ing and not moving. It felt—endless. Like I was nowhere. I was—I was
there so long. I kept thinking that eventually someone would come
but— " She shook her head. "When I see dark places and I don't know
where they end, I feel like I'll disappear inside them, but this time, I'll
never be found."
She sounded irrational. She was irrational, but there was no help for
it; there was a schism between her reason and her mind, a fault line
shearing them forever apart. Her mind did not care whether the fear
made sense; it just wanted to never go back.
Ferron was silent for so long that she finally looked up at him, mor-
bidly curious, but he was unreadable. Still as a statue as he stared at her.
It was the first time she'd bothered to just look at him, to see him for
what he was, rather than who he was.
His clothing hid it well, but he was strangely slight. Not at all built
like an iron alchemist. He didn't even have the look or presence of a
combat alchemist. She couldn't imagine him with a heavy weapon in
hand.
Aside from the predatory intensity to his eyes, his features were al-
most too fine, like a statue carved a stroke too far.
Everything about him was slim and sharp edged.
"You know," Ferron said, breaking her from her thoughts, "when I
heard it was you I'd be getting, I was looking forward to breaking you."
He shook his head. "But I don't think it's possible to exceed what
you've done to yourself."
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CHAPTER 7
Ferron took her to and from the courtyard each day. His
mood was always dark after that, and he'd mockingly point out the lo-
cation of the various light switches that she was "too dense" to observe
on her own.
He was so condescending, she wanted to throw a rock at him and
was disappointed when she found nothing outside but little pieces of
finely milled white gravel.
The courtyard bored her. It was tedious and bitterly cold, the winter
snow bearing down in the clouds, although there was never more than
a dusting on the ground— enough to leave her feet numb with cold.
When alone, she ventured out of her room, determined to find a
passable weapon; even a furniture nail would do. If Ferron wouldn't slip
up and do it, she'd kill herself before another transference session ar-
rived.
In the hours when light trickled through the east windows, if she
stayed near the walls and thought very carefully about breathing, she
could manage the excursions.
But whenever she left her room for long, the necrothralls began ma-
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104 • SenLinYu
terialising likes ghosts. They didn't try to stop her or herd her back into
her room; they just watched her, hovering like apparitions.
She tried to ignore them along with the creaks and groans of the
house, the shifting shadows, but they made it impossible for her to find
any means of suicide. She persisted doggedly, but most of the rooms
were locked tight, and those that weren't held nothing but old furniture
and useless knickknacks.
In one old room, she found a painting crammed behind a disas-
sembled bed frame. It was covered by a dustcloth. She pulled it out,
curious.
Drawing the fabric back, it was a portrait of the Ferron family. Not
Ferron and Aurelia, but Ferron as a boy with his parents.
Atreus Ferron, the former patriarch, was a large man Helena vaguely
remembered seeing at the Institute. He had hawkish features, a harshly
lined face, and heavy brows that shadowed pale-blue eyes. He was ele-
gantly dressed, but the family's lineage as blacksmiths and ironmongers
was plain to see in his build, his broad shoulders and huge hands with
heavy iron rings decorating the fingers.
Kaine Ferron stood beside his father. He looked exactly as she re-
membered him from the Institute, so unlike the distilled iteration he
would become. His face was fuller, and while he was almost the same
height as his father, he had none of the build that made the patriarch so
intimidating. Ferron was gangly, with the air of a colt. All his airs a clear
imitation of the man looming beside him. His brown hair was lighter
than his father's but styled identically, his expression and posture also
mirroring Atreus, dark brows drawn down over hazel eyes.
The central figure of the portrait was a woman in a pale-grey dress.
She wore an iron ring on her wedding finger, but her hands were so
delicate that it looked out of place on her. She was slight as a willow,
with a heart-shaped face, grey eyes, and a small chin framed by ash-
brown hair. If Helena had seen a portrait of her alone, she would never
have guessed that this was Ferron's mother, but side by side, she could
see her influence in his build, the way her features softened Ferron's,
erasing the harsh hawkish angles and build he would have inherited
from his father; but there was the greatest likeness in their mouths and
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Alchemised • 105
something in the light and tilt of their eyes.
Helena studied the faces for a long time before noticing that the
portrait was incomplete. The details of their clothing and the motifs
usually included in such portraiture were all absent. As if something
had interrupted it, and that was why it was abandoned.
She let the dustcloth slip from her fingers and tucked the painting
back into its hiding place. Her mind flipped like a coin between the
dark- haired Ferron in the painting and the silvery-pale iteration that
now existed.
"The inflammation is nearly gone," Stroud announced two weeks
later, bringing Mandl with her once again, and pressing her resonance
intrusively into Helena's brain until her vision turned red. "I think
monthly sessions will do. Although"—she picked up Helena's wrist, in-
specting her muscle tone with disapproval—"you're not recovering the
way I'd hoped. Are you going outside daily?"
"Yes. The High Reeve has been ensuring it."
"And exercising? The stronger your constitution is, the more likely
you'll handle transference without any more febrile seizures."
Helena stared at Stroud in speechless disbelief at this revelation that
no one had seen fit to reveal previously. She'd had seizures?
Stroud stared back expectantly, and it took her a moment to remem-
ber that the woman thought walks might prevent them.
"Yes," Helena bit out.
"Good. It's been noted that you have a nervous disorder."
Helena's jaw tensed. Of course, Ferron would have told Stroud.
"Yes. I don't like—dark places I don't know."
There was snort of laughter from Mandl.
"Well, not much to be done about that," Stroud said, and resumed
her examination of Helena. "You know, it's a pity I can't use you as one
of my program's trial subjects. I was rereading your admission paper-
work. You had a remarkable repertoire."
Helena's throat closed.
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106 • SenLinYu
"The Holdfasts did love collecting rare alchemists," said Mandl.
Helena bit her tongue until she tasted blood.
Stroud nodded. "Once the High Reeve is done with you, I think I
might request to have you next."
Helena's chin snapped up. "Well, you won't have much luck with me.
I'm sterilised."
She winced as Stroud's resonance suddenly jabbed into her lower
abdomen. A moment later, disappointment and anger lit Stroud's face.
"When did this happen?"
Helena looked away, staring across the room so hard, her vision
blurred. "It was one of the conditions the Falcon had for allowing me in
the city. Since vivimancy is a corruption of the soul that begins in the
womb, it could—it could be passed on. I'd already taken vows as a healer
that I wouldn't ever marry or have children, but he—" She swallowed.
"He wanted to be sure."
