Chapter 1 Nearly everyone at the Merrytrails Orphanage for Girls agreed: Abraxas was not a good cat. He was stubborn and hateful, which wasn't itself unusual in cats, and didn't even necessarily preclude a cat from goodness. Plenty of the girls' favorite stories featured cats who were notorious grumps, and yet they maintained a certain charisma. But Abraxas was also unsightly. Again, ugly cats were commonplace in the streets of Crossport, and the girls loved them all the same. Some were rakish toms, riddled with the scars of their many cat duels. Some were misshapen but sweet, with smooshed-in faces and warbling cries that softened even the most callous hearts. Abraxas was neither. Where he had fur, it was a vague sort of gray. His stomach was completely bald, and one white eye had a milky quality to it. And he stunk , noxious from the pearly globs of wetness Mrs. Harbargain fed him twice a day. All of this might have been perfectly fine if Abraxas had at least been entertaining. But the orphanage's pet cat was sedentary during the day, hissing at any of the girls who came too close. Little Mariana Porch had once dared to bring a broom handle within a few inches of his face, dangling a feather in the manner she'd seen two rich children in town do, playing with their gorgeous Siamese. She'd hoped to entice Abraxas into doing something silly. Both broom and Mariana still bore the scars from that unfortunate day. But what made the cat truly not good was what happened after lights-out. Because at night, Abraxas finally came alive. He stalked the halls of the orphanage like a wraith, yowling and scratching ceaselessly at every door and window he could reach. Mrs. Harbargain slept like a stone. Her room was nestled all the way at the bottom of the tall house, while Abraxas was locked into the upper floor hallway. She never heard the cat's nightly pandemoniums, and waved away the girls' complaints as whining--even as the upstairs doors were thinned away one claw-size notch at a time. It was on just one such a night that Melanie Gate decided she'd had enough. "Where are you going?" whispered Jane Alley. Melanie could just see her friend's light brown face hovering from the top bunk beside her own, her large eyes wide and worried. Jane was agonizingly shy--the sort of girl who hid away from her own nameday parties. That she'd spoken up at all meant she'd sensed Melanie was about to do something particularly audacious. Jane always seemed to know. Sometimes even before Melanie herself. Outside the dormitory, Abraxas yowled. He was rattling the hall window with his paws, as if playing a glass drum. "I can't stand it anymore," Melanie said, shuffling to the edge of her bed and lowering herself gently to the floor below. Her face was pale and irritated as she glimpsed it in the room's small mirror. "I haven't slept more than ten hours all week." Sun-mi Churchyard's bunk was just below Melanie's. She pushed a lock of dark hair from her eyes. "But what are you going to do?" she asked, sitting up as Melanie slid her feet into her slippers. They were donations from the wealthy families during the last Night of Gold festival, addressed: To the Poor, Sweet Orphans. With Affection & Heartache. "He wants out so badly," Melanie said primly. "I'm going to give him what he wants." Across the room, Agatha Chickencoop laughed. She brushed a tangle of russet curls from her tawny freckled face to better smirk at Melanie. "Mrs. Harbargain locked all the doors and windows. If they're open, she'll know it was you, lock-eater. You'll get punished." By now, all the girls were sitting up in their beds and watching Melanie as she marched toward the dormitory door in her nightgown and slippers. "There's more than one way to open a window," Melanie declared. "One of these days, Abraxas is bound to rattle the glass just a bit too hard." She revealed the weighty fire iron that she'd smuggled beneath her bedspread, and a chorus of gasps filled the room. "Don't!" little Mariana squeaked. "Oh, Mrs. Harbargain will be so mad," said Baruti Harbor. She pulled her favorite blue blanket around her until it nearly covered her dark brown face and eyes. Melanie reached the door and whirled around, brandishing the iron. Just outside, Abraxas had broken into a wailing aria. His voice was like a mournful young soprano with a rock in her mouth, trapped inside a bucket. "Mad is what we'll be if we don't get some sleep," Melanie said. "They'll have to rename this place the Merrytrails Asylum for Cat Killers. Listen to him," she added, "he wants out as much as we want him gone. I'm striking a blow for liberty." Abraxas had begun drumming against the windowpane again, providing Melanie's revolution with a jangling anthem. "Can I at least count on you not to tell?" Melanie asked. "Harbargain can't punish all of us." Melanie's eyes slowly scanned the dormitory, falling on each of her friends in turn. "I'm doing this for everyone," she said. There was a long moment of not-quite silence. Then a timid voice called out. "I won't tell," said Jane. "Me neither," Agatha announced boldly. One by one, the girls agreed. Melanie beamed at them. She nodded, then turned and faced the locked dormitory door. She placed her hand on the knob and there was a genial, mechanical noise. Pins and springs slipped helpfully out of the way. Then Melanie twisted the knob, fire iron in hand, and the door creaked open. She stepped alone into the hall. * * * Melanie Gate had always been good at opening things. Doors, windows--places of passage just welcomed her. Locks malfunctioned when she needed to get by in a hurry. In the springtime, windows that had been