He turned away from her and walked back toward the shadowy depths of the laboratory. “You came all the way up Abaddon’s Hand at night to speak to me on a perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said, hurrying to follow, lest she lose sight of him among the strange mechanicals. “You see, my situation could not wait. I had spoken previously to your partner, a Dr. Daniel, but have been unable to reach him.”

“Virtue Daniel is dead,” he declared over his shoulder, voice matter-of-fact. “Murdered, from what I understand.” He’d stopped at a table with a large magnifier, and she saw he was working on dissecting some kind of mammal. Its fur had been discarded nearby, and its innards glistened wetly under the divinity lamps.

She rubbed her hands across her arms, unsettled. Tabor noticed and chuckled under his breath. “It’s science, Miss…?”

“Semyaza.” She had thought about what to say, and while Anant afforded her freedom of movement, she didn’t feel right using it. It only served to distance her from her Fallen ancestry and from Mariel, and she refused to do that anymore.

“And you say Ibrahim sent you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes roved over her form, as if truly noticing her for the first time.

“Tea, Miss Semyaza?” He did not wait for her answer but poured water from a nearby pitcher into a waiting kettle. He turned a knob, and a flame ignited on the burner.

He motioned her toward a wooden stool. She sat, and he positioned himself across from her. “I assume Ibrahim sent you up here to find out why Daniel and I were buying up land in the Drench.”

Celeste frowned. “No, I came because—”

“No need to dissemble, Miss Semyaza. I’m happy to tell him. You see, the new lode is ready to be mined, and Ibrahim’s too late to stop it. Production begins tomorrow. All I have to do is give the word, and there will be a new vein producing three times as much divinity as Ibrahim’s mine.” Tabor leaned forward. “I know his mine is drying up, Miss Semyaza. He can’t keep that from me.” He tapped his temple. “I’ve got my own spies.”

The kettle whistled, and Tabor sprang to his feet. As he prepared the tea, he muttered to himself, words Celeste couldn’t quite understand. She suspected the sickness of Abaddon’s Revenge had started to pollute his brain. How could it not, when he was surrounded by it here night and day, and in such quantities? His mind was not entirely gone, she did not think, but the paranoia, the gleam to his skin, the madness manifesting in his inventions? The signs were unmistakable.