Elias was already asleep when Tabby returned to the workshop. A blessing, since she was in a right state. Reality broke into disjointed pieces around her. It didn't seem real. None of it.

For the first time in years, she struggled to process everything that had happened over the past two days. Prince Albert? Of all people. What game were they playing? The lurking sense of danger doubled, making her twitchy.

Pacing the floor, she let her braid out and ran her fingers through her hair, across her scalp. They suspected her. That's why they'd assigned her a near impossible task. They were forcing her to fail. She'd been a fool to think her heptachrome status would save her.

"You don't know that, so quit worrying." Nit's voice was level, as usual. "It does nobody any good—least of all you and I. It's very likely they chose you for the exact reason they claimed. Your kill count rivals many of the Spectrum's veterans. And you're a heptachrome, Tabby."

"You're not helping," she hissed. "You're supposed to feed my madness, not stifle it."

But Nit was right in that worrying wouldn't help anyone.

Sighing, she brewed a fresh pot of coffee and set about oiling Nit's innards, tucked away deep in her brooding thoughts. A task that was as therapeutic for Nit as it was her. Nit cooed and hummed while she went over each of their cogs and springs, careful to avoid the prism nestled at the heart of their body. The last time she'd touched it, they'd had a near meltdown.

Cries of, "Ohh!! That tickles!" and, "Eee. Not there!" came as they squirmed against her fingers. But occasionally they liked it, settling in to groan, "Ahh!! That's the spot."

Nit took multiple forms to give access to those hard-to-reach places, working their way up to a cat before she was satisfied. "There now. Can't have have you grinding about, alerting the whole neighborhood of our presence," she teased.

Nit agreed.

She used the exercise as an excuse to caress Nit's metal with her fingertips. It was often the only time Nit allowed her touch. Maybe she would've been better off with a real animal for a pet, a dog perhaps, one that actually liked to cuddle.

"All right. Off with you. You're free."

Nit hummed with glee. Turning into a sparrow, they shook out their metallic wings, then took off to perch.

With plenty of work to do, Tabby tied her hair back and set about fashioning a setting for her black prism. Prisms required close contact to be of any use. She couldn't simply look at one across the room and pull its light. The safest place to keep this one was around her neck as a piece of jewelry. Unlike the other colors, no one would suspect it for what it was, and that was the beauty of it.

She used gold for its chain and setting, fashioning a mold for the back of the prism, then set about melting down an old recycled socket. The furnace heat left her face red and her hair frizzy. When she was done, she peeled off her heavy gloves and tried it on, gazing into the mirror in her bedroom. It came to rest just above her cleavage. She smiled, running her finger over its surface. No one would ever know. With that, she took herself to bed.

***

A sound startled her awake. Tabby blinked up at the ceiling, listening, straining, trembling. Somewhere nearby, thunder rumbled. Another storm crashing against Chroma. Other sounds registered too, and she catalogued them as she'd been trained to do. A creek in the dark, a stray snore, the constant hum of tortured souls. Familiar sounds in the silence. Too familiar. Dread crept into her stomach. Into her bones.

Had she never left? Had everything been a dream? Newton's Mechanicals? Nit? Norhaven Hall where she'd killed Parlow? Conrad Steiner? Had any of it been real?

She sat up and looked around, squinting into the dark. Not real, she told herself, rubbing her eyes. This wasn't real. It was another dream. A memory of another life.

The dormitory was small; it housed seven beds for those who had made it this far. Only two others were filled at the moment. Where were the rest? Dead? Still out on assignment? She glanced at the empty bed beside hers, terror coiling in her abdomen. Clora, who was known to everyone else as One-nine-six-seven was not there. Her tremors redoubled.

Quietly, so quietly, she laid back down, willing herself not to panic. Her mind was a jumble. Her body ached. More memories from that night came rushing back. She moved the blankets, wincing. Her hand was bound with bandages. Why? Clarity settled in. From torture. Screamer's blade had been expertly placed for minimal damage. It would heal quickly. She would regain use of it in a few weeks. Her body was bandaged too, wounds cleaned and stitched. Midnight had pronounced her ribs bruised, but not broken. The fingers on her hand had survived the punch to Screamer's jaw, too, with mere bruises on her knuckles.