"And of course you agreed," Stroud said, withdrawing her hand. "Be-
cause you thought they'd accept what you are if you only reduced your-
self enough."
Heat spread along Helena's jaw. "There wasn't any point in refusing.
Like I said, I'd already made the vows."
Stroud chuckled. "Usually, it was children who fell for that lie."
Helena looked at her, eyes narrowing.
Stroud had an arch expression and glanced at Mandl again. "Didn't
you know? Your Eternal Flame was quite adept at identifying potential
vivimancers not even born. It was, what, thirty years ago that Principate
Helios mandated that all pregnancies be managed by the Faith's hospi-
tals. Devout doctors trained to know what to look for and what solu-
tions to offer. What kind of parents would want to keep a monster once
they're warned of the danger?"
Helena's stomach clenched.
"Mandl here was abandoned at birth, raised as an orphan in one of
the aeries. Children like her were told their soul's corruption must be
purified, but that if they did what was asked, they might be wanted
someday." Stroud shrugged. "Of course, neither the Faith nor Paladia
ever did want them for anything but forced labour. And look, they han-
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Alchemised • 107
dled you the same way."
"No," Helena said, shaking her head. "Luc wasn't like that. He didn't
even know about the conditions for me becoming a healer. Or how
healing worked. He wouldn't have let me, if he'd known. People like
Falcon Matias had harsh views, but Luc was always reining people like
the Falcon in. Once it was over, he wanted to—"
"If he didn't know, all that means is that he was a puppet and a fool.
And you're still one," Mandl said, her dead face seething with hatred,
before she turned to Stroud. "You should tell her what His Eminence
did with Holdfast after he killed him."
Helena's stomach dropped like a stone. She looked quickly between
them, but Stroud shook her head. "Remember your place, Mandl."
When they were gone, Helena sat, frozen and wondering what had
happened to Luc.
Of course it was no surprise they hadn't cremated him properly,
but— what had been done that Mandl wanted Helena tortured with
knowledge of ?
Luc had never deserved the cruelty and hatred he'd been subjected
to.
She'd admit he hadn't known everything, but that wasn't because he
was a puppet. The position of Principate was complex. Being a religious
head and ruler was a difficult task, especially during war when he was
expected to be fighting and governing. He couldn't be weighed down by
everyone else's personal decisions.
Some choices had to be made without him, certain sacrifices that
would have paralysed him to make or even know of. That didn't make
him a puppet. It made him human.
Helena had loved him for how human he was. He didn't need to be
Principate or favoured by the gods. He'd been good enough just as he
was.
Ferron made his routine appearance after Helena's inedible lunch.
She went resignedly to fetch her cloak.
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108 • SenLinYu
"No need today," he said. She paused, looking at him warily.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
His fingers spun, and his resonance seized hold of her. She was
pulled forward. Once she was near the bed, his hand flicked, toppling
her back onto the mattress.
Ferron sauntered over, expression bored, the only emotion a glint in
his eyes.
Helena bit her lip to keep quiet, willing her breathing to steady as
she fought against his resonance.
He stared down at her through hooded eyes.
She hadn't even considered this. She should have. She knew he was
a monster, but he'd never shown interest.
As if interest had anything to do with it. Her mind raced. Why now?
Why today? Had Stroud mentioned that Helena was sterile, and he'd
seen that as an opportunity? Something he could exploit without con-
sequence?
A whimper crept up her throat. She wished she could sink through
the surface of the mattress and suffocate there. Wished she could
scream. Her fingers managed to flex, but in the place where her reso-
nance should be, there was nothing but a gaping wound.
His right hand pressed into the mattress by her head, and he turned
her chin until she was looking straight up at him.
Her heart shuddered.
His pupils were contracted, the grey of his irises like a storm.
His cool fingers followed the curve of her jaw to her temple. She lay,
viscerally aware of the almost-weight of his body as his resonance
pierced her mind.
Her mind was like an upturned snow globe, all her thoughts whirl-
ing like snow flurries through her consciousness.
It wasn't transference, but she could still vaguely sense his mind
through the connection. Endured his amusement at all her ideas for
killing him—it had grown into a veritable constellation of fantasies. He
skimmed through them all without concern, and then sank deeper into
her mind, watching her tentative explorations of the house, the court-
yard, the necrothralls, the newspaper she'd stolen, Stroud. The only mo-
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Alchemised • 109
ment in which she felt any glimmer of a reaction from him was at her
constant thoughts of Luc, the scale of her grief.
Then she was in her room reaching for her cloak, and he was closing
the door, and she knew what was about to happen.
The memory evaporated like fog beneath bright sun, and she found
herself lying on the bed, Ferron staring down at her with a scathing
expression on his face. He snatched his hand away.
"I have no desire to touch you," he said, sneering. "Your presence
here is offensive enough."
"Small mercies," Helena said in a dry voice. It wasn't a very clever
retort, but her head was throbbing again, as if the scab on a wound had
been peeled off while the skin was fresh.
He straightened, and she thought he'd walk out in offense, so she
quickly asked the question haunting her.
"Did you kill Principate Apollo?"
He paused and leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms and
cocking his head to the side. "Not . . . officially."
"But it was you. Wasn't it?" The more she'd thought about it, the
more convinced she'd become.
"You don't remember?" He shook his head. "Did you even do any-
thing during the war? The way the Holdfasts used to parade you around,
you'd think you would have at least tried to be useful, but you have the
most unexceptional personnel file I've ever seen." He scoffed. "How
many years of your life did you spend in that hospital? And for what?
Saving people who would have been better off if you'd let them die. But
no, you put them back together and sent them right back out to suffer a
bit more." He gave a slow smile. "Perhaps Stroud's wrong, and you were
sympathetic to our cause."
He couldn't have hurt her more if he'd struck her.
All those years. All the people she'd healed, her resonance knitting
them back together so they could live to fight another day, and for what?
So they could be tortured to death, or enslaved, or—worse?
Until that moment, healing had been the only thing she hadn't felt
guilt over. Luc might be dead, but she had done some good. Now Fer-
ron had ripped that shred of comfort away from her, turning the act into
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110 • SenLinYu
its own form of atrocity.
She clamped her hands over her mouth until she could feel the out-
line of her teeth, curling onto her side.
He laughed. "You Resistance fighters are always easy to break."
He turned to leave.
The grief swelled inside her lungs, but she fought it back. "You didn't
answer my question," she said through gritted teeth.
He paused.