rusted shut for years would lurch open with clouds of auburn flakes. As a very young girl, Melanie would sometimes be found wandering the lower floors of the house, exploring after lights-out. Though Mrs. Harbargain had always carefully locked both the door to the girls' dormitory and the one leading downstairs, she'd invariably discover them wide-open the next morning. After a few near escapes by Abraxas, Melanie was finally broken of this habit through a week of missed desserts. But the strange skill went back as far as infancy. Like all the foundling girls at Merrytrails, Melanie had been named after the place she was discovered. As Mrs. Harbargain told it, a pair of city guards had been strolling past Crossport's South Gate during their evening rounds. The gate was fastened shut and locked, as it was every night. Just when they'd passed by, however, the guards heard a horrific clamor behind them. They spun around to discover that the enormous South Gate was cracked open, as if it had never been bolted closed. Only the enchantments of the city's aldermages kept the ponderous doors from swinging completely wide. And there, wedged between them, was a very determined toddler with chestnut curls trying to pull herself through the gap and into the city. Melanie was promptly deposited at the orphanage. She had nothing but her first name, her clothes, and a single token--an embroidered cloth decorated with a field of flowers. Pointed rooftops protruded from the bulbs, and above it all looped the words: Kinderbloom! The Garden Village . Mrs. Harbargain sometimes called her uncanny , and Agatha said she was a "lock-eater." But Melanie didn't eat anything. She simply asked doors to open and they agreed. To her, opening doors seemed perfectly natural. After all, that's what they were for , wasn't it? It was really all very polite. None of the other girls minded. Not even Agatha, really. Every orphan at Merrytrails had her own traits and skills. Agatha was a brilliant actress. Well, she was dramatic, anyway. Little Mariana could charm the stripes off a bee. Helen Stables claimed to have a way with horses, though the girls had never put this to a test. Each could be expected to help the others when needed, using their particular talents for the good of all. Now was simply one of those times. Melanie stared out into the hall, which had gone suddenly, shockingly quiet. She glanced to the window, where a keen yellow eye watched her back. "All right, cat," Melanie said. "The council of orphans has heard your demands. I'm here to set you free." " Maow ," Abraxas replied skeptically. "Well, you didn't leave us much choice, did you?" Melanie waved the poker around as she approached the window at the end of the hallway, shooing the old cat. She knew better than to attempt this within striking distance of his claws. Abraxas hissed at her, but he slunk away, watching her with his gleaming good eye from a few feet down. Melanie turned her attention to the window. It was a large and cheerful casement, and very sunny in the morning. A wide sill lay beneath on which rested a small pretty vase full of small pretty flowers. She set these on the floor for now. Outside, the moon was high: a shining fingernail. Much of the city was dark, though the magical toverlichts kept the wide avenues lit for the town watch. Melanie could just make out the empire's three-eyed flag waving from the roofs of the nearby buildings. Beyond them were the harbor and the three city gates. The North Gate led to Ultrest, the empire's capital city, where the king lived. The East Gate was sometimes called the Prisoner's Gate because it fed out to the Donjon, a court and prison system so sprawling, it was a city in its own right. Melanie could actually see the South Gate now, towering in the distance. And beyond it . . . ? An ache. A tug. Melanie had been at Merrytrails for as long as she could remember, and more than anything, she wanted to see the world . Her very favorite books in the orphanage's meager library were The Misadventures of Misty Steppe, a collection of heart-pounding tales starring an audacious explorer. Misty got into all sorts of trouble, but each time she'd find her way out again through gumption and good humor. Melanie and Jane had read the books countless times, Melanie sometimes starting again just as she turned the last page, while Jane dreamed up Misty stories of her own. Drawings of the young woman covered Melanie's notebooks, and were tacked to her bedpost. If she closed her eyes, she could clearly picture Misty's face. She felt that real. Melanie wasn't the sort of orphan to pine over lost parents or mysterious origins. She was an ambitious girl, with a gaze set forward rather than back. Misty was all the role model she needed. And how she longed for an adventure of her own, just like Misty. Melanie spent practically every waking moment--and often her sleeping ones--pining for what waited beyond the city. The desire for freedom shaped her dreams, sending her climbing snowy mountains and trekking through dark forests on a nightly basis. Now, behind her, Abraxas called out an impatient " Maow ." Melanie shook her head. She needed to focus. "Just lining up the strike," she said. "No need for salty language." She raised the fire iron high over her head. Melanie took a brief moment to consider the consequences of her next action: Was freedom truly prudent for a cat as old and half-blind as Abraxas? Wouldn't Mrs. Harbargain mourn his disappearance? Was it actually true that the matron couldn't punish all the girls, if she believed they were conspiring against her? Considerations so made, Melanie swung the