The outside air is still but not stagnant, less caught up in the smells of antiseptic and pain.

  Slink and Chip mind the fire, looking busy when Rivin glances over, enough so that he clocks it's an act. Slink whistles a faint tune, fists in his pockets, while Chip prods at the pot hanging over the flame. Neither looks over, but they might as he turns.

  He guides Roach away from the light and into the shadow—he doesn't trip up because he knows exactly where he's taking her. He sees the spout first, still dripping, then buckets and weeds, more blown-out bulbs, until finally, a shelf in the stone.

  It’s chipped out by hand and not nearly complete — a barely-there throne of moss and scrap. A pickaxe lay abandoned upright and leaning, and several of the pots are filled with gemstones, ore and cutlery. Above, colourful glass bottles hang from twine, fixed to a rafter extending from the tram; a high powered steel fan too, dormant and gathering dust. Wind-chimes. Sleeping. Restless as she.

  They hadn't spent much time out here together, but during those days where he was too sore to move or too exhausted to try, he'd heard her smacking away at something — witnessed her collection in action in the full pots she’d dragged in through the ceiling shaft. It’s not much bigger than the day that he left; caught in a statis of partial-being.

  He sits her down, but she only just fits and must dig her toes into soil to hold herself still.

  “What happened back there?”

  Straight to the point. No time to waste.

  The girl bats it away. “It’s nothing! Nothing! I got excited is all.” She tries to laugh, but the sound is broken, her body already turning away, closing off.

  He settles his hands on her shoulders, centres her again.

  “Not in there, Roach. What happened at the temple?”

  Her face changes. Drops. She swallows; another choked laugh accompanies the dread building in her eyes.

  “You saw… Daisy got an upgrade…”

  “They knew you.”

  “They didn't—”

  “I heard them.”

  “I'm always arguing with them. I—I'm always giving them trouble—”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  His eyes drift to her shirt.

  Her hands tighten into fists.

  “I hurt them worse.”

  He waits for more. Nothing comes.

  “What did you want from them? What was in the safe?”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I-I-”

  “Don’t lie.”

  Her voice rises. “It’s gone! I fixed it.”

  His voice drops. “What did you break to fix it?”

  Her injured eye has swollen completely closed now, her lower lip quivering in the dark.

  “Something’s wrong with you. Not just the regular stuff either.”

  She might snicker, but the sound is sucked up when she pinches her eyes closed again. He leans closer, studies the twitch in her cheek, the way she seems to be blocking it all out.

  “Talk to me, Roach.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “Those voices do?”

  She tenses.

  “The ones that you play with?”

  He can see the lump forming in her throat before she swallows it. “They—they help.”

  “What do they help with?”

  “You’re always asking questions!”

  “I want to know.”

  “You don’t need to know everything.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  His hand finds hers.

  “You’re not remembering them.” He tells her and she freezes. “You’re letting them steer.”

  “They—”

  “You’re not talking like you.”

  She rises suddenly, face inflamed, incensed, snatching her hand away.

  “I’m keeping us safe! It’s good advice, only the good advice—it isn’t all bad.”

  Anxiety begins to worm its way into Rivin’s gut, and yet he doesn’t move away; no—he can see the tears again. The ones she refuses to shed.

  “You’re letting them take too much.”

  She pauses — momentarily. “Take? No, not take.”

  “You’re barely in that tram.”

  “I’m not needed.”

  “You are!”

  “I can’t!”

  “Roach, you don’t need to be anyone—”

  “You don’t understand! Not gone. Not gone. Not gone!” She leans closer with every proclamation, nostrils flaring before she sags again, shaking the ringing from her ears. “I gotta — I gotta keep... I’m keeping them—I’m—I have to keep moving forward, but—but—I need them. I-If they’re gone…” Her voice trails off.

  “Are they gone? Are these dead men, Roach?”

  “They should be!” She smacks her temple hard — too hard — before angling away, howling at the darkness. “You should be!”

  His heart is churning in his chest, his voice rougher than he intends it to be.

  “They’re not here, Roach. They’re not you.”

  She doesn’t respond right away, merely exhales shakily and slumps back into her seat. “Not gone…”

  She grips her head, but Rivin takes her hands, rubs his thumbs against her palms, and holds her overflowing eyes with an immovable stare.

  “It’s okay to hold them.” His voice is soothing, or trying to be. “It’s okay to not let go.”

  Her hands are so small. So small and shaking. He traces the lines in her skin, the calluses born far too early.

  “But, where will Roach go when you run out of room?”

  Quiet, for a moment too long.

  “She was only ever supposed to be temporary.”

  His heart stops.

  What does that mean?

  Rivin squeezes her fingers and drops his gaze, can't face her to say:

  “I don’t want her to be.”

  Ten heartbeats pound between them before she answers.

