by India Arden
“Aurora,” he said sharply. “There’s no time for chitchat. I’ve got reporters hounding me for a statement—the Rebel vermin took out the Fourth Street Bridge last night—and now there’s a Transfiguration ceremony to prepare for.”
Even though I’d been dismissed, it seemed like the perfect time to press my case. The Rebels were always blowing things up or burning them down, that was nothing new. But the Vessel took decades to fill, so wasn’t the Arcanum a bigger deal—and hadn’t I just delivered the precious catalyst into my father’s hands? And yet, when I looked into his eyes, irises the color of whiskey, and saw them flickering gently from within as the power of his Arcane aspect flared, I decided not to press my luck. He might be my father. But his temper was legendary.
Still, it was a letdown. Not that I expected trumpets and fanfare—or a tiara—but fulfilling the task that definitively turned all my colleagues against me seemed like it should have at least come with a thank you.
2
There was nothing more for me to do in the distilling chamber, not today, but I still had plenty to worry about with the Transfiguration at hand. It was a formal affair, with all the tedious preparation that implied.
I headed toward my suite and nearly collided with my brother Blake. I was dying to tell him I’d just borne the Arcanum, but I caught myself before I blurted out the news. Hard to say how he would take it. Blake’s temper is as bad as our father’s. Worse. It doesn’t flare sudden and bright. It smolders in the background, and bursts to life when you least expect it.
Our schedules being what they were, we didn’t see much of each other. Either I was caring for The Great Machine, or he was sequestered in his workshop. Blake was an Aspirant, one of four currently in line for the Arcanum. He’d trained his whole life to be an Arcane Master, and even now that his education was technically complete, he spent his time immersed in the world of the Arcana.
I tried to go around him, but he sidestepped to block my way. He was tall and broad, as I suppose our father used to be. And he had the same whiskey-colored eyes. “It’s true?” he asked. “It’s dropped?”
I was relieved he only wanted to talk, and not hoping for a delivery. Any used parts from The Great Machine were supposed to be destroyed, but Vernon had grown slack, and stopped overseeing that part of the process years ago. The first time I slipped a pipette into my pocket, my heart nearly pounded out of my chest, and I was terrified that on my way out of the distilling chamber, one of the guards would see the shape of it through the fabric, single me out, and have me searched. But soon, I grew used to it, and realized how ridiculous my fear had been.
It wasn’t as if anyone ever looked directly at me.
I might as well have been invisible.
Besides, it was worth the risk. Blake needed those parts for his research. And family is family.
In my heart of hearts, I also knew Blake was right, and progress was crucial. Not just for the Arcane Masters’ sake, but everyone’s. Since the year I was born, the population of Corona has doubled—yet the number of Arcane Tetrads serving the city stayed the same.
No wonder people rioted.
While I knew I should follow all the rules and set a good example for the rest of the techs, I also thought it was shortsighted to simply maintain the status quo while the population grew exponentially. We didn’t actually understand how The Great Machine worked, we just kept it from wearing out by changing the existing parts in an endless cycle. Hopefully, by the time the reigning Tetrad was made up of Aspirants from our generation—my brother’s and mine—things would be different. But that would never happen unless someone was willing to forego tradition and superstition and embrace the forward momentum.
Considering everything we’d been through together, if anyone would be happy for me, I decided, it was Blake. I told him, “The Arcanum’s not only dropped, but delivered—and dad had me do it instead of Vernon.”
“Did he?” Blake was impressed. What a relief. The raging tantrums of his childhood might be long past, but it still seemed prudent not to give him any reason to be upset. “And I suppose all the other worker bees felt slighted.”
“I couldn’t say,” I demurred, but of course, I knew they did. But I also knew better than to preen.
“Of course they were jealous. That’s just the way things are. They can train and study all they like, but they’ll never be legacies, not like us. We’ve got an edge—we were born to serve the Arcana.”