A long breath left her chest. She was alive. She willed herself to relax. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Clora was missing. Inhale. Exhale. Surely she wasn't dead yet. Inhale. Exhale. No—this wasn't the night. That came later. She pushed the thought away. Inhale. Exhale.

She breathed, but there was little relief in it. She remembered the details better now, about this night—the night she'd earned a master. Midnight. Had the others faced their torture tests yet? Were they facing the test at this very moment? She couldn't remember. Too many years had passed. She glanced through the dark, eyes tracing the mound that was One-nine-seven-two in the bed beside hers. One-nine-seven-two...She tried to remember what his face looked like. He gave a quiet grunt and flopped over to the other side, away from her.

The click of a latch in the dark. Her ears pricked. The snores in the room fell silent as her two companions came alert. They were all awake now—trained to wake at the slightest sounds. A dark shadow slipped in on silent feet. She sagged with relief.

Not a master come to test them, to stab them in their beds if they failed to wake. Just Clora. One-nine-seven-two and One-nine-six-eight realized it almost as quickly and dropped back into sleep. She waited silently for Clora to pad over and slip beneath the blankets of her bed. Waited—

"Tabby?" Clora's whisper was barely audible. There was fear in it. She knew then that Clora had faced the same fate. Remembered what it had been like for her. That she'd lived through it.

She stole silently from her bed and slid beneath the blankets of Clora's, wrapping her arms around Clora's body, tangling their legs together. Clora's chest heaved in quick spurts. She felt her silent tears. Her own tears began falling, too.

Clora's hand moved over hers, over the bandage. "Did they hurt you too?"

She couldn't answer. Didn't want to. If this was truly a dream, she wanted to stay here forever. To stay with Clora, holding her. Stay in a world where she was still alive.

There were bandages beneath Clora's clothes. She remembered before she even touched them. Anger heated her skin as Clora spoke, "I've got a master now." Tabby swallowed, preparing to hear her next words—already knowing what they would be. "His name is Reaper."

She flinched, after all these years. Even in her dreams. She couldn't stop herself, couldn't stop the promise that spilled from her lips. "I'm going to kill him for you," she said. Dream Clora stilled against her. "I found a way to do it, Clora. I'm going to kill him for what he did to you. I'm going to make him suffer. I promise."

Dream Clora stayed silent. Only held on tighter as they cried together. Cried for everything they could no longer be. Cried for all the years they had lost. Cried for all the things stolen from them.

***

Tabby made a point to work on the list of odious tasks Elias had outlined. Sorting through piles of rubbish, she threw her workbench longing gazes. Anything was better than this.

Recycling gold sockets was tedious. Prism tech, though highly illegal without permitting, was simply confiscated and discarded. She thought of the poor cat, smashed into pieces, its orange prism ripped from its metallic body. The authorities couldn't be bothered to do more than discard it. Elias made a point to retrieve any and all from local junkyards. His piles of junk grew and grew until she minded them. And if she didn't, they turned into monsters that overtook every inch of his shop floor.

The door chime echoed and she glanced over, an immediate scowl settling into place. "Tax bag's here," someone called. Tam. She recognized his deep, gravelly voice. Had heard it enough. Roger was with him.

Elias shuffled over. "Morning gents. How much today?" Elias was already counting coins in his palm as Tam watched, eyes narrowed.

"Forty shillings."

"Forty—?" Elias paused, looking them over before nodding.

She marched over. "It was thirty last week, Tam. And the week before. And the week before that." She crossed her arms, a heavy lump of metal in one hand, just in case she needed to whack either of them over the head.

"Tabby." Roger nodded, flashing her a discrete grin. She ignored it, eyes narrowed at Tam.

Tam shrugged. "Price went up. I don't make the rules."

"Is that so?" She uncrossed her arms and slapped the lump of metal in her other hand a few times. Methodically. To make them nervous.

