Glass. As far as the eye can see, arrayed in every color of the rainbow, stretching out like drops of dew twinkling in the morning sun—shelves upon shelves of meticulously sorted glass, ready and waiting to be shaped to my will.

“Hello, old friend. It’s been too long,” I whisper, turning around slowly and taking in the glass studio’s hot shop. I savor each little detail: the furious glow of the furnaces, the marvers worn smooth over countless years of rolling glass across their surfaces, the magnificent panels of clear glass taller than I am by each workstation for drawing designs in colorful chalk. I breathe in deeply, close my eyes, and enjoy the sounds of a busy, professional studio at work.

In a way, it's difficult for me to accept my sudden good fortune after months of setbacks and struggle, but I suppose everyone deserves a break. My thoughts drift back to the last few interactions with Scalpel, still marveling at how I got here.

=+=

As expected, my first week back with Scalpel after the visit with Tapirs and Coco is a whirlwind of research to make up for the missing day—and then some. I run myself ragged in an effort to keep up with her demands, barely snatching a few minutes here and there to practice my own delves. My hours are chock full of recording analysis and data points for the other test subjects she works on, although I can’t see what Scalpel sees; I simply collate and cross-check.

Less expected is the offer Scalpel extends to me on the first day of the second week. At least, I think it’s the second week, if I’m reading the calendar in her office correctly, I think as I crane my neck to look at the days. It’s hard to tell the passage of time without windows to be honest. Mealtimes are my only regular clue to the passing of time, otherwise.

Guards escort the final test subject of the batch out of the room, and Scalpel gestures for them to shut the door behind them. My full attention locks on her as soon as we’re alone. She doesn’t usually mind speaking in front of the guards, so that likely means there’s something important she wants to discuss.

“You’re an anomaly, Nuri. My research thrives on predictability, but you’ve thrown that all out of order. Nonetheless, in recognition of your accomplishments, you’ve earned some reward. I’ve observed that you believe there’s value in sentimentality, and while I have yet to see how affection affects Skills specifically—other than as an incidental corollary, since people often repeatedly practice things they take interest in—I am willing to indulge. You have earned some leeway.” She pauses from her interminable note-taking, stacks the pages together, and tucks them into a folio.

Scalpel rises from her desk, clutching the folio, and marches over to the wall behind her. She fishes a key out from under her tunic, opens a safe, and shoves the papers inside.

The key never leaves her possession, hanging from her neck by a black silk ribbon. I often wonder what she considers too important for prying eyes, since she has me arranging her reports to [Viceroy] Tapirs, but I’m not stupid enough to poke at that hornet’s nest. At least, not yet; curiosity is a powerful motivator.

Instead, I dutifully keep silent, my body tense and at attention the entire time.

Scalpel returns to her desk. She remains standing, her articulated hands clasped in front of her. “Starting tomorrow, you will spend two days a week working in a local glass shop. You will keep meticulous notes on your experience in regard to Skill rehabilitation. Should you fail to document the details to my satisfaction, or if you haven't made any progress after a month, I will revoke your privilege.”

Tapirs came through, I see. A sardonic smile tugs at the edges of my lips. I’m certain that this order came from above, but Scalpel is doing her absolute best to act as though she is in command of my fate. Her ploy carries a faint whiff of desperation to me. Perhaps she is facing her own deadlines? Taking it out on me is one way to reassert control, but I no longer regard her with the same awe as I did before I met the [Viceroy]; her aura of dominance is blunted now, her god-like powers beggared by the true rulers at the top. And unfortunately for her, I plan to answer only to them.

“Thank you, Master,” I reply, letting my relief and excitement show through. That part, at least, is completely genuine. “I won't squander this opportunity.”

She unfurls her fingers, tapping on the table and leaving scratch marks in the polished wood. “See that you don’t.”

=+=

“Ready to learn, young sir?” Melidandri, the studio shop’s lead [Glass Smith], asks me with a polite smile. His voice shakes me loose from my reverie of odd memories.

“I am happy to be back in a hot shop again,” I say, returning the smile. Melidandri is tall, slender, and elegant, with smooth, well-practiced mannerisms. Every word and interaction thus far is pleasant and deferential to a fault. Something about it feels off, however, like he’s donning a mask. I don’t know what he has been told about the arrangement for me to work here, but he seems to have an odd understanding of my role.

