The ride through the forest is very different from that night Lucien brought me here. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue, the air cold and crisp. My irritation fades, replaced by my excitement at finally being out of the boundaries of the White Rose.

"We need to make a stop first," Sil says.

"Where?" I ask. I'm not sure I realized how stir-crazy I was going, but now that we're out in the world again, I'm bursting with energy.

"I have to run an errand for His Royal Keyness," she says.

We emerge from the wood and I gasp-when I arrived in the Farm, it was dark and I was in a barrel for most of the journey. Now that I can see it . . . there is so much space. I've become used to the wide field surrounding the White Rose, the familiar ring of trees that encompass my whole world.

I'd forgotten how big the real world actually is.

Fields stretch out as far as I can see. We're on top of a hill, and in the distance, nestled in a little dip between hills, there is a small town, chimney smoke and pointed rooftops. A big farmhouse looms off to my right, amid neatly trained rows of yellowing grass. I wonder what will be growing here when the seasons change. My most vivid memory from that fateful train ride to Jewel is the colors of the Farm. The pinks, the oranges, the greens . . . everything is dull yellow and rusty brown now.

But I still find it beautiful.

"Which Quarter are we in?" I ask.

"The South," Sil says.

"My brother, Ochre, works in the South Quarter," I mumble and smile a little. It's nice to feel close to someone in my family, even if it's only pretend. The South Quarter is huge-he could be anywhere.

Thinking of Ochre makes me think of Hazel. Again, I worry about the timing of this plan. We've got to stop the Auction before she can be tested. I wish it wasn't so far away. October feels like ages from now. It's only January.

As we pass through the town, I find it hard not to gape at everything. The people, women in long wool dresses and thick cloaks, men in overalls and big furry hats; the houses, shingled in dark reds and yellows; the grocer's, the magistrate's office, the tool-and-seed store. And then I have to laugh at myself because I lived in the Jewel for three months and saw so many incredible things and now I'm awed by a greengrocer.

We pull up in front of a tavern. A painted sign, carved in the shape of a tree, creaks in the wind. Bold letters on it proclaim the tavern's name, THE WISHING WELL. I smile, wondering whether the owner is a fan of the children's folktale. There is a white square of paper plastered to a signpost out front. I can barely make out the words.

WANTED. FUGITIVE.

The paper is weathered and faded, but Ash's face is still clearly recognizable. It sends a shudder through me. I was right to keep him at home. Sil ties up Turnip.

"Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking," she mutters. "We won't be here long."

The Wishing Well has a broad wooden porch and a balcony overlooking the street. Strains of music can be heard from behind its windows, framed with white lace curtains. Its faade is painted a friendly yellow. It is a very far cry from the taverns I saw on the Row, in the seedy area of the Bank.

The interior is as pleasant as the exterior. The bar is made of dark, polished wood, with three shelves behind it containing gleaming bottles of spirits in all shapes and sizes. A mirror on the wall lists the specials of the day in big, loopy handwriting. Tables are scattered across the pale wooden flooring, only about a handful of them containing customers. A wizened old man on a barstool sips whiskey from a dusty glass tumbler, riffling through the Lone City Herald. A man in a striped shirt plays piano in the far corner of the room.

"Sil!" the barman cries, emerging through a pair of swinging doors that lead to, I'd guess, the kitchen. He carries a plate of roast chicken and green beans smothered in almonds. My stomach gurgles. "Be right with you."

He hurries off to deliver the food while Sil and I take seats at the bar. I notice that Sil chooses bar stools as far away from the smoking man as possible.

"He knows he's not supposed to call me that," Sil grumbles.

"Do you have a code name, too?" I ask.

Sil's lips pucker, and her cheeks darken ever so slightly. She ignores me and instead grabs an extra copy of the Herald and pretends to scan through it.

"It's been quite some time since last I saw you," the barman says, coming over to us. He pulls a bottle off one of the shelves and takes out two glasses. "The usual? And who's your young friend?"

