I could smell Defedril long before I could see it. The thick stench of fish leaked into the carriage until it permeated every inch of space. I drew back the sun-bleached curtain to see the stacked two-story brick homes of the cobblers, meat packers, and pleasure houses that sustained the marina. I never cared much for this side of my homeland. Ten years since the Pearl Coast opened its borders, the desire that drove this humble trading town at the mouth of the river had metastasized into an insatiable need for consumption that fed my family’s wealth.

  The miner’s guild trading house where we were lodging for the evening was uncharacteristically utilitarian. It contained only a dining room, parlor, kitchen, and servant’s quarters on the first floor. The second floor was only small, but comfortable guest rooms. The house served as little more than a staging point for those coming through the port. With the Derullia townhouse under renovation, it was the only lodging by the docks that didn’t cater to men’s pleasures.

  Dinner was quite sensible: fresh mackerel on a bed of long-grain rice. It would have been pleasant had it not been drowned out by the detailed recitation of my brother’s every university connection and their varied business dealings. Even Griffin, who had the sort of social endurance I could only dream of, struggled to keep his eyes open through the monologue. As the meal was coming to a close, I took advantage of his need to breathe to blame the bumpy carriage ride and retire to my room on the second floor.

  Back in my room, I pulled out Lila’s dress, which I had “borrowed” from her trunk on the carriage. I tied the overlying frock close to my body to rein in the excess fabric at my chest. In the mirror, I looked like a servant girl with oiled hair decorated with silver pins. Lila’s bonnet would have solved this, had I thought to nick that as well. I plucked the tie at the curtain and fashioned a precarious high bun. I inspected my work in the mirror. My mother would die of shame if she saw me, but I suppose that made it a good enough disguise.

  I took the cross-shoulder cloth bag that hung on my bedpost and opened the window. Wesley’s voice was still droning along from a first-floor window. This side of the building faced the open waters with only a small ledge two inches in depth separating the base of the house from the waves lapping hungrily below.

  I let out a long breath and turned away from the dark sea. Hanging from the window, I felt gingerly down with my toes, looking for some protrusion in the stone wall. I found a narrow ridge, then a groove wide enough to force my hand through. My heart thumped, bringing rhythm to the waves. The wall was so cold that my fingers burned to touch it, but I dared not draw back. It was careful, methodical work, like chemistry. Once at the base, I shuffled along the ledge, pressing still to the wall until I reached the corner of the building.

  Lila’s white frock was now smeared with gray, though in the dim light I could not see if it was grime or dust. It added to the charade.

  The narrow alleyway opened onto the cobbled street. My destination was the street corner two blocks down where the street turned away from the marina and toward the inner town. That was where Old Blind Vetta sold Argayshan dried chicken legs and red string dolls to ward off disease and welcome wealth.

  Between the guild house and that corner stood three men, silhouetted by the street lamp. A skinny one with tight britches was bent over, one hand against a shop window, retching so loudly that it echoed through the street. The other two men, one tall with cheap jewelry braided into his scraggly beard and the other heavyset and bowlegged, guffawed at his side.

  I ducked my head down and started out of the alley, keeping under the eaves of the houses on the opposite side of the three men. As I did so, I felt in my bag for the iron mallet and gripped it.

  “Can’t hold your liquor, Slim? You’ll never land a whore if you can’t stay upright long enough to pay her.” The beard clapped the skinny one on the back, causing him to convulse again. The puke splattered against the store window.

  Bowlegged looked up from the two and met my eye. Between bites of chewing tobacco, he said, “Ah, there’s another chance for you, Slim. You still might find a lay tonight.”

  I trained my gaze to the ground and hurried my pace.

  “Good find,” said Beard. “Hey now, Curls. Where are you hurrying off to all alone?”

  “Slim, you’re going to lose your chance now. Greet the girl.” Bowlegged said.

  There was shuffling and I could see them dusting off Slim and parading him closer. I tightened my grip.

  “Hey, hey,” came Slim’s slurred voice. The man could hardly stand, and the smell of him, vomit and excrement, overpowered the fishy scent of the city. “Look at me. I’m talking to you.”

  “Come on, now, Curls. Why the cold shoulder? You got a master waiting for you to warm his bed? Give the poor lad a chance,” Beard said.

  I pulled the mallet from my bag and did my best to affect a Defedrin accent. “Stay back. I don’t want no trouble. I’m late to my duties.”

  “I don’t think she likes you, Slim.” Bowlegged waddled closer.

  “What’s a pretty thing like you doing with a tool like that? You’ll hurt yourself.” Beard said.

  I turned to face them, brandishing the mallet between us. He wasn’t wrong. The short mallet could easily shape metal, but it was hardly a weapon. And where did one strike a man to make him stop? I took steps back as I spoke, “There’s a pleasure house behind you, maybe 50 yards. Go there and leave me to my business.”

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  “Where do you think we’re coming from, girl?” Beard smirked. “Turns out even whores turn their noses up at honest sailors looking for a little company.”

  Without warning, Slim lurched forward. He snatched the mallet from my fingers. I recoiled and stumbled backward over my heels, falling back toward the cobblestone.

  A man’s hand grasped my shoulder, and the men froze. Griffin! My heart leapt. But it wasn’t just the sailors who’d frozen in place. The sound of the waves too had ceased. I knew who it was before I turned around.

  “We need to get going,” said Fitz.

  “My mallet-”

  “It’s not worth the risk of them unfreezing. Come on.” He pulled me back, maintaining the grip on my shoulder. He guided me back up the street towards Old Vetta’s stall.

  “How many seconds are left?” I asked.

  “Five. Four.”