iron bar. A loud peal brought her up short. It was one of the city bells, tolling from the palace, its voice high and clear. Melanie let out a little gasp. She lowered the fire iron, waiting. After a moment, a second bell tolled, this one warbling, nervous. Lights began to brighten in the windows of the houses outside. The bells never rang this late, not unless something dire was happening. Melanie heard shouts from the street below. Boots pounded against cobblestones. Several guardsmen flashed briefly in and out of view, running toward the castle. The structure loomed in the distance, towering over the other buildings. Its brilliant red roof was discernable even in the darkness, lit as it was by its own magical beacons. The rolling ocean was just to the castle's west, and the city docks, glimmering faintly under the moon. A third bell rang. Its voice was grim and final. Two bells meant an emergency, but three meant a death. Someone important had just perished. Melanie stood there a moment, unsure how to proceed. Even if she still freed Abraxas tonight, the girls would get no sleep. She and the others would be up for hours, guessing at who had died and what it might mean for the city. For the thaumacracy, even. Three bells meant the world outside was about to change. Melanie placed her hand to the glass, and wished desperately that the world was open to her. It was a brief wish, but a strong one, and it passed right through her hand where she'd pressed it against the window. The window heard her, and it did its very best to grant such a potent wish. It helpfully exploded. But it wasn't just the window. Melanie's wish must have passed through the entire orphanage, because right at that moment, every door, window, hatch, and chimney--every opening that connected to the outside--blasted outward with showers of wood, stone, and glass. Melanie heard the girls in the dormitory scream as their windows burst apart. She even heard Mrs. Harbargain wailing from downstairs. She felt the crisp night air breezing in through the ruined window and took a step back, nearly stepping on Abraxas, who was himself breezing by in the opposite direction. The cat leaped up onto the sill, unconcerned by the many shards of broken glass that glittered there. "Wait--" was all Melanie had time to say. Then the old cat was gone, without even a backward glance. Melanie stared out the window, her mouth hanging open. Behind her, the stair door crashed open, and Mrs. Harbargain charged, screaming, into the hall. Chapter 2 Melanie was grounded and given double chores for a month, and she was permanently banned from stepping within three feet of a door or window without Mrs. Harbargain there to supervise. It was a very tedious month, which won't be detailed here. Only two things of any importance happened during that time. First, Mrs. Harbargain and the girls held a fundraiser to repair the doors, windows, and chimney of the orphanage. They sold pies, each masterfully prepared by Sun-mi. (Mrs. Harbargain had attempted one to start, but after opening the oven door to a scorched and smoking blister, bleeding raspberry goo from its wounds, she ceded the baking to the expert.) Meanwhile, Melanie cleaned, and the other girls were forbidden from helping her. Second, Melanie learned that it was the High Enchanter who had died. Zerend the Red, the Third Eye of the Empire, had been assassinated. His laboratory in the palace was burned to a black and smoking crater. Melanie knew little of the man, beyond that he was the most important wizard in the thaumacracy. In depictions of him, he always had a trim, dark beard. The High Enchanter led the empire's magical branch of government, the source of its military might. Zerend the Red had a reputation as a stern genius, though Melanie assumed all witches and wizards were likely geniuses, and at least a little stuffy. Devastating magic had been brought to bear against Zerend, and there was no doubt who was responsible--only the Ley Coven could have triggered such a spell. They were a cult of far-flung mages, the thaumacracy's most potent enemies, led by a frightfully powerful witch known as the Hexe of the South. Riquem, the new High Enchanter, was now calling for war. Melanie thought the idea of a wizard war was very exciting. It was all just like a story! She'd been right, of course. The world was about to change. That was all that happened in that month, however. Chapter 3 Well, perhaps one more thing. While she finished scrubbing the kitchen floors one night after everyone had gone to bed, Melanie heard a muffled ringing noise coming from somewhere in the house. She took little notice of it. She completed her final chore for the day, then blew out the kitchen lamp and padded quietly to the stairs. As her foot landed on the first step, however, she heard the sound again, but clearer and closer. Melanie realized it wasn't a ringing sound at all. It was a voice--weeping--and it was coming from Mrs. Harbargain's room. Melanie lingered on that step for a long time, just staring at the matron's door. Then she trudged miserably up to bed. No one saw any sign of Abraxas. Chapter 4 It was raining the night the traveler arrived. A storm had blown in from the Aederian Sea, then dawdled to enjoy its evening in the port city. Melanie and the girls were down-stairs, listening to the drone of the rain from the cozy warmth of the orphanage's parlor. A fire murmured companionably in the hearth. The windows and doors had all been repaired. Merrytrails was whole once again, but the other girls whispered that the pie sales weren't nearly enough to cover the cost. Sun-mi said that Mrs. Harbargain