The sun had barely risen.
Taking a final sip of my coffee, I set the cup aside and returned to my workbench. The workshop was quiet at that hour, the early morning air thick with the scent of clay and cooling kilns.
I took my seat and lifted the waiting lump of clay.
Soft. Warm.
Strange, in its own way.
I wedged it carefully, folding and pressing the mass against the table to force out any air pockets. The rhythm had become familiar over the years — palms pressing, fingers turning, the clay answering each motion.
"It's just like working with clay," I scoffed quietly, recalling my master's old lesson.
The clay I used now was already white and unusually fine, but even good clay demanded patience.
"To make it more pliable," I murmured, beginning to shape the body of a vase mold.
The walls rose slowly beneath my hands.
Then a voice cut through the quiet.
"Thomas! Thomas!"
I glanced toward the doorway just as the man stepped inside.
"There you are," he said, brushing dust from his coat. "Do you have the products?"
"And a good morning to you as well, Mr. Carter," I replied dryly.
"Morning," he said quickly. "It's just that the buyer wants them soon and—"
I raised a finger, silencing him, and pointed toward the crate sitting in the corner.
He followed my gesture.
"Those?"
"Yes."
He walked over and opened the box.
My eyes narrowed slightly as I remembered the single stray hair that had refused to come free from one of the candles when I trimmed the wicks earlier that morning.
But Carter noticed nothing.
He lifted one candle, inspecting its pale surface before placing it back inside.
"Alright," he said, closing the crate again. "How much?"
"Two pounds and five shillings per candle. Twelve ritual candles."
He paused, calculating.
"Twenty-seven pounds," he concluded.
I nodded.
"John will deliver the money by noon," he added.
With that, he lifted the crate and left the shop.
The candles disappeared with him beneath the pale morning sun.
The business district was still sluggish when Miss Margaret arrived.
Mr. Carter straightened in his chair as she stepped through the door.
"Miss Margaret. Good day."
"Mr. Carter," she replied politely. "You mentioned the items had arrived."
"Indeed."
He brought out the crate and opened it for her inspection.
She lifted one candle carefully.
Turned it slowly in her hand.
Examined the smooth white surface, the faint spiral of the wick, the craftsmanship.
"Very good," she said at last, placing it back.
"How much?"
Carter folded his hands.
"Forty-five pounds and six shillings for the crate."
She studied him for a moment.
He held the expression of a man who had played too much poker to blink first.
"I would prefer buying directly from your supplier," she said calmly, "but this will do."
She gestured to her maid.
The woman stepped forward and handed Carter the payment.
He counted it slowly.
"John," he called toward the back room, "come and give Mr. Thomas his pay."
Thomas accepted his share when the boy arrived, though he lingered uneasily near the doorway.
"Sir… aren't you worried about the demonic nature of those things?" he asked quietly. "Why trade in them?"
Carter waved a dismissive hand.
"Rubbish. Anyone with a brain knows they're just strange art. Perverse art perhaps, but art nonetheless."
"For disturbed collectors."
Thomas nodded uncertainly and left.
Carter leaned back in his chair.
His thoughts drifted briefly to Miss Margaret — and how easily she had paid.
Then to the candles themselves.
Odd things.
He rubbed his temple.
"I need a cup of tea."
I sat by the dresser my mind wondering as the maid fixed my hair. The moment was a quiet midnight
"Ivy, is the carriage ready?" I asked.
"Yes, Miss. The crates and other items are already loaded."
The maid adjusted my hair one final time.
I lowered a delicate veil over her face before stepping outside.
"Watch the house while I am gone."
"Yes, Miss."
The carriage ride was silent.
The night carried that peculiar stillness that only arrived after midnight — when most of the city slept and only certain kinds of people remained awake.
They soon arrived at the venue.
The Pilgrim Fair.
Collectors, mystics, frauds, scholars, and opportunists filled the lantern-lit market.
Perfect customers.
I placed one candle on display.
"Curious things you've got here," a man remarked moments later, lifting one from the table.
"How much?"
"Three pounds and eight shillings."
He paid without complaint and slipped the candle into his bag.
"A pleasure doing business with you," Margaret said smoothly.
Another replaced it on the table.
Once my purchases at the fair were complete, I left the Pilgrim Fair and headed toward Iron Harbour.
"Williams," I called, stepping into the warehouse office. "I've returned. Help me ship this."
The clerk stamped a number onto the crate.
#1067
"How was the fair?" he asked.
"Quiet alright," he replied, adjusting his glasses.
I imagined the expressions the members of the Ninth Catalogue would wear when the artifact arrived.
That thought alone made the trip worthwhile.
A month later.
Father returned from his travels with his usual assortment of exotic curiosities.
"Eudora, what's that?" Mary asked one evening as we sat in her room after yet another failed attempt at summoning a demon.
"A candle," I said, setting it on the table. "Borrowed it from Father."
"Oh? What does it do?"
"I don't know."
I struck a match.
"Let's find out."
The flame touched the wick.
We waited.
The candle burned quietly.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Nothing happened.
"It isn't even pretty," I muttered at last.
Later that night, after my bath, I went to bed.
I dreamed I was underwater.
Or something like water.
Above me hung a dark sun — eclipsed and terrible.
Whispers moved through the currents.
Or perhaps they were not whispers at all.
Perhaps they were voices.
I woke the next morning unable to remember the dream clearly.
Only the feeling remained.
"Vivian," I said after breakfast, "may I have some clay? I would like to sculpt something."
By noon I was elbow-deep in it.
I did not know what I was making.
Yet my hands moved with certainty.
When I finished, the sculpture resembled a tall obsidian obelisk split down the middle.
A deep fissure ran from top to base.
My palm stung.
I looked down to see blood dripping from a shallow cut across my finger.
The red drops slid along the cracks in the clay.
The sculpture drank them.
When the blood settled, faint crimson crystals glimmered within the fracture.
Watching.
It was unsettling.
Yet strangely prestigious.
I wrapped my hand with a napkin.
"It seemed necessary," I murmured.
The sculpture dried quietly in the corner of my room.
Days later, I decided it required something more.
The courtyard was quiet that afternoon.
One of the young geese wandered nearby.
Vivien had gone out on an errand.
I fetched a knife from the kitchen.
The bird died quickly at the base of the sculpture.
Its blood ran along the cracks of the idol.
The clay drank it greedily.
I blinked.
The goose was gone.
In its place an odd glass shard.
They were transparent, yet carried a faint rainbow sheen across their surface.
Strange.
I lifted them to my face, looking through them.
Days passed.
I began noticing things.
Not gestures.
Not expressions.
Certainty.
I knew what people felt.
Guilt.
Fear.
Desire.
Hatred.
I confirmed it when a girl in class stole money from the teacher's desk.
"Why did you take it?" I asked quietly.
The terror in her face confirmed everything.
I did not report her.
Instead she helped me whenever I asked.
Life became simpler.
Much simpler.
"Now I see what others cannot," I whispered one evening.
"I know when someone lies."
Teachers.
Friends.
Suitors.
Family.
All transparent.
Society became a chessboard.
And I began winning.
One afternoon Mary and I sat playing chess.
I adjusted the glasses to read her emotions.
Nothing.
I removed them.
Wiped the lenses.
Put them back on.
Still nothing.
"I didn't know you started wearing glasses," Mary said casually as she moved her knight.
"A recent development," I replied.
But the certainty was gone.
Sunlight poured through the window.
Mary looked completely ordinary.
Completely unreadable.
And suddenly a thought crept into my mind.
Did she also…
My thoughts drifted back to the strange candle from weeks ago.
And for the first time in months—
I felt uncertain.