September 1870, Brighton England
She leaned back against the front door and blew out some of the bitter weight accumulating in her chest. The brass bells hanging from the doorknob tried to ring against her skirts, but only managed a muffled sigh. Breathe, yes, that was the thing to do—especially now that the door was locked.
One day, the mention of Dick Mallory would not turn her into a frightened fawn. One day.
But enough of that.
She scrubbed her face with her palms and pushed upright from her slump. Not a ladylike recovery from a swoon, but what was to be expected from a spinster in the world alone, running a shop that was—
Enough!
Self-pity was well and truly a waste of time and strength, something she could hardly afford.
She dusted her hands together and smoothed her leather apron. Door locked, now all that remained was to pull the window shades and get to work. With the aid of a stepstool, she wrestled the heavy canvas shade down behind the big shop window. The other two windows’ shades had the good sense not to fight her so much. Almost as if they could detect her frayed temper, knowing she could pull them to pieces and rebuild them any time she so desired. A lesson she had taught Mrs. Stephens’ heirloom music box, which she had dissected with great satisfaction and rebuilt it into the obedient beauty that waited in the glass-fronted cabinet to be reunited with its owner.
With the bag of young Fletcher’s distress tucked under her arm, she walked past the workbench as she fished out the long chain that held the Chubb key to the cellar from under layers of ruching and decorative trim that polite society deemed to be the appropriate uniform for women in every profession.
Habit required her to take a backward glance across the quiet workshop, now lit only by the late afternoon sun as it forced its way through the canvas blinds. Yes, everything was in place, as much in place as it ever was, at least. It seemed so peaceful like this, free from the angst and storm that customers often brought with them, and the tortured agony of the pieces that required repair.
Was it odd that some days she could sense the pain of broken objects—especially those that were victim to some sort of violence? Father thought it both impossible and sentimental—the ridiculous romanticism only a woman could come up with, and a solid reason women should not be Wrights.
He was probably right, at least regarding the former point.
She slipped the key into the Chubb detector lock and it gave way to her. There was something oddly satisfying about knowing no other person could get into the cellar workshop. It was her space and hers alone.
Cool, damp air rushed up the stairs, carrying the smells of stone and Earth. Unwelcoming to some, the sensation soothed her, steadied her, called her to the one place she was safe to be who and what she was.
As always, the candle in its iron holder waited for her in the niche by the door. She pinched the wick and snapped it through her fingers. It brightened, then glowed, blooming into a polite little flame that illuminated the first three steps of the narrow wooden staircase. As she turned the lock behind her, the scents of dust and damp and the base Elements: Fire, Earth, Water, and Air— embraced her. She closed her eyes and reveled in her connection to … everything.
Each Element, its every flicker and movement, she felt in her fingers, her skin, every part of her being. When she listened, she could hear them whispering and groaning against each other. In the near dark, the waves of Air shimmered against the candle’s Fire, dancing like ballet dancers on the stage, complete with fluffy skirts and graceful arms. Fortunately, in the light of day, such things were nearly invisible, or she would never overcome the distraction.
No time to indulge in unfocussed romanticism now, though. So much work to be done.
The cellar had been dug extra deep, without even the usual narrow windows near the ceiling to bring in some measure of light from the street level. Father had been very cautious about security that way. It was inconvenient, to be sure, but the yellow-orange flames of gas lamps drove out the otherwise perpetual darkness.
The workshop still felt like Father, organized as he had it for the whole of Rebecca’s life. A corner devoted to each of the Elements, and a central worktable where one could work surrounded by them. Between the corners, shelves of tools and materials that might be necessary to accomplish the work when hands alone would not do.
Fire first, always first. Start with your native Element, or so Father insisted. His had been Earth, the strongest, most stable, the most common for Wrights to be attuned to. Some said the easiest to manage.
The opposite of Fire.
She stopped at the base of the stairs and placed the candle on a small shelf under the gaslight mounted on the southwest wall. Father had made the glass shades himself, a special design that hinged open, allowing for an easy reach inside. She fingered the narrow brass pipe, cool and smooth, with the stability of Earth, but an affinity to Fire.
With her left hand, she pulled the chain to open the flow of the gas as she snapped her right-hand fingers in the surge of Air through the lamp’s mantel. A spark and the Fire bubbled and blossomed, filling the lamp with brilliance. She borrowed a flame petal and held it in her palm.
Such a complicated dance, exotic and entrancing. One could almost hear the music it followed, if she but listened carefully enough. But now was not the time to play with her Element. She returned it to the lampshade and closed the glass. Yes, she could have allowed it to die in her palm. The flame was no living thing. But the niggling sense of despair it caused proved unconducive to her work.
