The sun had barely risen.
It pressed weakly against the workshop windows, a pale wash of light that did little to chase away the night. The glass held the chill, and the air inside still carried the dense, earthy weight of damp clay and cooling kilns. Somewhere in the back, a kiln ticked softly as it contracted, metal and brick settling into themselves after hours of heat.
I took a final sip of my coffee. It had gone lukewarm—bitter at the edges, thin on the tongue. I set the cup aside with a dull ceramic tap and wiped my fingers against my apron before turning back to the workbench.
The clay sat where I'd left it.
Waiting.
I lowered myself into the chair, wood creaking faintly beneath my weight, and lifted the lump into my hands.
Soft.
Warm.
Strange.
It held heat longer than it should have. Not unpleasant, just… noticeable. Like something that refused to fully cool.
I pressed my thumbs into it and began wedging.
Fold. Press. Turn.
The motion came without thought. My palms pushed the mass forward, fingers curled, folding it back into itself. The table gave a muted thud with each press, the rhythm steady, familiar—almost comforting in its repetition. Air pockets collapsed silently beneath the pressure.
The clay yielded easily.
Too easily, maybe.
"It's just like working with clay," I muttered under my breath, a faint scoff slipping out as memory surfaced—my master's voice, dry and unimpressed, echoing from years ago.
I rotated the mass, pressing again. Even good clay needed discipline. Especially good clay. This batch was already refined—white, fine-grained—but that didn't excuse laziness.
"To make it more pliable," I added quietly, though no one was there to hear it.
My hands shifted, thumbs guiding, fingers lifting.
The shape began to rise.
A base formed first, broad and steady. Then the walls followed, coaxed upward in slow increments. The surface smoothed beneath my touch, every uneven ridge corrected before it could settle.
The room stayed quiet.
Until—
"Thomas! Thomas!"
The voice cut through the stillness like a snapped thread.
I paused, fingers hovering just above the clay, and glanced toward the doorway.
Footsteps approached—quick, uneven—and a moment later the man stepped inside, bringing with him a gust of cooler air and the faint scent of the street.
"There you are," he said, brushing dust from his coat with hurried strokes. "Do you have the products?"
I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on a cloth before answering.
"And a good morning to you as well, Mr. Carter."
"Morning," he replied quickly, barely slowing. "It's just that the buyer wants them soon and—"
I raised a finger.
He stopped.
The silence stretched just long enough to settle his breath.
Then I pointed toward the corner of the workshop.
The crate sat where I'd left it, half-shadowed against the wall.
He followed the gesture.
"Those?"
"Yes."
Carter crossed the room, boots scraping lightly against the floor. The crate gave a faint creak as he knelt and lifted the lid.
I watched him.
Not the candles—him.
My eyes narrowed slightly as a small memory surfaced, uninvited. A single stray hair. It had clung stubbornly to one of the candles when I trimmed the wicks earlier that morning. I'd tried to remove it. It hadn't come free.
It was still there.
Somewhere in that crate.
Carter reached in and lifted one candle.
He turned it slowly in his hands, the pale surface catching what little light filtered through the window. Smooth. Even. The wick spiraled faintly at the center, precise and deliberate.
He saw nothing else.
After a moment, he placed it back inside.
"Alright," he said, closing the crate with a firm push. "How much?"
"Two pounds and five shillings per candle. Twelve ritual candles."
He stilled, lips moving faintly as he calculated.
"Twenty-seven pounds," he said.
I nodded once.
"John will deliver the money by noon," he added, already shifting his grip on the crate.
He lifted it with a grunt and turned toward the door.
The hinges creaked as he stepped out.
For a moment, the pale morning sun caught the edge of the crate—then both disappeared into the light beyond.
The business district moved slowly at that hour.
Shutters opened one by one. Voices rose in cautious increments. Wheels rattled over stone as carts began their daily routes.
Inside his shop, Mr. Carter sat behind his desk, posture straighter than usual.
When the door opened, he stood immediately.
"Miss Margaret. Good day."
She stepped inside without hurry, her presence bringing with it a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere—measured, composed.
"Mr. Carter," she replied. "You mentioned the items had arrived."
"Indeed."
He retrieved the crate and set it on the counter, lifting the lid for her inspection.
She reached in, selecting a candle with careful fingers.
It rested lightly in her hand as she turned it.
Her gaze traced the surface. The smoothness. The precision of the wick. The balance of form.
She said nothing at first.
Then, after a moment—
"Very good."
The candle returned to the crate.
"How much?"
Carter folded his hands, expression settling into something practiced.
"Forty-five pounds and six shillings for the crate."
She studied him.
He did not move.
The silence lingered, thin but deliberate.
"I would prefer buying directly from your supplier," she said at last, voice even, "but this will do."
A small gesture followed.
Her maid stepped forward and produced the payment.
Carter counted it slowly, each note and coin passing through his fingers with deliberate care.
"John," he called toward the back, "come and give Mr. Thomas his pay."
Footsteps answered.
Thomas accepted his share when the boy arrived, though he didn't leave immediately. He lingered near the doorway, fingers tightening slightly around the money.
"Sir…" he began quietly. "Aren't you worried about the demonic nature of those things? Why trade in them?"
Carter waved a hand, dismissive.
"Rubbish. Anyone with a brain knows they're just strange art. Perverse art perhaps, but art nonetheless."