"Boss man gives the orders," said Tam, shrugging. "You know that."

"It's fine, Tabby." Elias counted over the money and dropped it into the bag before she could protest. "If this is the price we pay for our safety, I'll gladly pay it."

Safety. She almost huffed. Their safety hadn't kept yesterday's mutton shunters away.

But everyone knew The Forsaken were the real authority around Crock's Row. Not the city's police. The Forsaken patrolled, inquired into suspicious behavior, took matters into their own hands when necessary. She relied heavily on their watchful eyes when she wasn't around. Especially for Elias's sake.

They came around weekly with their tax bag, visiting local businesses. Anyone who wanted their protection paid up. Anyone who didn't...

Elias could easily afford it. But she knew swindling when she saw it. Marcus made a killing from the collections, even if Crock's Row was one of the poorest boroughs in the city.

"Thank'ee much." Tam tipped his hat, took a step back, then paused. "We'll see you at the White Swan?" he asked, looking at her, a daring gleam in his eyes.

She crossed her arms, eyeing him a beat longer. "If you're lucky."

He grinned, tipped his hat again, and they departed. She watched them go before turning to Elias. "There's no need to raise the taxes," she said. "The Forsaken are doing well enough. Either Tam is playing us, or Marcus is getting greedy. Greedier than he already is." Elias simply shrugged and returned to his work.

Perhaps it was time to pay Marcus another of her special visits. If only because she knew how much he enjoyed them. The corner of her lips pulled up and the thought kept her busy for a while.

***

The morning passed, customers came and went, buying a mechanical toaster here or a clockwork vacuum there. Some put in custom orders. Mechanical butlers, servants, and nannies were special favorites. She never received a second glance, covered in dirt and grime as she was, blending in. A talent she'd mastered at a young age.

Her mind remained occupied. For once, she wasn't ruminating over her frequent nightmares. Visions of Clora's face, her harsh adolescent training, the faces of her kills that often followed her into the dream world. No, she was focused on the future. On the promise of names from Steiner. On fulfilling her promise to dream Clora. On what she would do about Prince Albert. That solution was less certain. While she wanted to put it off and ignore it, like most problems, it wouldn't go away.

She was still furious with Steiner for talking to Elias, for dragging him into this. But perhaps she could put it aside in exchange for something more valuable. She couldn't help but wonder, might he have a good solution for Prince Albert? Given his depth of knowledge, perhaps he knew something that might work in her favor. Either way, she'd have to kill Albert, or eliminate the Council before her four weeks were up.

At half past one, she gathered her things and bid Elias farewell. He was occupied with a customer, so she received little more than a nod. Nit followed in her wake, taking to the skies as she set out for the bathhouse. Covered in grease and grime, Midnight would pitch a fit if he saw it.

The streets were vibrant and bustling. Mechanicals out on buisness for their masters, hobs running errands, humans passing by with furtive glances. She had to watch her feet too, as clockwork mechanimals dodged in and out delivering notes, avoiding the kicks of the irritated crowd as the keys in their necks clicked. She slipped through with warnings of "Mind the grease," a common phrase in this part of Chroma. There was no faster way to clear a path than threaten to dirty-up those in it. And today, she was filthy.

Once clean, she went to Safehouse Two in Lixton. The first thing she noticed was her trap had been disabled. "Midnight's here." Nit perched on the rooftop, pleased with the discovery. Nit always stayed out of sight. Midnight did not know of her illicit prism activities and she intended to keep it that way. A feat she was most proud of.

With an extra layer of precaution, she entered the building, absolutely silent. Her trap was disabled, but Midnight might have set a few of his own. She kept her breathing slow and even, glancing around for hidden wires, then stepped over the threshold. It was quiet—too quiet. The shadows were empty. No movement. Nothing looked amiss.

Satisfied, she turned and set about the locks on the door, her guard in tact—senses fully open. She listened for the faintest sounds. The last bolt clicked into place. A sudden change in the air and her muscles tensed. Instincts kicking in, she threw her body to the right. It wasn't fast enough. She slammed against the wall. It knocked the air from her lungs. Pain laced up her back. She spun away, meeting Midnight head on, utilizing a flash of violet to push him back. He met it with blue and lunged, but this time she was ready, daggers in hand.

