These were good times across the rich farmlands of Lincolnshire. The big cities of the Midlands were spreading, sucking in labor under their blanket of smoke, and that labor—along with the growing middle classes who drew their profit from it, and the higher guildsmen who speculated in shares, bonds and leases—needed to be fed. Borne in on endless carts, and then increasingly drawn along rails by machines powered by that same heat and steam that drove those burgeoning industries, came supplies of every kind, not least of which was flour for cakes, biscuits, and bread.
Sometimes, although it seemed less often than in the times of Nathan's childhood, the wind-seller still came to Burlish Hill. In rare hot, windless times, the shimmer of something—at first it could have been nothing more than a mirage twirl of dust—would emerge from the valley, and Nathan wondered as he watched where else this man traveled, and what he did on other, less closed-in days. He always bought a few examples of the wind-seller's produce, although in truth he barely needed them, for he made sure that he made efficient use of all the winds that the sky carried to him, and had little need for such old-fashioned methods of enchantment. The world was changing, just as Fiona Smith had once said it would. Magic was being pumped out from the ground beneath northern cities. You could buy oils and new bearings that were infused with it, which was commonly called aether, and which spilled dark hues in daylight, and shone spectrally in the dark. Nathan was happy enough to use the stuff—at least, if it was for the good of his trade. He knew, or surmised, that the hill itself had once been the source of the power that drove the mill's spells, but perhaps that had been wearing thin, and what else could you do but breathe and work through the seasons that time brought to you, and sing, and wait, and smile, and hope for the best?
Few people ever command anything in this world in the way that Nathan Westover then commanded his mill. He even enjoyed the tasks that most millers hated, and loved filling in the reds and greens of profit and loss on the coldest of nights when the sails hung heavy with ice. Numbers had their own climates, their own magics. Even as the inks froze and his fingers burned with the cold, they whispered to him of how far he had come. He was building up savings in a bank account in Louth—which he was then reusing, reinvesting, but still always accumulating, and it sometimes seemed as he stood outside in the bitter air and the night sparkled with motes of frost that the dark shape of the big house twinkled once more with lights.
I'm sure you Westovers have far more money than we Smiths, with that mill of yours.... Even if it hadn't been true then, it was almost certainly true now, and the rumor was that Grandmistress Fiona Smith would soon be back at her home in Stagsby Hall. Nathan waited. After all, London and all those other faraway cites were merely places, just like Stagsby, and he was too accustomed to the capriciousness of the Lincolnshire weather to be anything other than patient. He even bought himself a suit, which he never wore after the tailor's fitting, although he often took it out to admire its cut and shake off its gray coating of dust.
There was an even harder edge to the bargains Nathan drove for the following spring's rye and wheat, an even brisker turn to his mill's sails. Then came another summer, and the larks twirled and sang over the ripening corn, and the skies cleared to a blue so deep and changeless that it scarcely seemed blue at all. Then the weather flattened, and there was no rain, and the heat shrank the lake beside Stagsby Hall, and the corn dried and the dogs panted and even the turning of the mill on Burlish Hill finally slowed until there came an afternoon when everything in the world seemed to have stopped—including Burlish Mill.
Nathan was looking out from the mill's top level when he saw a dark shape emerging from the heat-trembling stillness of the valley below. Certainly not a farmer, for the corn was dying and none of them had anything to bring. Skidding down ropes and ladders, he stood squinting and rubbing the sweat from his eyes as he willed the shape to resolve into a dusty silhouette.
The heat was playing tricks. The body wouldn't stay still, and the movement was too swift. Through the thick, flat air, Nathan caught the brisk rattle of hooves. He waited. A rider on a gleaming, sweating, chestnut horse came up, dismounted, and walked quickly over to him. Female, tall and well-dressed, she took off her riding hat and shook out her red hair.
Smiling at his surprise, Grandmistress Fiona Smith took a step closer, and Nathan saw that, whatever else was different about her, the fiery blue-green gleam in her eyes was unchanged. Then her gaze moved up to the sails above him and her smile widened into a wonder that Nathan had only ever seen on the faces of fellow millers. Still smiling, still looking up, she began to walk around the brown summit of Burlish Hill.
