He points to an illuminated section of rock. Even in the tunnel’s dim light, it sparkles in a medley of colors, shimmering and shifting as if alive. I place a hand over my chest, gasping.
“It’s gorgeous! How is it moving like that?”
The man who greeted Kieran steps forward. “That’s the magic in it. It’s what turned your great-great-grandmother’s blood blue and started this whole divide. It’s what gives bluebloods their gifts—and what powers the railways Mr. Blackwell builds. It runs the new contraptions for tilling fields and weaving fabric. Magic, Princess Genevieve.”
There’s truth in his words. “I must agree with you,” I reply. “How do you remove it?”
He hefts a pickaxe and drives it into the wall. The colors splinter and tremble, as if trying to escape the intrusion, but he continues striking until a hand-sized chunk falls free. Its brilliance fades to a silvery metallic sheen.
“Once upon a time, we needed larger pieces to send to the surface,” he explains. “Thanks to the smelter, we can now use smaller fragments to refine the helachite into what we need—and stabilize it at the same time.”
The man hands me the chunk of rock, and I feel Kieran stiffen, but I take it. “It’s sad to see the rock lose its luster like that. It’s almost as if it’s sentient.”
An older man snickers. “Almost? Princess, the helachiteissentient. That’s why the rot exists. It doesn’t take kindly to misuse, and it’ll punish those who don’t respect it. We miners have known that for a long, long time.”
He squeezes Kieran’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “And now one of our own is making sure helachite gets the respect it deserves.”
“From what I can see, he’s doing an excellent job of it. What do you gentlemen think?” I ask, earning a chorus of laughter.
“Don’t think of us as gentlemen, Your Highness. We’re not some highborn bluebloods. We’ve been forced to take on the blue blood, and we all suffer for it.”
I glance toward Kieran, hoping for guidance, but he offers none. His face is unreadable, and I think back to his cries in the night. “What are the long-term effects of mining helachite? Is there anything we can do to prevent them?”
“We all get the night terrors,” one man answers, and the others shoot him looks as if he’s said too much. “What? She’s going to be the damn queen! She may as well know what’s happening down here!”
Even in the dim light, I can see the scowl on Kieran’s face. I lay my gloved hand on his arm in reassurance and say, “He’s right. I want to understand how to help all my people—including the helachite miners.”
The man nods and continues, “The night terrors. It’s the body’s reaction to the forced changes in our blood. Remember the stories about the mad bluebloods from the first generations? That’s the terrors. Then there’s those who spent too long touching raw helachite—lots of injuries there. But Mr. Blackwell’s worked hard to see them cared for, even after all they’ve been through. The new generation of miners isn’t seeing such rapid deterioration. We’ve even got a young man down here whose blood’s still as red as a ruby. I think it’s because of Mr. Blackwell’s new rules.”
I look at Kieran, curious. “What rules?”
He clears his throat. “Shorter shifts, mandatory three days off. Everyone wears safety gear and washes before going home. I’ve installed running water and bathing rooms in all my mines. Any injuries are reported immediately and treated.”
“Doesn’t that increase the operating costs significantly?” I ask.
Kieran shakes his head. “It’s more important to give my workers a good life. If it cuts into my profits, so be it. I’m already richer than any man should be. The least I can do is improve the conditions they work in.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I think of my own family—how much we pride ourselves on duty and decorum, yet never once have we sacrificed our comfort for our people. And here is Kieran, making a greater difference than my mother ever has.
She’s never even bothered to learn the conditions these miners toiled in. In fact, she’s chosen to remain willfully ignorant of the dangers of helachite mining, leaving me just as uninformed.
When we were younger, Kieran was many things—funny, caring, fiercely loyal. It’s no surprise he’s carried that loyalty into adulthood.My heart aches, thinking of how, at such a young age, he chose to fight—not with weapons or violence, but by transforming this industry from the inside out.
Kieran places his thick, gloved hand on my arm, guiding me toward the exit. “Drager, Cressup, Mitchum—thank you for all your hard work, and for taking time out of your day to show Princess Genevieve what you do. We must be off. It may be a while before I’m back. Is there anything you need that I can get you?”
“You’ve done more than we could ask for, sir. But if you must know, Mr. Jenkins passed last week. His widow’s having a hard time. She’s afraid she’ll be removed from her home now that he’s gone. We tried assuring her you’d never do that, but she doesn’t believe us.”
Kieran’s hand tightens on my arm, his body tense. What kind of an operation would forcibly remove a mourning widow from her home? My stomach churns at the thought of such cruelty—and the lack of humanity these men and women have come to expect.
“Right. I’ll be sure to stop by.”
I bow to the men. “Thank you all for your time. You’ve been so helpful in showing me how the mine operates. I hope to come again.”
“Do that, Your Highness,” one of the men says as we begin our ascent back to the surface.
36
Kieran