Snarling, she sent a jab to his left then his right. He blocked her attempts, coming down with his fist. It smashed into her wrist, knocking a dagger free. Pain split through her hand and up her arm. She clenched her teeth and made another lunge for his legs, swiping low. He blocked again, using both his hand and a trail of blue light against her, forcing her back as she deflected his blows. Each came down in rapid succession.

They grappled, dodging furniture, knocking over chairs, maneuvering around the staged living area. In hand-to-hand combat, Midnight was near unbeatable. If she ever won, it was because he allowed it. Even with her violet to his blue.

He found a handhold, gripping her arm and the hem of her corset. Before she could summon any light to shake him off, he had her. He hurled her to the ground, and everything winked out for a moment, going dark. She groaned, but didn't get up. He bared down on her, ready for another blow right as she pounded the floor, twice. "Yield! I yield."

He halted inches above her, fist posed for a strike to her face, his reflexes absolutely perfect. "Too slow," he growled, pulling away, looking at her with his judgy brown eyes. Eyes she knew better than her own.

She gazed up at him, trying to catch her breath. He stood, a towering figure of corded muscle with an unyielding expression of stern disappointment. Always disappointment. She flopped over and stood, groaning again, caring little for her lack of grace. Sometimes she did it just to annoy him—to push him and see how far he'd go. "I'll be faster next time."

"There might not be a—"

"Yes—yes. I know." She threw him a look over her shoulder and glanced around her living area. "Light! It's wrecked!" Half the furniture was smashed. "You couldn't wait until I was upstairs for this?"

He snarled, lunging for her. She didn't bother to react—on purpose. His grip tightened around her hair as he jerked her back, but he yelped at the spike strip woven into her braid. Still, that didn't stop him. He pressed a blade to her throat. Tendrils of blue light wrapped around her wrists, pinning them to her sides. She couldn't use light if she couldn't move her hands to control it. "You've grown too safe in my company, Tabby. Safe, lazy, complacent. It's going to get you killed."

"By whom? You?" Perhaps if they spent less time fucking and more time sparing, she wouldn't have grown careless. For all the effort he put into keeping their relationship emotionless, he displayed it at the oddest times. "If you're not careful, Theo, I might actually think you care." Theodore Carter. The only Spect whose real name she'd ever known...besides Clora's. It was the name he'd been born with, before they made him One-eight-one-one. But she'd only ever known him as Midnight until she'd learned the truth.

Midnight snorted, releasing her and stashing his dagger. He headed for the stairs without a backwards glance. "We're done here. Slip-up again and it's the roofs."

He didn't wait for an answer and she didn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she hid her disgusted groan. Roof training was a special kind of torture that he used against her. Running and jumping from one to another. Scratching up her hands. Hauling her body about until her arms gave way, until she slipped and all but killed herself. He knew how much she abhorred it.

She followed him upstairs.

Midnight was twelve years older. Thirty-six. But he'd been twenty-five when the Spectrum assigned him to her that night, when he had stepped in before she lost a finger to Screamer. Twenty-five was also the age required to earn a three quarter mask, if one survived that long. No one had ever received an apprentice assignment right after earning a three quarter mask. Not until Midnight. She was months away from earning her own three quarter mask. Light help her if they tried to dump one on her when she turned twenty-five.

Months after that night in bed with Clora, Clora had died, failing to earn her half mask. Thirteen years old. All the fight went out of Tabby after that. She told herself that Midnight was a better master than most, especially better than Reaper. She was still breathing, wasn't she? He hadn't plunged a blade between her ribs. Not yet, anyway.

She tossed her satchel on the third floor landing. Midnight waited, arms crossed. Truth was, he really was more patient than she deserved. Any other master would have cut her throat and tossed her into the Taewae. But he had always been like that, even before she'd turned twenty and began purposefully tempting him with her body.