He’s impeccably dressed in a sleek black tunic edged in silver, with glass rings on each finger that glimmer with the subtle sheen of imbued mana. I can’t imagine that a rich, cultured man like him has time to hover while someone works in his shop.

The artificial smile creases his face again. “Not your first time working with our medium? Excellent! It’s always a delight to see young glass-makers in our glass studio. You represent tomorrow’s future, after all. Would you prefer to work on a pendant, or learn to make a vase?”

I shake my head. “Neither, thank you. I don’t mean to distract you from your orders and commissions, Sir. I will work on a project on my own. No one likes to babysit instead of getting work done.”

“Admirable, but we certainly have time for a client who comes recommended by the [King]’s own mages,” Melidandri is quick to reply.

“Thanks for your kind offer, but I’m not really looking for instruction. I just need to get back to the basics,” I say, feeling more confused by the moment. What did Tapirs tell him?

“With respect, the tools of our trade can be quite dangerous in less experienced hands,” Melidandri says. “The furnaces are extraordinarily hot, and the glass can easily burn you or shatter into razor shards. I don't want to risk you hurting yourself without the assistance and oversight of a skilled [Gaffer], and your situation is inherently riskier since you seem to face an uphill battle for manipulating the tools required for glass.”

His pointed glance at my hand grates on my nerves, but I suppose it’s only natural for him to doubt me. I realize now that I’m probably stepping on his toes, so I swallow my pride and accept the supervisor they're assigning me. “May I at least demonstrate my abilities? I can be useful to you around the shop with your orders.”

“We are commission only, young man,” he replies with great dignity and pride. “Naturally, you are most welcome to a workstation if you would like to practice alongside one of the glass workers. They’ll be happy to instruct you if you'd like to make a keepsake.”

I frown, my confusion sublimating into a dull anger. “Did Scalpel put you up to this? She should know me better by now than to try to play games with me. I’m determined to return to my roots. I’m a [Glassworker] by Class, as was my father before me. I asked for studio time, not to be coddled like a little lordling.”

“Oh? Well, then, I will make some allowances for you, master Nuri. Unfortunately, I cannot grant you unrestricted access to do as you please until I see evidence of your skill. Why don't you start with a few simple pieces while I finish a commission, and then I'll review. Until I inspect your work, I expect you to obey the [Gaffer] immediately.”

“I am in your studio. I will abide by your rules,” I say as sincerely as I can. “But in return for my patience, I wish to learn mana imbuing.”

Melidandri peers at me more closely, his skepticism about my abilities and his veneer of plastered-on friendliness both peeling off a bit as he seems to come to some sort of conclusion. “Very well, Nuri. Make something grand—something that I would be willing to display here in our showroom. If it sells by the end of the week, then I’ll personally teach you how to imbue.”

My heart races at his pronouncement. I never expected that this dandy, this creature of politics, also has the skills of a Master; I just wanted him to understand that I'm not here to learn the basics, and I hoped someone on staff could oblige. The shop seems magnificent enough that I figured they might have a lead on imbuing, but it never occurred to me that Melidandri himself would be capable of teaching me such a rare skill.

I lift my chin and nod. “Challenge accepted!”

Immediately, my mind races back to the shattered chandelier from the competition. I never got to see it in action, and although a prideful part of me doesn't want to retread a path that I’ve already walked, my discretion wins out in the end. If I have to spend the entire day today designing and iterating, then I’ll run out of time tomorrow to produce a piece worthy of catching the eye of a rich patron. I won't get to return to the glass studio until next week, so my only chance to make an impression is to get started as quickly as possible.

Eschewing the rondelles from the competition, I decide to go with more reliable and conventional means of creating flat planes of glass. I’m going to make molds, make and melt glass, and fill up each shape with the mix. It’s less romantic than spinning it by hand, but with a wider margin for error, this makes for a more forgiving method. In addition, this way will take less time, which will free me up to work on the detailed interior of the chandelier.

“First things,” I mutter, surveying the glass shelf by shelf. “If I can’t find suitable glass, then I’ll need to make it myself.”

