Beyond the Gate: Stories from the World of the Dream Engine: Engine World

BEYOND THE GATE

Stories from the World of

The Dream Engine

Cover Design: Stacy Claflin

Interior Art: Anita Solver

Formatting: E.W. Pierce

Dedication

To our friends & family,

for believing.

To Amy Schubert,

for developmentally editing every story.

To Anita & Jon of Blunderbuss World,

for enthusiastically supporting.

To our small but fierce team of reviewers,

for helping spread the word.

To the Self-Publishing Podcast: Sean, Johnny, and Dave,

for inspiring and teaching, for not holding back, for creating this awesome steampunk fantasy world and letting us come inside and play.

Foreword

This collection is the start of something special.

While reading Beyond the Gate I was struck by the enormity of all: what we’ve created, what is still to come, and how not a single word would be possible without the many voices so eager to join the collective.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I started, but that didn’t bother me. This entire project has been borne of uncertainty. That’s one of the things that makes it so special, and one of the things that has so magically captivated the nearly 1,000 writers and readers who saw the planets align for this new universe live.

Without the authors in this collection, and many others like them, there would be no Waldron’s Gate. And without The Gate there would be nothing Beyond.

Several months ago my co-conspirator at Realm & Sands, Johnny B. Truant, and I stared into the unknown ourselves. The premise behind Fiction Unboxed — the month long project that birthed The Dream Engine — was as daring as it was simple: We would start with nothing, then turn that nothing into the start of something truly special.

We promised to begin with nothing (no story, no characters, no world — not even a genre) then spend exactly one month of furious writing and relentless creativity to first decide on a genre, then craft a world and create characters to fill it.

A daunting proposition, and frightening for sure, especially as we reached our third day and still had only the smallest speck of a story. But we kept at it, and at the end of that third day we found that our speck had turned into the seeds of something amazing.

Then the day after that we had the start of our story.

Twenty-Seven days later we delivered that finished story to 1,000 readers. That was exhilarating, but it was even more amazing to see the world taking shape, and the boundless energy of writers wanting to fill our world with stories themselves.

This project would have been hard enough if we’d simply decided to write a book in 30 days in front of an audience. Building a world made it harder. Building a world exciting enough for other authors to play in was the hardest objective of all.

But that was one of the things that also made the project so fun. It was one of the things that made it all so exciting, and unforgettable.

We weren’t even finished with The Dream Engine before Johnny and I were getting hammered with questions from people wanting to know all about the world’s rules so they could get started with their stories.

WAIT!, we said. While we were both thrilled and fueled by all the excitement, our world was still wailing infant’s cries. We promised that we would know more following our first ever Sterling & Stone World Builder’s Summit in September, where we’d outline The Dream Engine 2 (now titled The Nightmare Factory) and flesh out more of the world’s foundation and rules.

But the authors were too excited to wait. They wanted to start writing while the excitement was still fresh in their heads.

The Summit was amazing. Two of the authors in this collection, Monica and Amy, were in attendance, and both contributed fantastic ideas that have made their way into Alterra’s clay. Amy had some remarkable thoughts surrounding the Ministry of Decorum that have in large part shaped the third book in the saga, The Ruby Room, and thus the series’ future.

As I write this, Johnny and I have just finished the draft for The Nightmare Factory and will be starting on The Ruby Room this coming week. We are neck deep in a world that is grander than we ever imagined — now big enough to hold the creations of others.

It was a joy to read Beyond the Gate and come across Eila and Cora trading whispers that were but a breath from The Dream Engine itself. I smiled wide while reading about Sildrian, the clockwork man. I was finally able to peek into the imaginations of people I’ve so far only known through email.

I feel fortunate that there are so many authors wanting to play in our world, and feel the deep responsibility to keep Alterra, and every nation bent on its destruction, thrilling enough to be worthy of so many stories.

Sean Platt, co-author of The Dream Engine

A Brief Tour of

Engine World

The stories in this book take part in a place called Engine World. The Dream Engine, by Sean Platt and Johnny B. Truant, explored one corner of this world, a continent of clockwork engines and zeppelins called Alterra. Waldron’s Gate, the capital, was built around a device called the Blunderbuss, a sleek machine of immense size and dubious origin. There are an unknown number of Blunderbuss-type devices around the world, and all are used in different ways (which will be explored in future Engine World novels).

In Alterra, the Blunderbuss enables so-called Builders to draw inspiration seemingly out of thin air (the aether) and manifest the object into being. The Ministry of Manifestation oversees this process.

