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lust.
    The sculptress sighed and rubbed her eyes. She turned from the Black Swan and approached Infidel, extending her hand. “We’ve not been introduced. I’m Sorrow Stern.”
    “My friends call me Infidel,” said Infidel, with a handshake.
    Menagerie raised his left paw.
    “How cute,” said Sorrow, shaking the paw. “You’ve trained your dog well.”
    “I can’t take credit. I can’t even call him my dog. No matter what this old witch says, Menagerie’s a person. Somehow, I’ve got to help him remember this.”
    “Hmm,” said Sorrow, taking the dog’s head between her hands and staring into his dark eyes. “The Black Swan is right. I sense only magic animating this creature, not a human soul.”
    “Menagerie once told me he felt like his soul had been long ago devoured by all the animals that lived inside him. I’d be happy at this point if we can change him back into his human form. I think if he could see his human self in a mirror, it might jog his memory.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t help. I’ve yet to master the art of sculpting living flesh.”
    “Wouldn’t that be easier than sculpting solid iron?” said Infidel.
    “To the contrary,” said Sorrow. “You’re familiar with the teachings of the Church of the Book? The foundational belief that all of reality is formed of four base elements, matter, spirit, truth and lies?”
    “I just spent a few weeks in the company of a Truthspeaker and a Deceiver. I’ve heard the subject debated, yes.”
    “I’m a materialist,” said Sorrow. “By manipulating the proportions of truth and falsehood in certain matter, I’m able to shape it to my will. Iron is simple, being almost completely devoid of spirit. It possesses no internal conception of itself to resist alteration.”
    “I’m sure this is a fascinating subject,” Infidel said, “But sundown is, like, ten minutes away. Let’s talk about our deal.”
    “Of course. As I said, I’m the client who reserved the use of the Freewind, paying for passage both to and from the island with the advance given me by the Black Swan. There’s no need for money to exchange hands. I’ll simply write a letter informing Captain Romer that you’re representing my interests and taking command of the charter. Supply her with whatever destination you wish. I’ll be remaining on the Isle of Fire for some time, if Stagger’s papers are as extensive as you say.”
    “You won’t be disappointed.”
    “I’m sure I won’t be,” said Sorrow. She walked back to the Black Swan and knelt. On the floor beside the ingot of pig iron lay a notebook covered with elaborate sketches of the iron woman that now stood in a semi-finished state before us. She turned to a fresh page and, using a razor freshly minted from the raw iron, cut free a sheet of white parchment. She then ground the razor to dust between her fingers, allowing the black iron to sprinkle on the page. With a fingernail, she twirled the ebony filings around, lining them into looping letters. I admired the crispness of her handwriting, and felt a stirring of familiarity as I watched the care with which she crossed her T’s and dotted her I’s. While the shape of her letters were softer and more rounded than my own handwriting, I recognized the same underlying rigidity that had been drilled into my penmanship by the monks at the orphanage in which I was raised. The whole authority of the Church of the Book rested upon the sacredness of the written word. Learning to write correctly was as important as learning to pray. Sorrow’s handwriting would have delighted any monk. Booze, a lack of piety, and general laziness had rendered my own once neat calligraphy somewhat less pleasing to the eye.
    She finished the letter in moments, rolled it up, and sealed it with a band of iron foil. She handed it to Infidel. “I should finish my work this evening. I’ll meet you at Stagger’s boat in the morning so I can take possession of his papers.”
    “Agreed,”