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one or another aside. “Marcel,little heart, where are you hiding? Ah!” she exclaimed, drawing a gray pigeon toward her. He was cupped in the palm of her hand, his feet between her fingers. “Here you are, my brave bird.” She kissed the top of his head and slipped the little roll of rubber into a slender tube attached to his leg. Murmuring quietly to Marcel, she went to the open window and then let him go, releasing him into the air. The bank of yellow clouds that blanketed the city rumbled ominously, but Marcel flew steadily and swiftly northeast, staying low to avoid them.
    She watched him depart, smiling with pride. “There he goes.”
    â€œWill he be all right with the storm?” Sophia asked anxiously.
    â€œI doubt there will be a storm,” Maxine said, gesturing to a weather glass that hung just inside the broad window. “These clouds roll and rumble and the pressure rises and falls, but for weeks we have not had a drop of rain. It is passing strange. Still, my pigeons have had no difficulties with it.” Turning to tidy and close the writing cupboard, she said, “The Mark of Iron is what guides them. You can tell an ordinary pigeon where to go, and it would understand you, but it wouldn’t know how to get there. But pigeons with the Mark can locate anyone, anywhere. In a busy city, in a crowded courtyard, on a remote island. It is all the same to them.”
    â€œBut how do they do it?” Sophia asked. “How does the Mark of Iron make a difference?”
    â€œIt guides them like a compass, my dear!”
    â€œOh!” Sophia said, understanding dawning.
    â€œIn this case, we have depots, so Marcel’s task is easier. He will fly to the depot in Greensboro, where my colleague Elmer will transfer his message to another pigeon and send it to Boston. When it arrives there, Percy, the head of the Boston depot, will take down the message and send it to Shadrack by regular messenger. The whole thing will take a little over a day and a half.”
    â€œThank you so much, Maxine,” Sophia said gratefully.
    â€œI would imagine that for many people these days yours is the only correspondence that crosses the lines of battle,” Goldenrod remarked.
    â€œIndeed,” Maxine said, looking out at the city. “All regular mail has ground to a halt. To be a human courier is very dangerous these days. But I am sure Marcel will have no problem. Now,” she added, heading back to the stairs, “let us return to the dining room, and I will tell you my idea for how Burr and Calixta might travel safely out of New Orleans.” There was a wicked gleam in her eye. “It is an excellent idea, and I think no one is going to like it.”

6
Morel and Violets
    â€”1892, August 6: 13-Hour 07—
    Moreover, researchers (such as Veressa Metl) have suggested that the Marks should be thought of as a spectrum. My observations of the Elodeans, known as the Eerie in New Occident, indicate that they bear more of the Mark of the Vine than people in the southern Baldlands. Could it also be that the spectrum, as Metl describes it, corresponds to geography? And could it be, then, that there is also a spectrum for the Mark of Iron, resulting in some places with people and animals more “marked” than others?
    â€”From Sophia Tims’s
Reflections on a Journey to the Eerie Sea
    â€œR
AIDERS?” C ALIXTA EXCLA IMED. “Have you seen what raiders wear? Their clothes are invariably in tatters. Not one knows the meaning of ‘clean hair.’ And I have yet to see a raider who understands the fundamentals of footwear fashion.”
    â€œI knew you would hate the idea,” Maxine said, looking rather pleased. “It’s precisely because you
do
hate it and because everyone knows you would never be caught
dead
wearing ragged clothes that dressing as a raider would be ideal. No one would suspect you of wearing such a