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“Why?” I asked. I didn’t like the way my skin pricked at his touch. I imagined sinking into the folds of his coat. Being swallowed by his shadow. It was both unnerving and… tantalizing.

No, not tantalizing. Just unnerving.

“Because you’re quite recognizable, Nina. And there are a few around here that don’t take too kindly to Artisans.”

An image of those wanted posters floated to mind, and I shuddered. “You receive the bulletins here?”

“Of course,” Patrick said. “Our Scribbler gets the same bulletins as any other province.”

My head turned sharply. “Aren’t you worried they’ll alert the House of—?”

“There’s only one,” Patrick interjected. “And she’s loyal to us.”

A noise of exasperation escaped me. My eyes began darting to the streetlamps and shopwindows, expecting to find my own face staring back at me.

“I don’t allow Artisan propaganda to make its way onto the street,” he reassured, watching my face closely. “You needn’t worry.”

“But if—”

“Just stay on my arm,” he said, looking ahead, “and you’ll be fine.”

A woman holding a basket of folded clothes passed them; she nodded once to Patrick, then looked resolutely at her feet. “They won’t come with their pitchforks and fire?”

Patrick patted his pockets for cigarettes, then seemed to remember that I didn’t like them. “If they think you’re with me, then they won’t even look at you.”

We passed a scrapyard and took a right turn, where the streets were lined with horse carts, coal bins, men in soiled shirts bellowing in accents even thicker than Patrick’s. They shoveled coal and pressed iron rods into open stoves. They softened metal and hammered it with oversize mallets. The cobbles disappeared under thick layers of grime, and the sound was immense—a symphony of metalworkers.

It was clearly a part of town a lady did not venture to. Yet, I walked through its middle on Patrick’s arm and no man came to leer at me. There were no shouts in my direction, no whistles or gestures or threats. Instead, the Crafters only continued in their work. It seemed Patrick was a stern parting water wherever he went. No one stepped into his path.

One factory loomed larger than the rest, its large doors open to the many workers within. Chimneys sprouted from its extensive roof, chugging smoke into the sky. The entire building seemed out of place, too big for a small town, parts and scraps patched together to make a giant.

Patrick saw me staring. “The Coal Works,” he said easily. “The pride and joy of Kenton Hill, actually.”

I frowned at all the smoke. Inside, giant copper drums towered over the workers and lined the walls. Their plumes fed into those chimneys above. Even from here, I could feel the heat of them, could smell the sweat of the Crafters.

Like all the buildings in Kenton, the gut of the factory was networked in those same copper and steel pipes, but this time they fed into the ground. They were great tentacles that snaked from the belly of the coal drums and sunk into the floor, presumably feeding gas underground.

“This is how you light the town,” I marveled, more to myself than to Patrick.

He nodded. “And how we heat the boilers, and the stoves.”

I laughed. “It’s brilliant.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Patrick said. “Coal gases are toxic. We’ve been trying to learn the best ways to keep this factory stable. You ever seen a gas explosion?”

I shook my head.

“It ain’t pretty.”

“You’re inventors,” I murmured.

“I can’t take credit for the Coal Works,” he said, though my incredulity seemed to satisfy him. “This is the genius of the oldest Colson brother.”

They were a family of innovators, then. Of enterprise. It was little wonder they had taken hold of Kenton Hill and rallied an army. People in brink towns wouldn’t turn away the promise of more warmth in the winter.

“Come on,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Day’s waning.”

We walked for quite a time, crossing canals on latticework bridges and weaving down busy lanes.