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 intense heat.
Thomas took a final sip of his coffee. It had gone lukewarm, bitter at the edges and thin on the tongue. He set the cup aside with a dull ceramic tap, wiped his fingers against his coarse apron, and turned back to the workbench.
The clay sat exactly where he had left it. Waiting.
He lowered himself into the chair, the old wood creaking faintly beneath his weight, and lifted the heavy lump into his hands. It was soft, warm, and strange. It held heat much longer than it should have—not unpleasantly so, but just noticeable enough to give him pause. It felt like something that simply refused to fully cool.
He pressed his thumbs deep into the mass and began wedging.
Fold. Press. Turn.
The motion came entirely without thought. His palms pushed the mass forward, fingers curled, folding the material back into itself. The table gave a muted thud with each rhythmic press, a steady and familiar cadence that felt almost comforting in its repetition. Air pockets collapsed silently beneath the pressure of his hands.
The clay yielded easily. Too easily, maybe.
"It's just like working with clay," Thomas muttered under his breath. A faint, mocking scoff slipped out as an old memory surfaced—his master's voice, dry and thoroughly unimpressed, echoing from years ago.
He rotated the mass, pressing down again. Even good clay needed discipline. Especially good clay. This batch was already highly refined—white and fine-grained—but that didn't excuse laziness.
"To make it more pliable," he added quietly to the empty room, though there was no one there to hear the lesson.
His hands shifted smoothly, thumbs guiding and fingers lifting. The shape began to rise from the wheel. A base formed first, broad and steady, and then the walls followed, coaxed upward in slow, deliberate increments. The surface smoothed beneath his practiced touch, every uneven ridge corrected before it could settle.
The room stayed completely quiet. Until—
"Thomas! Thomas!"
The panicked voice cut through the stillness like a snapped thread. Thomas paused, his fingers hovering just above the damp clay, and glanced toward the doorway.
Quick, uneven footsteps approached. A moment later, Mr. Carter stepped inside, bringing with him a gust of cooler morning air and the faint, dusty scent of the street.
"There you are," Carter said, brushing road dust from his coat with hurried, nervous strokes. "Do you have the products?"
Thomas leaned back slightly, picking up a cloth to wipe his hands before answering. "And a good morning to you as well, Mr. Carter."
"Morning," Carter replied quickly, barely slowing down to acknowledge the greeting. "It's just that the buyer wants them soon, and—"
Thomas raised a single finger. Carter stopped talking. The silence stretched just long enough to let the man settle his frantic breath. Then, Thomas pointed toward the far corner of the workshop.
The wooden crate sat exactly where he had left it, half-shadowed against the wall. Carter followed the gesture, his eyes locking onto it.
"Those?"
"Yes."
Carter crossed the room, his heavy boots scraping lightly against the floorboards. The crate gave a faint creak as he knelt down and pried open the lid.
Thomas watched him carefully. He didn't look at the candles; he looked at the man. A small, uninvited memory surfaced in Thomas's mind. A single stray hair had clung stubbornly to one of the candles when he was trimming the wicks earlier that morning. He had tried to remove it, but it hadn't come free. It was still there, embedded somewhere in that crate.
Carter reached in and lifted one of the candles. He turned it slowly in his hands, letting the pale surface catch what little light filtered through the grimy window. It was smooth and perfectly even. The wick spiraled faintly at the center, precise and deliberate.
Carter 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."
Carter stilled, his lips moving faintly as he ran the calculations. "Twenty-seven pounds."
Thomas nodded once. "As agreed."
"My boy John will deliver the money by noon," Carter added, already shifting his grip on the heavy wood. He lifted the crate with a sharp grunt and turned toward the door.
The hinges creaked loudly as he stepped out into the alley. For a split second, the pale morning sun caught the edge of the crate—then both man and cargo disappeared into the light beyond.
The business district moved slowly at that hour. Shutters opened one by one, voices rose in cautious increments, and iron wheels rattled over stone as delivery carts began their daily routes.
Inside his upscale shop, Mr. Carter sat behind his desk, his posture noticeably straighter than usual. When the front door clicked open, he stood up immediately.
"Miss Margaret. Good day."
She stepped inside without any hurry, her presence bringing a subtle, measured shift to the room's atmosphere. She was entirely composed.
"Mr. Carter," she replied. "You mentioned the items had arrived."
"Indeed." He retrieved the crate from beneath the counter and set it down, lifting the lid for her inspection.