had stopped at a usurer's when they went out for groceries. When the matron finally exited the building and hurried Sun-mi along, her face was stony and gray. "What's a user?" little Mariana asked in a whisper. "A usurer is a sort of banker," Baruti said. Of all the girls, Baruti was by far the smartest. She never forgot a piece of trivia, and she could multiply and divide fractions as easily as she could tie her shoe. Perhaps easier. "They loan money, but you have to pay back more than you borrowed." " Much more," Agatha said ominously, chewing on a fuzzy curl of hair. "And if you can't pay, they send large men to beat you and take your valuables." Agatha had always been a bit theatrical, but Baruti didn't disagree with her. In fact, she nodded grimly. Melanie glanced now to Mrs. Harbargain's doorway. Beyond, dim lamplight indicated that the matron was inside, but no sounds or movement had come from the door for hours. Melanie curled her legs into her chest, hugging her knees tightly. "It's all my fault," she said. "No it isn't!" little Mariana quickly assured her. "Yes, it is," Agatha corrected. Melanie frowned, turning to the window. Rain licked the surface like a kitten lapping at cream. "I'm sorry, everyone," she said. "I only meant to help, but I've ruined everything, haven't I?" Even Agatha's face softened now. The rest of the girls all watched Melanie, the parlor blanketed by the trill of the downpour. Jane didn't speak--she never spoke much--but scooted closer, taking Melanie's hand in hers. For Melanie, it was enough. Her friend's steady support soothed. Until, that is, the front door boomed with three forceful knocks. Mariana yelped, falling into Agatha's arms and hiding her face. One by one, the girls stood and stared at the door. None of them ventured any closer. "Who would be out in this storm?" Agatha asked. "It's the user!" Mariana squeaked from her armpit. There was a groan and a creak from Mrs. Harbargain's room. Slowly, her door inched open, and the matron's worried face appeared, tight with dread. She edged out of the room. Harbargain said nothing to the girls, keeping her eyes forward. She approached the front door warily, as if it were a stray dog. Mrs. Harbargain's hand trembled as she took hold of the latch and budged it open. Outside, a tall figure loomed in the doorway, concealed beneath a sodden cloak. A cold wind blew in with the figure's arrival, rustling Melanie's hair. She shivered and crossed her arms. Little Mariana whimpered, her bronze arms still clinging to Agatha. The figure remained perfectly still. Their posture was rigid, despite the rain and chill. Melanie couldn't make out any features beneath the cloak. "Can I help you?" Mrs. Harbargain asked tentatively. "This one hopes so." The figure spoke with a clear, genteel voice, which echoed as if from within a metal helmet. Was it one of the city guards? Some mercenary clad in armor who'd come to rough up the orphanage? Melanie had assumed by the stranger's size that it must have been a man, but the voice was indeterminate: a tinny alto. "This one is here on an errand," the figure continued. "It is a task of great importance." "This . . . one?" Harbargain appeared puzzled, then her eyes brightened with recognition. The tightness fell away from her face, replaced by a look of wonder. "You're a wizard's clockwork servant! What do they call you things? A gearling!" The stranger nodded slightly, and the heavy hood fell from its head. All the girls gasped as one. The figure's face was smooth and featureless, except for two glowing white dots that shone out from beneath a metal grille, emulating a pair of wide, unblinking eyes. In place of a mouth, a plate covered the lower half of its face, ridged in the center and decorated with lovely swirling flourishes, clearly engraved by a master's hand. It was strange and wonderful and completely unlike anything Melanie had ever seen. Rain now pelted the figure's head, water coursing down the engravings in thin streams. It didn't seem to notice. "Is this one permitted inside?" the gearling queried in a deferential tone. "This one found a small creature huddled outside the door. It does not appear to enjoy the rain." "Creature . . . ?" Harbargain asked, disoriented. The gearling's arm rose out from beneath its cloak with an audible whir of machinery. There, clawing and biting at its metal hand, was Abraxas. The rain had not helped the cat's ugliness. His scant fur coat was sodden and matted, resulting in Abraxas somehow appearing both skeletal and swollen at the same time. His good eye bulged with rage. "This one tried to carry it gently. The creature did not appear to enjoy that, either." "Abraxas!" Harbargain wailed. She reached her arms out and cradled the drenched cat, and to Melanie's continued bewilderment, he acquiesced. Abraxas released his frantic grip on the gearling's arm, settling into the matron's embrace with a tolerating " Maow ." "Thank you! Oh, thank you!" Harbargain gasped. "I'd thought my poor Abraxas was dead for sure. Helen, fetch some towels, would you please? Come in, traveler. Melanie will take that drenched cloak of yours and set it by the fire. Would you like some--oh, I don't suppose you would drink tea, would you?" "This one neither eats nor drinks." The gearling stepped forward into the parlor and Harbargain shut the door behind it. The room immediately felt several degrees warmer. Helen hurried off to gather towels from the linen pantry. Melanie moved hesitantly toward the clockwork figure, as she'd been told. It was at least six feet tall and stood perfectly motionless in the foyer, dripping sheets of water onto the stone