Nathan followed. Fiona Smith was wearing dark riding clothes—boots, a jacket, a long skirt—but they were new and sharply cut and trimmed with shining edges of silk. This was nothing like the same girl who'd once stood before the candles of that many-tiered cake. Not that he hadn't dreamed, not that he hadn't dared to wonder—but looking at this woman, watching the way she moved, he marveled at how she'd changed and grown to become something quite unlike the person he'd imagined, yet was still recognizably Fiona Smith.... All those ridiculous thoughts, all those years, and yet here, real beyond any sense of reality, she was.
"This is where you keep the winds?” Despite the heat of the day, the air around the stone lean-to had a different edge.
"You know about the wind-seller?"
"I've made a small study of your trade.” Fiona shivered. Her eyes flashed. “Why don't you use one now?” Her gaze changed shade as she looked at him. “But that's the old way, isn't it?—and no self-respecting miller likes to admit that they can't manage on nature's winds alone. And such winds cost money. That's what I admire about you, Nathan Westover. You're passionate, but you're practical as well. You should hear people talk. Everyone....” She turned beneath the still sails, spreading her arms, encompassing every horizon. “From here to here. They all know exactly who you are."
"But probably not by name."
"The miller of Burlish Hill!” She laughed. “But that's what you are, isn't it? Strange, for a man of such substance to have his life founded on a mere breath of air."
Nathan laughed as well, and felt something loosening like a freed cog inside him. He'd never thought of it like that before, but she was right. “I'd always hoped,” he said, “that you'd come here."
"And here I am.” She gave what he took to be a curtsey. “And I have a proposal to put to you, Nathan. So why don't you show me inside your mill?"
Nathan would have been speechless, but the mill was the one topic about which he was always capable of talking, and pride soon took over from his shock at Fiona's presence. He could even push aside the thought of how he must appear, with his arms bare and his dungarees still gritty from the dust of a long morning's cleaning, and probably reeking of sweat and linseed oil as well. At least all his hard work meant that his mill was in near-perfect condition. Even if Fiona Smith had been one of the guild inspectors who'd used to come in his father's time, he doubted if she'd have been able to find a single fault. Pristine, perched, as ever, on the edge of turning movement, the mill welcomed them through streams of sunlight into its hot, fragrant floors.
"You and I,” she murmured as she climbed the last ladder and took his arm to help herself over the lip, “I always used to look up at this mill and wonder if I couldn't become a part of what it does.” She was so close to him now that he could feel the quickness of her breath, see how the changed brownness of her skin consisted of the merging of constellations of freckles.
Then they both hunched deliciously close together beside the topmost window, looking down and out at all the world as it was revealed from the combined height of Burlish Hill and Mill. Nathan could feel the warm tickle of Fiona's hair. The world was hazed today, but everything was clear in his head as on the sharpest day as he pointed out the directions of the winds. All Lincolnshire lay before them, and he could feel the soft pressures of her body as she leaned close
r. Despite these distractions, he found that talking to her was easy as chanting the simplest spell. When most people looked out from Burlish Hill, they strained for the name of this or that town, a glimpse of the sea, or the tower of Lincoln Cathedral. They saw buildings, places, lives, distances to be traveled, but what Nathan saw and felt was the pull of the sky, the ever-changing moods of the air. And Fiona Smith understood. And she even understood—in fact, already knew—about the demands that different types of grain placed upon a mill. How the millstone had to be geared and leveled differently according to the grist and the weather, and all the complex processes of sifting and sieving, and then of proving and damping, about which even the farmers who produced the stuff, and the bakers who baked it, barely cared. She could have been born to be the wife of a master miller.
