His breath fluttered a forelock of hair over his forehead. The radiator hummed, warming his room through the bacterial breakdown of compost, filling the air with a rich earthy scent. Downstairs, the metallic tang of silverware announced Pa setting the table for breakfast. Silas smiled as Pa—ever clumsy—tripped against the kitchen table and cursed under his breath. Outside, water dripped from icicles onto the windowsill, congealing into icy rivers on the metal pane. He listened, and to his confusion, he heard no Voices.
"Silas, breakfast is ready!"
At Pa's booming voice, Silas stretched, savoring the warmth returning to his limbs. He slipped out of bed, shivering when his bare feet planted on the frigid floor. In the dim light, he shuffled across the room, stumbling over books and notepads strewn in haphazard piles until he found his starbloom lamp. He cranked the lever until the octagonal glass reservoir was three-quarters full of fluid, then flicked the switch. The bioluminescent algae met the thick, oily liquid with a fizzy flash of blue-green light.
Blinking against the glare, Silas crouched and ran his fingers along the nearest book spines littering his bedroom floor.
The sudden click of his door made him gasp. He turned, caught like he'd been doing something forbidden. Pa stood in the doorframe, already dressed in his warm down coat, graying hair styled in a loose tail secured with an elegant black ribbon.
"What're you dallying around your room for, Silas?" Pa peered at him over thick-rimmed spectacles. "Are you planning on skipping breakfast before school today?"
Silas shook his head and picked up a notepad, his stomach growling. Tucking the notepad under his right arm, he signed, "I will be down in a minute." He hesitated before adding reluctantly, "I was listening for a moment before getting out of bed. I often hear them loudest on quiet morns like this. But today, they’re silent."
Pa's eyebrows rose. Silas shifted under his grandfather's scrutinizing stare, lowering his hands and gripping the notepad against his midsection. Pa spun toward the stairs, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"I suppose as long as you're not late for school, there is little harm in your listening," Pa said, pronouncing the final word heavily, almost mockingly. His lips parted as if to say something else. He seemed to change his mind, returning his attention to the stairs, his bootsteps heavy in descent.
Sighing, Silas quickly readied himself for school. He pulled thick socks over his chilled feet, changed out of his nightclothes into his frumpish school uniform, and grabbed the down coat hanging on the back of his bedroom door. After donning insulated boots and combing his chin-length black hair straight, he reclaimed his notepad and stepped out of his room.
He faltered at the door to Pa's study.
This room had always fascinated Silas. When he was little, Pa would disappear behind the locked door for hours, the scratch of his hand on parchment the only clue to what he did inside. Silas had savored each glimpse he'd sneaked behind that door, cataloging the images in his memory. Occasionally, the large desk was cluttered with scraps of parchment—some crumpled into balls, others spattered with ink. Other times, Pa would be perched behind the desk surrounded by teetering stacks of parchment tightly bound with his favorite black ribbon.
Pa had never said what he did in that study. As Silas grew older, Pa's trips into the room became less frequent until, recently, they stopped altogether. Now the door stood perpetually closed and locked. Silas shook his head and made his way down the steps.
The closer he got to the kitchen, the stronger the aroma grew. His mouth watered as he inhaled the scent of freshly baked bread, followed by savory fried meat, and finally dark, bitter coffee. Pa was already perched at the far end of the small table, his cerulean eyes twinkling in the bubbly glow of the chandelier. Silas seated himself and loaded his plate. He forked as much bacon as the utensil could hold and shoved it into his mouth, grease dribbling down his chin. They ate in silence for a while. Pa watched in amusement, mumbling something about the insatiable hunger of adolescent boys behind a napkin.
"I'll be home late again tonight," Pa finally said, setting down his mug. He tapped the rim with his index fingernail—a nervous tic.
Silas glanced at Pa, his brow furrowing. He placed his fork at the edge of his plate. "Again?" he signed. "Where do you even go when you stay out all night like this?"
