Rowan sat up that night in the kitchens, unable to sleep. He’d changed and bathed, at least, but his arm was still a charred mess where Kess had lashed out in self defense before being snuffed, and he wasn’t willing to ask Claire for help given Kess’s state. Claire had shooed him out of the ward hours ago, though perhaps it was for the best; Rowan had a hard time watching Kess’s pale face, or worse, Claire’s genuine concern. It was rare to find Claire baffled by anyone’s injuries, and though Kess’s wounds were easily taken care of, Claire had found her burnout obviously shocking. The only time Rowan had seen a comparable response was when he’d brought in a man from a construction accident with several missing limbs.

  He sat at one of the tall kitchen prep tables, carving a tiny wood piece quietly, hoping it would calm his mind. Eamon baked somewhere behind him, a series of clangs and humming accompanying his work, and Arlette quietly swore at another nearby table as she jotted down a series of numbers, then repeatedly erased them. Their moods were subdued; Draven’s death might affect anyone living Downhill, and Kess—though still new to the manor—had managed to at least worm her way into Eamon’s heart after some of their practice sessions. Arlette was mostly just concerned about the implications of having someone with that much power living under her roof.

  How do I feel about it, though? Rowan wondered. He took another tiny chunk of wood away. Instead of Kess, he found his thoughts on her Fulminancy—on that final note of gratitude as it shattered into the Lightstorm. Had it really wanted something? Or was it simply Kess’s will, imposed over the powers? Surely she was grateful for her life. And yet—

  The kitchen door cracked open and Claire barged in, eyes tired and hair pulled back into a wild tangle of curls. She passed Rowan wordlessly, and a snap of green Fulminancy spread into his arm, soothing the skin from an angry red to a dull pink. She didn’t even glance at him as she made her way towards the counter where Eamon had set out several dozen buns filled with meats and cheeses.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Rowan said quietly. Claire looked up at him, mouth half full.

  “Do what?”

  “Heal my arm,” he replied, showing her the newly patched skin. “Save it for Kess.”

  Claire regarded him for a moment, still chewing. Eamon, at least, looked pleased with her appetite and hummed a lighter tune as he put another batch into the oven. “Oh that,” she finally said. She waved her hand at him dismissively as she dug around in the cabinets and emerged with a bottle of fizzed water. “I don’t even think about stuff that small anymore. It just happens if I don’t watch my Fulminancy—it might as well have a mind of its own.”

  She strolled over to Rowan, then took his arm in her hand, looking disappointed. “Would have left a great scar,” she said. “So that’s a pity.”

  Claire returned to her meal, nonplussed, but Rowan found it hard to let go of her words.

  “It just…does it on its own?” he asked.

  “For the most part,” she replied. “When I first started healing, I had to really think about everything, but now I really only have to be deliberate with big things like Kess. You sort of have to…” she trailed off, thinking. “…push what you want through the Fulminancy, I suppose. Healing Fulminancers is particularly difficult because their Fulminancy feels like you’re intruding. It’s like a body rejecting an organ, or blood, I suppose.” She shrugged, taking another bun from Eamon’s tray. “Doesn’t make much sense considering that they’re nearly completely drained of their own Fulminancy by the time they come to see me, anyway.”

  Rowan stared at the partially carved figure in his hands, stunned. Kess’s Fulminancy had protected him. Claire’s healed for her without her own input. Could it really be sentient, like Kess thought? He wondered. Does everyone’s Fulminancy actually want something?

  Rowan felt a series of possibilities open in his mind and itched to pull out a notebook. Perhaps the solution to his own problems could be found in this revelation. All he would have to do was find Fulminancy that wanted to remain stable. Certainly he wanted it to, but perhaps Claire’s Fulminancy—and the other varieties he’d tried—simply weren’t tuned to be steady and consistent. Though—oddly—Claire’s Fulminancy had a bit of a calming effect when his lights were powered by it. They were dark now, of course, lacking her touch—she’d needed as much of her Fulminancy as possible to deal with what had happened to Kess.

  Rowan pushed thoughts of his experiment out of his mind momentarily as he felt a stab of guilt. Kess is nearly dead and you’re thinking of your experiments and how you can save your own hide, he thought bitterly. Perhaps Claire was right—he was a coward.

  “How is she?” he finally asked. Eamon exchanged a glance with Arlette that Rowan didn’t miss—a ‘maybe we shouldn’t be here’ look. Claire continued chewing for a moment and gave Rowan a pointed look.

  “I mean, she’s not dead,” she said. Arlette snorted behind him.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a terrible bedside manner?” she asked Claire.

  “Well, seeing as how I’m not beside anyone’s bed right now, I have to say they’re wrong.”

  Rowan sighed, but internally he felt some sense of relief. If Claire’s panic was gone and her mouth back, then perhaps Kess would be alright. Claire collected a few extra buns after Eamon encouraged her, then left the kitchen behind. Rowan was tempted to follow her, but what good could he do? He had no powers, felt mildly nauseated around blood, and had spent the last month calling Kess names.

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  He returned to his carving, trying to let the sounds of Eamon’s baking and Arlette’s swearing and repeated numbers lull him, but his thoughts returned to his lights. If his Fulminancy powered them, could he help them remain stable? Perhaps, like Kess and Claire’s, his Fulminancy would simply do what he wanted—and Rowan wanted nothing more than stability. How he would scale something like that, he didn’t know, but it was a good start, if a bit insane.

  With Kess out of commission, it would be a while yet before they could make their appearance at court. Grandbow, at least, seemed content for now with Rowan’s promises of cheaper and brighter lights, but he could tell by the tone of the man’s letters that Grandbow’s patience was waning—and he’d already received a few complaints about blown lights in the city.

