The surrounding structures were the processing plant where rock and divinity were separated. The drainage ran down the peak in man-made rivulets to gather in toxic pools somewhere below. To the west, apart from the main buildings, stood the foreman’s house and, of course, Tabor’s laboratory.

The lab looked much like Zeke’s barn from the outside, only three times its size. Light and noise emanated from within. She left the trike near the wide barn doors and approached, Ibrahim’s pin clutched in one gloved hand and the handbill in the other.

The noise was so loud she knew no one inside would hear her shouts, so she went through the unlocked door.

If Zeke’s imaginarium was a wonderland, Tabor’s laboratory was something more sinister. Here were the same devices, gears and pulleys and engines, but Zeke’s creations had been fanciful. Tabor’s were not. She spied a revolver, modified with an expanded cylinder that automatically fed more bullets to the gun. There was an automaton like the one in the records hall, but its arms had been replaced with razored disks. And there, on a table, was a cage meant to fit over a human head. Tiny pins jutted inward toward the eyes, and a hinge pried the jaw open. It was a torture device of some kind, she was sure of it.

The deafening noise ended suddenly, and a voice asked, “Who are you?”

She turned to face the speaker. He was of average build and height, although his shoulders rose unusually high on his back, as if he spent much of his time stooped over, and his skin had a sallow, unhealthy cast from spending time indoors. His brown hair was full and unkept, and he looked more mountain man than wealthy mine owner. He wore wire spectacles with thick lenses, and around his neck hung a leather apron that covered his chest and body down to his knees. She noticed his blue eyes had a watery gleam to them, and sweat gathered at his temples and stained his shirtsleeves.

“Are you Virtue Tabor?”

His lips pursed. “Virtue?”

“Virtue Ibrahim sent me,” she explained. “Well, I asked him to send me. I was anxious to meet you.” She thrust forward her gloved hand, the pin resting on her palm. He peered at her strangely, as if unsure what hands were for, until he noticed the pin. He took it, inspected it closely, and returned it.

“And what does Virtue Ibrahim want?”

“It was me, actually, who wanted something.” She dropped the pin into her pocket and produced the handbill for his inspection.

His quick gaze darted across the paper. “You’re interested in selling your property?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated, nodding.

Posing as a potential seller was the best way she had thought of to lower his guard, but she wasn’t sure it was working.