Cate leaned over and pushed open the door. “Here we are. You best hold up your skirts, the road can be muddy.”
Before leaving the house this morning, I had wrapped the knife in a piece of oilcloth. Now with the oilcloth in one hand and a fistful of silk skirts in the other, I stepped from the carriage, silently cursing when my shoes sank into a soft layer of crushed rock and mud. Hiking up the front of my skirts another few inches, I glanced around at the shops that lined both sides of the narrow road. Coal dust coated the wood and brick facades, but the never-ending fight against the grime was most evident in the heavily smudged windowpanes. Tradesmen were in abundance, some engaged in conversations, while others hurried to and fro about their business. Other than a wagon and several work carts, Cate’s was the only carriage in sight. Two housewives passed in front of us, baskets in hand as their sharp eyes took in our silk gowns and fine woolen capes.
Wasting no time, Cate walked toward the nearest doorway, passing beneath a painted black sign with a silver hammer and anvil. Once inside, I blinked several times while my eyes adjusted to the dim light.
At first sight, the shop seemed a chaotic hodgepodge of metal work. Copper and iron cooking pots were piled in the corner directly to my right. Wooden counters ran along two walls, most of the surface space taken up with what appeared to be normal household items such as brass candleholders and pewter dishware. The third wall was covered by a variety of knives and swords.
A large man stood behind one of the counters, with a golden figurine resting in the palm of one hand. He held a tool in the other hand, grasped like a quill between his thumb and index finger. A pair of spectacles pinched the bridge of his nose, the lenses magnifying his eyes to at least twice their normal size.
He glanced up from his work. “You’re just in time,” he said, beckoning us forward.
Cate crossed the shop to where the man stood, her eyes locked on the figurine still in his hand. “What have you got there?” she asked curiously.
The man set the magnifying glasses and tool aside, then picked up what looked like a golden key. “A mechanical soldier. The Duke of Buckingham had it commissioned for the king’s birthday.” He stood the soldier on the counter, inserted the key into its back and turned three revolutions.
I watched in wonder as the soldier began to move forward, aided by nothing more than a pair of golden feet. Measuring about four inches tall, its stiff legs marched with surprising speed, covering the distance in a matter of seconds. Cate’s hand shot out just as the soldier stepped over the edge of the counter.
The man grinned, pleased with his work.
“Very nice, Mr. Faber,” Cate said, handing back the figurine. “I dare say, his majesty is sure to be pleased.”
Mr. Faber took out the key and set the soldier on the counter. “The whims of the wealthy,” he said. “Now what can I do for you, my lady?”
“This is Miss Selah Kilbrid,” Cate said by way of introduction. “She arrived from the Colonies a week ago, and brought with her the most extraordinary knife. I was hoping you might be able to tell us something about its history.”
Taking this as my cue, I placed the oilcloth on the counter. To my surprise, I glanced back up to find Mr. Faber staring intently at my face. Something akin to sadness flashed in his eyes—and longing.
Cate cleared her throat.
Mr. Faber gave a quick shake of his head and dropped his gaze to the counter. “What have we here?” he asked, pulling the cloth aside. When the knife came into view, his breath turned to a low whistle. Light from an oil lamp glinted off the Gaelic words, and he ran a finger across each letter. Then gripping the bone handle, he lifted the knife to eye level and stared down the long blade. “Made in Ireland about fifty years ago.” He tilted it side to side. “Most likely in a forge near Dublin.” Lowering the knife, he placed it back on the cloth.
I looked at the knife, perplexed by Mr. Faber’s assessment. To be sure, I hadn’t expected him to know its full history, how the smith god Goibniu had forged the blade in ancient days. But fifty years? A man skilled enough to create the mechanical soldier should have been able to do better than that. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up to see Mr. Faber staring at Cate, nodding ever so slightly.
“Well, there you have it,” she said, turning to me. “No more antique than my father’s first pair of riding boots. Shall we go? So many errands have given me an appetite. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop at the teahouse on the way home. The baker there makes the most scrumptious red currant scones in all of London.”
The mere mention of food made my stomach grumble. I was on the verge of agreeing when the door banged opened, and a young girl came into the shop. She ran right up to Cate. “I’ve been searching for ye all morning, milady. Sophie said ye went out today and that I might find ye with Master Faber.”