"Bit of a strange creature, isn't she," Aunt Mòrag said. "Always seems miles away, in her thoughts."

"And the littler girl has a quite a flair for fantastic stories," she chuckled softly. "Famous composer indeed."

Edward continued reading the paper.

"Any word yet on a wedding date?"

"Give it time, Auntie," he said, taking a sip of his tea.

"Well, I suppose it is quite an adjustment," she said as she buttered her toast. "I'm sure she'll come round eventually."


"Mr. Marston. I hope I am not disturbing you."

She stood in the doorway, at the edge of the dirt floor and under the stone lintel.

It was late morning and a bright day outside, but inside the workshop it was quite dark, so that the smith could see the glow of the metal, to gauge when it was at the proper temperature. He applied air from the bellows, and the coal fire flared with a low roar, and then settled into a steady hiss.

He turned to look at her, his face half in shadow and his expression one of deep concentration, eyes dark and impenetrable. He wore a loosely woven linen shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, covered by a long leather apron, with protective leather armguards at his wrists. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, and his hair was damp with it, curling and pulled back.

With a pair of tongs, he grasped a glowing metal disk out of the forge and took it to the anvil, where he began to hammer it into shape. She watched as the hot metal turned into a vessel. Then he took it to a wooden swaging stump, where he delicately hammered the final touches. It was a bowl, in the shape of an inward-curving leaf with a slight wavy edge, like that of a pond lily, complete with all of the details, almost real-looking had it not been made of bronze. It was really quite beautiful. Once it became weathered, taking on a verdigris patina, she imagined it would be especially so.

He nodded his head.

"Come by again, on the morrow," he said, and turned his attention back to his work.