They entered one of the side streets, and Mattie recognized the jewelry store—the only one in the city that carried lapis lazuli, mother-of-pearl, and large chunks of amber. Mattie used to come there with Loharri—he picked through the precious stones for his projects, while she browsed through the piles of amber, looking for pieces with entrapped insects or bubbles of air from long ago.
As if answering her thoughts, Loharri emerged from the doorway of the jewelry shop. His sharp eyes slid over Mattie to her companion and lingered a bit, before meeting Mattie’s gaze. “Slumming?” he said. “Don’t worry, I am too. Who’s your friend?”
“I’m Niobe,” Niobe said. “Forgive me for not shaking your hand.” She shrugged apologetically at her many parcels.
“Forgiven,” Loharri said. “What’s in the jar?”
“Sheep’s blood,” Niobe said. “What’s your name?”
Loharri frowned a bit. “Loharri’s my name. I am a member of the order of Mechanics. Surely you’ve heard of us?”
Niobe nodded. If she felt out of place or intimidated, she didn’t show it, and Mattie marveled at the difference in her demeanor compared to the latest alchemists’ meeting. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the ones who build all those factories that make it impossible to take a stroll by the river.”
Mattie cringed—Loharri didn’t like being challenged, or addressed in such a familiar manner.
Loharri produced the coldest smile in his repertoire. “Everything has its price. Yet, we managed to do some good—I’m the maker of your friend,” he said, pointing at Mattie. “I’m sure she mentioned me.”
“In passing,” Mattie said. She found it easier being rude to him while Niobe was nearby. “Niobe’s an alchemist, too.”
“I noticed.” Loharri gave a cursory nod of his head. “You will excuse me, but I have a business meeting to attend. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mattie.”
Niobe turned and watched him disappear behind the corner. She then smiled at Mattie. “Quite a character.”
“Yes,” Mattie said, undecided on whether she should feel proud of Loharri or embarrassed by him.
“What happened to his face?”
“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “He rarely tells me anything about himself.”
Niobe sighed and started up the stairs. “They never do,” she remarked in a low voice, apparently addressing herself more than Mattie.
Niobe’s craft proved to be as difficult as it was fascinating. In her cramped laboratory, smaller than Mattie’s and twice as cluttered, Mattie learned to burn blood and refine it through a long, sinuous alembic; Niobe showed her how to mix the blood essence—black powder that smelled of burned horn and rust, and crumbled in Mattie’s fingers—with the viscous resin of rare trees, how to shape the resulting sticky mass into tiny figure and imbue the lifeless homunculus with powers curative or destructive—it didn’t seem to matter to the homunculus, who absorbed poison or antidote with equal ease.
Niobe spoke at length about the properties of blood—its affinity with metals and earth, its ability to transform any element to its most basic and potent character. Its love of human flesh, the command it held over human mind, the raw power of both healing and ruin.
“Would your potions work on automatons?” Mattie asked.
Niobe shrugged. “I never tried it, but I think so. You are made of metal…”
“And bone,” Mattie interjected. “Whalebone.”
“And human hair,” Niobe said, looking over Mattie’s short dark locks that barely reached her shoulders. “That’s unusual.”
“Yes,” Mattie agreed. “I don’t know of any other automatons who are made this way—I don’t even know why Loharri made me like this.”
“Do you know where he got the hair?”
Mattie shook her head.
Niobe smiled, stretched, and stepped away from the bench. She had to light the lamp as the darkness gathered outside, and the high, tense voices of the children fell silent and were soon displaced by those of adults, coming from the people carrying leisurely conversations, sitting on their porches or standing by their windows, chatting with the neighbors across the street—a street so narrow that people on opposite sides could almost touch hands if they wished to do so.
Mattie stood by the window, listening to the night voices— more resonant, it seemed, than during the day, and kinder, more sedate, lulled by the evening meal and impending sleep. Many spoke in a language Mattie did not understand, but the sound soothed her all the same.
The house across the street from Niobe’s workshop had its windows open, and the second floor apartment had a window box, brimming with blooming lavender and small irises, blue like the night, bright white arrows on their lower lips shining in the darkness. Mattie smelled the sweet and bitter aroma of the flowers.
Niobe stood by her side. “This is my favorite time of day,” she said. “I feel that I will grow to love this city.”
“I like it too,” Mattie said. “I feel… invisible and yet a part of it.”
“Invisible is good,” Niobe said.
“Loharri doesn’t understand that,” Mattie said. “He always wanted to show me off, even when I thought I’d rather die than go out.”
“Of course he doesn’t understand.” Now that they were alone Niobe did not bother to hide her contempt. “Even that scar of his… How do you expect him to know shame if he never had to hide in his life?”
Mattie shrugged, the metal bones in her shoulders grating together with a long dry whisper. “Maybe he has. I know so little about him. He has many lovers, and other mechanics hate him—that’s it, really.”
Niobe laughed. “Who would’ve thought?”
“But it’s true,” Mattie said. “Why, just today…” She broke off, suddenly remembering Iolanda’s whispered promise.
“What?” Niobe prompted.
Mattie shook her head. “Nothing. I just remembered something. I have to go.”
“It’s getting late anyway.” Niobe yawned. “Stop by soon, all right? I like working with you.”
“I will,” Mattie promised. “Thank you for teaching me—I’ll teach you next time.”
She clattered down the stairs and into the sweet-smelling night streets. The eastern district was vast, and she had a long way home before her. She decided to run.
She picked up her skirts, her bag of offal and the jar of blood tucked under her arm, and she ran like the wind. Loharri discouraged her from running—her joints were delicate, and he did not want them to wear out too soon. Mattie decided that one time would not hurt her; besides, she enjoyed running.
Her feet struck the cobbles with an alarmingly loud noise, but Mattie did not care. The cool breeze washed over her porcelain face, and thick locks of her hair streamed behind her, like the wings of a night bird. Her skirts, awkward and bulky, hitched by her knees, rustled as she ran. She needed no air, and she felt no fatigue, but the rhythmic motion helped her think.
She felt closer to Niobe than anyone else. She loved Ogdela, but the old woman had never forgotten about the gulf between her and Mattie. Niobe was less polite than Ogdela, and occasionally her comments made Mattie self-conscious; yet, there was less of a chasm between them. Mattie resolved to teach Niobe her favorite formulae, even the ones she discovered herself and guarded as jealously as any other alchemist would.
She slowed only once she saw her house and the apothecary sign in its downstairs windows. She straightened her skirts and walked up with calm steps, expecting to find an angry note from Iolanda or a bored messenger.
Instead, she discovered Iolanda her own self. The joviality of the morning had disappeared, and she frowned at Mattie and rose from the steps where she sat like a commoner. “Where have you been?”