Oliver had just told her everything, even if she hadn’t realized what he was saying.

  His curse. His perversion. If he could just… be anything but what he was.

  As the spark lamps flickered to life, he glanced over his shoulder, taking one final look at Ms. Scaggs’ house before making the long walk back to the pier, back ‘home.’

  ? ? ?

  The captain’s cabin of the Snipe had seen better days. Littered with empty bottles and broken furniture, its walls held cheap paintings of easy women that hung any way but straight and level.

  Messer rolled the smooth black stone over his knuckles like a coin trick. “This. Is. Glass.”

  It wasn’t worth a lot, but Oliver knew it was worth something, and he knew Messer knew it too. “It’ll fetch half a florin—”

  His stepfather tossed the obsidian into the air, then batted it past Oliver’s head, rattling a picture frame. “You luck into a job worth a fortune, and all you bring me is glass?”

  “Sorry, sir.” He backed away.

  “Go chain the hull then. Bag the white burrs. At least I can eat those.”

  Oliver froze, trying to process what he’d just heard. “But, but… we’re not in dry dock.”

  “Noticed that, did you? And if you’d done your Bastard’s job like you were supposed to, we could afford to be. It’s your fault.”

  “I’ve never chained—my spark, I-I could get a job—”

  “You have a job.” The hard lines in Messer’s face strained against his handsome features. “When I promised your mother I’d look after you, she didn’t say a damn thing about freeloading. This ‘spark’ is a distraction.”

  Messer raised an open hand and, curling all the fingers but one into a fist, pointed at Oliver. “The only thing that makes you ‘special’ is that anyone else with a spark as feeble as yours would have the good sense to forget it.” He took a step forward and puffed out his chest, exaggerating his formidable height advantage. “So, you either do the easy work at the witch’s and start cleaning that old hag out, or you do the hard work here.”

  The bruise on his back aching, Oliver inched away. At least his grandfather’s remaining book, ‘The Wordsworth Dictionary’ was hidden, buried beside Ms. Scaggs’ back wall. The book was safe, but he did not want to find out what his stepfather would do, to him, if he found it missing—

  Messer grabbed Oliver’s collar with one hand and a heavy bronze chain with the other, dragging them both out on deck. “Rafe!” he barked, and the older boy came down from the quarterdeck with a curious expression that shifted into a smirk. “Make sure he fills the whole bag.”

  Then even Rafe stared at the man like he was crazy, but Messer just staggered back inside the cabin, leaving the boys alone.

  “Get to it.” Rafe pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t make me make you.”

  Peaking over the edge of the ship, Oliver stopped cold. With the Sun below the horizon, the water was cast in the amber monotone of the pier’s spark lamps. He stared down at it, working up the courage to jump.

  Rafe stepped past him with a dirty look on his face. “Idiot,” the older boy grumbled as he kicked a rope ladder, unrolling it off the side of the ship. “Go on, what are you waiting for? I’ll lower the chain once you’re down.”

  Oliver’s footing didn’t feel too shaky as he put his weight on that first rung, but that was close to where the ladder attached to the ship, and with every step down it swayed just a little more. By the time he reached the bottom, the ladder was twisting away from him as he hung off it by his arms, extending his toes to touch the River Tembus.

  “Chain!” Rafe called from above, and an icy splash sprayed Oliver’s back.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the heavy brass links disappearing below the surface. If he got blamed for losing that…

  Oliver let go and sucked in a breath as the river engulfed him. His hands, numbed by the chill, grasped at the links, but the brass pinched his fingers and slid through.

  He flinched, popping his head out of the water.

  “Grab the line, idiot!” Rafe pointed behind him, to where a hemp cord was stretching up from the river. He must have tied it to the chain to keep it from sinking.

  Oliver held onto the last rung of the rope ladder, occupying one hand so that he had to bite down on the cord to pull it up. Eventually, his fingers touched cold brass.

  “Weren’t up to me, but Dad said you have to use this,” Rafe groaned as much as yelled, and a wisp of teal-green fabric fluttered through the air, tied shut to form a bag.