Most times she tried to convince herself that he was just like the rest of them. And he mostly was. But occasionally, there was something more. Something that told her he wasn't entirely lifeless.

She glanced around, exhaling. Most of the third floor was open. The far side was crammed with equipment. There were practice weapons of every kind, targets, pads filled with stuffing, wooden dummies, ropes and cables suspended from beams. It was the kind of place where one learned things no other could. Where one mastered the efficient art of stalking, spying, and dealing death.

Midnight went to the wall and perused the selection. She studied his posture. Tension rolled off him, dissipating into the air. He selected two wooden quarterstaves. An easier day, then.

"The Council was pleased with your work at Norhaven Hall," he said, turning.

She gazed at him, eyes narrowing. "But?"

"But they are wary of your connection to Steiner and your request to eliminate him."

She sighed. "We danced. So what? I needed a better vantage point to observe Parlow."

"To them, it appeared more than that."

"It was just a dance."

He shrugged. "The Spectrum is cautious. I needn't tell you that."

"No. You need not." She hesitated. "What are your thoughts, then?"

He tossed her a staff. "I think you did a messy job. No one saw you, so there's that. But the papers reported it as an assassination. It might have been safer to use poison, given the circumstances." He paused before adding, "You got the list, and you got out. That's what matters." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but stopped himself.

She ran her thumb over the smooth wood of the staff. He was right. The death she gave Parlow was easily traced with the proper context. But the authorities would get no further than the Spectrum. Still, it was the best she could do on such short notice. And this was the closest praise she would get from him.

"What do they plan to do with it—the list, I mean?"

He frowned. "That's none of your concern. Nor mine."

But he knew. He had a way of knowing much more than he ever let on. "Have they assigned Spects to each target yet?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said, Midnight. Just answer the question."

"They have."

"You?"

He snorted. "My talents are better served elsewhere."

She eyed him, then nodded. Part of her considered telling him about her new target. About Prince Albert. She might at some point, she just wasn't sure when. In any case, she knew what his reaction would be, and she wasn't ready for his nagging. So instead, she pushed it away for another time.

"Let's begin. No color magic today. We've had enough of that."

"Oh?" She arched an eyebrow. "Not eager to pit my violet against your measly blue?"

"Quit being childish. Are you ready?" She nodded, loosening her neck and shoulders. "Good." He lunged.

She lifted her staff to meet him head on, right as the clunk of wood reverberated down through her arms and body. He pulled away and struck again. And again.

They worked for two hours. Beads of sweat slid down her brow and chest, soaking into the wrap that compressed her breasts. She'd already discarded her tunic, glad for the cool air against her stomach. Soon, bruises lined her arms, hips, even her chin, smarting with every movement. Her muscles burned, screaming for relief. They exchanged blow after blow, their staves clunking together. She wondered how the wood wasn't cracked and splintered.

Mistaken were her beliefs that he might go easy on her. He never did. Soon, her breathing came in heavy drags. She clutched the wood with sweaty hands, letting it anchor her, even though her legs shook until she could barely stand.

A brush of luck had her sweeping her staff around against the back of his legs. It sent him down, but he was up almost as quickly. "You're getting slow," she taunted. "Slow and old."

But Midnight didn't look old. For his thirty-six years, his olive skin was still smooth, except for a couple of forehead wrinkles. Time spent scowling at her, no doubt. His body was pure strength, accentuated by the sweaty tunic clinging to his chest. He showed no sign of tiring as he stripped it free and tossed it across the floor. She forced her eyes away.

Unlike him, she was ready to drop.

As if fueled by her remark, his staff struck hers with the full force of his corded muscles. She planted her feet to absorb the blow, exhaling as he'd taught her. Before she could blink, he hooked his leg around her right ankle and jerked. She saw the move too late. They both went down this time. She grunted as his weight landed on hers. The staves clunked beside them. He pinned her with his scowling gaze. "Sloppily done, Tabby. I require better from you."

Tabby. Not Tempest. Unlike other masters, he'd never truly taken to using her Spect name once he learned her true name, which he forced from her the second day they began working together. Bastard.