floor. As Melanie arrived at the gearling's side, its face turned suddenly with that odd mechanical whir. The two bright globes watched her from behind their metal grating. Melanie stopped short, but the figure remained still and said nothing. It gazed impassively as she finally worked up the courage to stretch up and shift the cloak from its shoulders. Revealed from beneath the dark fabric, honey-colored metal gleamed golden in the firelight. The gearling's body was like the finest suit of armor Melanie had ever seen. Engravings similar to the ones on its mask covered the plates, looping into meandering patterns across its entire figure. But even at a glance Melanie could tell this was no armor a human would ever wear. The proportions were all strange; the limbs were too long for a person, and its legs bent at a backward angle. She'd heard the aldermages in the palace had clockwork servants, of course, but had never actually seen one in person. And wizards had all sorts of strange servants, if every story was to be believed. Animals and spirits and dragons. Even demons. Melanie carried the cloak gingerly to the hearth and laid it on the hot stone, feeling the gearling's glowing eyes on her the whole time. Once Helen had arrived with the towels, Mrs. Harbargain instructed the girls to dry the clockwork visitor--" Carefully, mind you!"--as she dabbed the bedraggled Abraxas herself. Once everyone was good and dry, Harbargain finally seemed to remember that the gearling had come with a purpose. "How can I help you, traveler? Er . . . do you have a name ? Something your master or mistress calls you?" There was a long pause, in which it almost seemed the gearling was brooding over the question. "You may continue to call this one Traveler, if it pleases you," it answered finally. Harbargain nodded slowly. "Very well. Traveler it is. What brings you to our orphanage?" "This one represents the interests of the powerful witch . . . Felidae Seagreen," the gearling said. "This one has come in her stead, but she would prefer to speak for herself." The clockwork figure raised one of its metallic hands, and Melanie saw that a crystal orb had been embedded into its palm. Slowly, the orb began to shine with a glittery blue sheen, and then to glow outright. Light poured upward from the crystal like a drop of ink spilled into clear water. The girls all squealed and chattered excitedly at the sight of wizardly magic, but Mrs. Harbargain shushed them before they could get too agitated. The liquid light coagulated, pooling into a vague triangular shape. Then the fog shifted into focus, and the tiny image of a wizened old woman floated in the air before them. She was exactly as Melanie pictured a witch would look, based on the Misty Steppe stories, with a flowing green cloak, a pointed hat, and a plump, pleasant, olive-toned face. She even carried a broom in one hand and leaned heavily against it, like a walking staff. The miniature glowing woman cleared her throat. Her voice sounded small and far away. "Ah, hello there. I am the Witch Felidae. I'm pleased that my servant has made it to you safely. You see, I find myself in need of an assistant--a living one, that is. I was hoping to take on one of your fine girls as my ward and apprentice. I'm afraid I'm not getting any younger, and could use a bright young helper to aid me in my work. She'll be well cared for, of course. Afforded an education and every possible luxury a child could want. The only caveat is that I'm in rather desperate need. As you can see, I can't make the trip myself--even walking has become burdensome in my dotage. So I must request that the girl accompany my servant tonight , before the South Gate closes. I live in a little cottage just a few miles down from the city. The journey shouldn't be too taxing for a sprightly youngster." The witch paused, and silence filled the parlor. Melanie and the other girls all looked at one another with identical shocked expressions. A witch's apprentice? Truly? "What a surprising proposition," Mrs. Harbargain said slowly. "No doubt any of my girls would be lucky for such an opportunity, Mistress Felidae. But I'm afraid I can't just allow them to go wandering into the night unsupervised, without following the proper procedures. You understand that there are some scoundrels out there who might take advantage of my laxness." "Oh, I certainly understand," the tiny witch replied cheerfully. "Your prudence credits the fine home you've created for them. The safety of your girls is obviously of utmost importance. Only . . . I'm in a bit of a bind myself. It's also of utmost importance that my new assistant arrives right away. My last apprentice resigned abruptly due to family illness, you see. The whole clan struck by foxpox--so sad. And now my roof is leaking in the storm! The South Gate closes within the hour. Perhaps we could see to the official paperwork tomorrow? I'll have your girl post it first thing--she'll need to be literate, of course. She'll also include a handwritten letter, just so you know she's safe and happy." This all sounded very reasonable to Melanie, but Mrs. Harbargain sat up straighter in her chair. She shifted Abraxas's weight from one leg to the other. The cat growled irritably, settling into his new position. Harbargain's eyes took on a hard, skeptical gleam that Melanie knew well. "I'm afraid that's not going to be possible," the matron said. "These girls are my charges, you see. I've made it my duty to ensure the safety of every home that welcomes them through its doors. My apologies, Mistress Felidae." The only sounds for a long moment were the pops and cracks of the