I nodded along as he spoke, as if I understood why he’d even bring it up. He seemed a bit too intense, and with him, that sort of intensity could tip quickly into anger. When he got that way, my strategy was to appease and agree.
He nodded in return, then said wistfully, “Just think, by this time tomorrow, the Transfiguration will be over and done.”
I realized what he’d been getting at by mentioning the legacy, and hastened to add, “And you’ll be the newest Arcane Master.”
That assertion should have been enough, but maybe it was obvious I’d just told him what he wanted to hear. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly and studied me, then asked, “If it weren’t me in line for the Transfiguration, who do you suppose they’d pick?”
“How could they choose? Floyd has the personality of wet cardboard, Chad is nothing but a bully who gets off on humiliating the staff, and Gus….”
For a second there, I almost slipped and said what I actually thought about Gus—but it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d want to tell my brother. Gus constantly brushed up against me as if it was all “accidental.” Even creepier, he was always making excuses to lean in close and whisper in my ear, so I felt his breath creeping into my ear canal like some kind of parasite. My skin crawled at the mere thought of him.
“…is too busy chasing tail,” Blake finished for me. “I couldn’t agree more.”
We hadn’t actually agreed, but I nodded along anyhow until the pause in conversation grew uncomfortable, and I realized I was expected to say something more. “Good thing the Masters have someone to pick for the Transfiguration who’s actually deserving.”
Blake’s expression relaxed—I’d said the right thing—and the knots of anxiety that’d been building inside me loosened.
“The Rebel incidents are getting out of hand,” he said, “They think they own this city. But just think. After the Transfiguration—once everyone on the reigning Tetrad can pull their weight again—the Arcane Masters can remind Corona who’s in charge.”
3
EDWARD
Flames licked at the old timber. The wood blackened and an oily smoke rose, threading up into the sky. The fire was nowhere near as visible in the cold light of day as it would have been at night. Not nearly as satisfying to look at.
But I don’t have the luxury of standing around watching the fires I set myself under the cover of darkness.
“Okay, assholes,” the foreman called out. “Back to work.”
Here either, for that matter.
Things fall apart quickly in Corona. Metal rusts, wood rots, and concrete crumbles. The landfill’s been over capacity ever since I could remember, so if a collapsing structure is combustible, the most cost effective way to get rid of the thing is to burn it. Not the best way, mind you, just the cheapest. The air around here is caustic enough without all that smoke, and you’ve got to keep on your toes to make sure the fire doesn’t spread.
I’m not complaining. Working on a burn crew not only brought in actual income…it was strangely compelling.
While I doused some nearby scrub, the phone in my back pocket gave off a vibrating buzz as a message came in, but I was in no position to check it. As the old bleachers burned, the surrounding brush dried out as fast as I could wet it. But the chances of the call being anything important were low.
Most people who dialed my current number weren’t looking for some day laborer named Edward. They wanted Bernie Chan the Pest Control Man. Bernie’s been dead for nearly three years now, but his billboards and bus stop ads, w
ith his broad, grinning face floating next to a gory rat trap, litter the entire city.
It was no mistake that Bernie’s old number forwarded to me: I had pull at the phone company. But not everyone in Corona was privy to the meaning of our spray-painted graffiti, only the ones who are sympathetic to the cause.
The Rebels had been leaving messages in plain sight for years. Our tag—something between a star and an anarchy symbol—was a clever bit of work that blended in with all the other gang tags throughout Corona. But for people in the know, it conveyed a lot more than just turf warnings.
Three months ago, my crew tagged every instance of Bernie’s remaining advertising we could find with our anarchy star. It was time for a change. We’d had to scrap our former number—defunct pizza joint—when its main billboard finally collapsed under years of rust and neglect.
Bernie’s old number was a lot more active than Dough Boy’s. Apparently, people treat themselves to takeout less often these days, but they still have rats to kill.