I peruse the offerings, grudgingly impressed by the profusion of colors and composition. There’s lead-based glass, soda-lime glass, and borosilicate glass in every shade and hue I’d ever want—and some gaudy colors I’d never touch—yet none of the offerings are made from the right type of additives. None of it will suit my purposes; I’m looking for dichroic glass in order to make what I have in mind.

I flag down a passing assistant and ask him to lead the way to the back store room so I can collect materials and make my own batch of glass. He raises an eyebrow at my request, but doesn’t dismiss me out of hand. Instead, his gaze flickers over toward the boss, Melidandri, for confirmation.

Melidandri strides over to speak with us, a half-smile still plastered on his face. “Trouble already, young master Nuri?”

The assistant gulps. His eyes dart between us. “Permission to take him to the storeroom so he can make a new batch, sir?”

A frown etched on his face, Melidandri turns toward me and speaks more candidly than he has thus far. “Ah, is our glass not your liking?”

“It’s beautifully uniform,” I answer, genuinely pleased with the quality they have in the shop. “The problem is that I need dichroic glass, and you don’t seem to have any on hand. I suppose I could settle for using borosilicate if there are no other options, but I assumed that your splendid establishment would have more materials in reserve for emergencies.”

“What could you possibly need that for?” Melidandri asks, his smooth aristocratic brow furrowed in confusion. “Our glass blowers are standing by to assist you during your visit. If you would allow us to instruct you, then we could pass along our collective knowledge. Including,” he adds a bit snidely, as though he can’t help himself, “just how poorly suited to the task that particular variation of glass truly is.”

“I’d agree if I wanted to make a little plate or a pendant,” I say pleasantly, not breaking eye contact with him the entire time, “except that I want to make a chandelier. For that, I want glass that shimmers with different colors based on the viewing angles. Dichroic glass will bend the light coming through. For the design I have in mind, I need to make a few molds and create multiple repeatable shapes. I don't have time to waste spinning up rondelles and cutting out the shapes, or pressing glass flat with rollers. I’ll use more traditional glass blowing for the interior of the chandelier but not the outside. Satisfied?”

“That’s a risky gamble,” Melidandri answers, although he loses some annoyance and seems to consider the proposal. “A chandelier made that way sounds bulky and expensive to produce—don't you care about elegance and refinement?”

My patience finally wears thin. I’ve worked too hard to get to this point to have my pride trampled over by the first glass artisan I’ve met in months. “Why don’t you send a message to Lady Evershed in Grand Ile and ask her opinions on my chandelier? I’m sure my master will endorse my efforts.”

Melidandri’s expression wars between surprise and respect. “I didn't know she was taking disciples after her many years of hiatus. Still, it’s a wonder she let you go after investing her time. Makes one wonder if it was worth the effort.” Having delivered his final, quiet barb, Melidandri strides off to oversee further operations in the hot shop.

I gesture grandly for the assistant to lead me on. “Well? Time’s a wastin’! Let’s get what we need and get to work. I'm lacking a hand, as you can see, so I’m counting on you for the rest of the work week. If Meledandri complains about losing your help, then tell him I’ve hired you and to put it on [Viceroy] Tapirs’ bill.”

The assistant gulps and throws a sloppy salute. I manage to stifle my urge to laugh, and follow as he scurries off to the back. While I don't want to get in the habit of abusing my connections, there's something pleasing about seeing people jump to when I give a command. Why can’t everyone be this reasonable?

I spend the rest of the morning mixing ingredients to prepare the batch of glass, pausing only to direct my assistant to call in a metal worker. As soon as she arrives, I explain the kind of chain and hook I’ll need to hang the chandelier, and also ask for simple molds for each of the geometric shapes I need to create. I don't feel like using sand molds, or graphite, or any of the other more traditional, more accessible methods. I’m in a rush, and I’m not the one paying for once. Granted, neither Scalpel nor the [Viceroy] actually promised to give me any sort of budget, but what’s the point of having friends in high places if you don't make use of them?

Well, friends might be overstating it. But my newfound optimism is enjoyable, so I run with the idea and offer to pay double if she has the commission ready and waiting for me by the time I return from lunch—which I’m also putting on the [Viceroy]’s tab, come to think of it. A grin snakes across my face. I could definitely get used to this kind of life.