The morning air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and the sharp, metallic scent of the previous night's frost. Thomas stood on the stone steps of the manor, watching Victoria's carriage pull away. It was a modest thing, built of heavy oak and iron, swaying precariously on the rutted mud path that served as a road. She sat upright, her face a mask of noble indifference, but Thomas knew her mind was already dismantling the count's defenses.
He turned back toward the courtyard, feeling the phantom weight of the phone in his pocket. Even though it was invisible, he had found himself habitually checking his thigh, a modern reflex he couldn't quite shake. He walked toward the far corner of the yard, where the rhythmic clanging of a hammer against an anvil echoed off the stone walls.
The forge was a lean-to structure, thick with the smell of coal smoke and hot iron. Inside, a man with arms the size of tree trunks and a face permanently stained with soot was beating a glowing orange rod into the shape of a horseshoe. This was Wat, a man who spoke little and drank much, but who was the only person within ten miles who could work a bellows.
Thomas stepped into the heat of the forge, the sudden change in temperature making his skin prickle. Wat did not stop his rhythmic hammering. He did not even look up.
"The plowshares aren't ready, my lord," Wat grunted, his voice sounding like gravel being turned in a bucket. "The iron is poor. Brittle as dry bone. I told the steward we need better stock from the city."
Thomas moved closer, peering at the cooling iron. He reached out and pulled the invisible screen into his line of sight, his fingers moving in the air. To Wat, it looked like he was testing the temperature of the air.
"It is not the iron, Wat," Thomas said, trying to keep his voice calm and authoritative. "It is the heat. You are letting too much air into the base of the coals, but not enough into the heart of the fire. The impurities are staying in the metal."
Wat stopped mid-swing. He lowered the hammer and turned to look at Thomas, his small, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The heart of the fire? I've been blowing the bellows since I was a lad of seven. I know how to heat a forge, my lord."
"I am not saying you don't," Thomas countered, searching for a way to explain airflow and carbonization without using the words. "But I have seen a different way. A way to make the fire so hot it turns the iron into something that will never snap, no matter how deep the plow digs. Something that could even cut through another man's sword."
Wat spat into the soot on the floor. "And I suppose you saw this in a dream? Like the frost you warned the mistress about?"
"I saw it," Thomas said firmly. "And I can show you how to build a chimney for your forge that will draw the air up like a giant's breath. If you do what I say, you will be the only man in this valley who can produce steel that does not break."
Wat wiped a dirty hand across his forehead, leaving a fresh smear of black. He looked at the horseshoe, then back at Thomas. The lord of the manor was supposed to be in the counting house or out in the woods, not standing in the filth of a smithy talking about chimneys.
"If I build this thing, and the iron still snaps, I've wasted a week of work," Wat said.
"If it works," Thomas replied, "you will never have to worry about the price of ale again. I will pay you double for every hour you spend on it. But you tell no one. Not the steward, not the men at the table. This is for this house alone."
Wat grunted, a sound that might have been agreement. Thomas spent the next hour sketching shapes in the soot on a wooden bench, translating the diagrams of a high-heat furnace he had pulled up on his screen into simple instructions. He explained the concept of a bellows that worked on a pivot to provide a constant stream of air, and how to line the forge with clay to trap the heat.
As he spoke, he saw the skepticism in Wat's eyes slowly shift into something else. It was the look of a craftsman who recognized a design that actually made sense, even if he didn't understand the science behind it.
While Wat began to tear down the old stones of his hearth, Thomas walked toward the village well. He needed to see the water for himself. The "bitter water" Victoria had mentioned was the key. He knelt by the wooden bucket, dipping his fingers in and taking a tiny sip. It was metallic, with a sharp, sulfurous aftertaste.
He pulled up the geological archive again, overlaying the GPS coordinates of the hill with the mineral maps. The runoff was high in silver and lead. It wasn't just a small pocket; if the data was right, the vein ran deep into the granite core of the hill.
A group of village women, carrying heavy earthenware jugs, slowed as they approached the well. They lowered their heads, their eyes darting toward him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. He realized he was still a stranger to them—a man who had suddenly started acting like a different person.
"Good morning," Thomas said, trying a friendly smile.
The women didn't answer. They hurried past, their whispers reaching him only after they were a dozen yards away. He caught the word "changed" and "the lady's shadow."
He realized then that his transformation wasn't just a personal crisis. It was a political one. If he wanted to build a country, he couldn't just be a lord who sat in a stone tower with a magic glass. He had to be someone they trusted.
He walked back toward the manor, his mind already spinning with the next set of problems. He needed a way to refine the silver once they pulled it out. He needed a way to keep the count from simply seizing the mine once the first shipment went out. And most of all, he needed Victoria to succeed in her mission.
The afternoon sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard. Thomas went to the solar, the quiet room feeling colder now that Victoria wasn't in it. He sat by the window and opened his phone. He began to download every article he could find on 12th-century law, feudal rights, and the specific history of the region.
He read about the tenuous grasp the crown had on these borderlands. He read about the coming wars and the shifts in power that were destined to happen over the next fifty years. He was a man holding a map of a burning building, trying to decide which rooms to save first.
The sound of a galloping horse broke his concentration. He hurried to the window and saw a rider in the count's livery entering the gates. The man handed a sealed parchment to the steward and turned his horse around immediately, disappearing back into the trees.
Thomas felt his stomach tighten. Had Victoria failed? Had the count seen through her act?
He hurried down the stairs, meeting the steward in the hall. The older man looked at the parchment with a confused expression.
"The mistress sent word, my lord," the steward said, handing him the letter. "She is staying at the count's estate for two more nights. She says the negotiations are... delicate."
Thomas broke the wax seal. The letter was written in a cramped, elegant hand that he assumed was Victoria's.
The fish has taken the bait, it read, but he wants to see the white hart for himself. He will come to the hill on the third day. Ensure the manor is prepared for his arrival. Do not let the blacksmith be seen.
Thomas crumpled the parchment in his hand. Victoria was playing a dangerous game. She was inviting a predatory noble to their doorstep to witness a miracle that didn't exist. He had forty-eight hours to find a way to make a "white hart" appear, or at least a way to make the count believe he had seen one.
He pulled his phone out, his thumb flying across the screen. He needed to know everything about local superstitions, hallucinogenic plants, and how to create a visual illusion with nothing but fire and smoke.
He looked at the dark forest beyond the walls. The "Kind Guy" from the modern world was gone. He was an architect now, and he was going to have to get his hands very, very dirty.