"Right . . . Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you. The High
Necromancer personally requested that I kill the Principate. He'd been
in Paladia for some time already, quietly gathering followers, but with
Apollo in power, the Guild Assembly would never have garnered
enough public support. The country needed to be destabilised, the fu-
ture made to feel uncertain. The Principate was impossible to target in
public with his paladin, guards, and everyone else flocking around, wor-
shipping his radiance. But the Holdfasts were always careless at the
Institute, convinced that anyone who walked through those gates would
be too dazzled by their magnificence to lay a finger on them."
She watched from the corner of her eye as Ferron held up his left
hand, studying it. "I'm sure you know what a fascinating resonance vivi-
mancy is. Sinking my hand into his chest cavity was like breaking the
surface of water. Slipped right in"—his fingers curled—"then I pulled
out his beating heart. You should have seen the shock in his face. I
hadn't realised he'd still be alive for a moment, but he lived just long
enough to know exactly who killed him."
Principate Apollo had been a warm, generous man with an easy
smile, jokes ready for any nervous student who approached. Luc had
been so much like him. The same crooked smile. Being near them felt
like standing in the summer sun.
"I suppose your master was quite pleased with you," she said dully,
not wanting to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her horror.
"He was indeed. They were all waiting for me, when I returned. We
had a celebratory dinner with him, my mother and I. I was declared a
prodigy . . ."
Helena glanced up. His eyes were locked on the window, as though
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Alchemised • 111
his mind had gone elsewhere.
He roused himself, glancing down.
"Any other questions?" He arched an eyebrow as if daring her.
"No," she said quickly, looking away. "You've done enough."
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CHAPTER 8
Luc Holdfast sat on the rooftop of the Alchemy Tower,
hunched back against the tilt of the tiles, as he absently spun an opium pipe in
his fingers. The spire of the Tower, lit with the Eternal Flame, burned above
him, a beacon of white light.
The sun was setting, the world hued with bronze shadows as Helena
clambered across to join him.
He was so gaunt, he already looked older than his father. The war had
chewed him down to the bone. The tendons along his neck stood out like cords
when he swallowed, looked over, and then away again.
"What happened to us, Hel?" he asked as she crouched down beside him.
She stared at the horizon, past all the towers, towards the south.
"A war," she said.
" You used to believe in me. What did I do to make you stop?" His voice
was faraway.
"I still believe in you, Luc," she said. "But we have to win this war; we
can't make choices because we want a certain story to tell later. There's too
much at stake."
"No," he said. "This is how we win. This is how we've always won. My
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Alchemised • 113
father, my grandfather, all the Principates going all the way back to Orion.
They won by trusting that good would triumph over evil, and I have to do
the same."
His thumb flicked against his index finger, ignition rings sparking. Pale
flames flared to life, filling his palm, a light like a small sun. His fingers closed
around them, leaving only a tongue of fire along a fingertip as he tucked the
opium pipe between his lips and brought the flame close to the bowl.
Helena looked away, listening to him inhale.
"What if it's not that simple, though," she said. "Everyone who wins says
they were good, but they're the ones who tell the story. They get to choose how
we'll remember it. What if it's never that simple."
He shook his head. "Orion became sun-blessed because he refused to break
his faith."
Helena exhaled, burying her face in her hands.
She heard his rings spark, and the pipe hissed as the opium vaporised.
"Luc— please, let me help you." She tried to reach towards him.
He flinched away. "Don't—touch me."
He was teetering dangerously close to that immense fall, as if the Abyss
still called to him. She didn't know how to draw him back anymore, what to
say that he'd still hear.
"Do you remember what I promised you, Luc, that night you came out
here?" she asked, her voice pleading.
He gave no response. His gaze had settled back into a dim stupor, the
sunset limning his gaunt features as though gilding him.
"I promised I'd do anything for you." She curled her fingers into a fist.
"Maybe you didn't realise how far I was willing to go."
The memory of Luc lingered in Helena's mind when she woke in the
morning.
She lay in bed, replaying it. It was a forgotten memory, which should
have frightened her, but there seemed to be no information in it that
Ferron could find useful, and she missed Luc desperately, even if it was
a memory bitter as seawater.
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114 • SenLinYu
He'd been smoking opium. How had that happened? He must have
been horrifically injured to be allowed drugs like that. His great-aunt
Ilva, who'd acted as steward for the Principate when Luc was at the
front, had always been reluctant to allow him drugs, preferring to utilise
Helena's abilities than to risk addiction.
But he wouldn't even let Helena touch him.
She lay in bed, turning the memory over and over, taking note of
every detail. The evening light, the way it bronzed his features and il-
luminated his eyes. The nervous, intense way his fingers moved as he'd
sparked his rings, bringing the flames to life.
She'd loved his pyromancy. It always felt more like magic than al-
chemy, the way he could make fire an extension of himself with those
sun- bright flames.
The Holdfasts were always depicted wreathed in fire. The creation of
sacred fire and the alchemisation of gold were the two unique gifts
which Sol bestowed upon the Holdfasts.
Alchemisation, the transformation of one metal into another, was
the most difficult form of alchemy. Prior to Orion Holdfast's founding
of the Institute, early alchemical writing was more entwined with
mythological ideas than science.
The mythical Cetus, often called the first Northern alchemist, was
credited with hundreds, even thousands of the earliest alchemical writ-
ings, which spanned centuries. Scholars had speculated that Cetus was
the name of a school or an alchemical sect. The mystery was later re-
vealed to be a consequence of superstition. Early alchemists were forced
to write pseudonymously, initially to avoid persecution, while later nov-
ice alchemists used the names of more famous alchemists in their at-
tempts to legitimise their theories and discoveries. As a result, "Cetus"
had written almost all the surviving alchemy texts.
While the works of Cetus were considered historically seminal, they
were highly inaccurate, and it was doubted that any alchemist by the
name had even existed, but with no one else to credit, almost all early
alchemical theories and discoveries prior to Paladia's founding remained
attributed to him.
It was Cetus's early writings that established the alchemical princi-
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Alchemised • 115
pal that a metal could only be alchemised into a less noble form, often
in keeping with the planetary hierarchy.
Later, Orion Holdfast discovered the modern principles of alchemi-
sation, overturning Cetus's claims and laying forth the methods and
array principles needed to transform the ignoble metals into those less
corruptible.
In Orion's work, alchemisation was predicated upon spiritual purity;
only an alchemist with a soul was as pure as the element they sought to
create could alchemise it.
It was Sol's own light and purity bestowed in blessing upon the
Holdfasts that endowed them with the divine ability to turn lead into
pure gold.
However, Luc had always preferred pyromancy. There were strict
rules the family had to abide by when alchemising gold. The heavenly
metal could not be abused or used for selfish purposes; after all, the
neighbouring countries' and Paladia's own currency had to be respected.
