Nett looked at her doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we just found an alley to hide in until nightfall?”
“I thought you of all people would like to sneak into school,” Sena said.
“I like to keep myself in one piece,” Nett replied, crossing his arms. “Come on, why do you want to go in there?”
Sena looked like she was about to argue, and then suddenly, her shoulders sagged. “I don’t exactly know how to craft a Looking Glass,” she admitted. “There’s a book in the academy’s library that will tell me how.”
Claire gaped at her. “You said you knew how to make one!” Pressure built behind her eyes. “You said you knew how to find Sophie!”
“Cool your coals,” Sena said, though she had the decency to blush. “I just need a refresher, that’s all.”
Nett cocked his head, and Claire could tell he didn’t quite believe Sena, but the tug of a forbidden Forger library must have been too strong, because he caved. “How are we going to get in? They just closed the front doors.”
Claire turned to realize he was right. The double doors had just slammed shut and bells were chiming. They were too late!
Sena was silent as she studied the enormous wall in front of them. Slowly, a wicked smile spread across her face, and when she faced Nett, Claire saw her golden eyes dancing dangerously. “That’s where you come in.”
Nett didn’t say anything, but Claire could practically hear him gulp.
Fifteen minutes later, Claire’s heart skipped a jagged side step as she watched Nett grind an acorn in a small bowl with something that smelled like a cow farm. They were in a dirt alleyway squeezed between the most remote wall of the school and another wall that Sena said belonged to a covered market. The alley was so narrow that when Claire spread out her arms, she could easily rest one palm against each wall. Claire doubted that most passersby even noticed the tiny street.
Taking a seed from his rucksack, Nett placed it in the dirt, then glopped the smelly mixture on top. Finally, he took out a vial. Sitting back on his heels, Nett addressed the girls.
“This is Water Extract,” he said, holding out the vial. “It’s water in its purest form. Once I combine it with the Insta-Grow, we’ll only have sixty seconds before the wisteria becomes fully mature.”
“What happens after sixty seconds?” Claire asked.
“It will begin to wilt, and I can’t promise the bines will be able to hold your weight.”
Claire tilted her head. “Don’t you mean ‘vines’?”
“No, I mean bines—they’re like vines, but feel more like wood. Now”—he looked up, making sure to meet both Sena’s and Claire’s eyes—“you must be over that wall in sixty seconds unless you want to break a leg. And be caught by the Forgers. And then be imprisoned in a dark, damp—”
“We get it,” Sena snapped. Though her tone of voice was scornful, Claire noticed the skin around her lips was white. Claire didn’t feel so great herself. She tried to breathe deeply.
Nett looked at them, the eyedropper of Water Extract held over the small mound. “Ready?”
Sena and Claire nodded.
“Then here goes nothing!” Nett squeezed a single drop onto the newly planted seed. Immediately, he lurched back, covering his head with his arms. A second later, Claire knew why.
A great column of dirt shot up like a fountain, covering them in soft soil. Twisting green arms wriggled from the earth like snakes that had had four cups of coffee.
“Grab on!” Nett cried, and he wrapped his hand around one of the flexible branches. The plant jerked him into the sky as the wisteria raced up the wall.
“Don’t just stand there, grab on!” Sena called as she took a running start and leaped for a climbing bine with the ease of a flying squirrel.
Claire stumbled forward, trying to catch one. Newly sprung, they were rubbery and slick, sliding between her fingers as soon as she brushed them. Finally, she managed to catch hold of one.
Her stomach left the ground as the bines yanked her upward in a burst of purple petals and spring-green leaves. A plant growing fifty years’ worth in fifty seconds was louder than she had expected, and she hoped no one would come to investigate what must have sounded like a mini-tornado. But in a town of swinging hammers and heavy bells, Claire thought the inhabitants of Fyrton were probably used to strange, loud noises.
