“Thea,” he grabbed her arm as the light grew brighter. “There’s something you should know...”
But it was too late. Their platform soared upward into the cold winter light, and stopped with a thump and a shudder next to the Holly Maker, which was a few feet away from them.
Silas, blinking as his eyes adapted to the daylight, remained silent as a crew of green-clad volunteers cheered and jumped up to wheel the Mistletoe machine across the paving and next to its partner. Then he held out his hand to Dorothea and led her to the spot reserved for the mechanics, those who had dedicated long hours to the two pieces of magnificent mechanics that made the Turning of the Green possible.
There were cheers, plenty of cheers, but Silas couldn’t help but notice the murmuring, and the whispers that were spreading as they moved to their places.
The Arcvale school bands stood proudly on a small dais, and blasted out the first notes of the traditional song of welcome. The gearorgan, massive and towering with its pipes, copper coils, and clockwork valves, set the rhythm, and that was picked up by the aetherhorns, with their bright and vibrant sounds, shimmering trumpet calls making the very air vibrate around them.
When joined by the wind-key chimes and the ticker drums, Silas could have sworn the very ground beneath their feet shuddered. The steady rhythmic thuds of the clockwork ticker drums kept such perfect time that everyone and everything got caught in it.
For Silas, it was the heartbeat of the Foundry.
As the music finally faded to loud cheers and applause, he gripped Dorothea’s hand tightly, making her glance at him.
“What, Silas? What is it?”
“I should have told you, Thea. I didn’t want you to find out like this.” He eyed the Warden walking toward them.
“Whatever it is, I don’t care, Silas,” she hissed back. “I...”
But she didn’t get the chance to finish that sentence, as the tall and sombre-looking Warden came to a halt in front of Silas.
Clad in the traditional deep emerald green jacket, black breeches, boots polished to a shine that would have made diamonds jealous, the man dipped his head, making the white feathers on his large green hat wave gently.
Silas simply nodded back. He wasn’t sure what was coming next.
To his astonishment, the Warden turned to the crowd and waved his hands for silence as the last notes of the traditional song faded into the brightening sunlight.
“Welcome, Arcvale. Welcome to the Turning of the Green.”
The well-known ceremonial opening was underway, and the crowds cheered and applauded.
“On behalf of the Council of Wardens, we welcome you to this auspicious moment, as we do each year on this day, at this time.” He turned his face to the machines, and his smile broadened. “We also extend our welcome to the devices without which Arcvale would be unable to present the jubilant and vibrant mantle of greenery that has defined our city for generations. The Holly Maker and the Mistletoe Engine have long been our faithful servants in this,” he added, carefully not looking at Silas, “clothing every ring and gallery in boughs and berries, that all may see the Turning of the Green and know the season has truly begun.”
*~~*~~*
The speech drifted on, smooth as polished brass, but something about it made Dorothea uneasy.
It wasn’t the pomp—she’d grown up with that every year, and it was very familiar. It was the way the Warden turned so obviously to the Holly Maker and the Mistletoe Engine, extending his welcome to devices, as if they were dignitaries in their own right. And yet never once sparing so much as a glance toward the man responsible for their presence.
Beside her, Silas stood straight and tall, hands folded loosely behind his back. To anyone else, he might have looked merely self-contained, a seasoned Forge Marshal out of place amongst all the brocade, silk, and gold braid. But Dorothea could see the tiny signs she’d learned to observe from her Renslow upbringing. His jaw tightened now and again, and his gaze remained fixed on the machines, as if he refused to give the man the courtesy of his full attention.
She had to wonder why, if the Council was so eager to praise their “faithful servants”, there wasn’t a word or a lookthat indicated acknowledgment of the man standing beside her.
And he was indeed a sight to behold. His height, his bearing, all spoke of someone not unused to such occasions. Her mind shot back to the effortless authority he’d shown when working at the Forge, as if giving orders was not something he’d learned from those deep levels.
She held on to the railing beside her, feeling the faint vibration as the great machines began to stir, and the Warden stepped back and away from their platform.
“Well, well,” she murmured under her breath. “Someone is afraid to share the stage with you, aren’t they?”
“Watch the machines, Thea. They’re probably the only honest things up here.”
A strange and somewhat bitter comment that made her even more uneasy. But she tried to push that feeling aside as the thrilling part of the event began.
Both machines had been connected to the hoses containing the materials necessary to create the greenery, and with a clank, a hiss, a puff and a rhythmic thump, the first boughs appeared.
They were welcomed with a loud and boisterous cheer from those who could see it, and even louder cheers from those who were watching the Lumen Walls that had been installed around the entire area. Little by little, the boughs of holly and the garlands of mistletoe began to twine together, a miraculous fusion of two mechanical wonders that seemed to the uneducated a miracle. To those familiar with the workings, especially to Dorothea, it was the culmination of many hours of hard work.
