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CHARLOTTE hadn’t known how
to get to the workshop, she could have found
it by closing her eyes and smelling her way
through the Catacombs. As she approached
the tinker’s den, the unmistakable odors of
    molten metals, sulfur, and charred leather filled the air.
Though it was by far the most thoroughly ventilated of any
of the caverns, the workshop never lost its haze of steam
and smoke.
    With a slightly wrinkled nose, Charlotte picked her
way through the room. It was the most irregular cave in
the Catacombs. Though long and wide, it featured an array of strangely shaped nooks and small chambers that
Birch used to house his creations in their various states of
completion.
    43
    She found Birch at his largest workbench tightening
the gears on a conglomeration of mechanical parts that
no doubt belonged in the guts of some machine. Moses
was hanging from the ceiling above Birch, and Meg was
perched on a nearby stool with a wooden cup in her hands.
    “Ash said you needed me.” Charlotte waved to Meg before she peeked over Birch’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Don’t ask,” Meg said before Birch could answer. “I
did, and the answer took half an hour.”
Birch gave her a sour look. “You can’t understand how
this part functions without conceptualizing the whole machine.”
“Which is why you don’t want to ask,” Meg told Charlotte as she slid from the stool. Meg’s hair, dark as a raven’s wing, was piled atop her head and held in place by
an engraved steel cuff. A matching steel cuff encircled her
slender wrist, its bright hue accentuating the loveliness of
her deep skin tone.
“Never mind, then.” Charlotte smiled at her while
Birch huffed, insulted.
Charlotte turned her smile on the tinker. “Don’t be
cross. Not all of us need to know how your inventions
work. Just how to use them.”
“No one appreciates my art,” Birch said.
“Pip does,” Meg countered. “She idolizes you.”
“Idolize is a strong word.” Birch brushed metal filings
off his apron.
“Strong and accurate.” Charlotte brought Birch a
broom. “The moment she’s out of the wheelhouse she’ll be
down here.”
Birch coughed his embarrassment. “She’s a fine assistant.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is protégé,” Meg
teased. “Or maybe supplicant.”
“Another strong and accurate word.” Charlotte
laughed.
“If you’re done.” Birch snatched the broom and swept
the filings into a corner full of metal scraps. Nothing that
could be melted down and used in the future would go to
waste on Birch’s watch. “Can we turn to the pressing matter at hand? Grave is not adjusting well.”
“He’s only just arrived,” Charlotte said. “Do you expect him to settle in like he meant to end up here?”
“People aren’t like machines, Birch,” Meg told him.
“They aren’t predictable.”
“Since when are Birch’s machines predictable?” Charlotte smirked.
Birch’s mouth twitched into a wicked smile. “If you
continue to insult me, I’ll take the POC away and make
you use another gun.”
“You can never separate me and Pocky.” Charlotte
wagged her finger at him. “We were meant to be together.
But you’re right. I shouldn’t insult you. Your eyebrows
have grown back perfectly.”
“As I was saying,” Meg interrupted, “people aren’t predictable, and your boy is . . .”
“A conundrum,” Birch scratched at his temple beneath
the leather strap of his goggles.
A new head appeared from around the corner, featuring sea-green pigtails that bounced like springs.
“A what drum?” Pip asked. “Does it need fixing? How
can I help?”
“Why hello, Pip,” Meg winked at Birch, who turned
away but not before Charlotte saw him blushing. “What
a surprise.”
Pip bounced into the workshop. “Scoff’s on the night
shift this week. He should have been there an hour ago.
But he was late. He claims he was this close to a breakthrough, but I think he was just