove-grey coat, Silas stood between Vera and Oscar, peering through the window of a haberdashery. The hem brushed his newly polished boots, and the sleeves swallowed his hands in their folds. Silas's face reddened as Vera fussed with his collar, patting it flat against his sternum. The fabric bulged awkwardly on his slight frame. Silas swatted at Vera’s hands, trying to liberate himself from her meddling.

  She only laughed, batting away his wrists. "This attire is temporary," she said, cocking her head at the haberdashery. "You will soon be dressed in form-fitting, gender-appropriate apparel. Bear with it for now." Vera gave Silas's collar one final prod and released him.

  Oscar sneered. "He looks like an apparition haunting an old woman's laundry." This comment earned him a smack to the back of the head by Vera.

  Silas sniffed, filling his lungs with the salty fragrance of a nearby vendor selling roasted nuts. The savory aroma was soon vanquished by the metallic, oily odor of Droswick's machines. The air hummed with a symphony of voices. The throng moved in time, a sea of bodies swaying to the rhythm of their own bootsteps. Silas gawked, transfixed by the hubbub around him. He seldom ventured into the city's Inner Districts. Each rare visit was a treat he relished.

  Oscar seized him by the collar, hauling him onto the sidewalk just as an oncoming boiler screamed its approach. The driver slammed on the brakes and blared the horn as the boiler thundered past. Silas blinked up at Oscar. The Warden ground his teeth in consternation.

  "Watch where you're standing, boy," he spat. Muttering, he added, "The Archarbiter doesn't even need to do anything. Left to your own devices, you would expire without anyone else's intervention."

  Oscar turned to Vera for help, but she was no longer at his side. She loitered next to the nut vendor, eyes fixed on something tacked to a starbloom lamppost. Silas craned his neck to see what had her so transfixed, but the vendor's cart obstructed his view.

  Another boiler clattered past, its wheels rattling along the cobbles. A puff of hot steam seethed from its exhaust pipe, heating the air with its sultry breath. Silas watched his reflection in the boiler's tinted windows. His face stared back at him—wide-eyed and meek.

  Oscar shouted to hail Vera's attention. She started, whipping around. Her loose hair twirled about her crown, its color a muted rust in the glow of Dysol's late-morning shine. She hastened over, her eyes leaping around. Her fingers reached for the saddlebag bouncing against her hip.

  "What are you waiting for?" she asked, freeing a wallet from her bag's main compartment. She placed a wad of bills in Oscar's free hand. "Stop dawdling and go in there." She waved vaguely at the haberdashery.

  "And what will you be doing in the meantime?" Oscar folded the bills and pocketed them, finally releasing Silas's collar.

  Silas stepped aside, rubbing at his neck. He is stronger than he looks, he thought, glaring at Oscar.

  "I… Um—" Vera glanced left and right, scanning the shops lining the street. "I care naught for men's fashion. While you two are shopping, I will do some of my own." She studied Silas, her lips curled into a crooked grin. "I require new gloves after our last outing."

  Silas hung his head, refusing to meet Vera's gaze. Her grin fell at his diluted reaction to her usual mirth.

  "Suit yourself," Oscar shrugged. He nodded at Silas. "Let's get this over with."

  Silas took a few steps forward, then paused to glance at Vera over his shoulder. She stood with her back to the haberdashery, staring again at the lamppost. When she tilted her head, Silas frowned at the concern that drew her brows together. Her hand sprang forth, tearing at a flyer that clung to the lamppost against the vigorous breeze. Silas squinted, trying to see what it said. He was too far away to read the title, and the vendor's cart continued to block his view.

  Silas collided with someone. He stumbled back a step, tripping over his feet. Oscar grumbled, massaging his rump.

  "Is it really that hard to pay attention to your surroundings?" the Warden scowled. He rolled his eyes at Silas's non-committal shrug.

  Oscar wrenched open the haberdashery's door with one hand—triggering the pealing jingle of a doorbell—and tugged Silas forward with the other. As he staggered through the doorway, Silas glimpsed the mannequins displayed in the establishment's gilded windows. Their featureless faces loomed behind the glass—their bodies clad in fine Ulster coats and pressed trousers. Silas averted his gaze, repressing a shiver. The mannequins' hollow sockets burdened his heart—facsimiles of the Unspoken's unblinking stare.

  The door slammed shut behind Silas with a sucking gust of wind. The bell tolled one final time before it was hushed by the echoes of a ringing silence. A stifling musk permeated the air, wafting from a cologne display case offering free samples. Silas grimaced, constricting the back of his throat against the bitter taste on his tongue.

