“But they robbed a few trains before taking any hostages.”

“Yes,” Waxillium said. “And they got away with it. There was no reason to expose themselves by robbing passengers if they could make off with cargo unseen and unstopped. They’re after something else, Wayne. Trust me.”

“All right.” The wiry man rubbed his face, then finally pulled off the fake mustache. He stuffed it into his pocket. “But tell me. Don’t you even want to know? Doesn’t it itch at you?”

“No.” That wasn’t completely true.

Wayne snorted. “I’d believe you if you could say that without your eye twitching, mate.” He nodded toward the bullet. “I notice you didn’t offer to give that back.”

“I didn’t.” Waxillium pocketed it.

“And you still wear your metalminds,” Wayne said, nodding to the bracers hidden mostly by the cuffs of Waxillium’s sleeves. “Not to mention that you’re still keeping steel inside your sleeve. I noticed a gun catalogue over on the table, too.”

“A man must have hobbies.”

“If you say so,” Wayne said, then stepped forward, tapping Waxillium on the chest. “But you know what I think? I think you’re looking for excuses to not let go. This thing, it’s who you are. And no mansion, no marriage, and no mere title is going to change that.” Wayne tipped his hat. “You’re meant to be helping people, mate. It’s what you do.”

With that, Wayne left, his duster brushing against the doorframe as he walked out.

3

Eight hours later, Waxillium stood at an upper window of his mansion. He watched the last broken fragments of a dying day. They dimmed, then grew black. He waited, hoping. But no mist came.

What does it matter? he thought to himself. You’re not going to go outside anyway. Still, he wished the mists were out; he felt more at peace when they were out there, watching. The world became a different place, one he felt he better understood.

He sighed and crossed his study to the wall. He turned the switch, and the electric lights came on. They were still a wonder to him. Even though he knew the Words of Founding had given hints regarding electricity, what men had achieved still seemed incredible.

He crossed the room to his uncle’s desk. His desk. Back in Weathering, Waxillium had used a rough, flimsy table. Now he had a sturdy, smoothly polished desk of stained oak. He sat down and began leafing through ledgers of house finances. It wasn’t long, however, before his eyes started flicking toward the stack of broadsheets lying on his easy chair. He’d asked Limmi to go gather a few of them for him.

He usually ignored the broadsheets these days. Reports of crimes had a way of setting his mind running in circles and keeping him from focusing on his business. Of course, now that thoughts of the Vanishers had been planted in his mind, he’d have trouble letting go and doing anything productive, at least until he had scratched a few itches about what they’d been doing.