Reed’s fingers dug in to his arm. “Is it?”
He shrugged Reed away, trying to think straight without worrying about Reed worrying about him. “I said it’s fine.”
But as soon as Reed let go, emptiness followed.
Agatha led them to a metal door opposite the one they’d entered. Brick helped Pixel off the couch, and Nate stared at the hinges. Shiny and thick, they didn’t look like any tinkering he’d seen in the Withers. She turned a small wheel, and the door unsealed with a sticky pop.
“I don’t think we’ll wake her, but we should keep quiet,” Agatha murmured. She pushed the door open and let Brick and Pixel inside first.
Agatha yanked a heavy switch on the wall, and Nate lost his footing. Reed caught him as he sagged, struck by the warped familiarity of the room. Rows of lights hummed from the low ceiling. Thin pipes lined the wall, towering over him and fanning out like veins. He spun, fighting the arms around him, looking for the blinking red lights that would mean the machine was about to turn on.
Mom, do I have to?
It hurt so much when the needles went in, even when he held very still, did just what he was told. They’d learn so much about the magic in him, his mother would say, because he was such a brave little boy.
“Nate?” Reed grabbed his wrists. “Nate.”
Coppery fingers reached to devour Nate. He blinked and sucked in a breath, shaking off the memory. The one he tried, always, to forget. “It’s fine,” he said, straightening with a cough.
Reed stared at him, brow creased. He let go of Nate’s wrists and pulled him closer, brushing his lips at Nate’s hair. “I’m right here.”
His solid warmth pulled Nate back into the basement, into the present.
Nate took his hand, squeezed it tight. He’d been wrong to push Reed away. Nate needed him close. Maybe they needed each other.
The pipes and barrels and panels didn’t have any blinking lights on them. They were old—made of warped, hammered copper. The metal shone unevenly, patchwork pieces welded together. A gauge on the largest cylinder displayed numbers in units he wasn’t familiar with. The iron furnace glowed, its stovepipe reaching like a crooked finger and poking up through the low ceiling.
The more Nate saw, the more he wanted to take it apart, coax secrets from the greasy gears.
“What is this?” Reed studied the ceiling where thin pipes fanned out like a spider’s web. “What does it do?”
“It’s a still.”
“It’s beautiful,” Nate said, unable to disguise his admiration for the patchwork tinkering.
“I wish I could agree, but it pales in comparison to what I could achieve with the proper materials.” Agatha rested her long fingers against a shiny metal panel. “It gets the job done.”
“How does it work?” Nate forced his arms to hang at his sides. As much as he yearned to explore the machine, he didn’t want her to know that he was a Tinkerer. Not until he understood her plans.
“The same as any still. With some modifications, of course.” She opened the panel with a delicate touch. Behind the metal door, glass tubes knotted together like clasped fingers, each full of tiny whirring gears.
“That’s a Diffuser,” Nate said, drawn closer by the marvel of it. Where did they get such miniscule gear-work and fine glass?
“On a grander scale, and not exactly.” She closed the panel, obscuring the buzzing tubes. “The still doesn’t produce as well as I’d hoped, but I’ll be able to make repairs and vast improvements with the new parts from the city.”
Nate pushed a stray tickle of hair behind his ear.
Produce what?
Pixel put her arms around Brick’s waist. “I don’t like it in here.”
“It’s because we’re underground.” Reed patted her shoulder. “We’ll go back up soon.”
“How did you get new parts from the city?” Nate asked. He rubbed his cold hands together.
Agatha gave a low chuckle. “They delivered them to us.”
Brick let out a soft sound of alarm. “Is she sick?”