fireplace, and the hum of the rain. "Ah, how unfortunate," the witch finally replied. "Then perhaps I've deprived myself of my servant for nothing. Thank you for your time." The image of the witch flickered for a moment: a candle set beside an open window. Then it reasserted itself. "Oh, but before we go," Felidae said, "do you mind if I ask a question?" "Ask whatever you'd like," said Harbargain. "I've heard that Merrytrails had a run of bad luck recently. A good deal of repair work was needed. Work like that must have been very expensive." Now Melanie bristled. All the girls cast wary glances at one another. "This is true," Harbargain replied slowly. "But it's not a question." "Perhaps if I were willing to make a donation to Merrytrails, it would help convince you of my good intentions? A sum considerably larger than the usual adoption fees. My servant is carrying a pouch of coins in its cloak. If you'd be willing to delay the formal paperwork--by just a day, mind you--then the pouch is yours. You'll want to count it yourself, but I think you'll find there's enough to cover the expenses and more." Every eye turned toward the hearth, where the gearling's wet cloak still steamed beside the crackling fire. There did appear to be a large bulge sewn into the right side of the fabric. When Melanie finally glanced back to Harbargain, she saw the tightness had returned to the matron's face. "That is a . . . a very generous offer," Harbargain said. "Merely a sign of good faith. The work you do here is so important. If you'd be willing to show me this kindness in my time of need, the least I could do is return the favor." Mrs. Harbargain chewed her lip, sagging into her seat as if a great weight had suddenly been added to her shoulders. "And you say you'd get the papers to me first thing? Have the girl write us and let us know she's safe and cared for?" "It will be her cardinal priority, once she arrives." The tiny witch bowed as low as was possible while still clutching her broom. "Very well," the matron sighed. "Perhaps . . . perhaps this once we can show a little lenience." Harbargain frowned. Her fingers kneaded the top of Abraxas's head, molding his face into a contorted series of scowls. "What sort of girl are you looking to adopt, then? All of the children can read and write, though the older ones are more proficient. Jane is very quiet and tidy; you'd hardly notice she's there. Sun-mi is a masterful cook, and she often prepares meals for the whole house. Baruti has a way with numbers and an adroit grip of history. I had a mind to set her on the house's finances next year, but she might be better suited to your purposes." Each name the matron spoke stirred panicked looks from the girls. For the first time, Melanie began to understand that one of her friends would be leaving forever that night, disappearing into the storm with all the suddenness of a clap of thunder. Girls had left Merrytrails before, of course, but usually they were the young ones--and there was always time for proper goodbyes. Plus, the orphans who were adopted often stayed in Crossport. Whoever went with the clockwork servant would be leaving through the South Gate, trudging through rain and wind toward a new life beyond the city's walls. As much as she longed to see the world, Melanie didn't begrudge the girl her journey. It didn't occur to her that she might be chosen. Girls like Melanie weren't usually the sort to get adopted. She was brash and loud--overexcitable and, by some people's measure, under-feminine. And things just seemed to get complicated in her presence. Melanie assumed that she was too strange to find a home, which was perfectly fine with her. As far as she could tell, parents were quite the opposite of freedom and adventure. They were rules and expectations and itchy, restrictive clothes. A witch, however . . . that was something different, wasn't it? The small glowing woman scanned the faces of the foundlings around her. Melanie sat a bit straighter without realizing it. "They sound delightful," Felidae said. "What a difficult choice. No doubt they'd all make fine apprentices. I wonder, however, if you have any girls who've already shown a bit of eerie aptitude, if you catch my meaning. Who are canny in the uncanny? Credibly incredible? A girl who can't seem to help but attract strangeness, like unspooled yarn attracts snags. Magic has a way of twisting up around those with a talent, you see." It was only the briefest of looks. Mrs. Harbargain's eyes flicked in Melanie's direction, and then back to the image of the witch. It was less than an instant, but it was enough. The small woman turned, her tiny, luminous gaze falling on Melanie. Melanie noticed that the glowing eyes of the clockwork servant were also upon her, and she shrank back. The other girls whispered as Felidae took her in. "What's your name, then?" the witch asked. "Melanie Gate, mistress," Melanie answered in a small voice. "Most of the girls arrived knowing only their first names," Mrs. Harbargain interjected softly. "Or had them written in the apology notes left with them. Their surnames are meant to be temporary. She would be free to take yours once you've adopted her, if you chose." The matron's eyes were wet as she watched Melanie. Her gaze was almost tender. It was then that Melanie understood her fate was decided. "Gate," Felidae said. "How serendipitous." The tiny witch's floating image bounced excitedly in place. "Yes, I believe this will do nicely. Melanie, pack your things, dear. You're off to become a witch." Chapter 5 The second time the front door opened that night, Melanie felt the force of the storm hit