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“Fine,” Wax said, pulling the door closed as the carriage turned a corner and approached the governor’s mansion. “But you have to agree to one thing right now. I’m going to give you both a passphrase, and I want you both to vow not to share it with anyone. Not even each other or Lady Innate. You’ll also give me a passphrase. When we meet, we’ll exchange them in a whisper, which will prove that none of us have been replaced.”

“You honestly think I wouldn’t know my own wife?” Innate asked tiredly.

“I’m sure you would,” Wax said, softening his tone. “But this is a requirement of my aid, and you must humor me. It will put my mind at ease.”

The family was most dangerous. Bleeder had sounded so confident, as if she had the governor in hand, which made Wax think the creature had already gotten to one of the family. Lady Innate hadn’t been at the party, but Harmony had said Bleeder could swap bodies whenever she wished. Rust and Ruin, what an awful spot to be in. Bleeder could have killed a niece or nephew, a toddler even, and be planning to imitate one of them to get to the governor. In the Historica, kandra imitated animals. The house pets could secretly be assassins.

Wax glanced at the governor, who looked profoundly disturbed, his hands clasped, eyes staring as if to see a thousand miles. The implications of it were sinking in. Innate wasn’t an idiot. Just an egotist and possibly a crook.

The carriage pulled up to the mansion and Drim climbed out. As Wax followed, the governor took him by the arm. “I will want to see this proof of yours, Roughian.”

“I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

Wax nodded.

“If this is true,” the governor said, still holding his arm, “what do we do? I’ve read the Words of Founding. I know what the Immortals were capable of. Ruin … this creature could be anyone. Passphrases won’t be enough. Not nearly.”

“They won’t,” Wax admitted. “Sir, the thing has access to the Metallic Arts too. At any time, she could be anything from a Pulser to an Archivist. Though she can only carry one at a time without risking loss of control, she can swap the powers out at will.”

“Great Harmony,” the governor whispered. “How do you stop something like that?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. You should probably already be dead.”

“Why am I not?” the governor asked, waving back Drim, who had peeked in to check on them. “This creature could have killed me as easily as she did my brother.”

“She seems to have some kind of agenda. Bigger than you. She might not want to bring you down until doing so topples the city government entirely.” Wax hesitated, then leaned closer. “Sir, you might want to leave Elendel.”

“Leave?” Innate said. “Have you seen what is going on in the city?”

Wax nodded. “I—”

“Labor strikes,” Innate continued as if he hadn’t heard Wax. “Food prices skyrocketing. Too many men from one job out of work, too many from another demanding to be treated better. Rusts, there are practically riots in the streets, man! And the scandal. I can’t leave. My career would be over.”

“Better than your life being over.”

The governor glanced at him. He didn’t seem to see it that way. “Leaving is impossible,” Innate reiterated. “It would look like I’m abandoning the people—they’d think the scandal drove me into hiding. I’d be perceived as a coward. No. Impossible. I will send Lady Innate to safety, as well as the children. I must stay and you must deal with this thing, whatever it is. Stop it before it can go any further.”

“I’ll try,” Wax said, leaning in. “Give me a passphrase to authenticate myself. Something memorable, but nonsensical.”

“‘Leavening on sand.’”

“Good. Mine for you is ‘bones without soup.’ You have a saferoom?”

“Yes,” Innate said. “In the bottom of the mansion, beneath the sitting room.”

“Set up in there,” Wax said, climbing out of the carriage, “and if you lock the door, don’t let anyone in until I arrive, and can give you the passphrase.”

Soon after stepping down, Wax found himself pulling out Vindication.

He’d leveled the gun before he registered what had set him off. Cries of alarm, but not pain. A servant hastened out of the governor’s mansion, passing pillars on the front lit stark white, like a line of femurs.

“My lord governor!” the woman cried. “We’ve had a telenote through the wire; something has happened. You’re going to need to prepare a response!”

“What is it?” Wax demanded as the governor climbed from the carriage.

The servant hesitated, eyes widening at Wax’s gun. She wore a sharp black suit, skirt to the ankles, red scarf at the neck. A steward, or perhaps one of the governor’s advisors.

“I’m a constable,” Wax said. “What is the emergency?”

“A murder,” she said.

Harmony, no … “Not Lord Harms. Please tell me!” Had he left the man to be killed, in his haste to get to the governor?

“Lord who?” the woman asked. “It wasn’t a nobleman at all, constable.” She glanced at Drim, who nodded—Wax could be trusted. She looked back to Wax. “It was Father Bin. The priest.”

*   *   *