The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Sixty-Nine

There was no time for a press to be built, but Larst had managed to requisition one from a print shop towards the eastern wall of the citadel which went to great efforts to proclaim its honour in producing calling cards for the gentry, but kept the bulk of its business, printing the cards of some of the less salubrious members of society, safely kept behind the black curtain which separated the shop from the workroom.

It arrived, plates still locked in place, proclaiming the unique talents of a Miss Scarlett Lacey, a woman of considerable talent, who could be found on Teller Street by any gentleman callers who would care to give a small donation to the mistress of the house.

Hawth didn't question how he managed to get it through the mob. She suspected she wouldn't like the answer. They managed to get it down into one of the basement store rooms, that was all she need worry about.

Her mind was full of the beauty of the thing. It was old, and full of woodworm. Her father would have been in palpitations of horror if he saw how the great wooden screw that formed the core of the machine had been neglected. Everything was in need of a thorough scrub with sandpaper, and lashings of sharp-smelling varnish. But to Hawth's eyes, it was home.

As the machine came together, her limbs shook jelly. Straw had done what he could, the both of them working together, not saying a word other than to direct on the placement of dowels, or to request the application of a heavy mallet. Even with his injuries, that man could carry a hundred-weight for miles without pausing, but still her arms were as heavy as if they had been cast from metal.

It was the good sort of tiredness, born of hard work and ambition. The sort that would promise eight hours of deep slumber once she rested her head on her pillow.

She wondered whether she should have asked Larst to help out too. It would have got him away from those maps and record books which tormented his mind.

When she turned round she found he was watching her.

"Oh," she said, slightly startled. She pushed the damp hair back from her foreheard and managed a smile.

"Got everything you need?" he said.

Hawth nodded. "Yes, it's a good machine. A little neglected, but I think we'll get on just fine."

Larst walked over, moving as if the air had turned to treacle. He ran his hands over the twisting grooves of the screw, and patted it, as if it were a horse.

"What are these?"

"Plates. They get coated with ink so that when the paper is pressed against them, they leave an imprint of the design. See?" she said, picking it up and angling it against the light so that he could see the pattern.

Larst raised an eyebrow. "I do!" He tilted his head, inspecting the plate from another angle. "I didn't think this is what you had in mind when you said... " He coughed. "Is that a feather? What is she doing with it?"

"Something that she no doubt gets paid a great deal of money to do," said Hawth, taking the plate off him and setting it down on the workbench. "And no, that's not what I'm printing. I'm still waiting for the new plates."

"Right," said Larst, his eyebrows still not yet returned to earth. "And him?" he said, lowering his voice and nodding in the direction of Straw. "Has he managed to come up with a reason for his disappearance yet?"

"You know Straw."

"I'm not sure I do anymore."

Hawth shrugged, pulling off her apron and flinging it to one side. It was far too hot down in this basement. "He's not one to talk about himself at the best of times. We won't get anything out of him before he's ready."