“She will be when she sees you,” he said. Ravel’s cloak billowed a bit in the wind and Claire caught a glimpse of his oakwood woven tunic, which doubled as warmth and protection, and the whip coiled on his hip. “If you’re not hurt, she needs to see you in the Seed Cellar. She, Scythe, and the grandmasters are … are talking.” By the way he said “talking,” Claire knew he meant “arguing.” “Nadia—everyone—has questions for you.”

“Will they listen to alchemists?” Sophie asked sharply as Claire scrambled to her feet, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from her trousers.

Ravel grimaced. “They said they would, yes. I think we can thank the Camouflora for that. It’s keeping everyone safe tonight from another attack.” He gestured out to the fields, and Claire could just make out peaks of fabric and leaves. Woven Root was setting up their tents in a protective circle around Greenwood Village, settling as close to the Camouflora as possible to keep an eye on it. Here and there, Claire even saw a flash of copper as alchemists and their chimera patrolled the village borders.

Sophie nodded. “Yes, we’ll come but …” She trailed off, looking in Sena and Nett’s direction. Suddenly, Ravel seemed aware of the still quilt next to them.

“I’m so sorry,” Ravel said, and though his words were simple, Claire could feel their honesty. Nett seemed to as well, because he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “If you could just help us carry him back inside, we can go.”

“You don’t have to,” Claire said gently. Nett looked wilted, as though he needed some sunshine and water. “Sophie and I can do it.”

“We do have to,” Sena said, and Claire was glad to hear fire in her friend’s voice, even if her expression still seemed lost. “And you have to bring that”—she looked meaningfully at the rag-covered bundle still in Claire’s arms—“and the others to Nadia. There’s nothing more important.”

The inside of the Seed Cellar looked like a snail’s shell. Everything was gentle curves and circles, and the roots of the Hearing Hall directly above wove together to form a delicate lattice to stop the dirt ceiling from caving in on them. Here and there, roots dropped down to create sprawling chandeliers, with little tea-light candles perched comfortably in their bends and crooks. The overall effect was cozy—or it would have been, had the round table in the center of the cellar not been occupied by scowling adults.

“This is absurd!” Grandmaster Bolt was shouting as Claire and her friends followed Ravel into the room from the dirt stairs. “Why should we believe anything a group of outlaws says?” The Forger grandmasters seated closest to him all nodded, their eyes as hard as the silver breastplates they still wore.