Caledonia looked over the vast room, understanding exactly what she was seeing. Each table bore soil in a stage of recovery. Whatever Aric did, it required time. And soiltech. It had to be here. Somewhere.

“Caledonia!”

The hushed whisper came from directly behind her.

Caledonia reached for the blade hidden in her belt as she spun, barely stopping herself from cutting the small girl before her. On her cheeks were the pale brown lines of scrollwork scarring. The skin completely free of the burnt orange pigment of Silt.

“Nettle!”

“Noru,” the girl corrected her.

“Rhona,” Caledonia added.

“I know. How do you think I found She Who Cuts Hearts?” Nettle said with a disapproving glower. “Not a great way to avoid notice. But you made it easy for me to find you.”

She was dressed as Caledonia was, in the multilayered browns Bullets wore, and a single orange ribbon bound her dark hair firmly atop her head. It seemed to Caledonia that she’d grown, reaching past her own shoulder now.

The girl rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Caledonia to squeeze her tightly. “I knew you weren’t dead. I knew you’d come.”

Caledonia’s throat pinched in response, and she allowed herself a moment to return the hug before pushing the girl away to ask, “Where are the others?”

“Imprisoned in East Keep.” Nettle pointed farther up the hillside.

The news landed heavily. Up the hillside was farther from the barracks, farther still from the Beacon. “Noru,” she said, suddenly suspicious. “How did you escape?”

Nettle’s smile was as smug as it was satisfied. “Trade secrets.”

Caledonia had a dozen questions she needed to ask the girl, starting with: “How do we get them out?”

“Not here,” Nettle said, pulling Caledonia’s hands into her own and dragging her toward the doors. “We have to get you out of here before—”

“Nettle, wait, I need to know how he does this. I need this tech!” She tugged, but Nettle didn’t let up until they were outside.

Dawn had flooded the town in her absence, and the sounds of Bullets getting to their daily work were everywhere.

“I caught some chatter,” Nettle said, keeping her voice low, her words fast, though there was no one near enough to hear them. “They’re moving our crew to the tide cans.”

“The tide cans,” Caledonia repeated as the blood drained from her lips. “When?”

“I don’t know, but I can find out. Just give me—”

“Noru!” The voice assaulted them like the snap of a rifle, and both girls turned toward the sound.

A woman three times Caledonia’s age cut toward them with a severe stride and an expression to match. Behind her marched a stream of boys and girls close to Nettle’s age.

“You’re early,” the woman charged, displeasure evident in the bow of her mouth. “And who are you?”