‘See, here – coast ore – it sucks up the salt in the rocks – marvellous conductive. Heat, lightning. An obliging metal.’ Pats it approvingly, holds up a finger. ‘But, weak. No friend to a fire.’ He smiles proudly. ‘But marry it to iron, keep it held over embers for days, and it will learn to like the heat.’ His head slides inquiringly. ‘You follow?’
She nods. ‘I think so. This is fascinating. I’ve only ever used copper, brass.’
He nods. ‘So it needs to be malleable, yes. But the durability? An issue? At sea, great stresses on the toughest materials.’
He begins to make some notes. Stops, scratches a line through them. Sets the quill down.
‘First principles. Tell me how it works. I need to know the system before I can help you build the machine.’
She flicks a glance at the door.
Wicktwister raises a calming hand.
‘No trade secrets required.’ His head bobs. ‘Not that I would betray such. I am sworn to the archive, mouth, hand and bone.’
He pulls his lip revealing a scar like a stretched crescent on his gum; shows her the mirror of the same on his hand. It doesn’t mean much to her.
She starts sorting the metals, weighing them in her hand, discarding them by feel. ‘The archive?’
He murmurs in agreement. ‘Not a full-fledged archivist, no, not me. Methods too direct, too physical. A consultant only.’ He catches himself, slows. ‘The archive keeps the secrets of the city. Its dead, once they have gone to glass.’ Tips his hand back and forth. ‘Secrets, dead. There is much overlap. The ramifications for you? I do not share a syllable without consent.’
Shipwright scratches her chin thoughtfully. ‘Good enough for me. I’ve never met anyone else that could do this anyway, other than my parents.’
She opens her mouth. Shuts it. ‘I’ve never tried to explain this before. Bear with me.’
Wicktwister nods encouragingly. ‘Of course. Water? Tea?’
Shipwright demurs. ‘This won’t take long.’
She leans forwards, separates her hands. ‘Everything I do starts with spinners. Have you seen one?’
He shakes his head, slowly. ‘Heard tales. Read reports.’
She digs into her satchel, takes out a small brass sphere that hums and whirrs.
The spinner sits on the table where it rotates gently under its own momentum; a buzzing sphere of beaten metal, folded like the petals of a flower, or the segments of an orange.
Shipwright points to it. ‘The folded metalwork’s not usual, but it’s my style. Helps the vibrations.’
Wicktwister moves towards it, glances up for permission. She nods. ‘Sure, it’s harmless.’
He picks it up, lets it dance across his knuckles like a drowsy bee. ‘Wondrous.’
Shipwright laughs. ‘Hardly, to me. Can you feel inside? The loops that intersect? The hum?’
Wicktwister cups it gently, waits, nods as the vibration spills gently through his bones.
Her heart warms at the joy on his face. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
He grins. ‘Lovely, yes, but lovely will not teach me which metals you need, which hammers must beat upon this beautiful bird’s egg. Basic principles, Shipwright.’
He holds the spinner up between them. ‘This is the tool of your will. What is your will?’
A good question. She waits a quiet moment, but for the slow tick of a clock, the muffled murmur of shoppers outside. An elderly grey cat limps through the room pausing to butt its head against Wicktwister’s ankles. He scratches absently between its ears. Shipwright leans across and pats its flanks. ‘She’s lovely.’
Wicktwister chucks the cat’s snaggle-toothed chin fondly. ‘She is an old faulty machine. I keep her around for warmth, for love. Too much sentiment in my heart for simple things, for this cat.’
Shipwright runs her hand over the cat’s bones, stroking the purr down her spine. ‘What’s her name?’
