Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles by J. D. Lakey Page A

gardens, apartments, and communal spaces in a meandering path that eventually led to the fenced-in medicinal garden that grew along the back of the infirmary. The Master Maker took a small metal probe out of her pocket, inserted it into the hole in the middle of the gate’s lock plate, and turned it. There was a soft snick of metal sliding against metal and the gate swung open.  
    Locks fascinated Cheobawn. In her mind, locks and their keys were magical talismans that conveyed special powers to their holders, perhaps because so few existed under the dome. Private places did not need walls and doors did not need locks when common courtesy and respect would do in their place. This garden was one of the few places that were forbidden to any but the privileged few who had keys.
    When she was little, she thought Amabel had buried treasure in her garden, like in the fairytales. She had been sorely disappointed when she found out it only contained plants. Dangerous and poisonous, to be sure, but plants all the same.
    Amabel waved Cheobawn through, locked the gate behind them, and continued with a purposeful stride up the path between the beds of innocuous-looking greenery. If stumbled upon in their natural setting, one would hardly notice these plants. Most had tiny colorless flowers except one. Cheobawn paused near a verdant plant topped with a spectacular flower with orange petals and a hot pink heart. The plant quivered under her gaze, then seemed to shrivel and turn black. She caught a whiff of the stink of rotten flesh and backed away quickly.
    “Please don’t annoy my plants,” called Amabel over her shoulder. Cheobawn scampered to join Amabel, who waited impatiently as she held the back door to the infirmary open.
    “I didn’t touch it. Honest. It just got …” Cheobawn turned to look at the rotting plant. Her words died, forgotten. The orange flower with the pink heart stood tall and unblemished. “Oooo, did you see that?”
    “Every day,” Amabel said dryly. “Get inside before the whole world sees you.”
    Cheobawn slid into the dark interior, puzzled by Amabel’s words. Was the Maker breaking the rules about locks and keys by letting Cheobawn in the garden?
    When her eyes had adjusted to the light the room revealed itself. Cheobawn hissed in surprise. She was in the heart of Amabel’s domain. The room contained banks of complicated machinery and equipment whose use she could only guess at. One wall contained glass fronted cupboards full of neatly labeled bottles and boxes. Another wall contained doors set with pressure and temperature gauges both mechanical and electronic, as if Amabel could not trust either so settled on both. Cheobawn sidled closer to glance at the dials. The numbers made no sense. Surely it was impossible for something to get that cold?
    “What do you …”
    “Never mind that. Come along,” Amabel said, her hand on the handle of the door that led further into the heart of the infirmary. Amabel waited for her and then put a hand on Cheobawn’s shoulder to hold her in place while she opened the door. The Maker stuck her head out into the hall, looked both ways and then pulled Cheobawn after her as she strode quickly down the hall and in through another door.
    Cheobawn nearly laughed but managed to hold it in. Was Mora’s Second reduced to sneaking about in her own laboratories like a kid trying to evade her nestmother? Cheobawn suddenly had an image of Amabel as a young, mischievous girl bent on being naughty. If it were not for the frightening place in which she suddenly found herself, Cheobawn would have enjoyed this moment more.
    The second room was as surprising as the first. They stood in a birthing room, but unlike any Cheobawn had ever been in before. The birthing chair was familiar enough, but it was hung with what only could be called restraining straps. Nor was this the only difference. Instead of soft chairs, calming art work, and piles of fluffy towels and gowns, the room