Pa shrugged, his gaze downcast yet still level in case Silas began signing again. Silas didn't. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, daring his grandfather to propose another half-baked excuse.
Abruptly, Pa looked up, his eyes alight. "Tomorrow night is guardianship time, though, right? I'll be there for sure this time." He chuckled. "I think Ms. Adlewood might report me to the headmaster if I don't show."
Silas rolled his eyes, maintaining his level gaze.
As Pa's time in his study decreased, his absences late into the night had become increasingly common. As usual, he offered no explanation of where he went or what he did. His response was always to change the subject, as he had done now. But Silas wasn't angry—he was worried. A man Pa's age should be resting at home, enjoying his golden syzygies in comfort, not wandering in the dark where the Unspoken might grab him and drag him into the unknown, never to be seen again. Dread coiled in Silas's core at the thought of losing Pa, the only person in the world he could call family.
Silas uncrossed his arms—preparing to sign—when, with a choked gasp, he clutched at his head.
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His senses flooded with a cacophony of unintelligible Voices. Some were quiet and gentle, even relaxing. Silas focused on those as the aggressive, loud Voices attempted to worm between the soft caress of the milder ones, threatening to consume him. He was faintly aware of Pa rising from his chair and rushing to his side. Silas's wide eyes looked up at Pa's concerned expression, but he couldn't hear what Pa was saying over the ever-increasing volume screaming from within his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut as the noise grew painful until—as suddenly as it had started—the episode stopped, and silence returned.
Trembling, Silas opened his eyes and let himself be comforted by Pa's embrace.
"Easy now," Pa said, pulling away to hold Silas by the shoulders. "It is over?"
Silas nodded and raised his shaking hands to sign.
Silas's head snapped up. He swiveled right, then left, searching for the source of the sound that only he could hear. The Voice was unmistakably clear and decipherable. This had never happened before.
"What is it?" Pa asked, a dark look passing over his face.
Silas held out a hand to silence him, his attention searching.
Minutes passed. No more sound assaulted his senses. Satisfied the Voice had quieted, Silas signed, "This time, the Voice was clear. It asked a question," his hands still trembling.
"What did it ask?" Pa's eyes widened.
"It wanted to know where I am."
"You didn't answer it, did you?" Pa whispered as if speaking too loudly would alert the Voice to their location.
Silas tilted his head. Pa was acting strangely. He usually brushed off the Voices as psychosis, a side effect—along with Silas's muteness—of witnessing his parents' death in a tragic boiler crash when he was an infant. Of this incident, Silas had no recollection. The physicks hypothesized that trauma at such an impressionable age could leave lasting damage to the psyche and explain his inability to speak. They promised that if he took his Powder every night before bed, the Voices would go away. They never had. They'd only gotten stronger.
"Answer it?" Silas signed with a query. "How would I have done that? Think at it?"
Pa considered this, puckering his lips. Suddenly, he stood and procured a watch from the breast pocket of his coat, the chain spilling between his fingers. With exaggerated surprise, Pa announced, "Would you look at the time! You'll be late if we dilly-dally here any longer." He repocketed his watch and rushed past Silas toward the front door.
Silas remained motionless, staring at the spot where Pa had been, his forehead wrinkled.
"Are you coming?" Pa called from the vestibule, his voice echoing.
Silas turned and reluctantly followed, absentmindedly grabbing his satchel and tossing his notepad into it.
"Ah!" Pa exclaimed, stopping Silas with an outstretched arm. "Don't forget your mask again!" He pulled his own mask off the coat rack and affixed it to his face.
Silas nodded and grabbed his own, tightening the clasps behind his head and securing it around his ears. The fashionable article covered the bottom half of his face—mouth and nose—its dark leather as sleek and shiny as when Pa gifted it to him at the start of the semester. The silver filigree detail was currently in popularity, but surely by the next Syzygy Day, the style would be out of fashion. Once situated, Pa nodded and stepped into the cold morn, a sudden wind tugging at his hair as he climbed down the porch. Silas followed, locking the door and returning the key to the front compartment of his satchel.
