A man in gold Library robes stepped forward. He was younger than Jess expected, of Chinese heritage, and around his neck he wore the wide golden collar of an Obscurist. “You’ve done this before,” he said to Jess in a conversational tone as he reached for the bronze cable descending from the roof and connected it to the top of the helmet. The snap of it clicking into place seemed to echo through Jess’s bones. “Good—you know what to expect. Deep breaths.”

“In bocca al lupo,” Captain Santi said.

“In bocca al lupo,” Jess replied, and nodded to the Obscurist. “I’m ready.”

The phrase meant “in the mouth of the wolf,” and that was what it felt like when the Obscurist put his hands on Jess’s helmet and the machines powered up around them. It felt like the wolf had him in its jaws as power surged down into the conductors in the helmet and ate him from within, like a wild storm, like a hungry animal, ripping him to pieces in a slow, torturous explosion of blood and bone, organ and flesh, and he heard himself give a short, agonized cry . . .

And then darkness, and the slow waves of sick pain, and he compulsively sucked in a breath as if he’d never breathed before. Everything felt wrong; every nerve burned with fire and salt, and he rolled on his side with his stomach lurching violently. He was lying on a reclining chair similar to the one he’d been on before, but instead of a helmet beside him, there was a metal bucket.

He grabbed it and vomited up his breakfast. A Medica professional in Library robes was there to steady him, and she checked him over with brisk efficiency. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Water’s over there. If you have headaches later, report them. Oh, and take the bucket. There’s a sink over there. Empty and wash.”

She set down another bucket by the chair, stepped back, and waited, dismissing Jess from her concern. He staggered over to the sink, dumped the bucket, and washed it, and by the time he was done with that task, he heard Glain behind him, gasping for air. He put down the bucket and turned. She looked sick and blank for a moment, then controlled her breathing and sat up. She didn’t quite vomit, but he could see from the press of her lips that she was seriously considering the option. The Medica helped her up, and Glain almost immediately shook free. “Brightwell?” She blinked, and he knew she was having trouble focusing her blurry eyes.

He stepped into the light. “Here, Glain.”

“Good.” She tried for a smile, but it didn’t look right. “You only half screamed. You’re getting better at this.”

“You, too,” he said. “Fast recovery.”

It wasn’t protocol, but no one else except the Medica was in the room, so when she held up her hand, he clapped it in salute. “Dario and Khalila,” he told her in a whisper. “Santi’s lieutenant told me they’re safe.”