Gold Is What Your Ghosts Are Made Of

How it begins

The breastplate began crying before Nadia Rowe had finished checking it for cracks.

A narrow window admitted the port's gray morning. On the shelf beneath it, Nadia kept broken things nobody had paid her to repair.

A small sound at first. Then a second voice joined it, followed by the unmistakable murmur of a crowded room trying not to be heard.

Nadia set down her hammer.

Across the workbench, the captain watched the gold as though it had betrayed a confidence.

"How long?" she asked.

"Three months."

"And you thought bringing it to a metalworker was the answer?"

"I was told you repaired things other people wouldn't touch."

She did. Hinges from cursed houses. Wedding rings that tightened during arguments. A saucepan that recalled every meal its owner had burned. There were limits, however, and a roomful of grief was approaching one.

Theo Keane unfastened the last strap. Beneath the armor, his shirt was damp with sweat despite the cold morning.

The voices grew clearer when he stepped away.

Nadia heard a woman asking whether the tide had turned. A man laughing once. Someone repeating a name she couldn't catch.

"Who are they?"

Theo looked toward the forge door. Outside, the port was waking: cart wheels, gulls, the first bell from the shipyard. Ordinary noises belonging to people who expected to make it through the day.

"People I couldn't bring home."

Nadia looked at the captain's insignia, pressed into gold so bright it seemed almost indecent.

"Couldn't," she said, "or didn't?"

He met her eyes. She had expected anger. The fact that he answered neither quickly nor defensively made her more careful.

"That's what I need to tell you."

From inside the breastplate, the smallest voice finally rose above the others.

It was not asking to be saved.

It was asking to be heard.