  The latest styles hung from brass hooks and hangers, lining the walls and displayed on austerely posed mannequins. Oscar stood before a tall mirror, admiring his face from different angles. He sucked in his cheeks, then puffed them out—his eyes gaping wide, then squinting shut. Oscar whirled around at Silas's teasing laughter, a sputtered excuse dying on his lips.

  A refined gentleman emerged from a room behind the sales counter. His white hair was secured at the nape of his neck by a black ribbon. Silas would have stirred at the likeness of Pa, but the gentleman's coiffure was where the resemblance ended. His stern face was wrinkled like worn vellum. Half-lidded eyes drifted from the Warden to the boy with lethargic disdain. When they settled on Silas, they narrowed. The man jutted his chin, his upper lip twitching into a snarl.

  "How can I be of service?" he said, his voice crackling like old parchment. He continued to stare at Silas with revulsion. The boy stared back, daring a challenge.

  Oscar's eyes flicked between the two. He swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. "The boy needs a coat. And gloves, if possible." Oscar added the second part after an awkward pause, gazing low at his feet as the words tumbled out.

  "You don't say." The retailer scanned Silas from head to toe, disgust furrowing new wrinkles into his shriveled countenance.

  "His coat got ruined—er, damaged in an accident. The one he's wearing now is borrowed from his… my…" Oscar's explanation came to a faltering conclusion when Silas shot him a silencing glare. The Warden rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes landing everywhere except on the retailer.

  "How unfortunate," deadpanned the gentleman. "Let me see what I can do." He spun and returned to the back room, his coattails rippling behind him.

  Silas heard a few muttered phrases as the retailer foraged in the storage room. He caught something about "the sorry state of today's youth" before the gentleman returned with a measuring tape wound about his arm and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He reached for something hidden behind the sales counter. When he moved to the other side, he held a leather-bound book to his chest. Silas resisted the urge to flee when the man marched over to him.

  "Alright, off with that frumpy frock coat." The retailer had Silas remove the article and pass it to Oscar. He scrutinized Silas's shirt and trousers, gritting his teeth as though in pain. "Is this man your father? Is he to blame for your atrocious wardrobe?"

  Silas stood akimbo while his measurements were taken. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Oscar, my father? What a ridiculous thought.

  Oscar grumbled something but offered no further commentary. He hovered by the mirror, Vera's coat draped over his arms.

  The retailer called out the numbers, scribing them on a fresh page of his leather-bound book. Silas was surprised to see the man write with a quill. Such antiquated writing implements were hard to find in this age of steam and steel.

  Several of Silas's measurements grew from his last fitting. His heart swelled with pride, drawing a smile to his face.

  "Hmmm. Nothing off the rack will do. One of such diminutive size would find better luck at a children's outfitter." The retailer finished and wound his measuring tape into a tight ball. "Fear not; we can have it made special."

  Silas's smile fell, his pride dissolving.

  "How long will that take?" asked Oscar.

  "A few days, I would say." The retailer collected his materials and strode to the sales desk.

  "Is that all? Do we have to discuss the style or color or—"

  "No. Such details will be decided by the designer. This is protocol for our establishment's specialty orders."

  Oscar and the retailer discussed brass tacks. Oscar paid with Vera's money. The retailer inspected the bills, perhaps to decide if they were counterfeit. Oscar signed a receipt and nodded before retreating from the counter. He returned Vera's coat to Silas's waiting arms. The boy slipped into it, the fabric smothering him. After Silas fastened the last button, Oscar opened the door—fighting against the howling wind—and led Silas back into the street.

  Silas squinted and blinked against Dysol's bright midday glare. Through his lashes, he saw Vera leaning against a lamppost—the same one that had enthralled her earlier. The nut vendor was now gone, but so was the flyer.

  Vera's ankles and arms were crossed. She watched the opposite side of the street over her shoulder. Her jaw was clenched so hard that Silas could imagine the sound of her teeth grinding from where he stood.

  "Vera!" Oscar called, loud to be heard over the din.

  She startled violently. Her hand flew to her hip, where her holster usually sat. Her fingers twitched, hesitating, when they gripped empty air. Her eyes gaped to match her loose jaw, her head snapping in the direction of Oscar's voice. When she spotted Silas and the Warden, she relaxed, her muscles going slack with a deflating exhale. She glanced both ways and jogged across the street.