  It was a dress, it was—the—dress. Messer would never let him forget and, as cold as the water was, touching it sent a harsher chill down his spine.

  Oliver ducked below the surface, fumbling forward with his hands outstretched. They brushed against something jagged and slimy. He scraped at it with the chain, and a mass of white burrs came off. Then stuffing them into the dress, he arched his back, pulling his head out of the water, and took a deep breath.

  Maybe he could do this…

  Submerging for another go, this time when he touched the hull, the ridges felt hard, not slimy. Ordinary barnacles, not the white burrs his ‘captain’ had demanded.

  Oliver gripped the jagged hull and pulled himself deeper toward the keel…

  The chill of deep water bit at his lungs, cramping his muscles. He tried to ignore it. If he could just get through this, everything would be all right. Just a bit further…

  But as the light from the dock lamps faded in the depths, he struggled to see the chain, to see the cord, to find ‘up.’

  Water slipped past his lips, and coughing only drew more in. As his hands clenched, squeezing the dress, he found himself locked in a memory:

  Everyone was in the mess, Oliver was alone in the captain’s cabin; he had the dress on. It was the first time she’d seen herself. She was relieved as much as happy. And then Rafe walked in, the easy smile on his face turning to laughter, to ridicule.

  He tried to blink the moment away, to go back to the ship, back to the struggle for breath. Flashes of his ‘father’ confronting him, searching his bunk and finding more, followed by torments and belittlements that grew, day by day, until he was ordered to stay in port.

  The edge of his vision fuzzed… his arms… his legs… he couldn’t feel them from the water…

  And then a pain bit his neck as the chain tightened around it. It pulled and pulled, dragging him up and up, until he found himself dangling against the side of the ship, tangled in the line, the dress, and the sickening chill of seawater.

  With a raw heave of his lungs, the world rushed back.

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  “Hey, Stupid,” Rafe yelled from above, holding the line. “You okay?” His voice wavered.

  Oliver couldn’t reply; he was too busy gagging in spurts.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Rafe called across the deck, “he’s doing it.”

  ? ? ?

  It seemed ridiculous, pretending like what had happened hadn’t, like his stepfather did not want him dead, like he was normal, like he would ever be anything besides a freak… a perversion.

  So, when Oliver knocked on Ms. Scaggs’ door the next day, he wanted to fall apart, to tell her everything, but a shiver up his spine told him what people thought of him once they knew, what his stepfather thought of him, what his brother thought of him.

  When Ms. Scaggs opened the door, he tried to put on a friendly face, or at least a neutral face, or any face he could hide behind.

  She stayed quiet those first few moments, just looking at him, before speaking carefully, “Hey Oliver, I thought we’d have an easy day today. Tomorrow, you’ll be back to cleaning the blast chamber, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s okay. It is my job, I guess.”

  “You want to go to the market? We can get you some work clothes, pick up supplies?” she said. Oliver wasn’t sure if she was being nice or condescending.

  “Yes, Ms. Scaggs,” he replied, using his usual cadence as a shield.

  “You should be happy, you know. Have you ever lit a candle before? I mean with your spark.”

  “Oh that.” He’d almost forgotten about that. “No, first time.”

  “Well, half the people with sparks never get that far. Or less than half. Most people can’t do a thing with them, and they just sort of go out by the time they become adults.”

  “Do sparks ever get any bigger?” he asked.

  “No, not really… Well, maybe a little, with practice, but your spark is your spark. Though sometimes it takes a while to figure out what they’re good at, like mine and fire.”

  “Mine’s tiny.” He sighed. “Am I just fooling myself?”

  “Is that what’s bothering you? Look boy, your spark’s not as small as you think. It’s just kind of funny and a bit off, kind of like someone we both know.” She nudged him. “It depends, some people work as hard as they can and never get anywhere, but you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  “Was it hard for you when you were first learning?”

  “No.” She shook her head solemnly. “To be honest, I was throwing lightning before I turned ten. Some people have a lot of power, some don’t. It’s more important how you use it, but I’ll leave that talk for your father.” She rolled her eyes.

