Part Seventeen Wedding Bells
The Ride Through IronClover
The car hummed beneath Jonathan, a low electric growl that carried him through the restless arteries of IronClover. Around him, the city was alive: horses clattered past on the cobbles, their riders shouting at merchants who spilled their wares too far into the road; brass carriages wheezed steam into the fog; hawkers bellowed of fresh bread and clockwork trinkets; street urchins darted between wheels with the agility of rats.
But Jonathan heard none of it. The din of the streets, the pulse of the city, seemed to fall away into silence. His mind was elsewhere—buried beneath the earth, where his mother and brother waited in the dark, where hunger gnawed and memory ached. He could still see his mother's eyes, pleading, lucid for a moment before the Roth took her under again. He clenched his hands, shutting it out.
Young master ," Heller's voice cut in, steady and practical, the way only a butler's could. "We're here."
Jonathan blinked, the world rushing back. The car had slowed before a familiar façade—wooden beams blackened by age, brass trimmings polished to a warm sheen, the sign above swaying gently in the morning breeze: Humphrey's, Tailor of Distinction. The Hanns had been clients of the old man for as long as Jonathan could remember. His father had once said a man was measured as much by his suit as his word, and Humphrey was the only one he trusted to cut cloth for the family.
Jonathan hadn't planned on coming here. He rarely planned anything these days. But Heller had been insistent—no, sly about it, maneuvering their errands until Jonathan found himself deposited here, in front of Humphrey's door, with no polite excuse to leave.
"I'll fetch supplies for the house," Heller said, climbing down from the driver's seat with an ease belying his age. "And some presents for the Luloughs' wedding. You'll be fine here."
Jonathan managed a faint smile. "Don't trouble yourself on my account."
"Trouble is what keeps me alive, Master Hanns. " Heller tipped his hat, then was off, vanishing into the crowded street with the brisk determination of a man who'd lived his life solving other men's problems.
Jonathan sat for a moment longer, staring at the shopfront.
The air smelled faintly of soot and oil, the lifeblood of IronClover. Above, the fog rolled low, muting the sun into a pale disc. With a slow breath, Jonathan pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The Tailor's Warm Room
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as Jonathan stepped inside. A wave of warmth met him, chasing off the morning chill. The familiar scents wrapped around him: pressed wool, polished leather, and cedar shavings — the perfume of a place where time was measured not by hours, but by the patient stroke of scissors and the whisper of thread.
The room was quiet, almost reverent, and at its heart stood a suit unlike any he had seen in years. Crimson, rich as spilled wine, tailored to a sharp silhouette and laced with a precision few men in IronClover could afford. It stood on its mannequin like a king before a throne, commanding respect.
Jonathan stopped. His breath caught, not for the color nor the cut, but because he knew what his father would have said. A gentleman is first seen, then heard. Dress to be addressed, son.
Memory unfurled, sudden and vivid. He was a boy again, no more than twelve, standing fidgeting in this very shop. Raymond Hanns had crouched to his level, one heavy hand resting on his shoulder, the other pointing to a simple gray suit Humphrey had made just for him.
"A man may build engines and bridges, Jonathan, but the world will weigh his worth by how he carries himself. A proper suit isn't cloth. It's a statement."
Jonathan had stood tall that day, swimming in a jacket still a little too broad, while Raymond's laughter filled the shop. "Now look at you — a Hanns already."
The echo faded, and the present pressed in again. Jonathan exhaled slowly, eyes still on the red suit. It was flawless. Perfect in every stitch.
"Ah," came a voice, steady and warm, cutting through the haze. "I've been expecting you."
Old Humphrey emerged from the back, spectacles low on his nose, silver hair cropped neatly, his gait slow but dignified.
He carried age on his shoulders but wore it with the grace of a craftsman who had never abandoned his trade.
Jonathan turned, forcing a faint smile. "Humphrey."
They shook hands. There was warmth in the touch, but beneath it, something heavier — grief unspoken, a recognition of wounds time had yet to close. Humphrey's eyes softened as they studied Jonathan, seeing through the composure to the boy still mourning beneath the man.
Jonathan's gaze lingered on a crimson masterpiece until Humphrey followed his eyes and gave a small, knowing nod.
"Striking, isn't it? But alas, not for you, lad." The old tailor's voice carried its usual mixture of pride and apology.
He stepped closer to the mannequin, adjusting the lapel with fingers that still moved as deftly as they had thirty years ago. "This one is reserved."
"For whom?" Jonathan asked, though part of him already sensed the answer.
"Franklin Phelps," Humphrey replied, matter-of-fact. "The young genius of medicine himself. Word is, the Council whispers of him as the next great name of IronClover. Heir to Phelps Pharmaceuticals, and soon to seal that reputation with marriage."
Jonathan's throat tightened. "Marriage, The Lulough? "
Humphrey gave a faint smile, as though the news were common knowledge. "You have been paying attention, Yes Master Jonathan, Miss Valia Lulough. The ceremony will mark more than a union of families — it will bind industry and council alike. A clever match, you must admit."
The words struck Jonathan like a blade sheathed in velvet. Valia. Her laughter, her letters, her stubborn kindness — now tethered to another.
To Franklin, no less, whose star seemed only to rise higher with each passing season even his father had made quite the remarks of the boy genius while he was still alive.
Humphrey went on, adjusting the suit with careful pride. "They say Phelps is negotiating to buy out the Madeiyas' Vyre distribution chains here in Iron Clover. The price will be staggering, but the return? Even greater. With Vyre distribution under his family's banner, he'll have the city and the whole of the council by its veins."
Jonathan hardly heard him. His chest filled with something restless — not quite jealousy, not quite grief. A quiet envy, sharp and silent, coiled beneath his ribs. He had no claim to Valia, no right even to protest, and yet the knowledge gnawed at him.
The red suit gleamed beneath the lamplight, bold and immaculate, a symbol of everything Franklin Phelps was destined to be. Jonathan tore his gaze away, though the weight of it clung to him.