There were rules about fire, too, but not nearly so elaborate as those in-
volving gold production.
She remembered the first time Luc showed her his fire. She'd been
sure the flames would burn him, but they simply danced across the sur-
face of his fingers, shining like a star in his hand.
Even without the flames, she'd always felt warm near Luc; even the
cold Paladian winters were thawed by his presence. All alone now, she
missed him so intensely, her bones and skin ached for the familiarity
and comfort of a hug.
Helena had finished with her exploration of the second-floor wing
and resolved to explore the downstairs next.
She stood, staring down the shadowy twist of the stairs as the win-
dowpanes rattled like chattering teeth, the wind moaning through the
corridor.
Her fingers curled tight around the banister, smooth as bone against
her palm. She squeezed until she could feel the wood grain, wrist twing-
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116 • SenLinYu
ing against the manacle.
She refused the let her eyes sink into the shadows as she stepped
forward.
She thought about the cliffs on Etras, the endless roar of the sea. In
her memory, she was a child again, scrambling among tide pools during
the summer Abeyance when Lumithia waned and the sea retreated,
leaving its bed laid bare and full of treasures. The brilliant summer sun
radiating across her skin.
Helena would go south. Run away and follow the river from the
mountains all the way to the sea and sail home.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and found a necrothrall waiting,
all the amber lights already aglow. Ferron's wordless reminder that she
could do nothing and go nowhere without his knowledge.
She swallowed hard, letting go of the fantasy. She would die in
Spirefell.
The rooms on the main floor flowed from one to the next. Spirefell
seemed to have more rooms than the Ferrons had ever known what to
do with.
"Come back here, I'm not done with you." A harsh voice made Hel-
ena freeze before she realised it was not directed at her.
"There's nothing more to say," came Ferron's voice. "I'm not inter-
ested."
"Don't walk away from me! Disobey me and I'll have you disowned,
your name stricken from the guild!"
Helena peeked out into the corridor to see Ferron turning to face the
lich that she'd seen with Stroud at Central, the one using Crowther's
body.
"You're dead, Father. Perhaps you forgot. That corpse has no claim to
my estate or my inheritance. And"—Ferron's voice grew pointed—"you
have no iron resonance inside that body. Regardless of the titles the
guild indulges you with, you have no real power. It took nearly a year
before anyone even remembered you, and longer before they wanted
you back. The only reason I let you continue as guildmaster is because I
have better things to do with my time than dealing with the minutiae
of factory management."
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Alchemised • 117
The lich's face darkened until it was almost purple with rage. Helena
would never have guessed this was Atreus Ferron. Crowther was a dif-
ferent build entirely, so slight he was needle-like and more than half a
head shorter than Ferron.
"I should have refused your mother's pleas and had you killed in the
womb," Atreus said, his face contorted with rage. "You deserve none of
the suffering we endured for you."
Ferron seemed unfazed, even slightly bored.
"A pity you didn't, if it would have spared me this tedious conversa-
tion." He turned away, his grey eyes still alight with scorn. "Get out of
this house, Father, before I have it throw you out."
Helena ducked back out of sight, dreading discovery. The necrothrall
tailing her blinked placidly.
"You'll regret this. The High Necromancer will remember that you
did not volunteer yourself."
"The High Necromancer knows exactly where I am and what I'm
doing. If he wants something, he won't have it relayed by the likes of
you. After all, how many times did you manage to fail him to be banned
from receiving a corpse with iron resonance? Was it the second time or
the third?"
There was a snarl, followed by the sudden scream of metal and a
thud. She peeked out again. Atreus was on the ground; one of the bars
of iron in the floor had caught around his leg, pulling him back towards
the main wing of the house.
He was clawing at the ground, scrabbling, trying to escape but only
succeeding in nearly ripping his fingers off. Atreus screamed with rage,
mouth frothing, the noises practically animal.
Ferron idly followed. "I'd be careful with that corpse. Pyromancy is a
rare ability, you know. Give yourself a few more months, and I'm sure
you'll manage a spark."
Helena scuttled back to her room once they were gone, just a
glimpse of the house in action had made her far more wary. She'd un-
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118 • SenLinYu
derstood in theory that it was malleable, but seeing the reality of it
turned every bit of wrought- iron filigree ominous.
It was not her imagination: The house was almost alive.
And so was Atreus—or reanimated. She would have sworn he'd
been executed before the Undying had appeared.
She kept trying to piece together the bits and pieces of her missing
memories, but it was difficult to know if she'd forgotten something or
never been informed in the first place. After all, a healer didn't merit
much in the way of security clearance. Her only knowledge of the bat-
tles and military strategy was trying to stanch the sea of blood that
followed.
Despite knowing how dangerous it was, she couldn't help but try to
unravel the mystery of what she'd forgotten. Her mind itched for con-
text. Yes, she was playing a cat-and-mouse game with Ferron, her igno-
rance her only defence. But it didn't feel protective. It felt like walking
blind, with her skin sheared off.
Her mind circled relentlessly, treating every new piece of informa-
tion as a potential clue, turning it one way and other, trying to see if it
fit into any of the gaps. What could she have possibly known that would
need to be hidden like this?
Stop thinking. She slotted her feet under the wardrobe and began
doing sit-ups until her abdominal muscles burned. Lila used to do it in
their room when she was anxious and off duty.
Helena needed to focus on Ferron, on finding some way to provoke
him into killing her.
He had to have some kind of weakness she could exploit.
Kaine Ferron, where is the chink in your perfect armour?
As if on cue, the door opened, and he walked in.
He stared down at where her feet were tucked under the wardrobe
and the way she was laid out, panting from exertion.
"You've found something to do with yourself, I see."
She forced herself to roll over and stand, biting back a wince when
she pushed herself up.
He was early for their walk, and this aberration in the daily routine
made her suspicious.
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Alchemised • 119
"Come here," he said, withdrawing a vial containing several small
white tablets, watching her reaction to it.
"What are those?" she asked when he unscrewed the top and tapped
one out.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll tell you if you swallow it like a good girl."
Helena pressed her lips tightly together.
Despite healers generally lacking formal medical training, Helena
was intimately acquainted with medicine. She knew very well the power
and danger in something as innocuous as a small white tablet.
"You know I'm not going to kill you," Ferron said, his eyes glittering
with amusement. "After all, if I were, you'd feel obliged to come run-
ning."
Helena glowered at him. Poison was only one of the innumerable
possibilities.