"No one," Sil says, putting down the paper. "And she's not drinking."

The barman must be used to Sil's bluntness-he nods and pours two helpings of whiskey into the glasses, taking one for himself. Sil downs hers in one gulp.

"Here." She removes a brown-wrapped parcel from inside her coat. "Something to help the Shepherd boy."

The barman's face falls. "Ah, yes. He seems to be recovering well, considering."

"Considering what?" I ask. Sil throws me a sharp glance.

"His grandfather wanted to sell him as a lady-in-waiting," the barman says in a hushed voice.

"But he botched the job," Sil says. "Damn near killed that poor boy."

"How awful," I gasp.

"Yes." The barman eyes me suspiciously and I drop my gaze. He turns to Sil. "Do you have any message from the Black Key?"

"Do I ever come here without one?" she says. Her forehead crinkles in concentration as she recites, "Third from the right, fourth from the left. Westing's Inn. Looks like gin." She nods appreciatively at herself. "That's it. And don't write it down this time. That's missing the whole damned point."

The barman nods, muttering the cryptic message over to himself.

"I'd better be off," she says. She slaps a couple of diamantes on the bar. The two glittering silver coins are engraved with the face of Diamante the Great, the Electress who started the first Auction.

"No charge," the barman says, waving the money off. But Sil leaves it, and we walk out into the cold air. I grab the paper on my way out.

"What was that about?" I ask as we climb back into the cart and start off down the busy thoroughfare.

"Weapons," Sil grunts. "Lucien's got some people making them in the Smoke and shipping them here. But it's hard. Can't make or ship more than a few at a time. Slow going for a revolutionary force made up of farmers and factory workers. And forgetful barmen."

I think about the Seamstress and the Cobbler and the Thief, the only other members of the Society that I've met. Without them we would never have made it to the farm but . . . while immensely helpful in espionage and escape, they don't seem like the makings of an army. Certainly not one that could win against the united force of the Regimentals.

Sil seems to read my mind. "Not your job," she says, cracking the reins to send Turnip into a trot. "We've got a train to catch."

"What did you give him for that boy?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Powdered red willow bark and clove. Should help numb the pain some."

"What will happen to him?"

"He'll live." She doesn't sound optimistic.

I open the paper and flip through it. There was a party at the Lady of the Light's palace that got a bit out of hand-a few royal sons started throwing fists at one another. The paper notes that "it was a scene worthy of Garnet of the House of the Lake, but marriage seems to have tempered the Jewel's most-notorious bad boy's disposition."

I scan the other pages. There's a birth announcement that sets my teeth on edge. "The House of the Willow welcomes a baby girl. Name to be announced." No mention of the surrogate. Another girl dead because of them.

I turn the page and my breath catches in my throat. The Duchess's face stares out at me. Her dark hair is swept up and studded with pearls, and she wears a dress with a plunging neckline. It's like I can feel her eyes on me, and their cold cruelness sends a chill up my spine. The headline reads, DUCHESS OF THE LAKE GRANTED PRIVATE AUDIENCE WITH EXETOR.

This must have to do with the letter Garnet said she delivered. But what is she up to?

Bartlett Station is about thirty minutes outside the town, in a narrow gully surrounded by hills. There must be a lot of deliveries on this train, because there are about ten or fifteen carts waiting at the station. Several of the men eye me and Sil as they puff away on hand-rolled cigarettes. I'm grateful for my hat and goggles.

I hear the train before I see it-two whistle blows that echo off the surrounding hills. The train, big and black, jetting thick white smoke, rounds a bend. It pulls up to the station with a deafening screech, as men with soot-darkened faces jump off, opening the doors on the boxcars, and haul out crates and sacks and packages wrapped in brown paper.

I look for anything marked with a black key, and find it drawn on a crate being unloaded. I wince as two men drop it unceremoniously on the ground.

"That's us," Sil says.