Climbing into the passenger seat of Pa's ancient boiler, Silas secured his harness and positioned his satchel at his feet. He was ready, but Pa was still fumbling with the starter rod, attempting to ignite the decrepit engine unsuccessfully. Silas watched with a smirk.
"It looks like this time my tardiness will be no fault of mine," he signed, a laugh snorting through his nostrils.
Pa dragged his disgruntled attention from the starter rod to read Silas's signing before exhaling dramatically and returning to his fumbling.
"Perhaps buying a new jar of igniter would make this process more streamlined…" Pa mumbled, dipping the end of the rod into the jar of sticky, flammable fluid before ramming the metal piece back into the engine slot. With a shuttering, jolting rumble, the boiler started. "Aha!" Pa shouted in delight, patting the steering disc. "I knew she had it in her to drive another day."
Silas rested his chin on his hand, elbow perched against the window, as the geriatric boiler bubbled down the driveway and onto the cobbled road. As he drove, Pa waved at neighbors strolling down the pedestrian path or driving past in the opposite direction. Reluctantly, the boiler gained speed, her engine producing enough steam to power her along. Other vehicles sped by, passing the sluggish boiler and her lethargic pace. As they moseyed out of the suburbs and into the bustling city of Droswick, Silas turned forward and watched the city pass by.
The ochre skyline outlined with sprawling buildings of asymmetrical height drew closer as the suburbs faded away. A magnificent cluster of grand steamstacks towered overhead on the right. Silas’s eyes trailed wispy tendrils of steam that melted into the blood-red hue of the dim morning sky. His gaze drew connections between sleek starbloom streetlamps lining the road, his eyes flicking from one to the next while the boiler bubbled over the cobbles. Pa turned right down a gloomy alley, blocking Silas's view of the opulent city as they traveled into lesser-esteemed districts. Silas fixed his attention on his lap, avoiding the view from the windshield to evade the hungry, slavering stares of the begging slum dwellers loitering in the street. Pa turned down roads crumbling with neglect, straying farther and farther from central Droswick’s splendor.
Eventually, brooding alleys opened into a humble plot of land home to an unassuming slab of brick walls and dark-tinted windows: Droswick's own Foundry School for Education and Asylum. Nestled behind these four walls was an institution whose mission was to present learned, trained young adults to employers and recruiters—proprietors whose virtuous actions gave such troubled youth the possibility of a future despite their misconduct, lunacy, or otherwise indolent nature. Indeed, the Foundry School for Education and Asylum was equal parts academia and sanitarium—the singular establishment in Droswick and the greater Empire of Brassanthium with such dual purpose. Silas grimaced at the building, his mood darkening further when he witnessed one Trobuk Dannel leap out of his parents' polished new boiler and saunter toward the double doors.
Pa eased his vehicle into a sputtering halt parallel to the walkway, leaning back in his seat and turning to Silas with a glowing grin. "Have a good day at school," he said warmly, reaching out to ruffle Silas's neat hair, "and if she asks, let Ms. Adlewood know that I will be coming to guardianship time tomorrow."
Annoyed at Pa for disturbing his hair, Silas combed his pate back to position with his fingers. "Will do," he signed quickly and unfastened his harness. Then, with as much vigor as a tranquilized snail, he crawled out of the boiler, latched the door behind him, and trudged up the walkway.
Silas paused at the Foundry School’s entryway—hand wavering over the doorhandle. His head felt strange—fuzzy and full like it was stuffed with cotton. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Pa meander away in his boiler. The world fell into a sudden, vacuum-like hush. The rattling chug of Pa’s boiler vanished, though the tailpipes still puffed white steam into the red sky as the vehicle disappeared beyond the horizon. Silas turned back to face the door.
Silas’s hand slipped from the doorhandle, falling limp at his side.
As the Voice faded away, sound rushed back. Heart thundering, knees quaking, Silas threw the door wide and stepped inside. He ran down the halls, feeling the weight of unseen eyes like breath tickling the back of his neck.