William woke to his aunt pulling dead Edrick's boots onto his feet.
"They pinch at the ankle," he said, curling his toes against the packed wool where Edrick's toes had once rested.
"They are too long." His aunt packed more torn wool into the toes and loosened the laces at his ankle. Three cousins watched from the pallet beside the candle-shop hearth. The two eldest pretended to sleep. Little Beth had taken William's blanket and wrapped it about her shoulders.
"I shall sleep here tonight," she said.
"You kick."
"You snore."
Their mother turned William's face towards the rushlight and wiped a smudge from his cheek. She wet his black hair and combed it with her fingers. The shop had no spare charcoal to warm a basin before the market bell. Behind them, pale candles hung from their wicks. Beeswax tapers for the castle were wrapped in linen on the high shelf; common tallow dips filled the rest of the room with a sour, greasy smell.
"When Lord Black speaks, answer clearly. Call him my lord."
"I know."
"And do not interrupt." She gave him a heel of barley bread. "Eat on the way. If they have no work, we shall still be back to scrape the moulds."
William looked at the rolled blanket by the door. "If they keep me?" The answer took longer. Fever had buried his father first and his mother six days after. Since then he had slept at his aunt's hearth, dipped wicks until his hands smelled of fat, and learned that four children might share two pallets if no one insisted upon a fair portion of blanket.
"Then Beth gets your corner," his aunt said, scraping the barley pot's thin brown crust back beneath the spoon.
Little Beth waved from inside the stolen blanket. "I have it now."
Winter Town was waking beneath a yellow-grey sky. Bakers' boys carried boards under cloth; a butcher sluiced old blood into the gutter. Boys came from every lane, some with fathers, some with mothers whose hands stayed fixed upon their shoulders. Two brothers from the washerwomen's row shared one green cloak until the elder saw the crowd at House Black's gate and wrapped all of it around the younger. Kin pressed three deep against the rail. Fathers praised strong backs. Mothers praised quiet hands. An uncle boasted that his sister's son could bear a beating, then cuffed the boy when he began to cry.
William's aunt drew him away from the shouting uncle. The gate opened, and a torn-eared old soldier came through with an ash staff. William knew his face from town but not his name. One leg swung stiffly. Behind him stood a young captain in a weathered black cloak and four files of household guards. Their coats were not all the same black: rain had drawn blue from some and brown from others, and many hems had been lengthened.
"The guard has all its places," the old soldier called. "Master Ralf needs boys for the stables and the wagons. The workshops may take one or two if the masters find them fit. Boys come inside. Kin give Perkin true names, true ages and any service already owed."
A tall lad beside William hid his mouth behind one hand. "Say fourteen. No one measures years at a gate."
His mother called from the rail, "Thirteen, my lord!"
"Thirteen, then," the old soldier said. "Give the clerk your name."
The lad lowered his head and went inside.
William's aunt handed his blanket over the rail. "Shoulders back."
"The boots still feel strange."
"Keep them on." She straightened his shoulders before the gate shut between them. Inside, smoke rose from a forge roof. A cook sent two black-coated boys back for bowls they had left beneath the eaves. Carpenters had stripped half the shingles from the outer storehouse. Wind lifted a loose corner of the cloth covering it, and the first drops of rain struck the paving.
"Ralf! The oats are still outside." Heward opened the gate while the grey-bearded stablemaster backed the wagon beneath the eaves and called the waiting boys to help.
"Two boys to a sack. Oats to the loft; leave the oil casks for the men."
William caught the end offered by the tall thirteen-year-old. They carried it upstairs beneath a dry beam and came back for another. Rain was already running off the roof cloth.
At the wagon the dun mare tossed her head. The boy holding her pulled harder. An older lad stepped up beside him and put a palm against her neck.
"Let her look."
The roof cloth cracked again. This time the mare turned her head towards it and stood.
"Name?" Ralf asked.
"Iain, master."
"Keep hold of her."
Two men rolled the first oil barrel from beside the storehouse and up a plank into the cleared end of the wagon. William came down the stair as it began to move back towards the open tailboard.
"Stop," he called.