  He pretended he didn’t get the joke. It wasn’t funny anyway.

  She made it seem so easy. But maybe it should be. Maybe Messer was right. Maybe he didn’t have any business even trying. “I… I’m sorry I’m a bit off,” he whispered.

  “Oh,” she coughed, “actually, I was talking about me.” She patted him on the back, and he did feel a bit better.

  They spent the rest of the morning in the market square, a large open block paved with cobblestone. Shops lined the outer edges, and stalls and carts filled the center with a clock tower overlooking it all. The low roar of haggling and the stench of livestock filled the air.

  Ms. Scaggs found several booths selling work clothes and bought him a few sets, nicer versions of the rags he was wearing: clean white shirts that actually fit, gray wool breeches, socks, and simple black shoes.

  He passed stall after stall of skirts and dresses, grinding his teeth, trying to convince himself he wasn’t interested. It was just a bit of cloth, after all… why did he even care?

  It’s not like he wanted to be a girl, not exactly. Well, that was a lie, he did want to be a girl. He just didn’t—want to want—to be a girl. His whole life felt like playacting, pretending to care about things like wrestling… and arm wrestling… and thumb wrestling. Boys do an annoying amount of wrestling… or maybe that was just Rafe?

  “Look, boy,” Scaggs said once he was dressed. “It’s probably not a good idea for you to wear those clothes home. They need to be kept clean, so you’re to change in and out of them each day, all right?”

  It hurt, felt like even she was ashamed of him, but she was right. He didn’t want his stepfather selling them. He nodded.

  “You know what? Hold on…” She rushed over to a stall and returned a moment later with a thick wool blanket. “Why don’t you take this? Consider it bonus pay.”

  The blanket looked warm, and his shoulders relaxed at the thought that it might make his nights on the street almost bearable. He tried not to seem too eager as he took it.

  They stopped by a market to pick up groceries for the week, and Ms. Scaggs bought a bag of Orleasian rolls, warm and crispy, to nibble on their way back. She’d hand him a new one whenever he finished his.

  “Look, I’ve got to spend the rest of the day doing prep work. You can’t really help with that… Why don’t you take some time in the library?”

  “The floors?” he asked.

  “No, the books. Read something.” She led him through the doorway and pulled a half dozen volumes from the shelves. “Try these. Avoid the arcane section until you know what you’re doing, okay?”

  And then she left him alone with more books than he had collectively seen in his entire life.

  The dizzying sight of those shelves stacked high with more knowledge than he could hope to ever learn, he was still light-headed when a notion hit him: Some of these books would be worth a fortune… That, he shuddered, was his stepfather talking.

  Shoving that thought to the back of his mind, he examined the books Ms. Scaggs had handed him. The first was a mathematics primer; yawning, he stuck that on the bottom immediately. Then there was, ‘The History of Noria: its Rise and its People,’ a book on etiquette, one on government, a cookbook, and one with pictures of exotic animals from faraway lands.

  He cracked that open and was disappointed it held no page on aardvarks, but before long he had images of dynasty dragons, of hippogriffs, of lions, and manticores running and flying and fighting in his mind. One page even had a picture of a ridiculous creature called a ‘giraffe’ with a neck so long there was no way it could stand on its own, if it was even real.

  At that point, he wondered if the book wasn’t just fanciful fiction for children, and set it aside, intent on learning more serious matters.

  He read of the first Norians, of table manners, and of square roots until the shadows grew long.

  And then, he realized Ms. Scaggs had not checked on him in a very long time…

  Maybe he could just tell her… everything. He smiled as he imagined Messer dealing with, or rather failing to deal with, Ms. Scaggs. But was that just wishful thinking? Would she understand? She had a temper, and he’d seen Messer twist his way out of worse.

  “Bring me something good,” he muttered, feeling sick.

  Well, she was a bit of a packrat. Her house was littered with all sorts of curios and knickknacks she didn’t seem to care about. She loved her books, so those were off limits, but there was an old desk sitting in one corner. When he’d cleaned it a few days ago, it had been covered in a thick layer of dust, and he’d never seen her use it…

  The drawer he pulled open was full of candles, white sticks about a foot long, used for filling the various bases and candelabras she had for night reading.

