The Book of Fires. Jane Borodale

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      ‘The words come slowly, sir, but once learnt, I find I do not easily forget them. Though I should be ashamed to say I do not write,’ I add. He nods, and seems strangely satisfied with this. He stares at me intently for a moment. His eyes are unblinking, and I see there is a yellow ring about the darkness of his pupils, like a hawk’s. I look away quickly, at the shelf.

      ‘What is Crocus of Mars, sir?’

      ‘Powdered calx, a reddish solid,’ he says.

      ‘There are so many jars,’ I breathe, gazing at them. It is clear from the grime and cobwebs that many have sat untouched for quite some time, their waxy seals unbroken, as if the contents had no purpose here. ‘But you don’t use them all,’ I add.

      ‘What?’ he says abruptly.

      ‘Unopened, sir. What are they for?’

      ‘Six years ago I had objectives of a different kind,’ he says shortly.

      ‘And what did you use them for?’ I ask, but he seems not to hear. ‘A waste!’ he mutters angrily, as if to himself, and I am sorry that I mentioned it.

      ‘Until this day I have had no females in my workshop. They bring friction and trouble. Their emotions are liable to set off sparks. They have a chemistry that goes against the smoothness of my practice.’ He clears his throat. ‘My attendant must be tranquil and nonplussed by nothing, at all times.’

      I grasp at that. Attendant to Mr Blacklock, pyrotechnist. I have a flush of excitement at such a thing, and narrow my eyes to hide from him the sudden leap I feel inside.

      ‘The atmosphere must be as still as pondwater in here,’ he says, and it is a good thing he cannot see inside my head.

      ‘No flighty, sudden movements. It has been a male domain. But still, most rules are there to be unmade.’ He coughs again, into his fist. ‘Tie up your hair and make a habit of keeping your clothes tight about you.’ He hands me a leather apron. ‘Fasten this, always at the back. No trimmings. No lacy bits or ribbons. I want no tools from this bench to be mixed with tools from the bench over there. Only ram with wood, never copper.’

      Clearly these are the rules that are not to be unmade, and I imagine with good reason. The very air itself in here could probably explode without a moment’s notice. I vow never to generate a spark by so much as feeling strongly. Then I undo this hasty thought; vows themselves being dangerous things.

      He is beginning to cast about for things to say when I see a movement in the darkness at the back of the workshop. A scrawny, ill-clad boy with dark or dirty skin sidles almost noiselessly out of the shadows and comes to stare at me. His eyes are huge in his head.

      ‘Joe Thomazin sweeps and keeps a presence here when I am absent,’ Mr Blacklock says. ‘He does not speak, or rather, he has not been known to. Not quite an apprentice, yet, but perhaps one day.’

      He is about the same height as William, I think, though as thin as a deer. Joe Thomazin does not smile back at me. There is a look about him which makes me think so far his life has not been filled with warmth. It is not a slowness or a hunger that I see there, more a stiffness, a halt in what he gives away, although his great dark eyes are wide open, getting the size of me, so that in the end it is I who drops my gaze and he edges back to the end of the workshop and begins to ready the stove for lighting.

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