The nearer man caught it. Ralf turned at once.
"It wants a wedge," William said. "That board slopes."
Ralf put his boot against the rim while William fetched a block from beneath the carpenter's bench. They set it under the barrel, then lashed both casks against the headboard.
A man with a Vale voice took the rope end William passed round the side. "Leave the knot here. You will want it when you unload." He asked the boy's name, then watched him turn it. "One more turn, William."
The men took the wagon to the stone shed while the boys carried the remaining oats. William's boots filled with rain. Wool bunched beneath his toes; at the loft stair he stumbled and struck his knee against the edge of a step.
Ralf made him set the sack down. William rubbed his knee, then stood carefully.
"Carry the empty sacks for now," Ralf said. "Show Wylla if it swells." He turned back to the horses.
Iain was rubbing the dun mare's shoulder. He had taken the collar off and found a red ridge beneath its lining.
"It was twisted when they brought her out," he told Ralf.
Ralf ran a hand over the ridge. "Who is your father?"
"Creylen the cooper, master. We keep a pony for the hoops."
"Finish drying her. I shall speak to him afterward."
William heard the difference. Iain had been given another task after the morning's work. He watched him from the loft stair while the rain ran down his own bootlegs.
They ate late: hot onion broth, brown bread, sharp white cheese and small ale. William finished one bowl, then another. A red-haired kitchen woman set a boiled egg on his bread. He hesitated before taking it.
"It is for you," she said. "There is enough."
He was carrying his bowl back when Mikken called for a wagon pin. The old one had bent when the wheel sank. Beside him a broad smith with an old burn pulling down one corner of his mouth took the pin in tongs and set it in the coals. When the iron reached a dull red he straightened it with light blows. For the last strokes he used a wooden mallet, turning the pin and checking it against the stone sill.
William stopped to watch. The kitchen woman took the bowl from his hands and left him there. Lord Jon came to the bench with his black sleeves rolled clear. William looked twice at the silver in the dark hair above his left temple; the face beneath it was younger than his own.
"The mallet will not mark the surface as a hammer does," Jon told him. "That part turns inside the collar. It must be smooth."
The pin rolled straight on the sill. Mikken tested it in its collar and set both beside the finished work. The other smith wiped his tongs and hung them above the new hearth.
"Ewan will work here from now on," Jon told Mikken. "The clocks are taking too much time from your other work. If you need a hand with the ploughs, send word."
"I shall," Mikken said. "And he can use my larger hearth when he needs it."
Ewan's son brought the last tools across the yard and hung the tongs where his father could reach them without turning. The stable and the forge had found their boys. At his aunt's shop William knew by touch which rod held the fine wicks and which mould needed scraping; here even the smallest tools had uses he could only guess.
Jon set a short pair of callipers over the pin, tightened the joint and handed them to Ewan with a word about the next one. William followed the instrument from one hand to the other, then looked at the pin again.
Outside, the rain had eased to a patter. The other boys were being called back to the stable, but no one had called William. He stayed by the door until the smith's son needed to pass with a rack, then stepped aside and went to find his blanket.
* * *
Rain came through the workroom roof above a wooden teaching wheel. William had left his blanket inside to keep it dry and went to move it when he saw water on the bench. A black-coated apprentice hurried in with cloths.
"Take that end," he told William.
They lifted the frame beneath a sound beam. While the other boy covered a brass movement nearby, William wiped the wooden rim. The hand on its painted dial jerked as he turned the wheel.
"It catches," he said.
"It is old." The apprentice came over. "I am Olyver. What are you called?"
"William." He turned the wheel again. At the same point the hand stopped, then jumped. He held it there and bent close.
Lord Jon came in carrying one end of a hide sheet. Arthur had the other. They laid it over the exposed benches, and Jon sent a boy for Woods to see to the roof.
"What have you found?" he asked William.
"One peg is lower than the others, my lord." William pointed without touching it. "It barely catches that tooth."
Jon turned the wheel slowly. The low peg slipped beneath the tooth, then caught it as the frame leaned. "Aye. Hold the wheel there."