Alterra is surrounded by the Fog, a thick, malignant border haunted by the minions of the Imp. Parliament Guards patrol the border, battling any monsters that emerge. As far as Alterrans are concerned, the Fog marks the end of the world. Nobody goes into the Fog of their own accord. Beyond, if there is a beyond, belongs to the gods.

Crumble is a drug taken by all residents. The people are led to believe that Crumble protects them from the Imp, but in reality, it opens a door to their mind. A door through which the Blunderbuss can quietly enter. The aether, you see, is nothing but stolen dreams. There is an entire industry built around this process. In a dank, secret underground city called Pavilion, Dreamers sort the dreams. Useful ones go topside, to be Built. The rest is shunted into the Fog to become realized creations of nightmare.

Alterrans have no concept of dreams or nightmares, and are especially ill-equipped to deal with things beyond the norm. When people start to crack, they are spirited away to Joffrey Columns, an insane asylum.

The Dream Engine is a YA Steampunk Fantasy. Not all the stories in this anthology fit that same genre. In these pages, you will find YA Fantasy, yes, but also Science Fiction, Romance, even Horror. The unifying force is the world itself, and the wonder it inspires.

The Story of

Beyond the Gate

This anthology is the result of an outpouring of creativity from twenty-three writers who followed the genesis and development of The Dream Engine in Fiction Unboxed. Not content to just read and experience Engine World, these authors decided to put their own stamp on this shared setting and create exciting new stories, within Alterra and beyond.

In these pages, you’ll revisit places from The Dream Engine through fresh eyes. In equal parts, though, you will go Beyond the Gate, into Alterra, the Fog, and, yes, beyond even that malignant border.

These stories represent our first steps into Engine World. Some of us even have plans to continue the stories started here. If a particular story sparks your imagination or leaves you wanting more, reach-out to the author and let them know. We love hearing from fans.

Our authors hail from all over the world, using our own American, Queen's or Canadian hybrids of English in our individual stories. Please keep this in mind if you see a word spelled differently than you’re used to!

Beyond the Gate is an effort of love. We hope you enjoy the result as much as we do.

Bobby Bigsby and the Sky Shaw

Jay Rosenkrantz

Captain Kermit Coslow stands on the deck of his sterling silver sky shaw, basking in the glory of another successful voyage through the Fog, when the starboard wooden propeller sputters. To most men, a propeller malfunction might mean they panic – they swallow their bubble gum involuntarily, they abandon the shipment of paintings and tapestries they’re transporting in order to jettison some extra weight. But Captain Coslow is not most men; Captain Coslow not only continues to chew his gum, he blows an extra large bubble before signaling to his second-in-command, Louisa Jones, to double up the dose of steam pumping to the port propeller and prepare for an emergency landing in Waldron’s Gate.

The sky shaw groans. It tips through the air, slow-mo diving downward towards the clean streets below. Coslow spins the rudder, weaving his vessel between a flock of Parliament’s flying ships. He works the wheel with the kind of majesty reserved for royalty, like he’s the king of the great blue sky. The Captain’s ship, even in disrepair, is a sight that sends chills up the spines of the citizenry. The big, wooden propeller puttering away in sync with the massive, triple pistons, all working in concert to power the steam engine. The sky shaw is an absolute marvel of the age.

Coslow hands Louisa the rudder and directs her to decelerate down Main Street, past the pastel-colored candy stores and Rory’s Toy Shop, around the Bank of Waldron and over the oak trees shaking in Central Park. He waves to the boys and girls whacking croquet mallets and swatting tennis balls, flashing them a trademark ruddermouth smile. The children chase behind, slack-jawed, hoping to catch a few of the sky shaw captain’s amazing stories. Coslow’s tales are packing the type of heat and excitement you only acquire adventuring into the wild lands beyond the Fog; since the shaws only visit Waldron’s Gate twice a year, the kids will happily dump their entire allowances on stories. If the Captain plays his cards right he can spin some colorful yarn and make a tidy profit on this unexpected detour.

Louisa curves the ship down Rowley Row’s array of lavender houses. The roofs’ timber shingles shiver inside the wind tunnel created by the sky shaw’s loping descent. Louisa leans into the rudder and loops the vessel through Queen Mary Boulevard, bending it around buildings like a perfect parabola. On the corner, tucked between Stuey’s sandwich shop and a pavement parking lot, sits the Sky Shaw Service Center. The shaw kisses the street, coasting into the steam station with the lightness of a paper airplane. It wobbles to a complete stop in front of Repair Bay Number One. Louisa cuts power to the propeller and powers down the pistons one at a time.