her like a solid surface. Rain lashed her face, even shielded with a heavy hood. In an act of shocking generosity, Mrs. Harbargain had given Melanie her own wool traveling cloak, which now hung nearly to the girl's feet. "Every adventurer needs a cloak," the woman had said, her eyes brimming. Melanie carried her small bag of belongings beneath it, pressing it tightly to her chest. Felidae's cottage was southeast of the city, tucked cozily between the imperial highways. "I just know you'll love it," she'd told Melanie with a hint of mischief. Once the negotiations were completed, the witch had bid the girls farewell, disappearing in a swirl of smoke and leaving Melanie in the care of her clockwork servant. The gearling stood outside the doorway now, watching impassively. Its own cloak--having finally dried beside the fire--was once again soaked. Two unsettling dots of light shone out from beneath its hood, giving the figure the appearance of a spirit from a haunted tale. The other girls were all gathered around the doorway. Many were sniffling and wiping their eyes. Little Mariana wept openly, her arms now wrapped around Sun-mi. One by one the girls hugged Melanie and said goodbye. They wished her safe journeys, and happy tomorrows, and made her promise to return someday and show off her fabulous spells and fairy servants. Mariana peeled herself away from Sun-mi long enough to leap into Melanie's arms, and Melanie nearly broke into tears herself then. She kissed Mariana's hair and assured her that she'd write the girls. Every day, if she had time. Then Agatha gently pried Mariana away. "Take care out there, lock-eater," she said with surprising warmth. "Don't . . . Just don't forget us." Jane was the last of the girls to say goodbye. She took Melanie's hands in her own, her eyes full of some unfathomable feeling. "Oh, Jane . . ." Melanie breathed. She didn't trust herself to say more. A pang of guilt speared her. How could she be leaving her very dearest friend who, just an hour ago, held Melanie's hand and comforted her? What would Jane do without her? Retreat further into herself? And what would Melanie do without Jane? "I'll see you again," Melanie finally rasped. Jane nodded, tears now falling from her eyes. "If you don't, I'll come find you. No magic will keep me away." She pulled Melanie into a lung-crushing hug. Mrs. Harbargain's embrace was even tighter. Melanie couldn't remember the last time the matron had hugged her so. She let herself sink into the woman's arms. Her eyes began to burn and she nearly choked on a sob. " Melanie ," Harbargain whispered. Her voice was quiet, barely audible beneath the noise of the rain, even with her mouth pressed so close to Melanie's ear. But the matron's tone was urgent. "If anything is improper with this Felidae Seagreen--anything at all--you must immediately alert us in your letter. Simply write 'Give my love to Abraxas' and I'll know that you need help. I'll petition the city guard--the aldermages if I have to--and we will find you, I swear. 'Give my love to Abraxas.' Don't forget." "The South Gate closes in ten minutes." The clockwork servant's voice rang out like a bell from behind Melanie, causing her and Mrs. Harbargain to jump apart. "Yes, of course," the matron said. She nervously straightened her dress. "You're a special girl, Melanie. I always knew you were. I know I'm not your . . . Well, I've tried to be a . . . Oh, take care, my little wonder." And then, before she was ready, before she could do more than nod at Harbargain and wave to the girls, Melanie found herself outside in the pouring rain. The door to Merrytrails banged firmly shut behind her. "Haste is necessary," the gearling said. "Can you move quickly?" Melanie nodded, her mind numb with cold and addled by the abruptness of it all. She'd longed for adventure, but this . . . It was all happening so fast. "Follow this one." She did. The gearling moved with inhuman grace, its long legs loping across the cobbled streets. Melanie hustled after it, then broke into a jog when she realized she was still falling behind. Even beneath her cloak, her fingers pricked from the chill, and the sideways angle of the rain made it hard to see. The city's toverlichts were shining. Their blue brilliance flooded through the downpour, giving Crossport the appearance of a city underwater. It seemed like both an eternity before they reached the South Gate and far too soon. The glittering brass structure bulwarked the southern outlet to the Zeestraat, the westernmost of the empire's great roads. Technically the road ran right through Crossport--the city was named for its enviable position as the crossing point of the Zeestraat and the Wonderstraat. Travelers looking to journey up or down the coast had to pass through its famously gigantic gates and into the city itself. But the gates were closed every night, magically sealing until the next dawn. Anyone caught in or out would need to wait to get through. The night bell tolled just as Melanie arrived. Two guards were pressed bodily against the heavy doors, pushing them shut for the evening. Both had the three-eyed symbol of the empire emblazoned on their armor. One guard caught sight of the gearling, just as the looming figure drew close. He shrieked in surprise, jumping nearly a foot into the air. Melanie knew the feeling. The second guard was a bit bolder. He pulled his sword free of its scabbard and held it shakily out in front of him. "Who's there?" he shouted over the rain. The gearling stopped in place, standing suddenly still. As Melanie caught up, it hadn't yet answered the guard. "What's going on here?" the first one demanded. He