Ferron didn't give her an opportunity to choose between compliance
and resistance. His resonance settled in her bones and pried her mouth
open. He lifted her chin with a finger and dropped the tablet onto the
back of her tongue, forcing her to swallow.
It slid like a pebble down her oesophagus.
She expected him to release her immediately, but instead he pulled
off his gloves and took her face in his hands, fingertips pressing along
her jaw.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she kicked him
violently in the shin.
His jaw twitched, but he didn't let go. Her legs simply stopped mov-
ing.
"I hate you," she forced out between her clenched teeth.
He paid her no mind as his eyes went out of focus.
She could tell that he was doing some kind of complex transmuta-
tion to her. Something was happening. She should have been panicking,
trying to resist as Ferron's resonance sank into her biochymistry. In-
stead, she became completely calm.
She could feel him altering her as if she were an instrument he was
tuning; tampering, adjusting, manipulating her until she felt empty.
He let go.
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120 • SenLinYu
She jerked away, expecting the feelings to come rushing back. Vivi-
mancy of that type was practically useless because it required a constant
resonance connection to maintain.
Yet her emotions didn't come back.
They were somewhere else. Present but distant. Removed.
Ferron watched as she stood there, left intellectualising her confu-
sion.
She stared at him. It was as though a piece of glass had been slotted
between them. She was aware she hated him. This was a piece of infor-
mation that seemed of utmost importance, and yet she couldn't feel it.
Hatred was a construct rather than an emotion.
"How do you feel?" His sharp eyes were cataloguing her every detail.
Her skin prickled with awareness of his scrutiny, a shiver running
down her spine, but she didn't feel the corresponding wash of fear. Just
awareness. Her hands had stopped spasming.
"I feel cold," she said. "Numb. What are those tablets?"
"They were developed during the war. It's a sort of holding effect on
physiological transmutations that would otherwise be temporary."
Helena blinked, wondering at how that could work. It must have
been developed using chymiatria in tandem with vivimancy; developed
in stages, addressing each of the various hormones and—
Ferron snapped his fingers in front of her face. "The purpose of this
is to acclimate you to the house so I don't have to waste my time escort-
ing you everywhere, not so you can have something to reverse-engineer.
Out."
Helena was unfazed. It was bizarre how empty she felt. Scarcely
human. As if nothing meant anything or had any consequences. The
tablets took away the good feelings as much as the bad. She was carved
out and empty. An abyss instead of a human.
"Is this what it's like to be you?"
He gave a dry laugh. "Like it?"
She considered. It was certainly easier to be near Ferron now that
she didn't feel overwhelmed by how much she hated him, and afraid of
his capacity to hurt her. She was still excruciatingly aware of how dan-
gerous he was, but without the sickening physical reaction of that
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Alchemised • 121
knowledge.
"It feels like I'm dead," she said.
He made an odd sound. "Well, the effect is temporary. It'll only last
a few hours."
He gestured towards the door, but Helena remained where she was,
eyes narrowing.
"You're being different to me now. You're less mean." She furrowed
her eyebrows in confusion—a feeling she was still, apparently, capable
of experiencing.
He stepped towards her and leaned so close, his breath ran along the
length of her neck.
"Why would I torture you when you won't react?" he asked softly in
her ear.
He straightened, raising an eyebrow. "See? Nothing. No elevated
pulse, no pounding heart. I could bring in one of your little friends, and
peel their skin off right here in front of you, and you wouldn't react." He
shook his head. "There's no fun in that."
Helena nodded, her own ideas developing. This would be the perfect
state to be in to finally kill herself without any sense of self-preservation
holding her back.
"Outside," he said again, a look of irritation flashing across his face
as if somehow reading her intentions. Helena retrieved her cloak with a
sigh. The lights in the hall were all off, only the dim illumination of
daylight trickling through the windows, but she was unafraid. She knew
they were only shadows.
She descended the stairs and went to the veranda, standing in the
doorway for a moment, but the courtyard was of no interest to her.
She turned to explore the house. She couldn't help but wonder at
Ferron's choice to drug her. Wasn't it more convenient for her to be
afraid?
He had to have some kind of fail-safe, some trick of keeping an eye
on her that she hadn't realised yet.
She stopped in her tracks, a sudden thought occurring to her, one
which had never entered her mind when she'd been consumed by
thoughts of shadows.
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122 • SenLinYu
She turned around and walked back towards the west wing. Ferron
was on the veranda, reading a book. He glanced through the open door,
but she ignored him, ascending the stairs, scanning every corner as she
went towards her room.
She'd rarely looked up. The ceilings were shadowy, the darkness al-
ways pressing down on her when she looked too long. She'd focused on
her most immediate surroundings, the walls within reach, the next place
she'd step, the space between the shadows. She didn't look up.
There were two dead maids in her room, turning down the bed, the
windows thrown open. They dropped the duvet and instantly snapped
the windows shut, locking them as Helena entered.
She ignored them, seizing hold of the armchair and dragging it over
to the far corner of the room as the manacles bumped against the bones
inside her wrist. She stood on the chair and finally resorted to tilting it
against the wall, clambering up the back so she could get a good look at
the high- up corner nearest the door.
Tucked into the shadow was an eye encased in glass. It swivelled, the
pupil contracting, as if it were still alive, and stared straight at her.
The iris was a beautiful, deep blue.
They're offering a lot of money for eyes, Grace had said.
The upholstery of the chair was slick. Helena slid back, and it thun-
ked onto four legs just as Ferron walked in.
"Took you long enough," he said.
"Are you always watching me?" she finally asked, still staring at the
corner. The eye was so cleverly concealed that she could scarcely make it
out. How many did he have in the house? It couldn't be the only one if
the speed at which the necrothralls found her was anything to go by.
He scoffed. "Hardly. You're terribly boring."
She should be horrified. She would be—but it would have to happen
later. In the moment, all she felt was curiosity. She looked at him. He
had a book on poisonous plants in hand, index finger marking his page.
"How does that work? I didn't know you could—reanimate parts."
"It's actually easier than thralls," he said, coming to stand beside her.
"Reanimation is like electricity. Just channelling the right kind of en-
ergy to where it needs to go and keeping it there. It takes barely any-
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Alchemised • 123
thing to maintain something so small once it's encased in the proper
preservatives."
That was less interesting than she'd hoped. She turned to watch the
maids, who were finishing with the room.
They were remarkably reanimated. A person might not notice they
were dead. They were agile and precise in their tasks and without any
signs of decomposition. It was undeniable that Ferron had a horrific
talent for necromancy.