I lugged the heavy hose a few yards closer to the blaze and aimed the stream deeper. A patch of fire flaring hotter than its surroundings had found something particularly tasty to consume. An accelerant of some kind, maybe a discarded aerosol can. They make such satisfying sounds when they pop.
If I seemed a little too interested in the blaze, no one else gave it any thought. There was no banter among the crew—we didn’t really know each other. Just day labor snapped up at the corner of Washington and Main. No contracts. No forms. Just an honest day’s work and a handful of cash at the end of the burn. That was how I liked it, too. Straightforward and anonymous.
People had their reasons for lying low. Immigration, tax evasion, skipping out on alimony. My reasons had nothing to do with money. I couldn’t afford to leave a paper trail—as the leader of the Rebels.
Who knows if anyone at Corona PD was currently trying to track me down or not, but I wasn’t about to tie a big bow around my chest and hand myself over.
I didn’t check my messages right away. It’s been forever since I’ve actually found a tip on the line I could use, and besides, I had to keep an eye on the undergrowth. The high school on the other side of the baseball diamond might have the highest dropout rate in the area, but it would be a shame to lose my alma mater to something as random as a drifting spark.
“Hey, Red,” the jerk of a foreman snapped—like he’d been trying to get my attention for a while. Learning my name would’ve been the easiest way to do it. Then again, anonymity was half the reason I worked the burn crews. “Burn’s over. Pack up. Now. Or I dock you for standing around with your thumb up your ass.”
They already had plenty of guys reeling in the hoses, so it gave me a chance to check my calls while I stacked the fire extinguishers back into their racks. The caller wasn’t looking for Bernie Chan after all. It was someone on staff at the Arcane Master’s compound. And according to them, as of today, the Arcanum vessel was now officially full.
I called my right-hand man, Sterling, who picked up in a ring and a half. He said, “Let me guess. You want to talk me into doing your laundry. Again. But ‘just a few things’ adds up, and lately your jeans take up half my load—”
“Listen to me.” I glanced at the job site to see if anyone could hear me, but the guys I’d spent the day with were either counting out their money or heading off for the nearest bus stop. “It finally happened. It’s time.”
The bored drawl immediately dropped from Sterling’s voice. “When?”
My cheeks went hot. I hated thinking I’d dropped the ball—and we redheads blush at the drop of a hat. “Four hours ago.”
“Four hours?”
“Give or take.”
Sterling sighed, loud and long. Actually, more of a groan. A long-suffering groan. I let him vent. While my old cohort was hardly more likable than the site manager who’d griped his way through the entire burn, Sterling always came through for me. He just needed to complain about it first. “A lot can happen in four hours, Edward. A hell of a lot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were punking me by letting me think you sat on something so important for so long. Lucky for you, I’ve already got a plan in place. By the time you get back to base camp, I’ll be ready to rumble.”
4
AURORA
As far as the world outside the estate is concerned, Arcane matters are shrouded in secrecy. Within the estate, though, people are no more forthcoming, though for different reasons. According to my father, the public could only grasp the most general workings of the Arcana, and so their involvement should be limited, and too much information would only add to their distress. But among those of us who’d studied our entire lives, it was a general distrust that kept us from sharing knowledge. So, it felt so good to be able to share my excitement over carrying the Arcanum with Blake.
But that giddiness was tempered by the thought that maybe I should’ve kept things to myself. Because now that I was alone, trying to get ready for the ceremony, all I could do was dread the outcome of the Transfiguration. The four Aspirants? The thought of any one of them stepping into the role of a new Arcane Master filled me with dread.
And guilt. Because Blake was my brother. Of course I wanted my own flesh and blood to succeed. Right?
As long as it wasn’t Gus. Anyone but him.
The mere thought of his name made me cringe. Especially now that I’d be dressed for a formal occasion.
Normally, I wore clothes that were sturdy and practical. Nothing fancy, since no one could even see them under the fire retardant and acid resistant apron I wore at least ten hours a day—and even in that, when Gus leered at me, I might as well be stark naked.