The warm glow of gaslight bathed the workshop as she turned to her left, to the room’s southeast corner where a pair of bare pewter shutters hung, each the length of her forearm and half again as wide. Air. Slippery and capricious, wild, like Fire, but with greater freedom to course where it would. She opened the matching shutters to reveal a pair of shafts that led to the street level, in the mews behind the house. The vague scent of roses wafted in. Several large and especially thorny rose bushes grew around the shafts’ opening, protecting them from unwelcome attention.
Air was like breathing, in and out. All dealings with Air must come in pairs, breathing out and breathing in, breathing in and breathing out. She placed an open spread hand in each of the openings. First in, then out. She only had to make the mistake of reversing that order once.
In through the left. Street air, warmer than the cellar’s, tickled between her fingers. Fire might be the hardest Element to control, but Air was more difficult to gain purchase on. Thin and filmy, with so little substance to grasp. Held too tight, it slipped away; too loose, and it did the same.
The promise of rain today made the humid Air heavier and more substantive. She caught it through her fingers and pulled it into the room in a great whoosh that felt louder than it sounded. She pushed the flow across the back wall, beckoned it along the far wall, around the corner, past the stairs where it fed Fire into a brighter glow, and back to her hands again. By now, though, it had gained speed and a mind of its own. With both hands, she tried to push it through the right-hand shaft.
But Air was true to its nature, slick and capricious, demanding its own way. Whirling around the workroom, it gained speed and shape. A whirlwind—why did Air always seek to become a whirlwind?
“Ruddy, stubborn blowhard!” She muttered through her teeth, a trickle of sweat burning her eyes. “You will do as you are told.” No, the words made no difference, but they reminded her she was indeed in charge, something which Air encouraged her to forget.
She reached her hands into the whipping wind, tangling it in her spread fingers. It slowed, but fought her all the way. She dragged it back to the shaft and jammed both hands in. Releasing one finger at a time, the Air reluctantly followed the path she set. She tucked the last tendrils of the Air stream into the vent. A windy whistle danced around the room. Still too fast. She slid both hands into the inbound stream and squeezed down until only a soft breath remained.
Blast and botheration! It felt too much like strangling a cat when she did that. There was a reason her relationship with Air was love-hate on the best days. Something Father never allowed her to forget as Air came easily to Joseph. At least until it turned on him that day.
She moved left again, now cross-corners to Fire, Water needed to be the farthest away from Fire. Carried by Air, it was close to Air, but at odds with Fire.
Or so the Aristotelian tradition that dominated the Guild’s Theory of Elements argued. Father had his own ideas, and she agreed. Not that it mattered to the Guild.
A small pewter sluice, the size of her hand, jutted from the stone wall with an earthenware basin below. She opened the sluice gate and laid her palm against the wall above it. Reaching past the wall stones, she searched for the cool smoothness of Water. The recent rains had left their gifts near the surface. She gathered them and pulled them through the sluice. Spitting and splashing, a modest stream trickled out, covering the bottom of the basin. There, that was enough, just enough for the crisp smell and the smooth slick sounds of Water to echo in the room. She closed the gate, shutting off the flow, but a few obstinate drops forced their way through and plopped into the basin. Best allow that for now. The Water had a sharp, stubborn attitude today, the kind it was best not to force.
Moving to the left once more, she approached the Earth corner. No, there was no magic in the soothing habitual order she followed when rousing the Elements; there was no magic to any of this, contrary to what some members of the Brighton Guild were pushing members to believe—all that mysticism nonsense they were trying to bring in left a bitter taste on her tongue. Another point Father knew better about.
Two rocks jutted from the wall plaster—the only plastered wall in the workroom. Not an aesthetic choice; it helped her isolate those specific stones, helping her avoid the entire wall responding to her. Her facility with stone had always irritated Father. Earth was his Element and it should have been as difficult for her as Fire was for him.
She laid her hands on the two contrasting rocks set into the wall and framed by the white plaster. One rough like sand, the other deep black, glassy and sharp. One formed by Water and eroded by Air, the other made by Fire. The Elements, no matter how disparate they seemed, always connected; but that was Father’s teaching, not the Guild’s. Why were they so enamored of Aristotle’s model that they could not see what was clear, right in front of them?
She caressed the sandy stone with her right hand until it became soft and malleable under her fingers. Coaxing it with smooth steady strokes, she drew it out like clay, into half an arc. With her left hand, she drew out the residual flame of the other. As most things connected to Fire, it resisted her at first, until she convinced it that cooperation was better than shattering. At last, she pulled it into the other half of the arc, connecting the two parts of Earth and finishing the circuit of Elements that assisted her focus on labors.