Wrapping her legs tight, she kept her eyes up—she was close to the top of the wall now, but would she make it? The flowers around her were beginning to brown and their sweet smell had been replaced by the scent of dead rot. She had taken too long on the ground; the wisteria would wilt before she could get to the other side!
And then she was above the wall, the bine flopping over as it spooled down toward the courtyard where Nett and Sena had already landed. Claire could see they were staring up at her, their mouths open. Were they saying something to her? She couldn’t hear—the rush of air and rattle of leaves were as loud as waves pounding on sand.
She was almost eye level with Nett and Sena when— CRACK!
The withered bine beneath her snapped, tumbling Claire the last few feet to the ground.
She lay there, winded. It hurt, but only a little, like jumping off a swing at the wrong time.
“Are you all right?” Nett asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, slightly out of breath. He offered a hand, and she let him pull her to her feet. They’d landed in the northwest corner of the campus, and in front of them was the sprawling complex of Phlogiston Academy.
Claire had an impression of towers, arched doors, pillars, and silver edges before Sena hurried them toward one of the side doors. Glancing behind her, Claire saw that the wall they had popped over was bare now, the gray rock devoid of any flowering bine. The only evidence that there may once have been an enormous plant was a scattering of dried leaves at its base.
She tore her eyes away and jogged after Sena and Nett. As she approached the door, Claire couldn’t help but feel as though someone were watching. Scanning Phlogiston’s windows, she didn’t see any curious faces peering out. She tilted her head farther back and finally realized where the icky sensation was coming from.
Gargoyles, at least a hundred of them, glared down from the sloped roofs.
“I feel like they’re looking at us,” she murmured to Nett.
He followed her gaze. “They are. Those are the Gemmer gargoyles. They can be whistled awake if you know the right tune.”
Claire took in their long fangs and pointed horns, imagining what it would be like to see one charge, the strength of stone behind each step. If they were awakened, they would form an army of rock teeth. Except …
“What happened to their ears?”
“When the Forgers took over the Gemmer Hearing Hall, they hammered their ears off so they wouldn’t be able to hear the tune,” Nett said as he adjusted the straps of his pack. “The gargoyles will never be able to move again.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Sena said, seeing the look on Claire’s face. “Those rock beasts took out an entire regiment of Forgers during the Guild War. They and their Gemmer masters were ruthless.” And with that, Sena opened a door and waved them into the Forger academy.
Classes were in session, and the hallways were wide and empty.
“The library is in the main courtyard,” Sena whispered. “If we can make it there without being seen, we’ll be golden. Just … try to act like you belong here. Forgers are known for being strong and passionate and—”
“And full of themselves,” Nett muttered.
“We’re proud of what we do.” Sena rocked on the balls of her feet. “Claire, for soot’s sakes, stop slouching, and Nett”—her eyes lingered on the soil under his fingernails—“keep your hands hidden.”
They quietly rushed past open doors, hearing snippets of the classes within. Each time she dashed by a doorway, Claire felt her heart rise into her throat. If someone spotted them … if Sena were recognized … the Forger inspectors had been terr
ifying enough!
Soon, they settled into a kind of pattern. Stride, stride, stride—quick dart by an open door! Stride, stride, stride—quick dart!
Claire began to sweat under the black leather vest. She had expected the stone building to be cool and drafty, but instead it was as warm as a sweater in summer. But of course a school for Forgers was hot; they needed fire and heat to be able to bend metal’s magic to their will.
She caught glimpses of students hunched over metal sheets, older kids teaching younger ones how to grip swords, and an entire class whose hair had turned blue when a student played the wrong note on his golden flute.
Claire wondered how much farther the library was, and how much more they could push their luck.
“Almost there,” Sena hissed. “Mama was a scholar and taught alchemy at Phlogiston. She used to bring me here when I was little, even though I wasn’t apprentice age yet.” They whipped by the last corner—
—and smacked into a thin man carrying a pile of books.
