40. Florence

Why?

The word seemed to linger on the tongue of every survivor. Why?

They were adrift in the world, separated by the distance of train lines and the bleeding wounds that had been carved deep into their hearts. So the train continued in the only direction it could, on to Ter 1.2. No one objected. No one suggested otherwise. There was nowhere else to go.

An entire guild, an entire people, homeless and adrift.

Florence had wanted to live to see a world where people weren’t tethered to their guilds, but she hadn’t wanted it like this. She’d never wanted this. She would sit and listen to the wailing tears that were only smothered, not soothed, by time. She rocked silently with the train.

Powell looked equally shell-shocked, numb. The truth of what he had been saying since he had woken her two days ago echoed in her mind, underscoring the parted lips and drifting eyes that now made up his face. She waited for it to wear off, but she could only wait so long before her burning questions threatened to immolate her fragile sanity.

“Powell,” she whispered, hoping to get his attention without disturbing any who dozed around them.

“Florence?”

“You said the Dragon King ordered the attack.” His silence was affirmation enough. “How did you know?” She didn’t ask him why. If the man knew why, his state over the past two days would’ve been different. He would’ve been angry, frustrated, regretful. But he seemed as confused as her in that respect.

“There was a whisper.” His voice mirrored the word. “From the Revolvers’ Guild. It was a warning that the King’s Riders had taken over. That they demanded explosives en mass. That the Harvesters were to be the first example.”

“‘The first example’?” Florence repeated. “You don’t think the King means to attack the other guilds, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Powell’s shoulder rubbed against hers with the swaying of the car. “And we have no way of finding out now.”

All the Chimera with whisper links in the Harvesters’ Guild had been killed. It had been an impressive hub of communication, one that could rival even the Ravens’. Florence’s stomach turned sour. A guild had been destroyed, possibly the first of many, and the world didn’t even know. Injustice and pain that went unknown hurt all the more, she had discovered.

Nora and Derek tried to ease her into sleep, but Florence refused. She sat on the edge of the train car, watching the world go by and the distant mines appear and vanish along the dawn-colored horizon, none the wiser to the fact that their world was burning. She envied that distant point, a place beyond the edge of the world where she now lived.

They were the fourth train to arrive in Ter.1.2. That was a relief to all. The people who greeted them on the platform were already equipped with knowledge, and prepared to manage the survivors. They were shuffled along, unburdened by the need for thought, into various inns and temporary encampments that had been set up throughout the too-quiet city.

“I think this is where we part.”

Florence was startled to attention by the sound of Powell’s rough, solemn voice. She grabbed Derek’s arm, preventing him and Nora from disappearing ahead in the flow of people. Florence turned her face up to Powell’s, demanding an explanation.

He sighed heavily. “The Vicar did not survive. So there must be a vote for who will assume the mantle. Only four Masters seem to have made it out, however.” Pain flashed hot on Powell’s features. “The Master Harvesters were all called in on my behalf, to vote.”

“This was not your fault.” Florence gripped the man’s forearm. She tried to push magic into him, despite the fact that he was a Fenthri. She tried to push in her truth—that she, too, stared survivor’s guilt in the face regularly. “Powell, look at me: This wasn’t your fault.”

“No…” He sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, seeing how four isn’t enough for a quorum, they voted to grant me my circle and make me a Master for the vote.”

“You would have been awarded it anyway.” Florence couldn’t imagine being awarded Mastery under the current circumstances. It made her heart ache for the Harvester before her.

Her effort brought a small smile to his mouth. “I like to believe that’s true.” She knew he would always wonder.

“Powell.” The other Master Florence had met on the train, Max, called from a short distance away. The circle emblazoned on his cheek around the Harvester’s sickle seemed almost like an omen of sorrow now.

“I’m coming.” Powell turned to leave.

Florence held fast to his forearm. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” It came from Powell and Nora at the same time.

“This was what we came here for,” she explained to the Alchemists. “To speak with the Vicar Harvester about the rebellion.”