She reached in, selecting a candle with careful, gloved fingers. It rested lightly in her hand as she turned it over. Her gaze traced the surface, taking in the unnatural smoothness, the precision of the central wick, and the perfect balance of form. She said nothing at first. Then, after a long moment, she gave a slight nod.
"Very good." The candle returned to its resting place in the crate. "How much?"
Carter folded his hands, his expression settling into a well-practiced mask. "Forty-five pounds and six shillings for the crate."
She studied his face. He did not flinch or move. The silence lingered between them, thin but deliberate.
"I would prefer buying directly from your supplier," she said at last, her voice perfectly even, "but this will do."
She made a small, elegant gesture. Her maid stepped forward and produced the payment. Carter counted the money slowly, letting each note and coin pass through his fingers with deliberate care. Once satisfied, he called out toward the back storage room.
"John! Take twenty-seven pounds and deliver it straight to Mr. Thomas at his workshop. Don't dawdle."
A young boy popped his head out, took the designated coin pouch, and slipped out the back door into the street.
Left alone in the shop, Carter leaned back in his leather chair, exhaling a long, slow breath. His thoughts drifted—first to Miss Margaret and how easily she had paid, and then to the candles themselves.
They were odd things. He remembered Thomas's hesitant glances during their previous dealings, the craftsman's subtle anxiety about the orders. Carter rubbed his temple, his fingers pressing briefly against the skin.
"Rubbish," Carter muttered to the empty room, shaking his head to dismiss the lingering unease. "Anyone with a brain knows they're just strange art. Perverse art perhaps, but art nonetheless. For disturbed collectors. I need a cup of tea."
Midnight settled differently. It wasn't just darkness; it was a heavy quiet that pressed inward, muting the sharp edges of the world.
Miss Margaret sat by her dresser, her hands resting lightly in her lap while her maid worked silently behind her. The brush moved through her dark hair in slow, even strokes, each pass pulling gently at her scalp before releasing. The room was perfectly still.
"Ivy," Margaret said, watching her own reflection in the glass. "Is the carriage ready?"
"Yes, Miss. The crates and other items are already loaded."
The brush paused for a brief second, then resumed its rhythm. A final adjustment, and the task was done. Margaret lowered the heavy veil herself, the fabric soft as it fell into place, muting her reflection into something distant and unrecognizable.
"Watch the house while I am gone."
"Yes, Miss."
Outside, the night air carried a much sharper chill. The carriage waited in the shadows, and the subsequent ride was entirely silent. The wheels rolled over cobblestones in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing faintly through empty, narrow streets. Lamps burned low along the roads, their dim light flickering against the curtains as the carriage passed. The city slept.
Mostly.
When they finally arrived, the difference was immediate. The Pilgrim Fair pulsed with a strange, hidden life.
Lanterns hung overhead, casting uneven, dancing light across rows of crowded stalls. Shadows shifted constantly as people moved through the thoroughfare—collectors, mystics, frauds, scholars, and opportunists. Voices overlapped in low, secretive currents, bargaining, questioning, and whispering in the dark.
They were the perfect customers.
Margaret placed a single candle on her display table. Its pale, pristine surface stood out starkly against the darker clutter of artifacts around it.
"Curious things you've got here," a man said, appearing suddenly at the edge of the stall. He picked up the candle, turning it curiously between his fingers. "How much?"
"Five pounds and ten shillings," Margaret replied smoothly.
The man paid the steep price without a moment's hesitation. The candle disappeared into his deep bag.
"A pleasure doing business with you," Margaret said.
As soon as he stepped away, another candle replaced it on the table.
Iron Harbour smelled heavily of salt, rotting seaweed, and damp wood.
"Williams," Margaret called out, stepping into the cramped warehouse office later that week. "I've returned. Help me ship this final batch."
The clerk glanced up from his ledger, adjusting his spectacles before reaching for the remaining crate destined for overseas. He brought a heavy brass stamp down with a firm, echoing thud.
#1067
"How was the fair, Mr Elvin?" he asked idly.
"Lucrative enough," he replied.
He nodded, already moving on to the next shipping manifesto. Elvin watched the stamped crate for a moment longer, imagining the expressions—the subtle shifts of features, the poorly concealed interest—when the exclusive members of the Ninth Catalogue finally received it. That anticipation alone made the entire venture worthwhile.
A month later.