  He sighed. Messer wanted silver candlesticks, not wax candles.

  And then he noticed the key to the top of the desk was still in the lock. It looked like she never took it out. He unlatched it, rolled the desktop up, and was staring at a pair of gold pens.

  Was he really going to do this? They were old with intricate designs, valuable for more than just their gold, but Messer wouldn’t care, he’d probably melt them down—

  “Hey boy! You up there?” Scaggs’ voice came from down the hall.

  Startled, Oliver stuffed the pens into his front pocket and rolled the desktop back down.

  “Useless fairy,” he mocked himself in a whisper as her smiling face appeared at the door.

  “How’d the reading go?” she asked.

  “It was good.” He rubbed his eyes, not meeting hers, trying not to think about the pens. “But is there really such a thing as a giraffe?”

  She arched a brow. “I don’t know, maybe, but personally, I’d take everything in that book with a grain of salt.”

  Then she took a candle from the mantle. “Before you go, let’s try this again.” And as she sat it in front of him, black smoke curled from its wick.

  “Feel for my spark,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

  He exhaled in a nervous jitter, unsure if he could find it, as if guilt alone could rob him of his senses, but it entered his mind more easily this time. It felt hot like fire, but not painful.

  “Got it?” she asked, and Oliver nodded.

  “Good, now I’m going to pull mine away, and as soon as I do, I want you to do the same thing you did yesterday, but do it to where my spark used to be,” she said.

  In a blink, her spark was gone. He reached out but couldn’t feel it.

  “That’s okay. Let’s try again… got it?”

  He nodded, finding her spark a second time.

  “Get ready to flick at it, back and forth… ready?”

  When her spark disappeared, he lashed out at where it had been, feeling his own spark crackle with the pop of electricity. And then nothing, he didn’t sense anything.

  “Open your eyes.”

  As he did, the candle flickered to life.

  “See? You’re getting it. Just a little bit at a time.” She patted him on the shoulder.

  After he changed back into his street clothes, he met her in the kitchen. She was skimming a book.

  “Sorry, I don’t have time to eat right now, just grab something before you go, okay? You have a long day of scrubbing soot ahead of you tomorrow, I’m afraid,” she added.

  Everything looked so good when they’d picked it up from the market. He had no idea she intended to share anything with him but bread; that and maybe some cheese if he was lucky.

  “What can I have?” he asked.

  “Uhh, whatever you want. Take it with if you like.” She shrugged.

  His hand brushed against the pens in his pocket. ‘Whatever you want’ echoing in his mind, he grabbed only a small hunk of bread.

  “You know you can have more. I guess you could even stay a little longer and read in the library if you like?”

  “No, but thank you… I need to go.” He turned to leave.

  “Hold up a second.” She closed the book and looked him in the eye. “Is everything all right?”

  Glancing down to the pocket with the pens, he shivered. A bead of sweat ran down his side. “Yes, I guess so.”

  “If it weren’t, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” She stooped down to meet him at eye level. “Is this about the whole ‘Ogle’ thing? I’m—I’m sorry about that.”

  “No, that’s not it.” He couldn’t stop shivering.

  “What then?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve been working hard. I suppose I could take a break and cook something if you like?… with fire magic,” she said with a sly smile on her lips, though her eyes were uncertain.

  “That’s okay.”

  “Oliver, you’re shivering.” She looked at him sideways.

  “I’m just cold.”

  “Well, with the chill tonight, good thing you have this,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice, then she stood up and unfolded the blanket from the counter.

  The pens rattled together as she wrapped it over his shoulders. Her eyes narrowed, her expression hardening as she examined him.

  Had she heard?

  “How did you get that?” Voice shuddering, she brushed her hand across the bruise on his neck. “I know you’re quiet, but sometimes…”

  “I…” took your pens. “My…” stepfather. He couldn’t finish those sentences.

  He exhaled. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

  “Oliver—”

  “I have to go.” He turned and left, quietly closing the door.