A maid came in to help me dress, quiet and unobtrusive. The estate is riddled with servants’ passages to allow the staff to access our quarters as unobtrusively as possible. As a child, I was intrigued by them. But as soon as I was old enough to notice how quickly the employees averted their eyes when we ran into one another in their narrow confines, I realized how insulting it was for me to play at something that was all too real for them, and the narrow, cramped passages quickly lost their fascination.
The maid was a few years older than me, with a pale face and downcast eyes. I used to try to talk to the staff, back when I was younger. After all, plenty of TV shows feature sassy domestics who talk back to their employers with the sound of canned laughter playing in the background. But that’s about as fictitious as all the other ridiculous storylines, like split personality and secret twins and amnesia. The truth is, the staff has no desire to engage with me. And if I insist on making them chitchat, it’s just more awkward for us all.
Silently, she held my hair out of the way as I bathed, then helped me into a thick, absorbent robe when I stepped out of the tub. A gown had been sent for the occasion—the color of a raw steak—and it was laid out on my dresser like a pool of fresh blood. Body-hugging silk charmeuse, plunging neckline. I hated it on sight. But I’d learned long ago there was no use, in matters like these, to expect my preferences to be taken into account. I’d only end up disappointed.
I squeezed into the gown and sat patiently while the maid curled my hair in long, loose waves. No doubt, she’d been told exactly how to style it. She didn’t ask for my input, and she didn’t seem to have any preference of her own, if her plain ponytail was anything to go by. No, my look had been chosen beforehand by our PR advisor and okayed by my father—from the top of my head to the soles of my shoes. I glanced at said shoes. Red, of course. Three-inch heels, at least, with a brutally pointed toe. Yes, technically, I could walk in them. But I’d definitely hear from my aching calves and feet later.
It was tempting to ask the maid if she remembered the last Transfiguration. I glanced up at my family’s photo. Very formal, and entirely dated. My mother’s blonde hair was in a shoulder-length bob, curled under, with poofy teased bangs. Her lips were deep red. How old would she have been? Maybe thirty. Not much older than the maid was now.
Not much older than me.
Intellectually, I knew my father was at least twenty years her senior, but now that I was being coiffed and painted for the upcoming ceremony, I realized my wardrobe wasn’t just a matter of publicity. There’d be guests present from the Tetrads of other big cities. Marriageable guests. And maybe my father hadn’t brushed off my questions about taking Vernon’s place for nothing.
I should be excited to meet my future husband, I told myself, not anxious. If it was part of my father’s plan to marry me off, worrying about it wouldn’t do me any good. And maybe the guy wouldn’t be so bad. Frankly, anyone would be better than Gus. But when I looked up at my mother’s face in the photo and realized her smile must have been a sham, it was hard to feel anything but forlorn.
Mom’s name was Star. I guess her parents were hippies. I don’t think about them as my grandparents—I’ve never met them—and by the time I was curious enough to try to look them up, my mother was long gone, and no one else would divulge her surname. Maybe things would be different, if I’d been a few years older when she fell from the clocktower.
Most definitely. Everything would be different.
My memories of her are confined to a few vivid scenes, and a handful of general impressions. I was only five when I lost her, so the recollections feel vague, and I’m not entirely sure whether I remember things, like the way her eyes danced when she really smiled, or if I saw these details in a rare photo and just told myself I remembered.
Before she was the Fire Master’s wife, my mother had been a photographer. So many pictures existed from my early childhood, but because Mom was usually behind the lens, she only appeared in a handful herself. Most of them were stilted publicity shots—her wedding, a group shot of all the Arcane Masters and their wives posing in the courtyard, and the stilted photo of her and my father before the last Transfiguration. The other two were casual, and she’s even laughing in one of them. That’s how I try to remember her…happy. Even if that’s just something I made up to comfort myself.