  “She left you, remember?”

  His eyes return, snapping up and severe. “She came back.”

  “I could’ve killed you all.”

  He’s found her fingers again, weaves them between his own.

  “We’re still here.” He smiles, weary and unsure. “Plus some extras.”

  She doesn’t bite, merely falls into a quiet so heavy it eats up the shadow and constricts around the void.

  Rivin lets it linger, watching for changes in her face.

  Her words are whispered when she speaks, dreadful in tone.

  “Something’s coming, Ghost.”

  He leans closer to hear, to catch sight of the single tear that beads victoriously down her swollen cheek.

  “What’s coming, Roach?”

  “Something big… Bigger than a Halidom Sweep.”

  His stomach sinks. His mouth is dry.

  “They don’t do sweeps anymore.”

  He wishes he sounded convincing, but his voice is tight, his jaw is too.

  It'd been two decades since Halidom last cleansed the Lowrealm.

  She scoffs. “I said bigger.”

  His pulse thunders inside of his head. “What did you find inside of that safe…?”

  “I never got it open.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Evidence.”

  He clenches his teeth. “Of?”

  “A mistake!” More silent fat tears gather at her chin to plop against his thigh. “A mistake bleeding over.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I don’t know—I found echoes. Familiar pieces but not right. I felt it. I felt him.”

  “You’ve got to tell me what you were looking for.”

  She breathes in. Shudders out. Quiet again, as she builds up the courage. She shakes her head like she can’t bear it before softly, so softly, she confesses.

  He misses it the first time.

  “What?” He leans in closer.

  “A bomb.”

  Rivin stills. Everything does.

  He waits for her to laugh or scream, to throw the echo of a dead man at his face or rip a shoe in half, something tangible and mad, something crazy — but she doesn't.

  “You’re sure?”

  She shakes her head, looking him in the eye. “No.”

  That’s worse.

  Yet, he doesn't believe her, recalling all too vividly the steeple and its shattered wall — the filing cabinets, scattered papers, and the dead.

  “You were sure enough to blow the room apart.”

  “They shouldn’t have it. They shouldn’t have any of his stuff.” Her eyes — or rather the one still open — are full basins of molten gold, melted and flowing inward. “I’m where he lives now. I’m supposed to be the keeper.”

  Rivin holds his breath for a beat, squeezing her fingers just barely.

  “You’re not supposed to be anything but a little girl.”

  It must have been the wrong thing to say, for she pulls back her hand and folds it inside her lap.

  “I’m a queen.”

  “And who are they?”

  She tilts her head.

  “The voices?”

  Silence again.

  He regains her hand, just the tips of her fingers. “A medic…?” Drags his touch across the fat of her palm. “A…?”

  She watches, let's the question go unanswered for a beat, before:

  “… Soldier.”

  Rivin smiles. “A medic and a soldier.”

  “Budget cuts.”

  He chuckles. “You did say.” His hand continues along her wrist. “Ricket is a fast learner, you know?”

  She’s watching him cautiously now.

  “I… know.”

  “And… I can fight.”

  Her brow rises.

  “And?” she asks.

  Rivin shifts closer, close enough so that his knee brushes hers.

  “You’re doing too much.”

  Her mouth twitches. “That’s called kingdom-building.”

  “That’s called burning out.”

  “Everything that burns—”

  “Burns out.”

  She grows still. Stares at him hard.

  “Rises.” She corrects, but only after too long.

  “Let me help you.”

  She might flinch.

  “You’re volunteering?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “I am.”

  Her head tilts. “For which one?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately, only looks past her and at the stone shelf, the bottles, the pickaxe left where it fell.

  “The soldier,” he says finally. “That one’s loudest.”

  Her fingers tighten in her lap. “He’s not—”

  “I know,” Rivin cuts in. Not sharp. Just firm. “But he doesn’t need to live in your head if he can live inside me.”

  Silence.

  “You don’t get to command him,” she says quietly.

  “I won’t,” he agrees. “But I’ll act when he would.”

  Her breathing stutters. Just once.

  “And what do I get?” she sounds smaller now.

  Rivin meets her eye. Doesn’t look away.

  “You stay,” he says. “All of you.”

  She swallows.

  “No disappearing into them when it hurts. That’s the deal,” he continues gently. “I’ll carry one. You teach the others to carry what’s left.”

  She stares at him like he’s said something impossible.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do,” he says. “I’m asking you to be here tomorrow.”

  The fire crackles in the distance. He tilts closer before she closes the distance, resting their foreheads together.

  He can count her freckles this close.

  “Will… you be too?”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  Her pulse is slowing against his fingers.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Her copper gaze flickers, drawls over the steel of his stare, and finds anchor there.

  Finally — finally — she nods.

  Just once.

  “…Deal.”