“Don’t you think I would’ve if I could?” Thorn raised his right hand. In the moonlight filtering through the cell windows, she could see how the flesh was bleeding, livid purple where metal touched his skin. “It draws power from my very blood,” he said, “and channels it to the other one.” At the place where the gauntlet met his skin, Constance noticed a few tiny cogs and wheels, currently still and quiet. “When he starts to draw magic from me, that’s when the clockwork starts.” He fixed his eyes on her arm. Even though it was still gloved, she remembered he’d seen her left arm when they’d fought in the courtyard. “What about yours?”

“Mine is different,” she said shortly. Then, changing the subject: “I had his apartments searched yesterday, but found nothing. When did they put that thing on you? Why didn’t you fight?”

“This morning. Four men in plainclothes fought their way in, forced it on me. I tried to fight, but I was too weak. It takes time to recover from so many sleeping draughts,” he said, pointedly. Constance didn’t apologize. “I can’t even use my own magic now,” he continued. “He has stolen that from me too.”

She was silent for a few moments, and then she spoke again. “Why am I still alive, Dr. Thorn?”

He regarded her sadly. “I guess you’ll soon find out.”

Constance woke suddenly from dreams full of thunder and lightning, her head pounding, disoriented. Her neck ached where her head had drooped onto her shoulder: she hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but long nights of searching for the spell’s heart had finally taken their toll. It was still light, and wisps of storm cloud drifted through the high, barred windows, glints of green and blue emanating from the magical vapor. And beyond that, high up in the sky, she spied a muffled yellow glimmer that might have once been the sun. Midday, perhaps. She heard the noises of men trying to sleep rattling through the darkness. And she heard other movements distantly, from below—whispers of old burial robes and the clatter of naked bones, echoing far beneath in the crypts.

Or was she imagining it?

Across the way, Dr. Thorn had his back turned toward her again, his breathing slow and deep. She could hear the stirring of other prisoners farther off. Constance peered through the iron bars into the cell next to hers. To her surprise, Xander’s bright green eyes were open, watching her, etched with an emotion caught between love and fear.

Her heart leaped. She had feared he would never awaken.

She realized her left arm was slightly exposed. She hugged it close to her body, the metal cold to the touch, unnaturally smooth, and tugged up the material to cover the ugly join.