A pause.
"For disturbed collectors."
Thomas nodded, though the uncertainty didn't leave his face. He turned and stepped out.
The door closed behind him.
Carter leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
His thoughts drifted—first to Miss Margaret, and how easily she had paid.
Then to the candles themselves.
Odd things.
He rubbed his temple, fingers pressing briefly against the skin.
"I need a cup of tea."
Midnight settled differently.
It wasn't just darkness—it was a quiet that pressed inward, muting the edges of the world.
I sat by the dresser, hands resting lightly in my lap as the maid worked behind me. The brush moved through my hair in slow, even strokes, each pass pulling gently at the scalp before releasing.
The room was still.
"Ivy," I said, watching my reflection, "is the carriage ready?"
"Yes, Miss. The crates and other items are already loaded."
The brush paused, then resumed.
A final adjustment.
I lowered the veil myself, the fabric soft as it fell into place, muting my reflection into something distant.
"Watch the house while I am gone."
"Yes, Miss."
Outside, the air carried a sharper chill.
The carriage waited.
The ride was silent.
Wheels rolled over stone in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing faintly through empty streets. Lamps burned low along the roads, their light flickering as the carriage passed.
The city slept.
Mostly.
When we arrived, the difference was immediate.
The Pilgrim Fair pulsed with life.
Lanterns hung overhead, casting uneven light across rows of stalls. Shadows shifted constantly as people moved—collectors, mystics, frauds, scholars, opportunists. Voices overlapped in low currents, bargaining, questioning, whispering.
Perfect customers.
I placed one candle on the table.
Its pale surface stood out against the darker clutter around it.
"Curious things you've got here," a man said, appearing at the edge of the stall.
He picked one up, turning it between his fingers.
"How much?"
"Three pounds and eight shillings."
He paid without hesitation.
The candle disappeared into his bag.
"A pleasure doing business with you," I said.
Another replaced it on the table.
Iron Harbour smelled of salt and damp wood.
"Williams," I called, stepping into the warehouse office. "I've returned. Help me ship this."
The clerk glanced up, adjusting his glasses before reaching for the crate.
A stamp came down with a firm thud.
#1067
"How was the fair?" he asked.
"Quiet enough," I replied.
He nodded, already moving on to the next task.
I watched the crate for a moment longer.
I imagined the expressions—the subtle shifts, the concealed interest—when the members of the Ninth Catalogue received it.
That alone made the trip worthwhile.
A month later.
Father returned with his usual assortment of curiosities, each piece carrying the faint weight of distant places.
"Eudora, what's that?" Mary asked one evening as we sat in her room, the remnants of another failed summoning scattered across the table.
"A candle," I said, setting it down. "Borrowed it from Father."
"Oh? What does it do?"
"I don't know."
I struck a match.
The flame flared, brief and bright, before settling.
It touched the wick.
We waited.
The candle burned quietly.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Nothing changed.
"It isn't even pretty," I muttered.
That night, I dreamed.
Water pressed in from all sides.
Or something like water.
Above me, a dark sun hung—eclipsed, unmoving.
Sound moved through the currents.
Whispers.
Or voices.
I woke without clarity.
Only the feeling remained.
"Vivian," I said after breakfast, "may I have some clay? I would like to sculpt something."
By noon, it covered my hands.
I did not know what I was making.
But my hands did.
The shape rose without hesitation.
Tall.
Narrow.
When I finished, it stood like an obelisk, split cleanly down the center. A deep fissure ran from top to base.
My palm stung.
I looked down.
A shallow cut. Blood welled slowly, then fell.
The drops slid into the crack.
The clay absorbed them.
When the blood settled, faint crimson crystals glimmered within the fracture.
Watching.
I wrapped my hand.
"It seemed necessary," I said.
Days later, I returned to it.
The courtyard was quiet.
A goose wandered nearby, pecking absentmindedly at the ground.
Vivien was gone.
The knife felt heavier than expected.
It ended quickly.
Blood ran along the fissure.
The clay drank it.
I blinked.
The goose was gone.
In its place—
Glass.
Transparent shards, edged with faint rainbow sheen.
I lifted one, holding it to my eye.
Days passed.
Things changed.
Not visibly.
But beneath.
I knew.
Guilt. Fear. Desire. Hatred.
They moved through people like currents, and I saw them.
Clearly.
I tested it.
A girl took money from the teacher's desk.
"Why did you take it?" I asked.
Her face—
That was enough.
I said nothing more.
She helped me after that.
Whenever I asked.
Life simplified.
"Now I see what others cannot," I whispered one evening.
"I know when someone lies."
Teachers.
Friends.
Suitors.
Family.
All transparent.
The world arranged itself into patterns.
Predictable.
Manageable.
Winnable.
One afternoon, Mary and I played chess.
The board sat between us, pieces aligned in quiet tension.
I adjusted the glasses.
Looked.
Nothing.
I removed them.
Wiped the lenses.
Put them back on.
Still nothing.
"I didn't know you started wearing glasses," Mary said, moving her knight.
"A recent development."
But the certainty was gone.
Sunlight filled the room.
Mary looked—
Ordinary.
Unreadable.
And then—
A thought.
Unwelcome.
Sharp.
Did she also—
My mind drifted.
Back to the candle.
And for the first time in months—
I wasn't sure.