The man was able to right himself quickly, but Sena, Nett, and the books toppled to the ground in front of Claire.
“No running in the halls!” the man ordered as he retrieved his books. He was wearing what Claire thought was Arden’s equivalent of safety goggles, but while they must have protected his eyes, they had the added effect of making them look big and round, as though he were constantly surprised.
“Sorry,” Sena said as she began to inch away.
“One moment,” replied the teacher. He pursed his lips and pointed at Nett. “Second-form boys are getting fitted for hammers in the lower forges,” he said. “You better hurry before Scholar Burns puts out the coals!”
Nett’s eyes shifted to Sena, and Claire could see he was begging her to tell him what to do. But it seemed even Sena had run out of ideas.
The man’s eyes grew even wider. “You don’t need your friend’s permission to get to class. Go, or I will report you!”
Claire held her breath. They were being split up! There was no way she or Nett could survive the Forger academy without Sena’s help. But from the set of the teacher’s wire-thin lips, she realized they might not have a choice.
“Yes, Scholar,” Nett croaked out. With one last glance, he scurried off in the direction the man had pointed.
“As for you”—the man pointed at the girls—“first- and second-form girls are reviewing for summer examinations. Just because Scholar Ember has a cold today does not mean you can skip class.”
Sena suddenly clutched her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, stepping away from the man. “It’s my stomach—must have been something I ate …” Then Sena was sprinting away, leaving Claire to deal with a very annoyed Forger all by herself.
The man shook his head in exasperation. “This is why I don’t teach lower years! What room are you in? First-year, right?”
Claire nodded, relieved at least that the teacher didn’t seem to realize they didn’t belong here.
“Come along with me, then,” the man said. Putting a hand on Claire’s shoulder, he began to briskly walk her down the corridor. Though Claire’s mind whirled, she couldn’t think of any way to get out of the man’s grip—not without calling more attention to herself.
“Ah, yes,” the man finally said. “Room 501—here we are!”
He pushed Claire into the classroom. A warm, wet heat engulfed her like a summer’s day that begged for a storm. Stone benches were arranged along three of the walls, but an enormous clay dome with a glowing red eye took up the fourth wall. It looked a little bit like the rounded ovens found in fancy pizza restaurants.
Fifty or so girls—all Sena-sized or taller, with hair carefully braided away from their faces and hammers hanging from their belts—stared back at Claire.
Claire’s palms began to sweat.
A teacher from a different class might not be able to identify a new face, but she knew from experience that kids always recognized an outsider.
CHAPTER
16
A stern voice rang through the thick steam in the classroom. “Have a seat, Abigail,” the teacher said. She was squinting, her glasses fogged. With her tight topknot and gray gown, she looked exactly like a pin Mom used when she sewed.
After a second, Claire realized the teacher was talking to her. She had mistaken her for someone else. Before the teacher could realize her error, Claire dropped her rucksack down and plopped into the closest chair, which happened to be directly under a wall display of wicked-looking spearheads. The weight of the other girls’ eyes and whispers pushed her farther down in her seat.
Looking around, she saw each girl was equipped with a notebook, hammer, and what looked like a large pair of tweezers. Claire reached her hand into her pocket and clung to her pencil, trying to calm her nerves. At least she had a hammer.
“Who are you?” a girl whispered nearby. “You’re not Abigail.”
“Quiet,” the teacher said. “Please turn your attention back to our practical review. I will ask each of you a question, and you must demonstrate the answer in the central forge. Everyone, form a line.”
There was a flurry of scraping and jangle of hammers as the girls hurried toward the far wall, Claire a beat behind. Nerves turned to a strangling panic as she fought to keep her breath steady. She was going to have to do Forger magic in front of everyone.
Or rather, not do Forger magic since she had no magic to begin with.
Claire’s grip on the pencil tightened as the first student took her place at the forge.