Eudora's father returned from his latest travels with his usual assortment of curiosities, each piece carrying the faint, dusty weight of distant places.
"Eudora, what's that?" Mary asked one evening.
They were sitting together in Mary's bedroom, the messy remnants of another failed, youthful summoning scattered harmlessly across the tabletop.
"A candle," Eudora said, setting the pale object down between them. "I borrowed it from Father's study."
"Oh? What does it do?"
"I don't know."
Eudora struck a match. The flame flared, brief and bright, before settling down into a steady burn. She touched the fire to the wick.
They sat back and waited. The candle burned quietly in the center of the room. Minutes passed, stretching seamlessly into hours, but nothing changed.
"It isn't even pretty," Mary muttered, leaning back and losing interest entirely.
That night, Eudora dreamed.
Water pressed in on her from all sides, or something that felt horribly like water. Above her, a dark sun hung in a dead sky—eclipsed and completely unmoving. Strange sound moved through the cold currents. They felt like whispers. Or voices.
She woke up without any clarity, but the suffocating feeling remained trapped in her chest.
"Vivian," Eudora said after breakfast the next morning, addressing her personal maid. "May I have some raw clay from the pottery bins downstairs? I would like to sculpt something."
Vivian looked mildly surprised by the request, but she bowed her head. "Of course, Miss. I will fetch it right away."
By noon, the damp clay covered Eudora's hands. She did not know what she was making, but her fingers seemed to know on their own. The shape rose from the board without a single moment of hesitation—tall, narrow, and severe.
When she finished, it stood like a miniature obelisk, split cleanly down the center by a deep fissure that ran from the top all the way to the base.
Suddenly, her palm stung. She looked down and saw a shallow cut across her skin. Blood welled up slowly and then fell, the heavy drops sliding directly into the crack of the sculpture. The clay drank them instantly.
When the blood settled, faint crimson crystals began to glimmer deep within the fracture, looking back out like tiny eyes.
Watching.
Vivian returned to the room a moment later, gasping softly at the sight. "Oh, Miss! You've cut yourself. Let me clean that."
Eudora allowed the maid to wrap her hand in clean linen, her eyes never leaving the sculpture. "It seemed necessary," she whispered.
Days later, Eudora returned to the courtyard.
The estate grounds were quiet. A lone goose wandered nearby, pecking absentmindedly at the grass. Vivian had been sent outside on errands and was gone.
The knife felt heavier in Eudora's hand than she expected.
It ended quickly.
Fresh blood ran along the fissure of the clay obelisk, and the hungry material drank it down just as before. Eudora blinked. The goose was gone. In its place on the grass lay shards of glass—transparent, sharp pieces edged with a faint, shifting rainbow sheen.
She lifted one of the shards, holding it up to her eye.
Days passed, and things began to change. Not visibly, but beneath the surface of reality. Eudora knew things. Guilt, fear, desire, and hatred—they moved through the people around her like colored currents, and she could see them with perfect clarity.
She decided to test it. A younger housemaid secretly took a few coins from the housekeeper's desk.
"Why did you take it?" Eudora asked later, wearing the new wire spectacles she had fashioned from the rainbow glass shards.
Through the lenses, the girl's face twisted into a hidden, hideous tapestry of panic and raw deceit, completely invisible to the naked eye. That single glimpse was enough. Eudora said nothing more, and the terrified girl helped her after that, doing whatever Eudora asked, utterly bound by her exposed secret.
Life became remarkably simple.
"Now I see what others cannot," Eudora whispered one evening to her bedroom mirror. "I know when someone lies."
Teachers, friends, suitors, and family—they all became entirely transparent. The world arranged itself into neat, predictable patterns. It was manageable. It was winnable.
One afternoon, Mary and Eudora played chess. The board sat flat between them, the carved pieces aligned in a state of quiet tension.
Eudora adjusted her glasses and looked across the table.
Nothing.
She removed the spectacles, wiped the rainbow lenses with her handkerchief, and put them back on. Still, there was absolutely nothing.
"I didn't know you started wearing glasses," Mary noted idly, sliding her knight across the squares.
"A recent development," Eudora murmured.
But the comfortable certainty was gone. Sunlight filled the room, yet Mary looked entirely ordinary. Unreadable. Blank.
And then a thought came to Eudora—unwelcome, sharp, and terrifying.
Did she also—
Eudora's mind drifted back to the quiet candle burning in the dark. And for the first time in months, she wasn't sure.