It had to take a tremendous amount of mental resources to maintain
and independently monitor them to behave like that. There was a reason
necrothralls were mostly used for repetitive labour and battle hordes:
Complex tasks were beyond their limited mental capacity.
How was that possible?
She looked at Ferron, scrutinising him.
"You're not a homunculus, are you?" She felt ridiculous asking the
question. Artificial humans were considered as mythical as chimaeras or
philosopher stones. One of the many ideas attributed to Cetus in the
prescientific era.
Of the three, homunculi were a particularly enduring concept. The
idea was that by placing a man's seed in a cucurbit with the proper en-
vironment of stable warmth, it could come to life on its own. After
being fed distilled blood, it could grow into a human of limitless al-
chemical potential and utterly without flaws because it was unspoiled
by the inferior environment and contributions of a female womb—the
source of all humanity's flaws.
Ferron stared. "Pardon?"
"Never mind," she said quickly. Obviously, he wasn't; she'd known
him as an ordinary boy, and a "flawless" human would not be a mass
murderer. "I'm just trying to figure you out."
He laughed. "I suppose I should be flattered that that's what you
came up with, but no, I'm not a homunculus." There was a pause. "Al-
though Bennet did spend years trying to grow one. All he ended up
with was a lot of cucurbits of putrefied sperm."
She grimaced but eyed him again.
There was undeniably something done to Ferron. With Morrough
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124 • SenLinYu
in his monstrous and distorted form, it made sense that he'd have un-
natural abilities as result of whatever transmutations he'd performed on
himself, but Ferron looked mostly human.
Where did the power come from? She studied him.
Supposedly there were crystals and precious stones with properties
useful for resonance. In early myths of Orion Holdfast, Sol's blessing
was described as a huge celestial stone. Amulets featuring crystals had
been long popular as a result. Necklaces and brooches had been sold in
Paladian shops and stands to visiting pilgrims who considered the city-
state as particularly sacred to the Faith, often with promises that they
would strengthen or expand an alchemist's resonance or repertoire, en-
suring admission to the Institute.
Many students wore heirloom jewellery, and the official figures of
the Faith often wore items set with sunstones.
She studied Ferron for any jewellery or signs of an amulet. Guild
families usually wore signet rings and a variety of pins and brooches to
indicate their orders and exclusive clubs, but in stark contrast with his
wife and father, Ferron usually wore nothing, not even a wedding band.
The only piece visible was a slender, dark metal ring on his right hand.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied it.
"What kind of ring is that?" she asked.
He looked down. "This?" he asked, as if there were any other rings
she could have been referring to. He turned his hand. "Just an old piece."
He slipped it off and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively, disap-
pointed to discover that it wasn't an unusual black metal at all, but a
severely tarnished silver ring, as if he never took it off to care for it. It
was hand-forged rather than transmutationally crafted; she could see
the hammer marks that had beaten a scaled, almost geometric pattern
onto it.
A bizarre thing for an iron alchemist to wear.
She could feel him watching and wondered what he'd do if she swal-
lowed it.
"Don't swallow it."
She looked up.
He gave her a sidelong look. "You're lucky the national exam never
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Alchemised • 125
tested for an ability to lie. You have a transparent face."
He held out his hand for the ring. Helena debated popping it into
her mouth solely to provoke him.
Irritation flickered in his eyes. "Try it, and I'll bring it back up again.
All you'll get is a sore throat."
She dropped the ring into his palm, and he slid it back onto his fin-
ger.
"Why all this sudden interest in me?" he asked.
She shrugged. "You don't make sense."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that all? And here I was hoping you
were plotting to seduce me."
She stared at him blankly.
He gave a mocking smile. "Steal my heart with your wit and charms."
Helena scoffed.
"Who knows, perhaps I have a proclivity for—" He paused, studying
her, trying to find something.
Helena walked away. "Maybe tomorrow."
On her own, it was nice, feeling like a functioning person again. Hel-
ena had forgotten how easy it was to exist when her mind and body
couldn't betray her.
She was determined not to waste the effects of the tablet and moved
through the house quickly, puzzling over the drug's composition as she
went.
Her parents had practised medicine. Her mother as an apothecary,
and her father as a traditional surgeon trained in Khem. Helena had
grown up surrounded by herbs and tinctures and medical procedures. It
wasn't formal training, but it was enough that she'd been a quick study
as a healer, much to the distaste of her religious superior, Falcon Matias.
She'd once tried to tell him that the principles of healing followed
the same rules as any form of medicine, citing her parents' work. It was
like manual versus alchemical metallurgy: The use of resonance did not
alter the fundamental principles.
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126 • SenLinYu
He'd been so incensed, he'd made Helena spend two days in a chantry
offering penance for daring to compare her corrupted resonance to that
of the Noble Art.
According to Matias's stringent understanding of the Faith, necro-
mancy, in addition to its violation of dead, was also a violation of the
natural cycle and natural law, and vivimancy stemmed from the same
corrupt form of resonance.
Healing was permitted within limits because it was categorized as a
spiritual intercession, something selfless and divinely led.
Helena had never understood why, but the Institute, which generally
treated science and the Faith as complementary to each other, strictly
banned the study of vivimancy even for healing. Most healers tended to
appear in remote places in the Novis Mountains and were only taught
to work by intuition, their success or failure left to the will of Sol. No
"science" about it.
Helena learned to hold her tongue and pretend that her unusual tal-
ent for healing was divine and not because she understood the systems
and functions of the human body.
The tablet Ferron had forced down her throat was a clear demon-
stration of the potential if healing were allowed to be scientific. It
seemed to have some kind of vasoconstriction component. A glycoside,
perhaps synthesised from foxglove. She tried to remember if she'd no-
ticed anything that might have indicated mineral acids, and maybe . . .
"Awful, aren't they?" Aurelia's voice floated down the hallways from
the foyer. "They were inside at first, but it doesn't matter how much
they're doused, they just reek. I told Kaine I'd set them on fire if they
stayed inside another day."
"He won't just get you new ones?" It was a man's voice.
"No." Aurelia's tone was petulant. "I've asked and asked, but they're
Central's, so we must keep them. Everyone else has new thralls all the
time, but Kaine never wants to change them. Then he finally brings
some new ones, and they're those awful things."
"For the prisoner, I suppose."
