Page 58 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“And Halima actually let you touch her sword?” he says disbelievingly.

I bite my lip. “I wouldn’t say let… She wasn’t happy about it.”

He chuckles. “I can imagine.” His face grows serious again, and he looks at me, thoughtfully.

“You know, your power really is capable of more than I could have ever imagined.”

The note of wonder in his voice makes my cheeks heat, but it’s one thing to acknowledge my importance, and another to treat me like an equal. I remind myself of that as I take a very firm step back.

“Will you tell them about the shifts, please?” I ask, unable to tune out the pain of the fae working around us.

He blinks at me. “Since you ask so nicely, and since that is such a rarity, I shall get right to it.”

He strides to the exit, calling for the supervisor. As I watch him go, I’m struck by a realization. I shouldn’t be meekly asking for this to be changed, shouldn’t be relying on Ruskin to fix things for me. I can do something about this myself. After all, what am I, if not inventive? If I can find a way to turn lead to gold, I can find a solution to ease these workers’ suffering.

Lead.

I know it as soon as I think the word. That’s the place to start.

I don’t wait for Ruskin to come back. Instead, I grab the smallest knot of iron I can find, wrap it in my skirts, and make for my workshop.

Chapter 18

It’s good to be back in my workshop, to feel the heat of the fire on my face and the weight of my tools in my hands. I can’t help but notice now that nothing had been touched in my absence. Everything was just as I had left it, right down to the last notes I wrote, scribbled on a scrap of parchment and tucked under a pair of tongs. I wonder now if it’s because Ruskin hoped I would, at some point, return to Faerie. But why should I want that to be true so badly when I’m supposed to be leaving as soon as we’ve fixed this problem?

Because he’s different from before.

The changes are subtle, but they’re there. The way Ruskin greeted his court on that first night back, when he wasn’t so guarded; the way he listened to me when it came to the attack and Halima. I could guess at why he’s changed—maybe it has something to do with Evanthe being back, or maybe it’s because my leaving in the first place taught him not to take me for granted—but I’m not sure it even matters. I haven’t decided what this difference means for me, but it’s there, lurking around every corner of my mind.

I turn out the mold I’ve been using and cool the metal in a bucket of water, watching the water sizzle and steam billow. It clears, and I look up to see the man who’s been occupying my thoughts standing at the door to the workshop.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

My visit to the orchard was yesterday, but the hours in between have raced by, with me only breaking to eat and sleep. The way Ruskin says it, though, I sense that he’s talking about more than just the last twenty-four hours. There’s a hint of sadness to his tone that confuses me.

“Look,” I say, removing my creation from the water and dropping it, now cool, onto the worktable. There’s an impressive clunk as it hits the wood. Ruskin comes round behind me to look at it, and I can feel his breath on my neck. We both look down at what I’ve made: a full-face mask of lead, with a narrow slit for the eyes.

“Interesting, though I’m not sure Destan would want to wear it to the next ball,” he says breezily.

I give him a light tap on the arm, unable to resist the playful response.

“It’s for the miners,” I say. “I know it’s a bit basic, but I think it could make a difference. Keep them safer while they work.”

I’d used a lead-lined box to dampen the effect of the iron shards the time I’d had to pull them out of Destan. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before that I could make other things with the material, like protective gear for a miner to wear.

Ruskin reaches out and runs his fingers over the mask.

“This is what you’ve been working on since yesterday?”

I nod. “I decided I needed to do something to help. Something I know I can do already.”

Ruskin’s wearing a look I can’t quite read.

“Ella, I—” he begins, before cutting himself off and looking away. I grow still at his use of my nickname and study his face, realizing something with unexpected certainty: he was going to tell me he loves me.

And then he thought better of it, of course, because even though it’s true—even though I feel the same—it doesn’t fix anything. Not after all that’s happened between us.

Ruskin steps back, clearing his throat, and I look down at the floor to hide the feelings I suspect are written plainly across my face.

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