Trad
Never in his life did Elias imagine that he would travel this far.
The English in Scotland had been impenetrable. The few people who spoke English in Germany had round accents that made it simpler to tell what they were saying. Here, it may as well be Arabic.
And people here didn’t collect languages either.
It was unsurprising to run into an Italian man with some German or a French man who spoke it either, for that matter.
But here it was English, or a language that sounded like birds underwater.
Occasionally a word would sound familiar to its cousin in German, but rarely did the speaker slow down enough for it to matter.
Here, Elias felt more adrift and more alone than anywhere in the world.
Finding his way to Ayan’s house was more challenging than anything Elias had ever done. Normally, he could just walk up to someone and start asking questions that would give him enough to be able to walk up to someone else and ask better questions.
It took him three hours to figure out that Ayan was a forgemaster and another two hours to be pointed to the correct forge.
Then no one would rent Elias a horse because there was none to be had, so he was forced to walk.
He was starting to feel ill as he was running low on pine and the great infusions of strength had slowed to a trickle after his bath in France.
He’d seen some trees, but they were in very populated areas and he didn’t want to be a strange foreigner snatching at foliage. He would come back after dark.
Ayan’s home was rustic. Whitewashed walls and thatched roof stinking deeply of smoke and ash. The grassy area around it was bare in patches, and there were pieces of metal and wood scattered around rusting and rotting.
It was . . . comfortable. It reminded him of the forgemaster he’d known. A distractable man called Guern with one large muscular arm, who made little figurines with scrap metal for yule.
Elias ran over the words for his speech in English then knocked on Ayan’s door.
It was opened immediately. Ayan McClean was as wide as the doorframe, red haired and covered in soot.
“D’nna needanying,” he said, and closed the door in Elias’s face.
Elias stood there, surprised. Alain and Colombo had ushered him in immediately. He hadn’t prepared for a door simply being closed. Elias thought for a minute and reached into his coat for the blue book. He flipped to a page with a circle drawing on it and knocked again.
Ayan snatched the door open. “Ayesaayed, we d’need—” he started then paused.
Before Elias could stop him, he snatched the book out of Elias’s hand and flipped through it quickly. Ayan snapped it closed, then stared at Elias hard with his steely-gray eyes.
Elias put his shoulders back. “German,” he said, putting a hand to his chest. “Elias.”
Ayan raised his eyebrows in exasperation. But, instead of shutting the door again, he ducked inside and palmed Elias in by the back of his head. Like his own father did when Elias was being mischievous.
The inside of Ayan’s house was extremely tidy.
Despite the smoke damage on the outside, the walls in his front room were crisp white.
Their dinner table across from the fire had a lace tablecloth edged in red flowers that would have been the envy of everyone in Elias’s town.
Where most things would have been wood, instead the house was filled with metal. Chairs, stools, tables, all.
Crouched in front of the fire, stirring something, was a stout, curly-haired woman. Elias could hear a girl’s laughter in a room deeper into the house. It was . . . a comfort and a revelation that an alchemist could have a family. Could have a life so cozy and similar to his own.
Even Colombo, with his pretty wife, had a coldness to him. Ayan looked and lived like everyone Elias had known his whole life.
“Moira, weev a’gust,” Ayan said, tossing the book on the dinner table.
Ayan’s wife rose and turned to them. Her face was ruddy from the heat of the fire. She looked wary, but she curtsied politely.
Elias bowed in response. Then, remembering himself, he turned to Ayan and bowed as well.
Ayan just barked a loud laugh and smacked him on the back. “Well’en?”
Elias grimaced and began. “There is a boy who will come to your door . . . ,” he said in English, speaking slow and careful.
“His hair is yellow and he will be nervous. His name is Victor Frankenstein and he will ask for your help. He is a fugitive from justice, exiled by the magicians of our shared country. He has made me a slave and betrayed the will of God.”
