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for
their companion, the twins settled in to watch.
    The
One Who Was Different initially shrunk from the light, then regrouped. Ryker’s
teeth had pushed down a spring inside the mechanism. The detent within hadn’t
fully engaged, but the friction of the teeth themselves now had to be overcome.
Grating noises filled the room as their pale cellmate worked. Rickard held the
microscope steady, but the light was not focused where it was needed. Ryker
turned a knob. The deck of the scope descended—away from the light. The
twins reflexively snapped shut their inner lids. The room was now almost too bright. Ryker traced the cord to a
plug just above the surface of the table. Placing a foot on the wall and
pulling, the light went out.
    “Just
hold it steady,” their companion sighed. “I’ve almost got it.”
    It was the longest sentence he had
spoken aloud.
    Ryker
replaced the plug. The light on the scope blazed, and Rickard held it as they’d
been told to—steady.
    They needed to find that source of
power. Power meant heat. They could, perhaps, absorb heat from its source.
    Rickard
stood on his toe tips, nails scratching the metal surface, to peer at
something. He and Ryker had the same nails. Thick and smooth
and nearly clear.
    The boy’s were different. He had nails
like the man’s .
    Pink,
white-tipped, and soft.
    Not as useful as theirs, given the
current circumstances.
    The
scratching sound seemed to bother The One Who Was Different greatly. He shrunk
for a moment, covering his ears. “Please, just let me do this. Inside we will
find many answers.” The boys ignored the request.
    Ryker had seen the item too .
    It
was Ryker’s turn to climb his brother’s body. Sinking his nails into the thin
metal surface at the top, he hooked a rubbery toe behind the cabinet and pulled
Rickard up easily, one handed, behind him. They squatted, arms and legs held
close to their bodies, hunched, clammy bookends on either end of their dusty
find. They were not brothers in the conventional sense. The One Who Was
Different was correct: they would know so much more when the cabinet was open.
    The
flat, hidden bag they had found was leather. It did not appear that it had
always been flat. Originally intended to sit upright, its base had heavier
leather than the sides. The leather had once been supple. Weight and time had
collapsed it into a cracked husk. Rickard ran the insides of his wrists along
his flanks to stimulate the oil he and Ryker made.
    It kept their skins smooth … Would it work for the bag?
    Ryker
did the same. It was good to have a task. Raccoon-like gargoyles, they worked
oil into the bag until it shined then leapt, light and precise, one after the
other onto the table. Ryker worked oil into the scuffmarks his teeth had made
in the horsehide strap, and then they studied the mechanisms
which kept the bag closed. It looked similar to the strap of dark, old
skin that held up their creator’s pants. Ryker tugged the strap loose. There
were two. Rickard watched then worked the other side free. The things inside
were pulled out to inspect. Books, two of them. The
liar’s handwriting filled each page. His descriptions were verbose, and he’d
jotted some diagrams. They set the books aside.
    Next,
they inspected a roll of soft green fabric—a deeper, shiny green than the
walls. They had learned many words from their jailer, but none to describe the
material. Within a week they would know the name of the fabric: velvet. Small
instruments were fastened inside the roll, both metal scalpels and the more
expensive obsidian blades that the scientist preferred. Elegant
glass-and-rubber syringes, forceps, hemostats and probes, jars full of
brass-headed dissection pins. Ryker touched the tip of a black glass scalpel
and bled, placing his finger in his mouth to taste the iron. Rickard slid each
instrument back inside its sleeve sewn into the roll and put the parcel on top
of the journals.
    The
last item was heavier and wrapped in an