The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(57)

Florence was on her feet, ready. The Dragons had made their first attack.





Arianna


She had an hour all to herself.

There was no one around her, nowhere to be, no one to interrupt her. Arianna laid out on one of the couches, worn to the perfect softness by countless hours of occupation over the years. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

The smell of leather, the size and shape of the furniture, vaguely reminded her of what she had procured for her and Florence’s home in Old Dortam. She’d chosen those beaten-up sofas more carefully than she’d ever admit. The hours they’d spent on them, discussing, debating, reading quietly.

Arianna opened her eyes, returning to the here and now. Here was the masters’ wing of the Rivets’ Guild. Now saw Florence no longer a girl, nor a wayward student in need of an educational guide and protector.

Sitting, Arianna looked back to the corner where she could still read Master Oliver’s name clearly on the door. He, too, had taken in a girl curious about the world and educated her. But Arianna hadn’t been ready to give up his tutelage; she would still accept it now if she could.

After the events on Ter.0, she had little doubt Florence did not quite feel the same.

A door down the hall opened unexpectedly. Arianna’s feet were on the floor, a hand on her dagger hilt, before the echo of squealing hinges faded from her ears. She coaxed her hand to relax, reminding herself that she was once more around friends and allies.

After spending so much of her life in secret, it was an odd feeling.

“Oh, hello . . .” The coal-skinned man seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him.

“Hello, Master Charles.” The name plaque on the door confirmed her suspicion. But it was an easy deduction; Willard had said there was only one other master in the guild presently.

“And you are . . .?” His body was still tense. His light gray eyes scanned her face, no doubt making note of her lack of guild mark.

“Arianna.”

“Arianna . . .” he repeated, bringing his fingers to hook his chin in thought.

“Master Arianna.” The title was odd on her tongue, unfamiliar. “I was Oliver’s pupil.”

“Oh . . . Oh.” Comprehension lit up the man’s eyes and he crossed the room to her. His hair was cut short, and shone like an oil slick in the light. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Whatever you’ve heard, I’m sure it’s greatly exaggerated.” Arianna leaned back into the sofa.

“It is fairly fantastical to think I’m in the presence of someone who supposedly created the Philosopher’s Box.”

“I did create it.”

“I believe that’s what’s to be discussed with Mas—Vicar Willard soon.” Arianna didn’t miss how his instinct was still to refer to Willard as “Master,” rather than “Vicar.”

“I believe so.”

He produced a watch from his pocket, clicking it open. “It’s early yet, but I doubt the vicar has many other priorities right now. Would you care to walk with me?”

She stood and fell into step behind him as they wandered through the guild hall toward the vicar’s wing. “So, what’s been all the rave at Garre while I was gone?”

“Automations along the line,” Charles responded easily.

“Sounds interesting.”

“It is.” Rivets and their “get to the point” nature weren’t exactly known for small talk.

“And what happened to Master Oliver?”

“I killed him.”

Few statements could stop a conversation as abruptly.

Vicar Willard was in the lavish workshop attached to his private residence. His hands were occupied when they arrived, focusing on making space on the long central table.

“You’re early,” he observed. “Well, since you’re here, help me clean this off.”

Arianna and Charles set to work moving the various parts and tools back to their supposed places around the room. Taking over someone else’s workshop was like slipping into someone else’s shoes. Nothing fit right about it.

“So, I was thinking we would start with building a working model of the Philosopher’s Box that we can use to design the line for mass production,” Willard started.

“It really is true?”

“Yes, she has supplied—”

Arianna grabbed one of her daggers and drew it across her palm, showing Charles the same stream of gold she’d displayed to the Vicar Tribunal. Showing was always better than telling. “Proof enough?”

Charles’s eyes darted from her palm to her face several times. “Yes.”

“As you build, Charles can sketch schematics and I can take notes,” Willard instructed as they finished clearing the table. “That’ll make it easier to pass on the information to the initiates and journeymen who will be working on and overseeing the line.”

Arianna could only nod. The idea of making the Philosopher’s Box again put a lump in her throat.

“Let’s begin, then.”

If she allowed herself to think about how her hands were moving, she risked error. Arianna pushed all else from her mind, beyond the numbers that gave structure to her creations. It had been a long time since she had last made the box, and there were parts that came more slowly to her than others. Still, she worked through them logically; after all, the only other option was allowing Willard to take the only other prototype in existence and build a model based off reverse-engineering. Ari wasn’t about to let that happen.