It is a bustling, mid-summer day at the Sky Shaw Service Center. Buggies of all shapes and sizes line up at the steam pumps one by one to fill their engines with enough steam to last the week. A tall, mustachioed attendant with thick, greasy hair waves a squeegee like a magic wand, wiping steam from the buggie’s windows. Veteran mechanics scamper in and out of the twin repair bays, checking engine lights and fixing flat tires. Larry and Harry, the two co-managers, waddle to and from the small office in the center of the station, greeting customers, changing oil, and processing receipts.

Coslow plants a booted foot on the pavement. It’s a hot one today, the kind of baking sun that turns the street into a frying pan, one of those brutal summer days where nobody wants to be caught outside unless it’s sliding down a twisty slide into an ice cold pool of water. The Captain wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and reaches for his coin purse. He is ready to commence repair of the starboard propeller. He is ready to spin yarn for fun and profit. He is ready to—

THWACK! Coslow takes a green rubber bouncy ball to the side of the ear. The neon sphere bounces off his head, then off his boot, then off the side of a steam pump, finally rolling across the pavement back to the hand of its sinister owner: one Bobby Bigsby, 12-years old. The kid’s staked out a spot for himself in the shade next to Repair Bay Number One. His cap’s donned backwards like a champ. He’s reading the latest issue of GALACTIC WARS and watching the corner of the street like a hawk.

Captain Coslow gingerly massages his earlobe. What gives, kid?

You’re blocking the street, says Bobby, rolling his eyes. Then he adds: I’m waiting for the ice pop lady.

The ice pop lady is the most important person in Bobby Bigsby’s life today, and for good reason. It’s nearly noon, and Bobby’s been awake since 4 a.m. to open the Sky Shaw Service Center with Harry, his dad, who oversees station operations with Uncle Larry. Harry is currently drinking a cold iced tea while gazing dreamily out the window, catching some z’s with his eyes open. Bobby only wishes he could catch some z’s. But he’s too excited about the ice pops.

A frosty ice pop is Bobby’s dream; it’s all he wants, the perfect refreshment on this sweltering hot box of a day. And this particular pop is not just any ordinary confection. The ice pop lady is an artisan Builder, a master of the popsicle form. She may be pushing sixty but she’s been pushing her pops for the past thirty years, Building cherry popsicles since she first learned how to manifest them from people’s dreams. The ice pop lady is a renowned artist, a top dessert chef. Her pops sell out within minutes on a normal day, but on a day as hot as today they could be gone within seconds. And Bobby has to wave her down when he sees her, because he’s not about to leave his relaxing spot in the shade to chase her down the street.

Bobby and the ice pop lady have a terrific relationship. He buys an ice pop every single time she visits; she raises his happiness level from a four or five on the ten point scale all the way up to a nine. No ruddermouth is standing in the way of a nine-out-of-ten on Bobby Bigsby’s personal happiness scale.

Out of the way, clankerhat, says the kid, shoo’ing Coslow away with his comic book.

Maybe you didn’t notice my ride, says Coslow. Or my cape. It’s a sky shaw. I’m a ruddermouth.

Coslow holds out his hand, expecting Bobby to eagerly toss coin into it. When Bobby doesn’t oblige, the Captain adds: Want to hear a story from beyond the Fog?

Bobby points to his comic book. "I’ve read every issue of GALACTIC WARS. So unless you’re Duke Starskipper, I don’t need to hear any of your stories. Now out of the way, rudderjacks!"

As Coslow ponders the perfect comeback, Uncle Larry shuffles out of the office, offering a warm hello and handshake. Then, Uncle Larry tosses Bobby a set of keys.

Take the Limo down to Mo’s and pick up a replacement propeller for Captain Coslow here.

But Uncle Larry, the ice pop lady’s on her way—

Go now, so the Captain doesn’t have to stay in Waldron overnight. Ruddermouths have places to be. People to see.

I’m only 12. I don’t have a license!

Gotta get your wings sometime, kid, says Coslow, winking.

Coslow hooks his arm around Uncle Larry’s shoulders and they stroll inside the office, out of the stifling sun. The mechanics drop their wrenches and gather round like kids in a candy store, eager to hear the Captain’s storytelling. Louisa brings along a beautiful acoustic guitar, acquired from a music shop in Thestic, the holy city. Its strings rumored to be plucked from the hair of the Crown himself. Spinning yarn around the world, Louisa knows well that people love stories set to pleasing music.

