I barely noticed the pot—the crucible—that Kingfisher set down on the anvil by the workbench. My gaze was locked onto the bead of sweat that was hanging from Fisher’s chin; for the life of me, I could see nothing else. It glistened there for a second and then fell, sizzling when it hit the iron crucible and turned to smoke. Fisher’s normally loose black shirt was plastered to his chest. He drew in a deep breath, his shoulders rising, and— I jerked when he snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You could at least say hello before you start eye-fucking me.”