  I laid my own hand on top of his and redirected us to another alley. Just as we cleared the street, the waves crashed again. Slim fell forward onto the street.

  “Where’d that bitch go?” Bowlegged rasped.

  “You can’t take that kind of a risk.” I whispered to Fitz. “What if Vetta noticed?”

  “The woman’s blind, Cassie.”

  “She’s sharp. She could have noticed our footsteps, or there could have been someone else on the street.”

  Outside the alleyway, the three men grumbled and moved down the street away from us.

  Fitz balled his fist. “This is pathetic. I have the control, but what is the use is it when we cower in the shadows.”

  In a moment, Fitz’s position shifted suddenly, like two images juxtaposed. In one moment he was before me and the next he was by my side. I had seen it a thousand times, but his skips were still jarring. “It’s only Vetta. Come on.” He held out his hand, and I grasped it.

  At once, the sound of the waves ceased as the two of us passed in the interrupted space between the flow of time. “Twenty, nineteen…” We sprinted. Hand-in-hand we passed Old Vetta sleeping with her mouth gaping open and out of the docks. We had just cleared the end of that street when the noises of the evening returned. Time resumed its flow. Fitz released my hand, and we slowed to a brisk walk. In only a few minutes, we’d crossed to the business area where tailors and cobblers offered their trades.

  We stopped before the blacksmith’s brick workshop. Fitz rapped on the door three times quick, twice slow. The blacksmithy was quick to respond. He cracked open the door, revealing a hulking frame and dark features. “This the girl?”

  “Gerald, for the sake of the gods… Let us in first,” said Fitz.

  Gerald opened the door wider, allowing us to enter. The inside was lit only by the roaring fire that bathed the room in orange light.

  Gerald jutted out his chin, pointing me out. “He says you’re the inventor.”

  “I am.” When I designed a new wheelchair for Father or an improved water turbine, my own handiwork could only take me so far. It was Fitz who realized my vision. I had never thought too much about how he brought me my inventions, but I supposed now that I had this Gerald to thank.

  “She’s got something new. A gun.” said Fitz.

  I pulled the penciled sketches I had perfected on the carriage ride from my bag. “It’s a handgun and there will be no need to pack the gun before firing. It will fire automatically. You only need to reload and you can use it again. A blasting cap fits in where the flint would be.”

  I laid out the plans and instructed him on the materials needed. Gerald leaned in, pointing at the measurements and questioning each piece. In a little over an hour, we had hammered out each detail. He had replicated my designs down to the width of the minuscule internal grooves that would spin the bullet, adding accuracy in rotation.

  Gerald turned to his materials, and I turned to look for Fitz. He had left sometime between the chemical composition and optimal bullet size, but it didn’t take long to find his legs dangling from the recessed second floor. He had papers strewn out around him. I recognized the tidy rows of shipping manifests.

  “Fitz, we’re ready to go now.”

  Fitz pulled one sheet from the rest and passed it between the railings. “This ship design, what do you think of it?”

  I looked at the squat ship sketched and measured in pieces. “It’s hard to say. I’m not a shipbuilder.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “It’s small, smaller than any of Father’s. Those two masts being so far apart would allow it to move quickly. You could pass through narrower waters too. It might even manage to maneuver the Pine River. ”

  “How about for combat?”

  I looked up, surprised. “It would do well enough.” I glanced back at Gerald, who was making further notes on my designs. I placed a hand on Fitz’s ankle. Sensing my intention, he activated his skill. The flames froze in their position. “The Royal Navy used a similar design in my first thread. It was faster than our warships, so it helped with resupply. What are you doing with this?”

  “I picked the design up from a contact. I don’t know where they got it.”

  “Stay out of this, I mean it,” I warned.

  He leaned forward against the railing. “I got it. I’ll steer clear.”

  Fitz kicked his foot free and then skipped in position. The ship design was back in his hands along with the other papers gathered together. I glowered at him. Fitz’s skill was powerful, but exhausted quickly. Like a thread could only pass half its length when doubled, traveling with another person halved his endurance. He wasn’t shy in tossing me unannounced back into time just to gain a few seconds.

  “We’re heading back, Gerald.” Fitz got to his feet, stuffing the papers into his leather satchel.

  Gerald looked up distractedly from his desk. “Fine, fine. I’ll be expecting the first payment tomorrow. It was nice to meet you, Miss. Don’t be shy with any new designs.”

  Fitz and I hurried back through the streets, shuffling past the evening merrymakers and peddlers. Before long, we pressed ourselves, shivering, against the outer wall of the trading house. Fitz offered his hand. “I need to make it back out, so we have to be quick.”

  I grasped his hand, and the world stopped again. We piled awkwardly through the first-floor window that I had left unlatched. Fitz was muttering the countdown under his breath as we crossed the parlor where Wesley sat holding his post-dinner cigar with its suspended plume and pounded up the stairs. Before we reached the landing, sound suddenly resumed. I tried to quiet my steps, but the disorientation caused me to stumble on the top step. Not missing a beat, I dashed into my room and closed the door as softly as I could manage.

  Alone in the room, I leaned my body against the door and slid to the floor. My breath was heavy from the run, stronger even than the waves crashing outside the window. My heartbeat, though, raced for another reason. My smile was so broad that my cheeks ached.

  This felt right. What had I been doing, staying quiet all that time? I forgot what it was to act, to create, to use a skill even if it wasn’t my own. This was weaving my own fate.

  A knock reverberated against my skull pressed against the door. I reflexively jerked away from the hardwood. A deep voice came from the other side of the door as though the speaker were crouching to meet my level.

  “Lady Cassia.”