Hands in his pockets, Bobby slumps over to the Limo: a beat-up old two-door steam buggie with no seatbelts. He grimaces – not only does he not know how to drive, today of all days he forgot his eyeglasses at home.

It is a trial by fire. Bobby takes the turnpike twelve exits to the poor part of Waldron, where crumpled newspaper is all that protects the gutter rats from sunburn. He caroms down Anvil Alley. He narrowly misses running over the postman. He avoids crashing the Limo into a dump truck. He runs several red lights and sideswipes seven different garbage cans. But against all odds, under the beating rays of the summer sun, Bobby pulls into Mo’s just before closing and obtains the replacement propeller for the sky shaw. He hightails it back up the turnpike, utilizing all the sweet new moves he learned on his harrowing, death-defying voyage. Through squinting eyes, Bobby careens into the Sky Shaw Service Center at 5 p.m., just as Coslow finishes collecting coin for his third yarn of the afternoon. The Captain’s customers are more than satisfied; the mechanics have heard stories so enchanting they’re swooning over the possibility they can retell them in the shopping districts for more gold than even they can imagine.

The Limo screeches to a stop in front of the service bay. Bobby heaves the propeller out the window and into the hands of Roger, the station’s crack mechanic. Bobby is hot. He beats sweat off of his pasty forehead. His jock really itches.

That’s when he sees her: the ice pop lady.

Bobby runs – no, he vaults his way across the steam station’s lot to the old woman. Her tiny white cart is emblazoned with her unmistakable logo: the glorious, cherry red popsicle renowned throughout Alterra. An enormous red parasol shades the pops and their Builder. Bobby empties his pockets of all the coin he has and pushes it into the ice pop lady’s tiny, wrinkled hands.

One pop, please, says the kid.

The ice pop lady sadly shakes her head. Sorry, young man, but I just sold my last one.

Bobby gasps. His face sags like a melting snowman. His happiness level plummets from a solid five all the way to a negative one.

Sold it to that handsome ruddermouth. Some good yarn, that man spins!

The ice pop lady laughs and hobbles her way down the cobblestone street, aching to take a load off after a hard day’s work.

Like a heat-seeking laser beam, Bobby’s eyes find Coslow in front of Repair Bay Number One. The Captain slowly unwraps his ice pop, peeling away the white, glossy paper to reveal the cherry red coolness beneath. Bobby is drooling. His eyes have gone googly. Any more of this and he’ll end up in Joffrey Columns, locked away inside an igloo of madness.

Ears steaming, Bobby hurls his green rubber bouncy ball directly at the concrete beside him. It rebounds right back, hopping and skipping its way across the station. It settles to a stop in front of Coslow. He picks up the ball, considering its shiny green shape.

Ship’s ready, Captain, says Louisa, looking down from the bridge of the shaw as the mechanics push it out of Repair Bay Number One and onto the lot.

Captain Kermit Coslow nods.

Get her ready for us, Louisa. It’s been a long day and we’ve got an even longer journey ahead of us.

Adventure awaits, Captain.

She always does, doesn’t she?

Coslow bounces the ball on the ground and catches it in his fist. He regards his ice pop for a long moment. Then he walks over to Bobby Bigsby. He bends down, eye to eye with the young man. He hands Bobby the ball, and then the ice pop. The kid’s eyes light up with delight and surprise.

Enjoy it, kid. You have a good summer.

Coslow turns and doesn’t look back. He strides up the ramp, onto his sterling silver sky shaw. One by one the triple pistons power up, and the twin wooden propellers begin to spin. The mechanics scamper out of the twin repair bays to view the shaw’s rise into the early evening sky. As they watch the mighty ship vanish through Alterra’s clouds, Uncle Larry and Harry wave goodbye, wondering if the stories the legendary ruddermouth had spun were true. They decide they don’t care.

Up in the air, Coslow scratches a patch of strawberry chin whiskers and thinks about that ice pop. He wonders if he missed out on anything special.

Down on the ground, Bobby bounces his rubber ball and thinks about the sky shaw. He wonders if he missed out on anything great.

Then Bobby Bigsby, the 12-year-old champ with the cherry red ice pop, plops down onto his seat in the shade. He picks up GALACTIC WARS and opens to his bookmark. He holds the ice pop up against the golden light of the setting sun and takes one long, satisfying lick.

<>

Thank you for reading my story! I hope you enjoyed it.