He had Olyver bring a small hammer and drove the peg level. When William turned the wheel again, the hand moved smoothly round the dial. Jon watched him try it twice more.
"Have you worked with tools?"
"Only candle moulds, my lord. My aunt has me scrape them and mend the dipping frame."
Jon asked him how the frame was made. William described the crosspieces and the hooks for the wicks, forgetting the wet wool bunched in his boots. He was still speaking when his aunt called from the rail. She had Beth on one hip and her free hand resting on the rail.
"Wait," Jon called. William's aunt stopped. Wylla came up with dry shirts for the soaked boys; Arthur remained by the workroom door.
"Your nephew has a good eye," Jon said. "I can use him at the craft benches. Is he bound to the candle-master?"
"No bound years, my lord. What work would he do here?"
"He learns letters, figures, measures, wood and metal. He sleeps above the workroom, eats from my kitchens, and receives clothes and boots fit for the work."
His aunt shifted Beth. "He carries the wax and scrapes the moulds for us. The girls cannot manage the dipping frame yet."
Jon glanced at William's patched boots. "His wage will go to your hearth until he is grown. Perkin will settle it with you this afternoon."
"Thank you, my lord. He is a willing boy."
Wylla gave William a dry black shirt and knelt to loosen his wet laces. "We have a pair nearer his size. These are folding beneath him."
"They belonged to his cousin," his aunt said.
Jon turned to Olyver. "He will work with you after his letters. Begin with the tools, and bring him to me when we set out the next movement."
Jon looked at William. "Would you rather work at the bench?"
"Aye, my lord."
His aunt smoothed William's wet hair. "May he come home tonight, my lord? His cousins will want to hear."
"After supper." Jon turned to Olyver. "Show him where he will sleep."
"Do not grin yet," she told William. "You have only traded tallow for soot." He grinned anyway. Olyver gave him a broom.
* * *
For the first few days William spent much of his time with a broom. Olyver showed him where clean brass filings were saved for the melting pot, where iron went and which shavings could be used for kindling. William learned to put a tray beneath the bench before anyone began filing. It saved him crouching afterward to pick bright flecks out of the grit.
Ewan taught him to choose dry charcoal and check the bottom of a sack before accepting it. At the bench Olyver showed him how to clamp a small piece of brass and hold the file level. William liked that work best. He could see each stroke taking the edge closer to the line.
On the third day the file slipped and grazed his thumb. Wylla cleaned the cut while Jon finished measuring the piece. William watched him, ashamed of the blood on the cloth.
"I can use my other hand, my lord."
"You will have both again tomorrow if you leave it alone now." Jon set down the brass and took a slate from the shelf. "Come and show me your figures."
That evening William copied his name until the last letters no longer trailed downhill. Master Hollan or Perkin's youngest clerk taught the common lessons, but Jon often took William aside afterward.
One afternoon Jon put a smooth iron rod on the bench between them. Beside it lay another still bearing the rough skin from the forge, and a small plate with a round hole through it.
"This one is finished," he said, pushing the smooth rod through the plate. It turned with little room to wander. "This one must come down to the same breadth."
He closed the callipers over the finished rod and held them to the rough one. William could see daylight beneath one foot. Jon turned the rod a little and showed him the same place again.
"We take that down first. If you work all round it alike, the thin side will be too small before the thick side is right."
William held the callipers while Jon took a few strokes with the file. The rough skin brightened in a narrow strip. Jon stopped before the measure would quite pass and let William try it himself, first there and then farther along the rod.
"Still high, my lord."
"A little. Give it two strokes."
William set the callipers down and took the file. Jon stayed beside him, turning his hand so that the whole length of the tool worked instead of the last inch. Beyond the door Ewan's hammer struck; from the yard came the duller knock of practice swords. William could hear Olyver calling a change.
When the measure passed, Jon tried the plate. The rod entered but stopped halfway. He turned it under the light, found where it rubbed and showed William the bright patch. They worked there until the rod passed through and turned freely.
"Now clean it," Jon said. "Oil and a cloth. We do not leave the filings inside."