  "In the Emperor's name, Oscar," she breathed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you trying to age me early?"

  Oscar frowned at her. "Are you alright? You're oddly flighty."

  She fluttered her lashes. "Whatever could be amiss, Oscar?"

  "I don't know. That's why I asked."

  Silas studied Vera's face. She smiled and laughed, joked and teased, but her act was not fooling him. She was betrayed by the twitchy eyebrow that broke through her composed fa?ade. Vera glanced at Silas.

  "I see he still wears my coat," she noted. From her saddlebag, she removed a pair of gloves. She put them on, curling and uncurling her fingers to test the material's give. "I, on the other hand, found myself a new pair of gloves." She held them up for Silas to see.

  He flashed her a thumbs-up.

  "The pipsqueak was too small to fit into the shop's wares, so he had to have something specially made," Oscar explained in a somber tone. "It won't be ready for a few days."

  Vera hummed. "That's cutting it close, but there's nothing for it, I suppose."

  Suddenly, she clapped, the sound muffled in her gloved hands. Silas flinched in surprise all the same.

  "Would you look at the time!" she exclaimed, gesticulating at Dysol's position in the sky. "How does midday repast sound? I'm sure Silas is already hungry enough to threaten the architecture."

  Silas shook his head. His large breakfast still stuffed his stomach, leaving no room for more.

  "Neither one of us is hungry, Vera," Oscar said suspiciously, his eyebrows creeping up to his hairline.

  Vera bumped their elbows as she breezed past. Without stopping, she called over her shoulder, "Follow me! I know just the place."

  Oscar swore. Silas stared dumbly at Vera's retreating form, wondering what could have happened to trouble her so. Oscar rested a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and piloted him after her.

  Gooseflesh tickled the back of Silas's neck. He swiveled his head, glancing fleetingly at passersby as Oscar prodded him onward. Was that group of window shoppers staring at him? Did he hear his name whispered over the babbling crowd? Or was it a figment of his imagination, propagated by the wind in his ears? He hugged Vera's coat around himself, using the extra material to conceal the bottom of his face. Oscar's grip tightened, urging Silas forward at breakneck speed.

  Vera pretended to lead them like she knew the way, but she kept surveying her surroundings, her eyes flicking to signs and directories. She was overly talkative, frequently pointing out landmarks in superfluous statements like "what a handsome bench" and "would you look at that daft statue."

  Oscar held his tongue while Vera wandered down the main street, but when she turned into a narrow alleyway, he stopped, forcing Silas to a halt beside him. The boy squirmed, his shoulder aching under the Warden's tenacious grip.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "I'm not taking another step until you tell me what you're playing at, Vera," Oscar shouted.

  Vera spun around, wearing a look of exaggerated surprise. She huffed, her foot tapping impatiently. "I've already told you, Oscar. We're going to get food." Her gaze shot up briefly, scanning rooftops.

  "I find that hard to believe." Oscar pointed in the direction they came from with his thumb. "If you wanted food, you would have gone to the arcade. Instead, you lead us down nondescript alleyways. I ask again: what are you playing at?"

  Silas didn't dare move, anxiety giving way to fear. Why was Vera behaving so strangely? He found himself peeking into windows and jumping at shadows—every crevice and silhouette hiding shrouded enemies. He still felt eyes on him, but he couldn't tell where they were lurking. Any moment now, they would ambush.

  Vera stammered through several excuses, each one more outlandish than the last. Finally, she settled on a quasi-believable justification; her index finger pointed to the sky as the epiphany hit her like a blow to the head.

  "It's just so busy today. You know how I dislike crowds." She fiddled with her gloves, tugging the extra material at the tips of the fingers. "It's nice and quiet in these cute little alleyways, isn't it? Come along now, we're almost there." Without waiting for a response, she departed with brisk strides.

  Oscar muttered something about how it was actually less busy than usual today, but hastened after her, pulling Silas along by the shoulder. As the boy scrambled to keep up, he forced his eyes to remain stationary on the cobbles below him. He decided if he was going to be jumped, he'd rather not see the assailants coming.

  They walked for several minutes until Vera slammed on the brakes. Her head swiveled to the left, and she reversed several paces. When Oscar and Silas caught up to her, she extended her arms to indicate what she found.

  "I told you I would find it!" she said with a relieved exhale.

  "Find what? Before we set off, you acted like you knew exactly where we were going." Oscar crossed his arms, leaning forward to inspect a chalk sign beside the door. "The Copper Cup? What is this? A tavern?"

