Julian didn't argue. He wiped the cold sweat off his forehead with his coal-black sleeve, climbed back down the iron ladder into the barge, and drove his shovel into the mound.By four in the afternoon, the rain had stopped.The last wagon of coal rattled away toward the city power station, its steel wheels squealing on the wet rails. The six hundred tons were gone. Berth Nine was empty, stripped down to black mud, cracked wood, and puddles of dark water reflecting the gray sky.Goran shut the crane's engine off for the final time that day. He climbed down, carrying two dented tin cups of hot black tea, and handed one to Sloane."Tugs are docked at Pier Two," Goran said, blowing steam off his cup. "All six of them. The captains went down to the registry and swore their papers to the Whitemore flag an hour ago. Not a single man walked off."Sloane took a sip. The tea was bitter and scalded her tongue, but it chased the freezing salt wind out of her throat."Where's Julian?" she asked.

The wheels of the private train clicked against the iron tracks in a steady rhythm.Outside the window, the green swamp water and flat mud banks had vanished completely. In their place were wide fields of dry yellow wheat, rolling gray hills, and the sharp, snow-covered tips of the northern mountains rising against a clear sky. There were no boats out here. No salty fog, no wet timber, and no low-tide muck sticking to the bottoms of anyone's boots. That whole life had been left behind on the coast, cut off the moment the train crossed the mountain bridge.Sloane sat back into the deep leather seats of the private car.She had taken off the filthy canvas pants and mechanic jacket at the station washroom before dawn. Now she wore a simple, high-collared black wool coat that dropped clean to her shins. It was warm, heavy, and free of dirt. Her dark hair was brushed back and tied into a neat knot with a plain dark band. On her left temple, the dark purple swelling from the fights on the d

The grand lobby of the Imperial Grand Hotel was wide enough to turn four carriages around without scraping the walls.Above the white marble floor, three tiers of crystal chandeliers threw bright golden light over the crowd. Men in black evening coats with gold pocket chains stood in small circles, laughing into glasses of white wine, while women in silk gowns showed off diamond cuffs and fur wraps. Soft music from a string quartet near the grand staircase drifted through the warm, perfumed air.Sloane’s boots made a dull, solid sound against the thick red carpet.Beside her, Julian kept his chin up, though his knuckles turned white inside the pockets of his navy coat. He kept his eyes forward, walking beside his sister as they moved toward the marble steps leading to the main ballroom."Look who crawled out of the ditch."The voice came from a group of velvet armchairs near the indoor stone fountain. It was sharp, loud, and carried over the sound of the violins.A young woman in a br

The two guards outside the ballroom doors pulled the brass handles back so hard the wood banged against the wall.Inside, eighty people sat around round tables, talking over glasses of wine while an auctioneer tapped a wooden hammer on a raised stage. The moment Sloane stepped onto the floor, the whole room went quiet. Men stopped chewing their food. Women turned in their chairs.Nobody was looking at her plain black dress. Every pair of eyes in the hall was glued to the huge blue diamond hanging against her collarbone.At the main center table sat an old woman in a heavy gray silk coat.It was Madame Sterling—Camilla’s grandmother, the head of the Sterling family council. Her white hair was pinned into a tight coil, and her fingers, loaded with emerald rings, tapped slowly against a porcelain tea plate.Beside her sat three city magistrates and two directors from the Central Rail Commission.Madame Sterling didn't flinch. She set her teacup down with a soft click, running her cold, g

Mercer’s face had gone from red to purple, his feet kicking out at empty air as Riven held him up by his silk tie with one hand."Wait... Sloane, wait!" Mercer choked out, his spit spraying across his own chin. His soft hands clawed uselessly at Riven’s thick wrist. "I have the account numbers! The money from the medicine contracts—eight million credits in the Swiss vault! I can sign it over right now! Just let me breathe!"Julian stepped through the broken doorway, holding a heavy glass water jug he had grabbed from the hall table. His eyes were wide, watching the government boss dangle like an old coat. "Sloane... don't let him talk. He watched our dad die in that bed."Sloane lowered the barrel of the shotgun until the cold steel rested right against Mercer’s nose.The man stopped kicking. His round glasses had slipped off one ear, dangling crookedly on his cheek."I don't want your money, Mercer," Sloane said. Her voice didn't shake. It was flat and tired, but hard as river rock.