She moved to the worktable in the center of the room, braced her hands on it and closed her eyes. The Elements swirled around her, singing together in a pleasing harmony she felt as much as heard. More perfect than any man-made music in a concert hall, her every sense awakened under its touch. The thrill along her skin, energizing, electric even. So soothing after a day filled with customers and disorder.
If only she could bathe in the melodious order a little longer.
But no, the hound of work worried at her heels. Tame that first, then she could bask in peace.
She lit the lamp above the worktable, adjusting the brightness until no shadows remained, then removed the leather blanket covering the projects awaiting her touch. Two pieces of silver hollowware that had gotten caught on the wrong side of a drunken dust-up; a broken rocking horse made by a long deceased relative; pocket knife, bent and rusted, that had belonged to a beloved uncle. All previously taken elsewhere for mending, to metalsmiths and toy makers, but declared not worth the blunt to fix; the sort of things that often found their way to her.
But first she would start on the figurine. Mostly Earth, it would help her stay focused. She pulled a high wooden stool to the table and sat down, absorbing the wobble as the barely uneven legs settled on the hard-packed dirt floor. One day, she would have to fix that. What was it they said about the cobbler’s children going shoeless?
She removed the larger pieces of the figurine one by one from the coarse bag and laid them out on the table like an anatomist laid out body parts. Heads, hands, arms, legs, a pair of torsos, eerily disconnected from all other limbs.
A shudder ran down her spine as she pushed her glasses higher on her nose. Do not read more meaning into that than there was. Nothing more than a broken piece of bric-à-brac here. There were no such things as omens or auguries. Just clumsy, frightened cats, which brought her enough business to warrant her feeding the stray ones that ran the mews behind the shop.
When only dust and shards remained in the bag—Fletcher had done well by bringing all those bits to her—she laid it aside and stared at the puzzle before her. The Elements did not have feelings, but if they did, the Earth before her would have been sad. Aching with the force of the destruction, it cried out to be mended and molded back into its original form.
Or at least that was what her romantical female imagination told her.
She sighed. She really needed to stop allowing Father’s voice to echo in her mind.
The breaks between heads and torsos were jagged, but well matched. That was the place to start. The female figure first, for politeness’ sake, of course. Inspecting the head close to the lamp, a few bits of carpet fuzz and cat hair became obvious. She brushed them away with a fine, soft hair brush. Few might notice the sloppiness they would bring to the join, but why practice work she would not be proud of?
Once clean, she cupped a piece in each hand, eyes closed, feeling the inherent movement in each. Earth moved slowly, deliberately, but it moved. One had to get quiet enough to find it, sense it, direct it.
There, a slow, halting step, stumbling because of the break. Yes, it was something she could work with. She stroked the broken surfaces with callused fingertips. Rough, jagged, disordered. Earth did not like to be disordered. That’s what made it easiest to tame. It embraced structure and order as no other Element did. She beckoned the tiniest bit of Fire to her fingers, warming the edges only enough to increase the motion within them.
Earthenware needed only a slight coaxing. Too much and it would lose form and slump into a shapeless heap not worth mending. Too little and the joint would not be complete, with tiny gaps and thin connections that would be prone to break again. There, barely warm enough to detect through the calluses. Now to join them.
Pressing head to torso, the pieces rasped together, sighing as they found their proper fit. Such a satisfying sound. She pinched the spot where the fragments met. Two separate motions tickled her fingertips. This was the fun part, finding the patterns in each and how she might urge them to merge into one.
The Earth of the head swirled in dizzying twists. A determined folk dancer resolved to prove his endurance. The torso swayed in easy motions, like an audience entranced by a soothing flutist’s skill. There! Yes, there! They both danced in the same underlying beat, the frenzy and the sway meeting in soft, predictable ways. Now to build on that.
“Behave. Listen to each other.” How silly to talk as though it could hear her. But it helped her focus on what she needed to do. Pull the motions together at the points they met.
But they were stubborn, as Earth usually was. Three fingers on each hand pulled, directed, pinched, and pushed until the two motion streams collided. Confusion first. The joint quivered, threatening to shatter, but then caught hold, like dancers coming together on the floor, turning together and catching other dancers as they went. Tiny shockwaves rippled through the joint and across head and torso, slowing, stopping, as the earthenware fragments finally moved as one.
She dabbed sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. The first bit was always the most difficult. The motion from the joined pieces would be stronger with each one added, making each join easier than the last. With the remaining dust and fragments to smooth over any imperfect joints, she would be able to start her paid work in no more than an hour.