A Forbidden Alchemy

by Stacey McEwan

Crafters were born to parents without means. Often, those parents died young. The children worked at an early age for little pay, subject to occupational hazards an Artisan would never face. They medicated themselves against the trauma, the injuries, the knowledge that the next day would bring them nothing better, and if they survived to the right age, they eventually raised their own hungry children. It was a cascading line of falling bricks that built the brink.

Lord, Patrick admonished himself. She’s just a woman, Patty. Like any other. But he shouldn’t look at her so closely, or she might recognize the wanting.

“I intend to put the rest of these boys to shame and spoil you for anyone else.”

There was a saying in Scurry, that the anger of the parent leaves traces in the blood. Babies got their eyes from their mother and their bloodlust from their father. Their mum’s bitterness, their grandfather’s right hook. All of us born with hereditary rot in our bellies. It seemed these children had been spared it. But Patrick and I, we were sure carriers.

I took a moment to stare at the underside of his jaw, the blanket of stubble razing his cheeks, the fine slope of his nose, and the peak of his chin. “Look somewhere else, Nina. I’m only so strong.”

“We were only children, Theo. I hardly remember what we had.” Blood pulsed in my ears. “But I bet you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to forget.”