"Of course." Aurelia's voice turned sour. "The whole house has been
turned upside down because of her. Just look at the banisters. They make
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Alchemised • 127
the foyer look like some giant birdcage, but Kaine insists we keep them
like this now. He bites my head off if I even leave a door open, and the
thralls are never around when I need them. It's so embarrassing. I saw
Lotte Durant the other day. Her husband gets her new thralls as soon
as the old ones start getting ugly. Lets her pick them out and every-
thing. They do whatever she tells them. Even awful things sometimes—
it's so funny. One of the girl ones scorched Lotte's new silk, and you
should have seen what Lotte had all the rest of them do to it. Chills just
thinking about it. I wanted to punish one of mine once, and Kaine
showed up saying they're his and if I want to torture any, I'd have to
make my own . . . Well, I would if I could."
Helena followed Aurelia's voice and discovered that the foyer had
been transformed since she'd last seen it. The rails had been reshaped
into iron bars stretching all the way up to the ceiling, making it impos-
sible to jump from the landings or from the stairs. Ferron was clearly
taking no risks.
Down below, Aurelia and her companion walked into the next room,
still discussing how unfair and unsympathetic Ferron was as a husband.
The details of the ouroboros on the foyer floor showed up better
from the third floor, even with the bars. Helena stared down, studying
the wings, the spines, the fangs, and the sleek body curving into a circle
as it consumed itself.
The next morning, Helena lay pinned to her mattress as if a boulder
had been dropped onto her chest. A lash of despair, and grief, and
anger— all the feelings she'd been unable to experience the day before—
had come back, redoubled, so heavy she could barely breathe.
The period of respite made it all hurt even more; the momentary
relief, making the magnitude of its weight even more tangible. She
could feel herself crumbling.
Her spine and neck were overheated while the rest of her body was
clammy and ice-cold, the sheets and nightclothes damp with a strong
mineral scent. There'd definitely been mineral salts in the tablet.
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128 • SenLinYu
She rolled onto her side and was violently sick on the floor.
She slumped down, shivering, limbs leaden. She wanted to strangle
Ferron and then crawl into a hole and die. She was hot and cold and
thirsty and pathetically desperate for comfort.
If even one of the necrothralls had walked in and stroked her hair,
she probably would have wept.
A wave of loneliness struck so sharply, she gave a heaving sob and
almost burst into tears anyway.
The door opened, and one of the necrothralls did enter, but only to
clean the mess.
She lay in bed sick until evening, shivering and sweating until she
passed out from exhaustion.
When Ferron arrived the next day, Helena glared daggers at him. He
could have warned her about the withdrawal.
He waited for her to retrieve her cloak, but rather than lead the way,
he stood and let her walk past.
The hallway was unlit. She could feel the shadows, the dark looming,
but she kept her fingers tracing along the wainscotting and her focus on
her next step. She knew her way. Even in the dark, she could find it now.
When she reached the courtyard, Ferron appeared on the veranda,
observing her like a scientist with a test subject.
She sighed and began a tedious walk around the courtyard. When
she finished the first loop, he was already gone.
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CHAPTER 9
A note arrived on Helena's lunch tray a few days later.
Transference tonight was written on the card in a brusque script.
Ferron entered the room at eight. He said nothing, he just went and
stood next to her chair, waiting.
She could have tried to struggle, but she knew it was futile. She went
over, nauseous with dread, the memory of the fevers and the nightmares
already gripping her.
As she seated herself, he slid his gloves off and stepped into place
behind her.
She kept her eyes straight ahead until he tilted her head back.
He was more careful than he'd been the first time. Apparently febrile
seizures were enough to merit a degree of caution.
The pressure from his resonance developed more gradually. It felt
like diving too deep underwater, and when the weight finally began to
crush her, it was too late to escape. His resonance smothered her con-
sciousness until her thoughts fragmented, flattened. Her vision turned
red, and something warm ran from the corners of her eyes and over her
temples.
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130 • SenLinYu
There was a horrible humming pressure, and then Ferron was melded
into her consciousness as if they'd coalesced.
For better or worse, she was brutally conscious and coherent this
time.
"I hate you," she rasped out, and let him feel every ounce of her
loathing. If there was a time to provoke him, it was surely now. During
a procedure this dangerous, he couldn't afford to make any mistakes, but
she couldn't move.
I hate you. Traitor. Coward. I hate you.
Ferron paid no notice. He was eerily still, as if distracted by the alien
plane of existence he had forced himself into. He didn't do anything this
time, didn't even look around.
After an eternal moment, he untangled himself. He didn't rip him-
self free but withdrew slowly. It was worse because it took so long. Like
being flayed from the inside out.
The room tunnelled, all red and scraped raw, her mind like flensed
skin.
She toppled forward.
A face swam before her eyes. Red then white. She blinked and the
red smeared. Her eyes refused to focus. Her hands and feet had gone
numb.
The right side of her face and body was rigid.
The face in front of her was strangely pale, emotive for an instant and
then blank as she managed to focus her eyes on it.
It was a man.
"You're all right. You had a seizure. It's over now."
He touched her jaw, and she felt warmth under her skin where the
muscles were so rigid that they might crack, coaxing them to relax.
"Can you speak? You were screaming for several minutes."
She fought to swallow, head throbbing, a wet membranous pulsing
in her skull. Her mouth tasted like copper.
She tried to talk but the muscles on the right side of her jaw were
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Alchemised • 131
still so tight, she could scarcely part her teeth. She pressed her face into
the warmth of the hand, wanting to cry.
She felt so cold, as if something poisonous was spreading through
her, freezing her solid. A low, gasping sound emerged from the back of
her throat.
She didn't understand. She didn't remember—
"Who are you?" she slurred through her teeth.
Myriad emotions flashed across his face. He opened his mouth, then
shut it firmly.
"I'm in charge of your care," he finally said very slowly, saying each
word precisely. His hand slid across the side of her neck, making her
tremble. His fingertips touched the dip at the base of her skull. "Go to
sleep. You'll remember when you wake."
Helena wanted answers, not sleep, but the warmth seeped under her
skin like water. The room blurred, the edges disappearing. The face soft-
ening as it blurred away.
"Do I know you?" she asked as her eyes slid closed.
"I suppose you do."
When she woke again, she did remember, and she was screaming.
Her mind was aflame with fever. She veered in and out of lucidity.
Sometimes remembering transference, other times, lost and confused.
Run away.
She was supposed to run away, to go somewhere. But she needed—
something.
She wouldn't go without it.
In the middle of the night, she wandered outside into the courtyard,
icy rain pouring from the sky, searching. She lay on the ground, trying
to make her head cool from the fire raging inside it. If her mind were
cool, she'd remember what she was looking for.
"What are you doing? You're freezing yourself to death, you idiot."
Ferron carried her inside.