If you liked this story, connect with me at my website, Google+, or Twitter and let me know!

About Jay Rosenkrantz

Jay’s ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. His girlfriend boasts he is the closest thing she has in her life to a Yoda. He resides in Austin, Texas, where he writes adventure stories bursting with humor, emotion, romance and heart. And magic swords and giant robots.

The Crown Reading

Monica Leonelle

Helena

Tick, tick, tick, tick…

The lit Ferris wheel spun upward to the beat, pirouetting gracefully in place, as if performing for the vast crowd of stars that dotted the sky.

The solstice festival was supposed to be a joyous occasion, and for Helena, it had been once—until he disappeared.

She hadn't seen him for nearly five years, but it didn't keep her from picturing his sharp green eyes, his dark shiny hair, his soft face. When they had last spoken, he had been still growing into that face—there were hints of angles, cheekbones, four o'clock shadows forming—but a fourteen year-old boy could only offer so much.

She had often tried to imagine Willard's face at nineteen, the age he would be now. Nineteen was a good, handsome age, an age at which she could fully appreciate his rugged, otherworldly looks. She wondered if he would notice her own face the way other nineteen year-old boys noticed it, but that didn't quite fit what she remembered of him.

He had known her before her cheekbones, after all—before her hips had formed curves, before her collarbone had become a tease for something more. She hadn't been beautiful back then, and hadn't been someone others wanted or noticed.

He had noticed her anyway. He had liked her.

The summer solstice had been their night until it wasn't, and he had been her friend, her connection to what lay beyond the city limits of Waldron's Gate—until he wasn't. She missed his funny stories about the Nascent people, who believed the ghosts of Aerohead had once been elves; his conspiracy theories surrounding Stensue, where the nation's army was held; and his descriptions of the Fog, which whispered and winded not far from Yon, on the other side of Alterra. The sky shaws were, in some ways, the only opportunity for the citizens of Waldron's Gate to hear of news from outside the city.

But no one really believed the stories the ruddermouths spun when they stopped at the sky ports on market days. Those men made their living selling exotic wares from all over the country—they were allowed to have a pitch.

One year, at the dock where they always met on solstice, Helena had confided in Willard that she wished to see what lay beyond the edges of her city.

Where would you start? he’d asked her, gobbling down the chocolate velvet cake she'd brought him. Although her family was poor by Waldron’s Gate standards, her mother was an excellent cook.

Thestic, she’d lied, not wanting him to know how pitiful her knowledge of Alterra truly was. The truth was that she had never thought of it before. Her only longing had been to leave the gates, leave her problems, leave her family obligations and begin a life for herself.

But it had never occurred to her to have a destination.

Thestic, he’d repeated with a sly grin.

Yes, she’d said with more confidence. The holy city. I want to worship The Crown properly.

Willard had burst into laughter, to her dismay. You're going all the way across the country to worship a fool's tale?

The Crown is not a fool's tale, she’d replied indignantly.

It is, and you don't need to go all the way out there to know it. There is no more or no less worshiping in Thestic than there is here in Waldron's Gate.

She had pursed her lips, biting back her tears at his words as he’d launched into another of his stories of what he'd seen, what he'd experienced abroad. He had been orphaned at a young age, and not long after, he had managed to secure work with one of the ruddermouths cleaning up after the crew.

So many might think that being orphaned was cruel—but Helena knew Willard was freer for it.

He traveled.

He explored.

He lived.

The next year, when she had seen Willard again, he had brought her a gift—a tiny deck of cards no bigger than the palm of her hand. The deck was non-traditional and rare—Helena could tell just by the gold edging, the intricate drawings, the odd suits that she didn't recognize.

From Thestic, he had said. Now we can start our pending adventure together in a more interesting city.

His smile had come easily, and Helena had returned it, not knowing it would be the last time she saw him.

Now, she wished she had known, because she would have told him the truth—that the cards only made her want to visit Thestic more.

She reached into the pocket of her dress and fingered the edges of the cards that were now well worn from the readings she did. After that first casual reading she’d given him, she had studied the cards for months, learning as much as she could about each one, researching how to use them to cast the future.

If only Willard could see her now.

She wondered for the thousandth time what had happened to him—why he stopped showing up at the port. He wouldn't have willingly quit the shaws, so something must have happened. The constant twist in her stomach told her that he was in trouble, but it wasn't like she could affect that.

At least, not without a destination to start at, and not with all the mouths she had to help feed.