  Vera pursed her lips. "No, it says here it's a café."

  "You've never been to this place before in your life, have you?"

  "Nonsense! I've been at least once, probably when I was a child." Vera threw the rickety door wide, eliciting a groan of protest from the hinges.

  "Riiight…" Oscar droned. He released Silas and stepped inside.

  Silas peered up at Vera with a tilted head. She held the door, pointing her chin at the entryway. Silas shrugged and stepped through the threshold. Vera surveyed both directions and followed, shutting the door behind her.

  It took Silas's eyes several moments to adjust to the murk—Dysol's effulgence flickering after-images against his retinas. The outside of the café shared the same drab brick of the surrounding alleyway, but Silas was surprised at how cozy he found its interior. A compost radiator was tucked away in a far corner, gently warming the space with a sizzling susurration. Tables for two or four were strategically placed throughout the dining room, allowing space for customers to enjoy an intimate moment while servers wove between chairs. Spacious booths were carved from the rear wall, their cushioned seats promising gentle comfort. The space was lit by the occasional starbloom lantern, wound low to offer just enough oil for the algae to bioluminesce. Silas turned in a full circle, absorbing every detail. He couldn't help but notice they were the café's only visitors.

  Vera marched confidently to the sales counter. She read the menu aloud, sprinkling in interjections of "ahhh" and "hmmm" to enunciate the options she found most appetizing. Oscar seated himself at a booth after grumbling his refusal to order. He made himself comfortable—his knees spread wide and his head tipped back to fix a lazy stare on the ceiling.

  The jittery tension from the alleyway finally left Silas, melting away as he approached Vera with a spring in his step. She smiled down at him.

  "Does a parfait sound toothsome to you?" she asked as she rang a bell resting on the countertop.

  Silas reached for his new notepad, which was snugly cradled in one of his borrowed coat's voluminous pockets. He wanted to tell Vera he appreciated the offer, but would have to decline. His stomach was still processing his previous meal—his digestion sedate after days of fasting. He worried that if he challenged the organ any more, it would repay him by ejecting its contents.

  A woman of middling age emerged from a curtained doorway that Silas was noticing for the first time. The curtain was the same ochre as the brick walls, and the weak light obscured it in shadow. She wore a white apron over a long-sleeved dress the color of twilight. Her graying hair was braided atop her head like a crown, arranged in concentric circles that spiraled into a tight bun. She smiled a tired, sad smile that made Silas's heart lurch.

  "Thank you for stopping by today," she said. "What can I get started for you?"

  Before Silas could write anything, Vera said, "I'll have a black coffee for myself." Her hand came to rest on the top of Silas's head. "And a strawberry parfait for him."

  Silas made an annoyed sound and glowered up at Vera, wiggling to dislodge her hand. She pretended not to notice. After paying, she nodded to the booth Oscar lounged in and made her way over. Silas sighed and followed.

  Vera seated herself opposite Oscar and scooted toward the wall. She patted the spot next to her, motioning for Silas to sit. He obeyed, shimmying between the bench and table. Oscar's lips were drawn into a wan line; he appeared to have something to say but was biting back the words. He folded his arms and stared at the brick wall. The frenetic bounce of his foot vibrated the table below Silas's stacked hands.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. Silas placed his notepad on the table, readying himself for a conversation that never came. Eventually, the proprietor woman delivered Vera's coffee in a copper mug and Silas's parfait. The woman's gaze rested heavily on Silas before she returned to the front of the establishment. Vera sipped and slurped her piping beverage, claiming it was the best brew to ever dance upon her tongue. Silas grazed on the cream spilling over the sides of his parfait's glass vessel. He had to admit it was tasty, but he could only manage a few bites.

  Oscar slammed his palms on the table, rattling Vera's coffee mug. He glared at her, his mouth falling open to finally release the words that had been dammed behind his lips.

  "Enough. I'm not an imbecile” his eyes flicked to Silas— "and neither is he. What has got you in such a tizzy?"

  Vera's merry guise waned and fractured. Her smile fell, bottom lip quivering on the verge of tears. She pulled something out of her saddlebag and placed it, folded, on the table. It was creased like it had been crumpled into a ball and flattened out again. When she unfolded it, Silas recognized that it was a flyer.

  A flyer with his face on it.

  Silas dropped his spoon. It clattered against the table with a splattering of cream. Shaking fingers curled around his notepad, pain blossoming where his skin was still mending. He gulped to force down the bites of parfait that were slithering back up his throat.

  Above Silas's sketched face loomed the title:

  An Unspoken Among Us?

