Crucible Zero by Devon Monk

happy, I was alive and fine, but her mind was fragile and forgetful. I never knew what might worry or upset her.
    â€œAren’t you Matilda?” she asked.
    I held my breath, my heart thumping hard in my chest. “Yes.” I breathed.
    â€œI thought so, dear. I thought so. Are you sure it’s not time for us to go?”
    â€œI’m sure,” I said.
    â€œPromise you will tell me. When it’s time to take care of it all.”
    â€œI promise.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
    â€œGood,” she said, patting my hand fondly. “Case women must stick together. To the very end.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “And we will.” But she had already drifted off, her eyes unfocused, her hands reaching for her knitting needles.
    I leaned forward to kiss her on her forehead.
    â€œThank you,” I whispered. “I love you.” I didn’t really think she thought I was Matilda. But it was nice to hear it anyway.
    â€œYes, dear. Yes,” she said thinly. “Is Floyd here?”
    â€œI’ll find out. Do you need anything? Tea? A nap?”
    â€œOh, I’m just fine. Fine.”
    I gave her hand an extra squeeze, then left her room, pausing a minute outside the door.
    What had I gotten myself into? What had I done? Saving the world had tipped the frying pan of my life right into the fire.
    So many people’s lives were on the line. Even if we did turn ourselves in to Slater, like his letter told us to, I knew he’d show us no mercy.
    He’d just told me he wanted me dead so that he could rule the world.
    Which meant I needed to warn House Earth that he intended to bomb them. And then I would find a way to get to Slater and kill him before he made that threat a reality.

4
    The trials have concluded. The madman walks free while the others pay for it with their lives. The galvanized should not die this way. They should not die at all. If there is a place or time out there for them, I’ll find it. And I’ll find you, Matilda.
    â€”W.Y.
    N eds were taking Foster and Abraham to the old nursery down the hall, where I remembered tending Abraham’s wounds when he’d first come knocking on my kitchen door, telling me people were out to kill my father and me. I guessed they were going to be staying with us tonight.
    Quinten saw me walking out of Grandma’s room and waved a hand my way. “In here.”
    I followed him into his room.
    His room was big—really, two smaller bedrooms that had been opened up to make a larger space. It was as neat as I ever remembered it to be, though the items that filled it were a little more worn, scuffed at edges, or meticulously repaired.
    â€œThere’s only one person who knew what I was doing,” Quinten said in a loud whisper as soon as I shut the door.
    â€œWho? Doing what?” I asked, not following his train of thought. The time twitch with Slater was still rolling through my brain and making it hard to concentrate. And so was Grandma’s odd insistence that she and I had something to do. To the very end, whatever that meant.
    â€œThis.” He held up the letter that was crumpled a bit from his fist. “There is only one person who knew what I was doing. One.”
    â€œWhat were you doing?” I asked, taking the letter out of his hand and scanning it.
    â€œMining information and medical reports out of House Fire and House Water so I could find a cure for the damn plague.”
    Oh, hell. I knew he’d been lying.
    â€œAnd did you?” I gave the letter back and walked through his room. It was set up a little differently. The bed was on the wrong side, blocking a clear shot line from the open doorway. The chest of drawers was a different style. Stacks of books lined wooden shelves around the room and his closet, which was open only a small crack, seemed to contain a lot more flannel and sturdy work clothes than the white dress shirts and tweed vests I