“The Vicar Harvester was undecided,” Nora reminded her.

“That Vicar Harvester is dead. And in light of recent events, I think we have a better case to make.” Florence squeezed Powell’s forearm. She wanted him to feel her strength and certainty. She wanted to be as strong as Arianna was when the woman had pulled her from the depths of the Underground and told her everything would be all right. “Powell, we would like to request this of the Masters.”

He looked back to Max who was halfway to them, no doubt having heard the better portion of the conversation. He was tall for a Fenthri or Chimera, nearly Arianna’s height. His sharp blue eyes assessed her.

“The vote won’t be a place for a Raven.”

“I’m not a Raven,” Florence replied on instinct.

“What are you, then?”

She stopped short of her usual response of “Revolver.” Instead: “I’m Florence.”

The man raised his eyebrows. But his response was interrupted by a solemn bell toll from a nearby assembly hall. He pulled out his pocket watch, inspecting the time.

“Very well, come along. But they sit in the back,” he cautioned Powell, as if the man was now solely responsible for the three of them. Judging from the train, it wasn’t an unfair assessment.

Usually, a filled hall would seem like a joyous occasion. The rising of a Master, the appointment of a new Vicar. Every seat was packed with journeymen and handfuls of initiates.

But nothing had ever looked sadder than the three men and two women who were seated in the center of the floor. No one spoke for a long minute. The room was as still as a tomb.

Max stood. “Today, on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month, in the year one thousand eighty-one, we, the Masters of the Harvesters’ Guild, have been called together to elect a new Vicar Harvester from among us.”

Florence shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was short enough that she had elected to stand in the back of the room on a small box to be able to see. Plus, even if she didn’t fully agree with them, Max’s words stayed with her. While she believed that any Fenthi from any guild should be able to witness the changing of a Vicar, this did not impact her in the same way it did the journeymen and initiates who lined the room. They deserved to be closer.

“Do any have a nominee from among us?”

The first journeyman stood. “I nominate Maxwell.”

“I second.” Another stood as well.

“I nominate Theodosia.”

“I third Maxwell.”

“Second Theodosia.”

“I nominate Powell.”

Florence watched with more interest the moment Powell’s name was added to the ring. Whoever the other two Masters were, they didn’t seem to have the same type of fervor wrapped around them. Eventually, the only names that mattered were Powell and Theodosia.

When it was clear that the room was split, the two stepped forward, away from the Masters, to face their peers. Chosen from a select group, supported by the guild on the whole, now the most experienced men and women would cast their votes for who would lead.

“I vote for Powell.” Max was the first to cast his ballot.

“I vote for Theodosia,” the second woman decided.

The final man thought it over a long moment. Florence wished she could ask him what ran through his head. What did one think while they were deciding the future of a guild? How did someone even approach a situation like that? It was a skill Florence wanted to imitate and learn.

He took a deep breath and made his choice. “I vote Powell.”

Max stood again, as the woman at Powell’s side stepped away. “Powell, Vicar Harvester, so voted on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the year one thousand eighty-one. Lead with wisdom.”

“Lead with wisdom,” the room repeated, Florence included. Even though she had never seen a Vicar voting ceremony, she had read about them. And, while this was certainly an unorthodox situation, falling to convention felt right. It harkened back to the old days of the guilds and the traditions they kept—the things the Dragons could only take from Loom if the guilds let them.

“Sow and reap.” Maxwell placed his hand on Powell’s shoulder.

“Sow and reap.” Theodosia did the same.

“Sow and reap.” The other Masters spoke the words and joined as well. Soon, the room was one large, spoked wheel with Powell at its center. “Sow and reap” filled the air and connected the Harvesters as much as their physical contact.

“Sow and reap, Powell,” Florence whispered, apart from the group. To her surprise, Derek and Nora echoed the same.

It was a dark stroke of luck, but a stroke of luck all the same. Florence leaned against the wall, content to let Powell have his moment and to let the Harvesters find comfort in it. For she was no longer worried about finding time or sympathy from the Vicar Harvester.