  His eyes snagged on the text below. He read it once. Twice. The third time, the words arranged themselves into sense. They were:

  Reports from the Inner Districts suggest a child of uncanny origin walks among us. Though he wears the shape of a boy, witnesses swear his eyes betray a power not for mankind. He does not talk and is often spotted with a notepad to speak his tenets. Citizens are urged to report any sightings to the local Arbiter envoy.

  For the Empire. For humanity.

  Vera watched Silas's distress with unfettered concern. She peeled off her gloves and worried at her ragged nails, her concern plain. Consoling words eluded her before she had the chance to say them.

  Oscar laughed nervously. "It's… It's a tabloid. Surely nobody will believe this." He tried giving Silas a reassuring grin. It looked more like a constipated lour.

  "Somebody will," Silas wrote. His trembling scrawl splashed ink over the page and onto his hand, staining his bandages.

  Vera sagged forward, shielding her face with her hands. "I apologize for my peculiar behavior. I thought if I pretended long enough, we could reach somewhere private before you saw it." She laughed weakly. "I'm not a convincing performer, am I?"

  Silas shook his head. No, she was not.

  She peeked at him through her fingers. At his head shake, she made a garbled sound partway between a laugh and a sob. Her fingers closed to hide her eyes.

  "W-what do we do?" Oscar whispered, leaning over the table. He folded the flyer so Silas's caricature was hidden.

  Vera's words whistled from between her fingers. "In the short-term, we should leave—return to my house." She massaged the bridge of her nose. "That damn Archarbiter. He claimed he wouldn't be making any moves until after the public outreach thing."

  "You think this was his doing?" Oscar nodded at the folded flyer.

  "Who else?" Vera hissed, exasperated. She collected herself, taking a few steadying breaths. "I apologize. I just… I don't know what to do."

  Silas's stomach flipped like he was riding in a boiler going quickly down a hill. He could handle the flyer. He could handle the Archarbiter making the city a hostile environment. But Vera's uncertainty rocked him off his feet. He didn't know how he would pick himself back up again if she wasn't there to offer her hand. Silas grabbed his stylus. He patronized himself, embarrassed at his selfishness. He wasn't the only one suffering because of the Archarbiter.

  "It will be okay," he wrote. He relaxed the muscles in his face, then tried on an easy smile. "As long as we are together, we can get through this."

  Vera humphed. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. "Oh, you naive, blissfully optimistic child." Her hand found his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "But that's a splendid mindset to have. Let's leave it at that."

  She nodded at Oscar. He returned the gesture.

  "Let us be off." Vera waved, gesturing for Silas to exit the booth so she could follow. The flyer was tucked back into her saddlebag. "Oscar will retrieve your new coat when it arrives in a few days. Until then, little mouse, my home will be your temporary nest."

  Silas frowned at the uneaten parfait. He felt bad for not eating it—for wasting Vera's money when she had already spent so much on him. She noticed his gloom and chuckled.

  "Would you like to take it to go?" she suggested.

  Silas nodded.

  Vera left Silas with Oscar to inquire about a takeout container. Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. Silas stared down at the notepad clutched to his chest. He remembered what the flyer said and slipped it into a pocket. If only Vera's coat had a hood!

  "I-I'm sorry for how I've treated you in the past."

  Silas gaped at Oscar. Were his ears working properly?

  "I've never been good with people." Oscar wheezed a laugh between clenched teeth, his lips spread in a nervous smile. "Vera doesn't get many prisoners since she's the Arbiter of Aberrations. I thought my… social ineptitude wouldn't impede me much working as her Warden."

  Silas snapped his mouth shut before he started drooling on himself. Was Oscar being earnest? He couldn't be. Where had the real Oscar gone, and who was this impersonator?

  "You're— Uh… This case… There's never been anything quite like it." Oscar met Silas's bewildered gaze. "But I must admit, I've grown to find it…" he paused, searching for the right word. "I've grown rather… invested," he said finally. "In the case, I mean. It's rather fascinating. I wish to see it through. I wish to help the Arbiter bring it to a favorable conclusion."

  Silas blinked. His mind was blank. He was utterly flummoxed by this incongruous version of Oscar. That was when Vera returned with a compact box held in her gloved hands; she must have put them back on when Silas wasn't looking.

  She tittered at the expression Silas was making. "My, my, what happened here? Oscar, what did you do?" She waved a hand in front of Silas's eyes. He blinked and stepped back. She snorted. "Look, now. You've gone and broken him. Hurry and put him back together before he gets swept away by the kind lady's rake."