  Rowan knew little about the concept of power transfer, but there were some mentions of it—mostly in fiction or tales for children. For a scholar, that seemed like a terrible place to start, but where else would he look? If it had ever existed at all, it was lost to history. People simply didn’t transfer Fulminancy. It was an unwritten rule.

  There was another place to look, however. Rowan slowed his carving as the thought dawned on him. The Archives, he realized. Information that old—if it was real—would only be found deep within the building itself. Rowan’s black sash might get him into the building, but no further. He would need clearance from a Council member to venture deeper inside, where anything useful might be kept.

  Rowan blew a few shavings from the bird he carved, being careful to direct them away from Eamon’s creations. His stomach complained loudly, but Rowan felt equally nauseated at the prospect of getting into the Archives. When Kess was back on her feet—if she made it back on her feet—he would have to both convince Grandbow to slow the rollout further, and look for a way into the Archives in a court that found him mostly repulsive.

  He stared at the small bird forming in his hands for a very long time as he tried to parse through the impossibility of it all. It weighed down on him, all of it—Kess’s injuries, his own lies and deceit about his Fulminant lights, and the impossibility of solving the secret of Fulminancy before someone was seriously injured.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts—Eamon’s. Rowan sheathed his knife and looked up at the man’s dark face. There was concern there, but also a reassuring smile.

  “She’ll be alright, lad,” he said quietly. Next to him, Arlette checked a sheet of paper and kept peering at the stuffed buns on the counter for some reason. “If nothing else, that girl knows how to survive.”

  “I’m not worried,” Rowan began. “I—“ He hesitated as Arlette and Eamon both gave him knowing looks. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison. Eamon chuckled softly and clapped him on the back.

  “Get some sleep, lad. And some food. Won’t be long before you’re up there spreading light throughout the city.”

  He moved to leave, hanging his apron on a hook, but paused as Arlette cackled loudly.

  “This one,” she exclaimed, holding up a bun triumphantly. She waggled it in her hand at Eamon, a knowing smile on her face. “You Fanas-spawned demon, you thought you had me!” Eamon watched, amused, as Arlette bit into the bun, and the perpetual scowl that usually decorated her face fell away into a semblance of bliss.

  “Custard,” Eamon said simply. Arlette nodded, smiling, her eyes closed as she chewed. Rowan looked at Eamon questioningly. “I wanted her to do the manor inventory, but she said it was too pedestrian for her talents—so I gave her a statistical puzzle instead. One that would require her to inventory the food.”

  Arlette stopped chewing. “That’s what this was about?” The scowl returned, and she brushed past Eamon as he laughed. She booted the door nearly off the hinges as she left, though Rowan didn’t miss the way she kept eating the bun on the way out. He smiled in spite of himself.

  Eamon shrugged. “Sometimes you have to trick the smart ones into doing the dull work,” he said.

  “Why are you redoing inventory now?” Rowan asked, frowning at the buns. “Didn’t we do it last month?”

  “We did,” Eamon agreed. “But local shops have been coming up short. Supposedly there’s some thievery going around, and people are storing extra just to make sure they’re not caught empty-handed.” He sighed, looking tired.

  “So you’re trying to make sure we have plenty.”

  “Exactly,” Eamon replied. “And with Kess’s little incident, they’ve been tightening down security. Makes it harder to get in or out of sections of the city—particularly if you’re a lower sash.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Fewer fights means less work for Arlette, and that woman needs something to keep her busy or she goes mad.” He nodded at the buns still cooling on the counter. “Eat some of those. I didn’t make them all for Claire, you know.”

  Rowan smiled and nodded at Eamon, and the man left him alone in the kitchen. He gathered a few of the buns into a handkerchief, pocketed his knife and carving, and dumped the lot off in his room. He hoped to get at least some rest before the night was up, but he stopped by the ward first.

  Claire was there—glowing faintly, but asleep in a chair next to Kess’s bed. Rowan tried not to look at her. The pale glow of her face against Claire’s Fulminancy was ghastly. Instead, he simply gathered a pile of dirty linens Claire had left by the door and left the two women alone.

  If Kess didn’t make it, he knew he shouldn’t be bothered. He’d known her for a little over a month, and yet something about her gave Rowan pause. Kess was a mystery—a storm of a person whirling with contradictions and hypocrisies that baffled him as much as they intrigued him.

  What he’d seen that night baffled him further—powers so damning and overwhelming that they might well wipe Hillcrest off the map. A part of Rowan was terrified at what might happen if he kept pushing her to use her powers. And yet, a larger part of him wanted answers.

  Kess’s powers were different, the same as his supposed ‘lack’ of powers were. If he could get to the bottom of what made powers like hers possible, perhaps they would hold answers to his own mysteries. If Kess pulled through, she would unlock more doors than Rowan could on his own.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.

  But a larger part of him had problems forgetting her wry smile in the mornings as she answered her door half-clothed in an attempt to fluster him. Or her face, small and determined as she swung that staff around in the darkened warehouse. Her resigned sigh and the determined set of her shoulders as she got back up to try again each day, hatred of her Fulminancy be damned. Or her hollow, grim eyes as she faced death with no one but the storm to witness it.

  As he went to dump the clothes into the laundry pile, he felt something stuffed into one of the pockets of Kess’s bloodied shirt—an owl, intricately carved by Rowan’s own hand.

  He stood there with that owl for a long time, where he had a hard time ignoring those images as they played about in his head, where Kess was a phantom limb that he couldn’t quite reconcile his life without.

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