“I am thinking of a number between one and five hundred,” the teacher said. She threw something small and shiny at the student, and the student caught it one-handed.
“Tell me exactly which number I am thinking of.”
Next to Claire, a girl in braided pigtails murmured to her friend, “Hazel lucked out.”
“I know,” her friend whispered back. “We’ve been able to do Penny for Your Thoughts for ages.”
Standing in front of the forge, the student, Hazel, sorted through a pile of objects on the stone table. She selected a tapered candle, and lit it with a spark from the forge. With thumb and forefinger, the girl held the penny over the flame.
One minute passed, then two.
Claire clenched her fingers into a fist, wondering how the Forger was able to keep her bare hands next to the fire for so long. When Dad took Claire and Sophie camping, Claire always had to have an extra-long roasting stick for her marshmallows.
The coin began to glisten, then drip, melting like ice cream. Suddenly, the penny flared red. Hazel let out a yelp and dropped it into a bucket of water. A second later, she plunged her hand in. Opening her fist, she displayed a copper 22 to the classroom. The others clapped politely.
“Not bad,” the teacher said. ‘But you forgot to keep your body temperature at the same heat as the metal, didn’t you?”
The girl nodded, looking sheepish.
“Had you remembered,” the teacher continued, “you would have been able to keep melting the penny until it formed the actual number I had in mind, which was two hundred twenty-three.” The teacher turned and addressed the class. “Does anyone have suggestions for how Hazel can work at building heat resistance?”
A discussion began, using a lot of words Claire didn’t understand, like “flame retardant” and “thermal shielding.” As the teacher scanned the room for students to participate, Claire lowered her eyes to the flagstone floor. If she was called upon, she’d have no idea what to say. She curled her fingers around the pencil in her pocket again. Where were Sena and Nett?
Some of the students around Claire wrote in their notebooks, but most whispered among themselves, clearly bored.
“I don’t know why we even have to review,” Pigtails whispered to her friend. “I have an essay on smelting due tomorrow.”
“I thought you were going to have your papa help you with that,” the friend said as she twisted the end of her French braid.
“He was sup
posed to, but he came home late.” Pigtails pouted. “Didn’t you hear about the inspectors’ raid on the Tiller narrowboats last night?”
French Braid’s eyes widened in surprise. “I knew there was one this morning, but I didn’t know there were raids yesterday, too!”
“Silence!” The teacher’s voice rang out from the front.
The two girls immediately quieted. As the next student went up to the forge, Claire scrambled to think of an escape plan. If she wanted to reach the door, she’d have to walk in front of the entire class. And the windows were too high up to climb out.
The chatting Forgers soon resumed their conversation, their voices a low scratch now.
“Apparently,” Pigtails whispered, “Anvil Malchain requested the extra raids!”
French Braid gasped, which was lucky, because it covered the sound of Claire’s squeak of surprise.
“What’s Malchain looking for this time? Do you think he finally found D.J. Scorch’s magic spear?”
“Papa said he’s after a girl.”
Claire’s breath caught. Sophie. It had to be.
“A girl?” French Braid paused. “Why?”
Pigtails adjusted the hammer hanging at her waist. “Apparently, she stole something from him.”
Questions slipped and skidded across Claire’s thoughts before she could properly grab them.
French Braid gaped at Pigtails. “Who would be reckless enough to steal from Anvil Malchain? Everyone knows that his double-headed ax can slice through stone.”
“I know,” Pigtails agreed. “Mama says he’s always had a temper, and—”
“Girls!” the teacher said again. She pointed at Claire. “Abigail, to the front!”
“But I’m not—” Claire squeaked. Then she stopped herself, because the other girls were staring at her.
What would Sophie do? Claire didn’t know. She could hardly think. Hurriedly, Claire picked up her rucksack and moved toward the forge, her legs shaking. Laid out on the table were several sharp instruments that looked like dentists’ tools—if the dentists were seeing to giants’ teeth.
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