  Silas became aware of a brushing sound. He peered over Oscar's shoulder. The proprietor was sweeping the floor with an ancient broom whose bristles bent and frayed at the ends.

  The trio returned to the alleyways. As they exited the establishment, Vera left a tip on a table near the door and called her thanks over her shoulder. Silas dug his hands into his pockets and hugged Vera's coat around himself when they entered the main street. Vera's boiler was parked in a large lot at the end of the road; they had to walk through the crowds to get there.

  Silas skulked between Vera and Oscar. They flanked him protectively, blocking him from the wandering eyes of milling shoppers. Silas tried to convince himself he was being paranoid—that nobody was paying him any mind. But Vera and Oscar kept inching closer to him, using their arms to hide his hair and face. Their actions testified in favor of his fear.

  They passed a newspaper stand with stacks of broadsheets fluttering in the icy wind. A growing swarm rushed toward the stand, their urgent voices a rising clamor. The standkeeper frantically exchanged currency with the eager patrons, who thrust bills and coins his way. There was a flyer secured to the stand. When Silas studied it, he found his face staring back at him.

  The standkeeper froze mid-motion, his eyes locking on Silas through the shifting crowd. He recognized the boy instantly. He said something to the patron beside him and pointed. The air shifted; whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through paper. They spun to see for themselves, gasping and pointing fingers between the Silas who stood in front of them and the Silas posted to the stand.

  "Head down!" Vera's whisper hit him like a slap.

  Silas yelped, his head ducking low. He busied himself with naming the different colors he saw in the cobbles. Oscar laid a hand on the back of Silas's head. For once, Silas did not mind.

  At the final stretch of their trek, Vera decided to risk the alleyways again. They slipped through the narrow crevices between buildings under the cover of shadow. Silas's heart rate calmed, his breath easing into a normal rhythm. A silent sigh was shared between Vera and Oscar. They relaxed and slowed to a casual stroll.

  Silas lagged behind them. While he was out of imminent danger, he still felt eyes on him. He peeped down branching corridors and snuck glimpses at rooftops, certain he was being spied on. He saw no one.

  "You alright back there, Silas?" Vera asked with a backward glance.

  Silas nodded.

  "Why did you have to park so far away?" Oscar muttered.

  "Because, Oscar, street parking is few and far between here."

  "Ha! Sounds to me like your maneuverability skills need refining."

  Vera raised her voice in hyperbolic offense. "Why, let's see you do it then! Surely, you must be some sort of expert."

  There was movement to Silas's left. It was little more than a shifting of shadows—he almost thought he imagined it. Then, Dysol rose above the rooftops, bathing the alleyway in its scarlet glow. The shadows scurried back, revealing the figure that had been hiding within.

  They wore a long black cloak that hung to their ankles. Their head was obscured with a hood that masked their eyes. When they realized their cover was blown, they shifted, trying to pull their cloak closed. Imperial red and gold caught Dysol's light and reflected it back.

  Silas's breath caught in his throat. The Archarbiter has sent his men to spy on me!

  "Silas, do you see something?" Vera's arm shot out to stop Oscar's forward momentum. She watched Silas with narrowed eyes, her fingers inching toward the holster that was not there.

  Silas pointed—but when he turned back, the figure was gone.

  Vera rushed to his side. She frowned at the empty alley. Had Silas imagined the figure after all? Vera scanned the corridor one last time, then looped an arm around Silas's shoulders.

  "Let's keep moving."

  Oscar waited for them to pass him before he took up position beside Silas. He said nothing to betray his unease, but Silas noticed the way he clenched his fists in his coat pockets to hide the way they trembled.

  At last, the alleyway came to an end—the boiler park looming ahead. Silas sped up in anticipation, pulling Vera and Oscar after him. There was activity from above. Silas saw a gaggle of laborers stringing a banner between two lampposts. Silas stopped. The banner flapped in the wind, its message swaying back and forth in undulating repetitions. It announced the "Public Address" planned three days forward. The topic of interest was the Foundry School for Education and Asylum's recent Unspoken incident, and the role one of its pupils played in the affair.

  Vera forced Silas to keep walking. "Don't you worry, mouse boy," she said with a voice that shook, "I have a plan."

  As they passed under the banner, Silas glanced up at Vera, searching her face for reassurance. She kept her head high, though her twitching brow betrayed her unease.

  Silas closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky, praying to the stars for a miracle.