She had promised herself that if she found a clue as to where he was, if it wasn't a wild goose chase to the ends of Alterra, if she could justify the pain she would cause her family by disappearing, she would go to him. She would help him. She just needed that first clue, that sign.

No reading she had ever done gave her a definitive answer, and not for lack of trying—but then, that wasn't what the cards did. They only held the future, not the past.

Helena was still trying to figure out a way around that.

A low whistle cut through the noise of the festival crowd, shaking her from her thoughts. She grimaced—she would know that whistle anywhere, but didn't particularly want to see the person behind it.

It's Helen the Felon, Roman called out, nearing her with two of his friends in tow. His voice, low and raspy, had the early warning signs of someone who would be catcalling seventeen-year-old girls for the rest of his life.

Don't you have a roller coaster to plummet off of? she asked him.

Don't you have a test to steal or a sporting event to run bets on? he retorted. Or maybe you're selling magic beans this week. Would explain that little number you have on. He pointed at her dress.

She sighed, wishing for the hundredth time that she could escape Waldron's Gate and all its inhabitants. There was an entire world out there to explore, cities where she could find her place, villages where she could forget her past. Willard had promised to take her someday, but now… Now…

What, no banter? he asked, forcing her back to her reality of being a poor girl, with a dead dad, working mom, and too many brothers and sisters to take care of. Honey, if you're that hard up for cash, I'm sure you and I could work out—

What do you want? she asked, slicing through his monologue.

Just wondering what else I can purchase from you on the black market. His eyebrows shot up suggestively as he looked her up and down, leering.

You're a pig, she replied, standing up straighter, pressing her palm to the curve of her waist. She had learned long ago not to get defensive when guys ogled her, but instead to own her femininity with confidence.

I'm a naughty pig, then, he said, placing his hand against the wall she was leaning on, sidling up closer, trying to rattle her.

She didn't cower away from him. I wondered why your breath smelled like that. She pressed her fingers to the top of his chest, pushing him gently backward as she turned her head to the side. She wrinkled her nose in an exaggerated fashion, pinching it shut. Mystery solved.

One of the guys behind him snorted while the other couldn't hold back laughter. Roman glared over his shoulder, silencing them, before turning his attention back on her with a smile.

That's the banter I expect from our little… encounters.

Trust me, she said. You and I don't 'encounter' each other and we're never going to.

Why? he asked softly, almost as if he weren't disgusting. Don't think I could afford you?

Stop creeping on my sister, a voice whispered from just a few feet away. Helena jolted to attention, her head whipping around. Her brother Matther stood with his chest puffed out, but his shoulders shrinking, for an odd, cowering effect. What was he doing outside the tent?

What did you say, little man? Roman circled closer to her brother, who almost reached his height.

Helena was close to her brother in age, but that didn't make her any less protective of him. She slipped the deck of cards into her dress pocket, matching Roman's movements. Matther, go inside. Her warning came out firmer than she intended, almost like she was scolding him.

His wavering, wet eyes met hers with only the slightest hint of defiance. He turned back to Roman. I said, he echoed in a fuller voice, stop creeping on my sister.

Roman scoffed, turning his head to look at her, then back at her brother, stepping closer to him.

She immediately stepped between them, pushing her brother back. Stop it, she said to Roman.

He glared at her, his eyes veering behind her at her brother.

She pushed her palms against his chest, forcing him back. Stop it!

Her last movement shook him out of his daze, returning his attention to her. Baby, if you wanted to take me somewhere, all you had to do was ask.

She shook her head at him, giving him a hint of a smile. She had practiced that smile in the mirror, knowing its powers of diffusion—knowing it could be just the disarming weapon she would need someday.

Get out of here, she said, shoving him gently backward once more.

His eyes met hers with a speck of humanity in them. I'll see you later, Felon-a. His two friends laughed at his moronic joke, and a few seconds later, all three of them were out of sight.

Why do you let him talk to you like that? Matther asked.

He's harmless, she replied, her face heating up.

He's a jerk.

I was handling him, she said forcefully, frustrated that her brother had seen her that way. You shouldn't have interfered.

I don't like him threatening you.

Well, I don't either, she said, but that is the world we live in.

Her brother didn't reply, which could only mean that he disagreed with her.

She sighed and resumed her position against the wall, pulling her deck of cards out of her pocket and shuffling them back and forth, cutting the deck over and over again. Matther leaned against the other wall and together they watched the lazy river of festivalgoers drift by, enjoying food and drink, stopping at various tents to inquire about solstice knickknacks and services.