too pulled his sword free now, aiming it at the gearling. "The gate's closed for the night. You'll have to find shelter somewhere else." Melanie glanced up at the clockwork servant. It remained silent. Then, slowly, it turned its face toward her. Both guards followed its gaze, their eyes landing on Melanie. "I . . ." Melanie was at a loss. Shouldn't the witch's servant explain the situation? She wasn't even an apprentice yet! But the hard faces of the guards told her that someone would need to speak, and the gearling didn't seem like it had any intention of doing so. "Please, we must get through," Melanie said. "I'm--I'm a witch's apprentice. And it's very important that we return tonight." "A witch's apprentice?" The first guard, the one who'd jumped at the sight of the gearling, nodded toward the stooped figure. "Who's this, then? And what's wrong with his eyes?" "It's not a he," Melanie answered unsurely. "It's my mistress's clockwork servant." Now the guards' curiosity seemed to overtake their fear. They squinted through the rain at the gearling. "So it is!" the second guard exclaimed with a note of fascination. "I've seen these things before. The High Enchanter has an army of them at the palace. They walk and talk like people. You could even have a civil conversation with one. 'How's the weather, then?' 'Oh, very fine, indeed!' But it's all brainless imitation. Just spells and metal." "Brainless is claiming this weather's fine," the first guard grumbled. "They don't even have real voices," the second continued. He stepped right up to the gearling now, and was squinting at its face beneath the hood. "What you're hearing is just steam and ensorcellment! Like drawing a smile on a kettle and naming it Junior." The clockwork servant shifted slightly, turning its face toward the guards. The second guard flinched, then laughed nervously and backed away. "Creepy things, though." "Who's this mistress you're apprenticed to?" the first guard asked, turning his attention back to Melanie. He'd sheathed his sword, but his posture was still stiff and anxious. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Not the Hexe of the South, I hope." "Felidae Seagreen," she answered. "In a cottage just a few miles from here." The two guards turned to each other. "Ever heard of her?" the second asked. The first shook his head. " You're the expert on magicked kettles, all of a sudden." The second guard frowned, his eyes sliding slowly from Melanie to the gearling and back again. "What's your name?" "Melanie." "Melanie . . . ?" "Gate." The first guard had a nice chuckle at that, glancing at the imposing entranceway behind them. "And how old are you, Melanie Gate?" "I . . . I'm not sure. I'm a foundling." "'A foundling,' she says." The second guard chewed his lip and let out a sigh. "Listen, Melanie, things are about to get dicey for magic types in Crossport," he said. "That assistant of Zerend's--Requiem or whatever--has been promoted to High Enchanter. And he's on the warpath. He's after the Hexe of the South, sure, but word has it he means to stamp out all of the Ley Coven before he's done. And the king agrees. You're too young to remember the last Wizard War, but they're ugly things to get swept up in." He nodded to the gap between the gate's doors. "Go on. Tell your mistress that if she's wise, this will be your last visit to Crossport for a while." Melanie nodded, just hoping that the rain hid whatever dismal expression she was making. Her life had changed so suddenly. Doors were closing behind her, and the farther she walked, the more likely it seemed that even she wouldn't be able to open them again. The guards waved them toward the gap in the gate, stepping aside as the gearling passed. It slid between the doors like a cat, disappearing quickly outside. Melanie followed with one quick glance back at the frowning soldiers. Beyond was open road. A grand stone trail, the Wonderstraat, disappeared behind a black curtain of rain. The gearling turned its head toward the sky, still dimly illuminated by the two toverlichts bracketing the gate like flickering parentheses. The ponderous doors boomed closed behind them. A sizzle of magical residuum filled the air. They were locked out. The gearling's two illuminated eyes sputtered. Blinked? Rain coursed down its metal visor. Then its posture suddenly slumped with a whir, arms hanging forward. It let out what could only be described as a long, metallic sigh . Melanie and the other Merrytrails girls sometimes struck this very pose after the open-house days, when they greeted prospective parents. Their bodies taut from a day full of rigid curtsies and dementedly delightful smiles, some simply collapsed to the floorboards. Indeed, they too made that same weary sighing noise, after the front door had been firmly shut. It was a startlingly human gesture, and it sent a cold shiver up Melanie's back that was far worse than the rain. The gearling turned its gaze to the sealed gate, then back onto her. The two glowing motes blinked again. "Well . . ." the automaton said, with an unmistakable note of relief. " That was rather close, wasn't it?" The eerie gentility was gone from its echoed voice. This was not the mindless gearling that had visited the orphanage. Melanie had the sudden impression of an actor shedding a role the moment the curtain closed. "I spent every coin I had," it continued, "but I made it out." Then it raised its hands at Melanie's expression. "Oh. Please don't--" Melanie couldn't hear the rest. She'd already begun to scream. Excerpted from The Lock-Eater by Zack Loran Clark All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.