The crate has two handles on it, but it's quite heavy. As we struggle to hoist it onto the cart, a gust of air rises up, pushing the bottom of the crate so that it thumps onto the back of the cart. Sil gives me a wink.

"Helpful," I say. I wish we could open it now.

"And to think," she says, patting the crate, "this could have been your journey to me. As simple as a few drops of serum and a train ride."

It takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes. "You sound like Lucien," I say.

Sil huffs.

RAVEN AND ASH COME OUT ON THE FRONT PORCH TO greet us as we arrive back at the White Rose. Ash is in better spirits, to my relief.

"Here," he says, hopping up on the back of the cart with a crowbar. He pries the lid off the crate. The smell of packing hay and stale sweat fills the air.

The lioness is curled up in the fetal position. She wears a brown woolen dress-I assume Lucien had to dress her in the morgue. She is so thin, almost as thin as Raven used to be, her skin stretched tight over her bones. There are shadows under her eyes, black against her chocolate skin.

Ash takes her gently by the wrists and pulls her up over his shoulder.

"Where should I put her?" he asks.

"In Raven's room," I say. "I'm going to stay with her until she wakes up."

THE LIONESS SLEEPS FOR MOST OF THE DAY.

As the sun starts to set, the serum begins to wear off.

The sky is quiet tonight, muted in burnt oranges and faded yellows. I'm staring out the window when she lurches up, gasping. I grab the bucket I brought for this very purpose.

"Here," I say, holding it out and keeping one hand on her back as she vomits. Lucien's serum has a pretty nasty side effect.

The lioness coughs and I hand her a cloth to wipe her mouth. She blinks around unsteadily, like her eyes are unsure whether they want to stay open or closed.

I pour her a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand. "Drink this."

Now that she's awake, I find myself jittery with nerves. This girl is from a part of my life that feels so far away. I don't know how to act around her.

She drinks in silence and hands the glass back to me without a thank-you.

"You," she says, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

"I'm Violet," I say. "What's your name?"

"Where am I?" Her eyes narrow. "How did I get here? What do you want?"

"You're in the Farm," I say. I guess I shouldn't be surprised by her attitude. "I want to help you. And . . . I need your help, too."

I wish I had planned out what I wanted to say better.

The lioness's smirk looks all wrong, too much sarcasm on such a sunken face. "Right. So you kidnapped me? How did you even get here yourself? I thought you were locked up in the palace of the Lake."

I ignore her questions. "You talked to me about power once," I say. "At Dahlia's funeral, you told me that we have more power than the royalty because we make their children."

"I'm glad I made an impression," she says.

"You have no idea the power we actually have."

Air is the easiest element to connect with because it's always present. I release myself into it, embracing the heady weightlessness that comes with joining this element. I push it out, circling the room, slow at first, but then faster until it feels like I'm flying. The lioness clutches the bed sheet to her chest.

I let go of the connection. The room settles. I feel exhilarated.

"What are you?" the lioness asks.

"I'm . . ." I'm not quite sure how to answer. "I'm like you. We're the same."

"Are you saying I can do what you just did?"

"Something like that. I hope."

The lioness snorts. "You hope? What did you bring me here for?"

"Would you rather be back in the Jewel?" I say.

She hesitates. I can see pain in her eyes. I wonder what memory is playing behind them right now. "No," she says.

"All right then."

"So are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

"Like I said, I need your help. Overthrowing the royalty."

The lioness's dark eyes widen so that I can see the whites all around. "You're serious."

I feel that this moment is crucial. I need her to believe me, and yet I have nothing to convince her here except a circling of wind around a bedroom. How can I explain the truth about the Auguries, and the Paladin, and this island, about who we really are? I take a deep breath.

"There is so much I can show you and tell you. If you're willing. But first, I'd like you to tell me your name."

For half a second, I don't think she's going to answer me. Then she smiles.

"Sienna," she says. "My name is Sienna."