When she was young, the dancing, hazy lights of the solstice festival's Ferris wheel were like the ring of an iris at the center of Waldron's Gate, winking at her from a distance, beckoning her from the edge of the city where she lived, to the sparkling, magical core. But now that she was older, now that he was gone from her life, now that she was partially responsible for feeding mouths and paying bills, the solstice festival had become a means to an end—yet another place and occasion to hoodwink rich and silly girls into parting with their unearned money.

Her focus sharpened as two potential marks trailed by. The one in the deep brown dress had blonde hair, pale skin, and a wiry frame that floated through the crowd like a white feather dipped in ink. The other wore a colorful, breezy dress more suited for summer, though her steps were tense and determined. She knew them from academy, though she only went there because her mother taught, and not because she could afford to or because she'd earned a scholarship. These two were a grade younger than her, but easily recognizable still, especially the Doyle girl, whose parents both held high positions in the ministry.

The two girls were arguing over whether they would keep their appointment with Malvern, one of the foremost and most celebrated psychics in the entire city. Helena had tried to study under him, but he wouldn't have her—not at her age, at least. He’d told her to come back when she’d had some life experience.

Obviously, he hadn't met her family.

She rolled her eyes as the girl in the brown dress complained loudly about Malvern's prices. A girl like that had more ritterns in her purse than she knew what to do with. She let both of them pass, knowing her energy would be wasted on luring them into her tent.

She watched her brother's eyes following after them, just slightly too eager for an older sister's liking. He didn't stand a chance of catching either one's attention, but he knew that. At academy, Helena was the pretty blonde that the girls pitied for being poor, and that the boys catcalled because they would never truly consider her. But Matther was simply invisible, fading into the background like he had never existed—because to them, he didn't.

This is a bust, she said. I shouldn't have dragged you here to help me with this. She had been selling her own brand of card readings in the girls' restroom at academy. Girls came in on their breaks from their studies to get predictions on their crushes and gain insights into their friends' secrets.

Helena had hoped she could get just a few festivalgoers to pay her fifteen ritterns a reading, which was an astronomical amount of money for a family like hers, but the festival was nearly coming to an end and they still hadn't had any takers.

She stared at her brother, who still had his eyes on the two rich girls who had long since passed. We should go inside, she said, shuffling her deck of cards for the last time before turning away from the noise and bustling of the festival.

Wait, Matther whispered. He looked up and Helena followed his eyes.

Are you still doing readings today? Philly, a girl Helena went to academy with, was hardly a friend, but her quiet, bookish disposition made her almost as much of an outcast at their school as Helena was.

She raised an eyebrow, glancing over the other girl as she bit back her own surprise. I didn't think a girl like you believed in The Crown.

I don't, Philly said. Her forehead creased, and Helena noticed a reddish swelling under her eyes. She felt that same dull anger underneath her skin she always felt when seeing rich girls who felt miserable about their lives. They didn't know what it was like to truly struggle for every small gain. They didn't know what it was like to worry.

Then why are you here? Her anger inadvertently worked its way into her tone. Normally, she could handle the girls at academy because she knew they considered her card readings a fun and frivolous way to pass the time during breaks from lessons. But Philly was different—sharper, smarter, and on the social fringes. She wasn't coming to Helena to find out whom she should date next.

No, there was something more to the wild, barely contained look in Philly's eyes—and Helena didn't trust her.

Philly tilted her head at the two of them. Your card readings are secular, are they not?

That's right, Matther said, extending his arm. This way.

Philly walked through the flaps of tent that parted to form a door, and Helena begrudgingly stalked after her, tossing a glare in Matther's direction.

She sat down across from Philly, laying her deck of cards in the center of the table.

How much is it? Philly asked, pulling a large bag of coins from the folds of her dress. Malvern is charging thirty ritterns, so a reading from you must be significantly less.

Matther opened his mouth, but Helena beat him to it.

One-hundred ritterns, she said, holding her gaze steadily on the other girl.

One-hundred ritterns! Philly exclaimed. That's ridiculous.

Helena, Matther warned.

One-hundred ritterns, she repeated, not blinking.

I won't give you a bit over twenty, Philly declared, setting the coins on the table. I know who you are, and I know you're only at academy because your mother works there. I know you spend most of your time running betting pools, selling stolen tests, and telling girls' fortunes in the restrooms. Take the money. She slid the money across the table, closer to Helena.

