Quill stood up from his cot to meet Isabelle. His hands trembled and he kept his left thumb curled to keep his ring from falling off. “Capitaine, how may I serve you this evening?”

Isabelle held out her hand as if to receive a gift. In a tone both mild and deadly she said, “Hand it over.”

Quill looked taken aback. “I’ve already given you—”

“The key to the Vault,” Isabelle said. “You can either hand it over or I can have you stripped to your shorthairs and burn every one of your possessions to ash until I find the one that does not ignite, or am I wrong to suspect that the key is made of the alloy of Legend?”

Bitterlich had seen Isabelle in battle, but he’d never seen her quite this furious before. It was the anger of someone completely out of the energy required of patience.

“You are … not wrong,” he said, “but Capitaine, I beg you listen to reason. I—”

“You have lied to me,” Isabelle said. “You lied to la reine. You lied about your purpose. You lied about the dangers we face. I am done with your lies. Hand. It. Over.”

“Capitaine, I appreciate your anger, and I can’t say it’s unjustified, but the Vault of Ages is the Temple’s jurisdiction—”

“Major,” Isabelle said. “Retrieve the key.”

Bitterlich stepped forward, making himself inevitable. Quill drew himself up haughtily, drawing his dignity around him like a cloak. “Violence will not be necessary.” His trembling hand fumbled the ring from his thumb and passed it to Bitterlich.

Like most quondam artifacts, the ring was far heavier than it ought to be, denser even than gold. It was shaped like a signet ring, its flat face adorned with the symbol of the Builder’s omnioculus. Though solid and opaque, the metal seemed to be filled with the shadows of spinning gears that one could glimpse at the edge of vision but that vanished entirely when observed directly.

Bitterlich handed it to Isabelle.

Isabelle took the ring and sat on a bench, braced her head with her skin hand and felt her way into the ring with her spark-hand. She lost control of her body when her consciousness left it, but with practice she’d learned to let it drift off into a light doze first, so that at least she didn’t flop on the floor. Her spark fingers gripped the ring and pricked like nettles as she exerted her power. Her l’Étincelle gripped and she slid from her body into the ring, like slithering through a curtain of greasy grit.