A hand closes over my wrist—the Prime. “I must borrow your Green Goddess,” she announces, “but all will become clear in time.” She tugs me through the throng of people, down the hillside. “That’s enough mingling,” she says as we approach the Serpent River. “They’re getting frenzied.”

“Maybe if we told them I’m just a girl. Not a Green Goddess. Not gods touched, either.”

She shakes her head, trains her good eye on me. “If you’re just a girl, then I’m just a woman. A woman who let a deserter back into Powder Town, accepted her Old World weapons, and plotted how to take out the General with that untrustworthy deserter’s help. I can’t be a woman right now. I need to be the Prime. So you will be a god.” She raises her chin, motions for her Reaper. Luce steps from the shadows, another two sentries on her heels. “See that Delta reaches her bed without interruption from citizens. And check with the Tender. I want the wind wagons tied down in case the storm brings gales.”

The following day, a new normal begins: construction beneath an ever-raging silent storm. Harlie and many of the other elderly hands helping with the wagons retire to bed, their hearts racing, their heads pounding, weakened by the storm we can’t see.

Adjustments are made to the bow of the boats, allowing room for the Prime’s blast barrels. They will be dissembled and loaded onto the wind wagons belowdecks, so as not to slow the sailing for the bulk of the trip, then reassembled as we close in on Bedrock. At that point we’ll want the fleet to be slowing anyway.

Harlie, who is still in bed, looks over sketches of the design changes, nodding or grunting through her headaches, offering advice when she can manage. Those not weakened by the silent storm continue construction as the weather allows. Most days the skies are blue, and the only proof that the storm continues is a curtain of light visible in the northern sky. Other days the sun is blotted out with dust, and construction is ground to a halt as rubble spills over the foothills. Workers rush to cover the crops. Windows are shuttered tight. Everyone hunkers down and waits and prays. The dust always clears, but the aurora continues to dance.

Traders aren’t allowed in during the construction. Our work in the town’s clearing is impossible to hide, and the Prime fears word of what we’re building might make it back to the General. She orders traders to lower their rickshaws outside the perimeter wall, and all bartering happens on the wastes, the goods brought inside only after the men have cleared out. I see Clay during one of these trades and assure him that Bay will be safe again soon.

“Safe how? Are you planning something, Delta?”