A Golden Fury

was. We went toward a square, three-story brick building that spilled a smell of mutton over the musty scent of the canal. A sign hanging over the door read NAG’S HEAD, with a rough picture of a work horse under it.
I had never been to an English pub, of course. My mother had spoken of them occasionally, without fondness. She said the food was greasy and yet dry, and that no civilized person drank beer when they could have wine. I resolved to enjoy whatever the Nag’s Head had to offer.
Dominic opened the door for me, and I stepped into a room not very much brighter though much warmer than Dominic’s sleeping hole. A big brick fireplace was the central feature, with the bar to its side. Tables were sequestered by wooden beams that made each one its own little room. The wooden benches and low ceilings enclosing each table put me in mind of the cabin of a schooner. Dominic led me to the table closest to the fire, then went to the bar and ordered in a low voice. The bartender nodded my way and asked about me. Dominic murmured a reply I did not try to hear. He would surely find some way not to lie about me, but still, I was in no mood to hear any further half-truths to explain away my inconvenient existence.
My head ached. I lowered it onto my hands and pictured my father, little though I wanted to. Poring over my notes. Decoding them, perhaps. And giving them to Bentivoglio. Cold horror pricked down my arms, despite the fire, and I clutched the shawl tighter over my shoulders. Dominic sat down across from me and his eyes widened with alarm at the look on my face.
“Are you unwell?”
“Dominic—do you believe me?” His forehead furrowed in confusion, and I continued on. “Do you believe me, that Bentivoglio is going mad? About the curse?”
Dominic looked away, back toward the bar.
“I don’t give much credit to curses, Miss Hope,” he murmured. “I believe you about your mother. And the professor isn’t himself, sure enough. But a curse on alchemy…”
“What happened to my mother isn’t natural. I didn’t credit curses, either, but it’s like you said: what we try to do is magic, and we believe it can be done because great alchemists have gone so far in the past—”
“You believe it can be done,” said Dominic, shaking his head. “I don’t. As for the madness, maybe it’s something to do with the metals, with the smoke, something of that kind. But whatever drove your mother mad, there’s some kind of explanation.”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t see her. There was no natural explanation for that. It wasn’t just madness. She was strong, stronger than her patron. Nature can’t do that.”
Dominic looked away again. “Maybe … the shock of it…”
Hopelessness gnawed at me. If even Dominic didn’t believe me, I wouldn’t convince anyone. Bentivoglio would work from my notes, following the same process that made my mother mad. There was nothing I could do.
“I’ll talk to your father tomorrow,” said Dominic. “See if I can get your notes back for you, at least.”
“He’ll have copied them by now,” I said. At the thought of it, anger stabbed at me, fine and sharp as a needle. “And you don’t have to call him my father. He isn’t really. He didn’t know I existed before yesterday, and he isn’t going to acknowledge me.”
“He might. He could change his mind. Come around. Realize what he’s doing.” Dominic glanced at me, then quickly away. “You’re the spit of him, you know.”
“That only makes me more of a problem,” I said bitterly. “Harder to hide our relationship. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, nor I with him. As soon as I get my papers, I’ll go to London.”
“What’s in London?”
“A friend,” I said.
Dominic waited for more, but I did not give it. Our meal came: cold mutton, brown bread, and two pints of watered ale. Despite my resolve, I began to doubt my ability to enjoy the pub’s humble fare. I took a few bites, and a long sip of the weak ale.
“We moved here for the canal,” said Dominic. “My father was a digger.”
“A canal digger?”
Dominic nodded. “Then they finished the work, two years ago. There wasn’t enough barging work for all the diggers. And he—ah—he wasn’t the most reliable of them. He went back to London, said he’d send for us when he had work.”
Dominic hunched over his platter, a knife in one hand and a fork in the other.
“I gather he didn’t,” I said.
“No,” he said. “But I went after him anyway. Thought I could work, too, help him save up faster. Turned out he wasn’t saving up anything, because he spent every half-penny on gin.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We fell silent and ate to the sound of forks scraping the pewter plates.
“Not sure why I told you that,” said Dominic after a few moments. He sounded almost angry at himself.
“You’re telling me you understand what it’s like to have a disappointing father,” I said. “It’s kind of you.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Dominic with a sigh. “But my father drank himself to death last winter. He doesn’t get any more chances. And even though I waited for him, and nothing came of it … Still, I’d give him another chance if I could.”
My eyebrows shot up.
“You think my father deserves another chance?” I asked. The question came out sharper than I meant it, and Dominic looked up.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not that he deserves it. Just that you might want to give him one anyway.”
“I don’t.” I set my fork down on the table and leaned back against the wooden wall.
“Give him a week,” said Dominic. “Please. I think he’ll change his mind. I know, it probably seems an eternity to stay in our place…”
“It is an eternity,” I said sharply. “Not to stay in your home, I don’t mind that, but to wait on someone who