William wiped the metal carefully, then tried it once more. The change was small enough that he could scarcely see it, yet his fingers could feel the difference. Jon showed him where the rod belonged on Ewan's drawing for the next movement. William turned it once more in his fingers before putting it beside the finished work.
Other evenings they drew the end of a shaft square, or William held the lamp while Jon showed him how the wheels carried the motion from one arbor to the next. Sometimes Arthur had to remind them that supper was waiting. Jon would set the work down, wash his hands and go, with William following a pace behind and thinking about the part they had left unfinished.
His aunt visited on the tenth day with all three girls. Beth sat on the apprentice bed, bounced once and declared the mattress softer than hers.
"It is stuffed with the same straw," William said.
"Then his straw is better," Beth told Jon.
Jon smiled and let her bounce again. William's aunt examined the new boots, the healing thumb and the blanket hung from its peg. She asked whether he had been useful.
"He comes early and listens," Olyver told her. "He is learning."
His aunt smoothed William's hair. He ducked his head to hide his grin.
He took them down to the idle workroom. Beth reached for the wooden dial, but his aunt caught her hand until Olyver gave leave. William turned the teaching wheel; the painted hand followed him round the face.
"Is that the bell?" Beth asked.
"No. That is only the hand." He pointed out the arbor, pleased to know the word and show them what it meant. His aunt leaned closer to follow his finger.
William let the eldest girl turn the wheel while he held the frame. His aunt stayed close enough to catch a wandering sleeve and asked Olyver how the work was paid. Hearing his wage spoken of as something certain, due at the end of the moon, William looked down at his good boots.
Before they left, his aunt took a clean heel of bread from the cloth at her wrist and gave it to him. She had brought it without knowing what he would be fed. He thanked her and put it away for later, then walked with them as far as the gate.
During his third week William noticed the wooden teaching frame leaning towards the hearth. He fetched a square and held it against the upright, just as Jon had shown him. A narrow gap widened towards the top. He brought Olyver to see it before trying to move anything.
"The wood has warped," Olyver said. Together they carried the frame away from the heat. Later Jon showed William how a metal bearing plate could keep the axle true even when the rough wooden support moved. William held the square while Jon set it, then helped Olyver clear away the filings. This time he could turn the wheel and see why the repair worked.
At the end of the moon Olyver placed the lower workroom key upon William's slate.
William did not touch it. "Why?"
"You are here before the rest of us most mornings," Olyver said. "Open the workroom and look for damp before Ewan lights the hearth."
"May I keep it?"
"Aye. Hang it inside your shirt so it does not catch in the work. Tell me at once if you lose it." Olyver kept a finger on the key. "There is a promise first. No measured pattern leaves these rooms, and no selling the making to another master without Lord Jon's leave. He requires it of every hand he teaches."
"What if my aunt asks what I make?"
"Tell her. She has seen the teaching wheel. You may show her the winding too. The cutting patterns and master gauges stay with us."
William looked at the bench where he had fitted his first rod. "I swear it."
Olyver lifted his finger. "Then you may open up tomorrow."
William closed his hand about the key. It was cold and heavier than he had expected.
"I need a thong," he said.
Under the harness maker's eye William cut a leather strip, pierced it and hung the key inside his shirt. At supper Iain ate with Ralf's stable hands. When Tomas called the household into the yard, Olyver rose to join his file; William stayed with his slate until the last wrong figure was gone.
He left it for Perkin's clerk and asked leave at the gate. The key warmed beneath his shirt as he walked home. Candles still burned in his aunt's window, and through the open door he heard Beth arguing that she had saved him a place beside the hearth.
His aunt looked up from trimming a wick. She examined his face out of habit, then moved the rushlight so he could see the bowl she had kept for him.
"I have eaten," he said.
"Then sit while we do."
He sat in his old corner. Beth put her feet against his knee and wanted to know whether he had made the great bell yet. William shook his head and took out the small key instead. His aunt held it a moment, feeling its weight, before passing it back.
"Keep that safe."
"I will."
She returned to the candle she had been trimming. William watched until the wax began to cool, then rose to help her lift the finished tray. He knew that work too.