Then, as they leaned close, she talked to him of her years away from Stagsby. The school she'd been sent to by her father had been just as dreary as she'd feared, but she'd traveled afterward, fleeing England and heading south and south, toward warm and dusty lands. Looking out, Nathan could smell the air, feel the spice heat of the lives of those darker-skinned people who, as she put it, slept when they felt like sleeping, and danced when they wanted to dance. He'd never cared much for the idea of travel, for the winds of the world always came to him, but now he understood. The mill was turned fully south, facing across the brown weave of England toward other, more distant, shores. Then, although he hadn't spoken a single word of a spell, the whole great machine shook, and its gears moved, and the sails swooped in a single, vast turn. It was a sign.
Helping Fiona back down the levels, lifting her fully in his arms, he felt her amazing warmth and lightness. She laughed and her breathing quickened and she pressed herself closer still. Leaning the whole soft pressure of her body against him as they swayed together on the main millstone floor, she planted a long, hot kiss on his lips.
The mill was entirely at rest again when they stumbled outside, but Nathan's head was spinning.
"It's almost a shame to be back here in England.” Fiona sighed, fanning her neck as she pushed back her hair. “I hate London, with its traffic and fog and smell. But here, here—being here. You know, I'd almost forgotten. But I feel so at home here in Lincolnshire. And you and I, Nathan, we really could be partners, equals. Let me show you...."
Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she took out something small and round. A coin, a bead, or perhaps merely a pebble. But it had a black aether-glow. Crouching down, she tossed it like a dice onto the brittle brown grass, and the blackness spread. Nathan was reminded of the tumble of the wind-seller's sack of storms, but this was different again, and far more powerful. Grids of fire leapt across the blackness. Dimming even the blaze of the sun, they threw sparks in Fiona's hair. When she looked up at him, that same fire was in her eyes.
"This,” she said, “is a map, a plan. It goes far farther than you can see from even this hill. Here are the great cities, the ports and towns and industries, of all of England. See, Nathan, see how they blaze! Even you, up here, must use fire. But think what fire really means. Fire means power. The same power you feel when your body grows hot as you move those arms to work all those clever winches, but magnified, multiplied, almost beyond measure. Then imagine all that power, that heat, controlled.” The brightness amid the dark mirror that lay spread before them increased. It spilled and moved and pulsed along quivering veins. Nathan felt like God himself looking down on this different world, for he saw every movement and detail as close and intricate as the fine auburn down on Fiona's bared neck as she leaned beside him. There were shimmers of steam, furnace mouths, endless sliding arms of metal. He tasted coal and smoke.
"The world is changing, Nathan, and you and I—we—must change with it. Forget about the old ways, the old songs, the old spells. Already, see here, the arm of the railway is reaching as far as Spalding. Soon it will be here, and here, and here, as well.” Fire dripped from her fingers, spilling and spreading between the embers of the towns. “The engines, the rails, will draw everything closer together. People—their trades, their lives."
Nathan blinked. He saw the tiny machines made larger, and enormously powerful, through clever intricacies of iron. But why was she telling him this? He strained to understand.
"I've already had the land down there around Stagsby Hall surveyed. The road itself can easily be widened, and the lake will provide all the water we could ever need—at least, it will when there's a decent drop of rain. And did you know Nottinghamshire's made of nothing but coal? Transportation shouldn't be an obstacle even before we can get a railhead at Stagsby. Right now, the engineers are drawing up the plans for the enginehouse. But they're just experts, Nathan, people who work at desks with pens. I need someone who really understands the local markets, and probably knows more than anyone else in this whole county about the grinding of grain. I need someone who has the whole business in his blood."
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying we could work together, down there. We're living at the start of a new age. Forget about the guilds and all the old restrictions, we can make ourselves its kings and queens. As soon as the money is released, straight after the marriage—before, if I get my way—I'll give the order to start digging the steam mill's foundations."
For all that Nathan Westover was a man of business, the conversation was taking a surprising turn. “But what about here, what about this mill?"
"I know, I know, it's a wonderful creation. Of course, it will be months before we can get the steam mill fully commissioned. Even after that, I'm not suggesting that we shut this windmill down immediately. Far from it—I'm sure we'll need it for years to take up the slack and deal with the seasonal rush. But this isn't some dream, Nathan. This isn't about sentiment or imagination. My fiance's a senior master of the Savants’ Guild. He has shares in almost all the major rail companies, and they're developing the latest most powerful magics of steam and iron. Of course, he's old, but he still—"
"What do you mean? You're saying you're engaged?"