Helena looked down at the money lazily, then back up at Philly, locking eyes with her, smiling. You may know me, but I know you too, Ophelia Waters. I know you spend your days nosing through books in the library, hiding from boys, and telling all the mean girls who ignore you that my readings are a crock and that I'm a fraud who's just trying to steal their money. I also know that you don't believe in The Crown or Jonah or even those who say there's magic in the Blunderbuss. And you definitely don't believe in me. She leaned back, sure that her mark was hooked. You came to me because you're desperate, and that means I can't trust you. You'll give me a hundred or you'll leave.

Philly scowled, tossing the rest of the bag across the table. There's three hundred twenty-three in ritterns in there, and it's yours if you help me get the answers I need.

Helena tightened her face as her emotions swelled in her chest—she had been prepared for Philly to storm out at her ludicrous suggestion that she pay so much for a simple reading. But she had underestimated the other girl's distress. Three hundred twenty-three ritterns was more money than she'd ever seen in her life. Her family could live on that for months, maybe even years—especially when her mother only made eighteen ritterns a week working as a tutor.

But she couldn't let Philly sense the tiny dance her insides were stepping. She slowly looked at Matther, who was standing behind Philly, nodding his head slightly. Even he knew to play it cool in a situation like this.

Done, she replied, sealing the deal before Philly came to her senses and changed her mind. Matther stepped outside the tent, tying the door flaps closed; she picked up the coin purse and set it to the side, still in Philly's view. The girl was skeptical enough, which would make the reading difficult to begin with—she didn't need any doubts about the money exchange to cloud the bad energy in the room any further.

Then, she reached for her cards and began to work.

Philly

Philly watched as Helena picked up the deck, straightened her back, and closed her eyes.

She was one of those stunningly beautiful girls with curves in all the right places, who always had the perfect line for every social interaction. Clever, charming, well liked—every boy in school wanted her and every girl in school wanted to be her.

Well, almost. The one fault the students at academy found in her was her lack of wealth, and her even greater lack of desire for it.

It seemed unfair that one girl could hold so many aces in her hand, but Philly didn't have a choice in seeking her out. She needed Helena's help. And she needed it now.

Before we start, we must clear your aura, she said in a soothing voice, clearly having switched over to her act. Philly had read all about how psychics fooled their clients into believing they held the answers to all of life's problems. But that still didn't change the confidence and seriousness with which Helena spoke. Her belief made Philly want to believe, to go along with it.

At the same time, Philly was too smart for that. Or at least that's what she had reminded herself, before gathering her nerves to ask for a reading.

Helena held out her palm between them, the deck of cards lying flat on top of it. With her other hand, she stroked the top of the deck in a wave, drawing an imaginary string upward, as if she were pulling something invisible from the center of the deck.

Philly huffed impatiently. Can we skip the dramatic showmanship? We've already agreed I'm not your typical clientele.

Helena's eyes shot open. Do you want an answer to your question or not? Her voice remained calm, though Philly sensed the irritation in it.

Of course I do! Philly exclaimed. She felt like she could explode at any moment, her hysteria was so elevated.

Helena set the deck of cards down on the table. You're right, she said. You're not a typical client. You are uncomfortable with not understanding something, because you are the girl with all the answers.

Helena continued to stare at her, though she didn't respond. For all the idiocy she had felt coming to Helena in the first place, the other girl seemed to be able to slice through her hard outer persona all the way to the core of her insecurities. Was she truly that transparent, or did Helena really have the gift of insight?

Helena sighed, picking up the deck again, holding it out in her palm. If you are serious about getting my help, then you will help me clear the energy in the room. She made the same movement as before, pulling something invisible from the center of the deck. We must prepare the cards if we want an accurate reading.

Philly sighed, not quite believing that she was buying into this. But here she was, in a fortuneteller's tent, hoping to find answers in a deck of cards. Was clearing a room of energy really that much different?

What do you need me to do?

Helena's lips turned upward at the edges. Just push negative thoughts from your mind. I can do the rest.

Clear negative thoughts, clear negative thoughts… she stopped, wondering how the hell she could clear her negative thoughts.

Lift away, lift away, all that is not divine, Helena whispered.

Great—now she's chanting, Philly thought. It took every bit of her attention to stay seated, when every part of her down to the cellular level wanted to flee from the tent.

I'm making you uncomfortable, Helena stated, that gentle smile still gracing her lips.

No, Philly lied. She would say or do whatever it took to get to the actual reading. She was afraid that if Helena sensed negative thoughts still in her mind, she would start over, prolonging the difficult experience.

She