The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(53)

“Your work alone honors him.”

Arianna didn’t have a chance to comment one way or another, for the door to the inside of the hall opened, revealing a man with a filled bolt and wrench tattoo on his cheek. The journeyman crossed his forearms in an X—a gesture of respect within the guild, for the vicar. Willard promptly settled them in what would become their new quarters.

“Should they require anything, see that they receive it, within reason,” Willard said after Louie and his crew had been closed away behind the doors of their new rooms. Arianna appreciated the vicar’s foresight to add the final caveat. “And go tell Charles to meet me in my office in one hour.”

“Understood, Vicar.” The journeyman departed promptly.

“This way, Arianna.” Willard motioned for her to follow him.

She ran her fingertips along the metal walls that encased her. They pulsed with the omnipresent movement of the hall itself. Behind every wall there were gears churning, shifting, pushing something into a new design. Every panel could be removed and tinkered with, and every Rivet was encouraged to leave their mark by doing so.

“What is it?” Willard paused, noticing her palm flat against the wall.

“It’s unlike Holx,” she observed. “The Ravens’ Guild was so quiet from everyone being gone . . . How many people are still here?”

“I believe about fifty journeymen stayed behind, and I left one Master, Master Charles, to oversee them.”

And in case something happened to you, Arianna finished mentally. “Nearly empty, and the guild still moves, still lives.”

Vicar Willard outstretched his gnarled and age-spotted hand, placing it next to hers. “And it will continue to tick, long after we all are dead.”

That much was true.

As they continued, the paths became more and more familiar. It was like an old toolkit, where every wrench and screwdriver was remembered the moment it was seen once more. Ghosts were their only company in the empty halls.

“Wait, Willard, my room is that way.” Arianna pointed down a hall at one of the forks.

“Your room has long since been given away.” Willard progressed forward, and Arianna did the same, ignoring the stab of pain she felt at his words. She knew there hadn’t been a home for her to come back to for some time, but to hear it articulated so clearly wasn’t easy. “And even if it hadn’t been, you no longer belong in that wing.”

Instead, Willard led her into a great hall. Square skylights dotted the ceiling, letting in natural light to blend with the electric sconces that dotted every column of the main stretch. Between the columns, down the center of the room, were sturdy wing-backed chairs, high tables—impromptu meeting areas and spaces to sit and think. On the perimeter, between the columns and the outer walls, doorways adorned with nameplates lined the room.

Arianna adjusted her harness, which suddenly felt too tight and tightening with every step.

The Vicar Rivet led her back to the far corner. Her feet weaved her among the couches and chairs, familiar with the path rutted into the plush carpeting. This was the hall of masters, a place she had visited frequently to consult with a man whose door she now faced.

“You kept it?” Her voice was stunted, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. Her eyes fixated on the plaque that read Master Oliver.

“In a way.”

“Oddly sentimental for a bunch of Rivets.” Arianna buried her hands into her pockets and told herself that Oliver’s untouched old quarters meant nothing.

“Sentimentality only had little to do with it.” Willard tapped one of the two door locks.

Every master’s door had its own lock fused with the metal door. But Oliver had conceived a second addition that he welded into the doorframe himself. It was the most complicated lock Arianna had ever had the privilege of seeing crafted, with multiple tumblers and no clear seams or screws.

“You can’t open it.” She grinned knowingly. “Why not break the door down?”

“Perhaps that was the sentimentality—violating a master’s workshop like that. But now . . .”

“You want me to open it?” Arianna arched her eyebrows.

“Well, of course. You know the combination, don’t you?”

“I do.” Arianna thought briefly about concealing the fact, but she’d have much more fun watching Willard squirm as he pined for access into the physical manifestation of his rival’s mind.

A long moment stretched on. “Well . . .?”

“I’ll have to think if I want to open it or not.”

“This is going to be your chambers, now.” He stopped her with a sentence as she turned away. “Everything within is yours.”

The words buzzed between her ears louder than the electricity that hummed throughout the guild. “It’s not mine to have,” she whispered without facing the vicar.

“It is.” Willard patted her shoulder, passing by her and heading for the exit.

“He did not give it to me.” She wasn’t good enough for it. Arianna knew she was ten times more brilliant than most other Rivets and she was still only half as smart as Oliver was.

“I think, in his way, he did.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” she called across the room.

“Oh, more than anything.” The old man stopped. “I’ve wondered what things Oliver was working on behind that door for years; I’ve fantasized over his brilliance. But he imparted his master status to you. He gave you the key to that door. He gave you his tutelage. Whatever is in there is meant for you, not me.” The conversation shifted before Arianna could formulate a reply. “In an hour I will meet with Master Charles to discuss outfitting a line for your boxes. I’ll need you in attendance. I trust you still remember the way to the vicar’s quarters.”