"Where else do you think I'm getting the money to finance this project?"
Nathan stood up. For all the sun's blaze, the darkness of the map seemed to have spread. Then he started to laugh, taking in great, wracking gulps of air. “And you thought—you thought that I would give this up? My whole life? Come to work down there....” He raised a trembling hand.
"But what did you think, Nathan?” She was standing beside him again now, and far too close. He had to turn away.
"All these years. All these bloody years. I've hoped...."
"Hoped what, Nathan?” There was a pause. The light gathered. He sensed a change in her breath. “I wish, I do wish, that life could be different. But that isn't how it works, Nathan, and even if it did.... Even if it did, can you imagine how much money the sort of project I'm talking about needs? It's more than you could ever dream of, wealthy though I'm sure you think you are. My husband will get my name and what little of my companionship he still needs when I'm in the city, and I'll get his money and the freedom to live here. It's a fair enough exchange. But as for the rest. As for the rest. It doesn't mean.... I like you, Nathan, I truly do, and I felt what we both felt inside the mill. And if we were together, if we were business partners, and you were the manager of my mill, who knows....” Her hand was upon his shoulder, kneading the flesh, moving toward his neck, “Who knows—?"
He spun around in a blurring rage. “And you imagined that you could have me as your employee—working on some infernal machine! You might as well expect me to go to Hell."
"Hell, is it?” Stumbling back, she stooped to snatch up the stone. Its spell swirled around her in a dark vortex of flame in the moment before the map faded. “You think that would be Hell?” She grabbed her mare's reins, mounted, and drew the creature about in a wild and angry lunge. It reared, baring its teeth around the bridle. “There's only one infernal machine, Nathan Westover,” she shouted, “and we're both on it, and so's everyo
ne else in this world!"
With a dig of her heels, Grandmistress Fiona Smith galloped off down Burlish Hill.
* * * *
The heat finally relented in peals of thunder. Huge skies hurried over Lincolnshire, and what grain there was that year, poor stuff, flattened and wettened, was finally borne up Burlish Hill's puddled track for grinding. If the miller up there seemed even brisker and grumpier in his dealings than he had before, it got little mention, for all the talk was of what was happening down at the big hall. When storms finally blew themselves out, there came a last day of surprising warmth; the last echo of summer cast across the stark horizons of autumn. Sheer luck, although the villagers agreed that the wedding breakfast to which they'd all been invited could scarcely have been bettered. From the few glimpses they'd had of the bride with her flaming hair and pearl-beaded dress, everyone agreed that she made the finest imaginable sight as well. Pity the same couldn't be said of the groom, who looked dried up and old enough to make you shudder at the very thought of him and her.... Not that much of that was likely, it was agreed, as the wine and the beer flowed, still less a child. Lights were lit as dusk unfurled. A great machine with a greedy furnace and tooting pipes was set chuffing in the middle of the lawns. It gave out steam and smoke and music, and soon everyone began to dance. Amid all these distractions, few would have bothered to look toward Burlish Hill. Still fewer would have noticed that the sails of the mill still turned.
That winter was a hard one. The land whitened and froze, then rang with the iron wheels of the many carts that headed through the gates of Stagsby Hall to scrawl their marks across the ruined lawns. With the thaw came much work as villagers bent their backs to the digging of what seemed like an endlessly complex trench. Sconces and braziers burned as the work continued long into the nights, and the grandmistress herself was often present, offering the sort of smiles and encouragements for which the men were greedy, although few yet comprehended exactly what the work was for. Still, they agreed as they sat afterward in the snug and drank their way though the extra money, it might help put Stagsby on the map. It would never have occurred to them that Stagsby had proclaimed itself across all Lincolnshire for centuries by windmill-topped Burlish Hill.
FSF Magazine, May 2007 Page 3