Her skin was so cold that even the servants' dead hands burned as
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132 • SenLinYu
they stripped off her wet clothes. She tried to fight them off.
She was on fire.
When they finally left her, she tried to get back out, but the door and
windows were locked fast. Eventually they bound her to the bed so she
would stop clawing her fingers raw on the door, trying to get out.
She was left, trapped, forced to endure the lurid, blood-drenched
nightmares as she burned away.
Every time she closed her eyes she was at the Institute, bright and
golden and gleaming as it had once been, hurrying up the Tower steps
for a class, her textbooks pressed tight against her chest, Luc ambling
beside her. There was someone else with them, but even her dreams
flinched away from the face.
Then Helena would blink or look down to take notes, and when she
looked again, the world would be in ruins. All the students slumped
over in their seats, cut open, their blood spattered across the room. Hel-
ena the lone survivor amid the carnage.
In one dream, Penny was laid out on a medical table, strapped down
and screaming as faceless figures vivisected her before the assembly of
dead students.
In another, it was Ferron at the front of the room as if called up for
a demonstration. He stood here, morphing steadily from a dark-haired
boy into a pale silvery nightmare, his colour turning into blood that
dripped from his hands.
When the fever broke, Helena's limbs had atrophied again. She had
no idea how much time had passed. She stumbled and trembled like a
kitten when she walked. It was as if the synapses in her brain were mis-
aligned.
She was grateful that Ferron did not come and harass her about
going outside. She didn't want to see him again because she had a very
clear memory of pressing her face against his hand without any idea of
who he was.
In charge of her care? A very generous way of describing himself.
She paused, replaying the interaction. His slow enunciation as he'd
answered her question. She'd been speaking in Etrasian.
As she recovered, she kept having dreams about Luc, memories. Not
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Alchemised • 133
forgotten ones but moments from the past that made her chest ache at
their recollection.
"Come on," Luc whispered after finding her studying the library, " You've
been in here for two days. You're going to start growing mushrooms out of
your ears." He tugged one of them teasingly. " You need sunshine. I need sun-
shine."
"I need to finish analysing this array structure," she hissed, trying to elbow
him away as he began stealing her pens. "Go away."
Luc never went away no matter how she threatened him. He'd mope
and sulk, making progressively more and more noise until the librarians
ordered Helena to take him outside as though the next Principate were
a recalcitrant pet.
When they were older and she'd started doing lab work, he couldn't
just make noise to disrupt her, so instead he'd threaten to go off and get
into trouble, and hadn't she promised his father to keep him out of
trouble?
They would go into the city, and he'd show her all the best places. The
prettiest fire chapels and immense perihelion cathedrals, hidden water
gardens, little bookstores and cafés.
All the towers and gardens and views of Paladia that she had ever
loved, she had known because Luc had shown them to her. She had
loved the city through his eyes. She wished she'd given in more often.
When Helena finally managed to leave her room again, her mind
played tricks on her. The house seemed wrong somehow, different from
what she remembered. The light was from the wrong angles, the win-
dows in the wrong places, the doors were where they shouldn't be.
"The brain inflammation is much better this time," Stroud said when
she came to examine Helena. Her resonance was moving beneath the
surface of Helena's skull like a worm. "I don't like that you had a seizure
again, but only one is an improvement. I think a monthly schedule will
be about right."
Stroud was barely gone when Ferron arrived and stood at the foot of
her bed, hands clasped behind his back, studying her through languid
eyes.
"Did you know it's nearly solstice?" he said at last.
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134 • SenLinYu
No. She had no idea of the date. She knew there was a month be-
tween transference sessions, but she hadn't been sure of when she'd ar-
rived.
The winter solstice marked the end of the year in the North. It was
one of the most significant events of their calendar. Southern coastal
countries, where the days did not ebb and grow so dramatically, tracked
the year by Lumithia's lunar tides.
"You were supposed to be gone by now." His eyes flicked towards the
window. "Seems I'll be keeping you through the winter."
There was no emotion in Ferron's voice or face as he said it. It was
one of the things that Helena realised was most strange about him: how
little his body and tone communicated at times.
Etras had an animated culture and language, using expressions and
hand gestures. It had been one of the many things that had made Hel-
ena a clear outsider. She'd learned to lace her fingers tightly together
under the desk when speaking in class or else risk the room rippling
with laughter as her hands started gesticulating.
Paladians valued stillness. Expert alchemists would only move their
fingers for precise and controlled use of their resonance. It was cultur-
ally ingrained. Expressions were also valued most when they were sub-
tle; insults often came in the form of sarcastic flattery that didn't
translate easily for a newcomer.
Helena had learned to be still and watch for subtle tells. To under-
stand that when the pupils got small, and the eyes skipped over her face,
and the feet pointed away, that the smiling and nice-sounding words
didn't mean that she was liked or her presence wanted.
Ferron was more difficult to read than most Paladians, not because
his mouth said one thing and his body another, but because his body
sometimes didn't say anything at all.
He stood there, body still, expression flat, hands concealed. Helena
couldn't work out his mood.
"There are a few things scheduled to arrive tomorrow, to spare myself
any additional inconvenience from all this. Please"— he placed overt
emphasis on the word—"do not mistake it for a sign of affection."
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Alchemised • 135
A paper package was left at her door along with the breakfast tray
the next morning. Inside was a pair of boots.
She pulled them out, running her fingers over the details.
They were beautiful, gleaming leather, with sturdy soles and a row of
buttons to fasten them up. She could see the craftsmanship in all the
details.
When Ferron had referred to something "to spare myself any addi-
tional inconvenience," she had not expected shoes, although the slippers
were in tatters from the wet gravel.
She slipped her feet into them, already looking forward to walking
the halls without the ice-cold iron in the floors seeping through her
feet.
It was then she realised there was more in the package. A pair of
shearling gloves made with an odd design, very long in the wrist. Not
formal length, but strangely proportioned, rather like a hawking glove.
She pulled one on curiously and realised the shape and length was to
cover the manacles, preventing the metal from growing frigid and burn-
ing her skin.
When she went out for her walk, it was the first time her hands and
feet didn't begin immediately aching from the cold.
Still she refused to feel any gratitude towards Ferron. It would only
get colder after the solstice passed. If she was there all winter, she'd
probably develop nerve damage or frostbite from going outside. It was
in his best interest to keep her healthy.
She was not so foolish as to mistake calculation for kindness.
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CHAPTER 10
Helena sat by the window in her room, trying and failing to
make out any sense of resonance in her fingers. If she focused very in-
tensely, sometimes she thought there was still a glimmer of it.