He watched as Ayan’s face slipped from amused curiosity to something stiff and sober. His eyes darted from Elias to the door, then over Elias’s shoulder. Like he was preparing to defend himself or push Elias firmly out of the house.
When Elias finished reciting, he pressed his hand to his chest again, bowed and prepared to leave. He reached out a hand for his book, but Ayan slammed a palm over it.
“No,” he said.
“No?” Elias replied, dismayed.
“Sit.”
Elias stared at Ayan.
Ayan seized Elias by the arm and tossed him roughly into a chair. Oh.
Elias wasn’t sure what was going on, but he did know three things.
One: Ayan was much stronger than him and from the look of his bulging calves was probably also faster.
Two: being forced to sit at a table wasn’t the worst thing that could be happening to him.
Three: this was a house with a woman and child inside it, and Ayan was likely a capable fighter.
Elias could not bring violence here. He desperately did not want to.
He glanced between Ayan and Moira and said nothing. Ayan was staring at his hair hard, and Elias realized that it was short enough that it would be difficult to tell exactly what color it was.
He put a hand to his head. “Braun! Braun!” he said urgently.
Somehow, Ayan must have thought Elias was describing himself—giving a threat, instead of a warning. Elias looked over his shoulder where Ayan’s eyes had been landing. To the right of the door there was a thong of leather and next to it a short blade.
“Darf ich ihnen Zeigen?” Elias said. Maybe he could show them his markings like he had Colombo.
There was no spark of understanding in the Scottish alchemist’s eyes.
Elias put a hand to his chest. “Elias Hilfiker.” He pointed out one of their foggy windows. “Victor Frankenstein.”
Ayan rushed to the window and looked outside it anxiously.
“Yewbringing imhere?” he said, furious.
Elias shook his head violently. Victor was not right outside the window. “Victor ist in Italien . . . oder vielleicht in . . . England?”
Ayan relaxed and nodded. “Englund.”
Thank God that managed to get through.
Elias pressed a hand to his chest. “I . . . Frankreich . . . Italien . . . Schottland . . . Irland . . . There is a boy who will come to your door.” Then he shrugged. “Es ist eine Warnung.”
Moira, who had frozen by the fire in response to Ayan’s reaction, stepped a bit closer.
“Sklave?” she asked softly.
Elias pointed at the blue book and shrugged.
“Darf ich ihnen Zeigen?” he tried again, standing up. The couple looked at him blankly.
Elias began to peel off his jacket and Moira gasped in alarm at the sight of his harness.
Ayan lunged for him, but Elias was faster.
He removed the harness and slung it across the room.
Tossing his weapons, his money, all his belongings with a clatter.
Ayan slid to a stop, looking frantically between Elias and the pile he’d just thrown.
Elias put up his hands to show he was unarmed, heart beating wildly. Ayan stepped back, but he folded his arms in obvious threat.
Elias watched the door to make sure the child did not appear during this and continued to remove his shirt.
Like Colombo’s, Ayan’s eyes darkened at the sight of his bare chest. Like he could see the symbols as clear as if Elias had never washed the blood from his skin. But Elias covered it with a hand and shook his head, then turned to show his back.
“Jesusmarey und Jossef!” Moira cried.
Ayan clamped his palm on Elias’s shoulder and whirled him back around. He slapped Elias’s hand away from his chest.
“Whatsis?” he demanded.
Elias didn’t know how to articulate this well. He hadn’t expected Ayan to care about it so much.
“Es . . . war ein Geschenk von einem Alchemisten. Ein franzosischer Alchemisten . . . Alain?”
Ayan paused and his face changed dramatically to an expression Elias didn’t recognize. “Alain Cloutier?”
He looked at Moira over Elias’s shoulder. “Datpissant.” He rolled his eyes. “Busybody. Hessain forsupper. Get Isla.”
Ayan shook Elias by the shoulder again, looking at him with obvious pity, then handed him back his shirt.
“Sit.”
Elias did.