She scowled back. "I can barely hold myself up."

"Save your excuses. You tire too quickly. How much sleep are you getting?" His face was close, almost nose to nose.

"Not enough," she grumbled. There was no point in lying.

"And whose fault is that?" His jaw tightened and he moved to rise.

"Mine. My fault." Her right leg shot out and wrapped around his left. He froze.

She wasn't interested in more practice. Her body couldn't take another minute of it. But there was something else...

He huffed. "You want to be rewarded? After a performance like that?" But she wrapped her other leg around his, effectively pinning him against her, angling her hips up against his. He could have moved away if he'd really wanted to. Could have rolled over and tossed her off him like a rag doll. Instead, arousal transformed his expression and he hardened against her. The length of him pressed right where she wanted it. His breathing changed, growing shallower.

"Who says reward?" Her gaze was a challenge, her brown eyes meeting his.

One heart beat. Then two. "Fine," he said. "You asked." His next movements were deft as he slipped off her and grabbed her hips, flipping her around. Her pants were ripped away. She found herself on hands and knees while he fussed with his buttons. She didn't look behind to see him spring free, to watch as pulled her flush against him. She groaned, muscles quivering as he filled her. His hands tightened around her hips. She shuddered as he guided her. Her core tightened around every stroke. Desperate. She needed this. He did too.

There was nothing gentle about what they did. They fucked. They never made love. "Love is a blade used to gut you in your weakest moments," he'd once told her. "Spects do not love." Midnight was paranoid enough that he'd never so much as kissed her, caressed her, held her. Nothing. Not once. And she didn't expect it. Didn't ever ask, no matter how badly her body craved it.

He pulled harder this time, slamming their bodies together. She cried out involuntarily, thrilled. The way he filled her—perfection. She wouldn't allow herself to wonder if he thought the same. That road was too dangerous and she knew better. Desire pooled between her thighs, heavy and demanding, begging for release. The sound of skin slapping skin mingled with their pants, filling the room. Her breathing came in short gasps, faster and faster. Until for a split second, everything dangled at the edge of a sheer drop, frozen.

Her life. The person that she was. All the things she'd done. It disappeared.

She cried out and shattered around him, coming so hard stars danced in her eyes. Midnight groaned, planting himself deep and holding her there, grinding his hips against hers, then pulling out as he released. He never came inside her, even though she took things to avoid pregnancy.

She kept her back to him, plummeting down from the high. The only sound now was their ragged panting. His eyes were on her, she could feel them on the back of her neck, but she didn't turn. Instead, she kneeled, sitting on her thighs with her back straight, catching her breath, ignoring her aching muscles. There'd been so many times, especially recently, that she wished he would come up behind her and kiss her shoulder or caress her back, like some of her favorites at Willow Lodge did. But they only did that because she paid them to.

The satisfaction of her climax crumbled. Suddenly empty. Entirely meaningless.

She glanced over her shoulder and found Midnight's eyes wild, still sex crazed. He too knelt, hands on his thighs, shoulders rounded forward in a slouch. He had slowed his breathing. "We're finished for today," he said when he caught her stare, standing to fix his pants.

"Thank Light," she muttered, following suit. He took their staves and stowed them, looking once more at her. His eyes lingered over her figure as she slowly did up the laces on her pants.

"I'll be back in two days. Roofs next time. I hope that will motivate you to get a full night of sleep." She opened her mouth to protest—"Don't!" He held up a hand. "You're twenty-five in four months. You'll have your three quarter mask if you manage to stay alive until then. Don't think I'll allow you to coast to the finish line." With that, he turned and disappeared down the stairs. She sank back to the floor, still dazed.

He was right. Getting clumsy was the fastest way to die. Perhaps she took him for granted. No...she knew she did. Sometimes she let herself believe that the sex changed things between them. It didn't. She was still an apprentice. He was still her master. However fucked up it was, she was the one who'd made the choice, pushed him into this...agreement. But she knew deep in her bones that if she slipped up, one word to the Council was enough to end her. Or maybe Midnight would take a page out of Reaper's book, and do it himself.