‘God help those in the valley,’ said Gunson. He ran his hands over his face and head that were gritty with dirt – only now realising he’d lost his hat – and took a shuddering breath. ‘God help them.’

There was nothing he could do to halt the avalanche now roaring towards the sleeping town beneath.

Chapter 8

It was nearly midnight and Silas was in a forge, in quiet awe of the vigorous alchemy at work.

He was no longer damp. The heat from the furnace had dried his clothes on to him, stiffly. But he was as exhausted as a stuck cow. Had he been told he was dreaming and would wake up tomorrow in his own bed at the farmhouse he would not be surprised.

Earlier that evening, after he had eaten his fill, Mrs Armitage had led him up to the attic, which was no more than the cramped space where the two sides of the roof met. Under the eaves, the room’s meagre contents included a truckle bed, a tin saucer with a candle melted onto it, a bureau made of some flimsy wood only a step above kindle and a metal bucket on the floorboards at the foot of the bed into which drops of water from a leak in the roof were plinking. ‘It’s cheap enough,’ his landlady had said apologetically. ‘I’ve a lodger who’s going to fix that leak when he can get round to it.’

Silas had been content enough. A room for the night felt like the first solid proof of his escape. A man’s voice called from the landing below. ‘Hilda?’

‘Ah, speak o’ the devil.’

And that was how he met Fred Sharrow, a short, sinewy fellow and foreman of a knife manufactory, on his way to start a night shift. ‘Eleven tonight ’til eight in the mornin’. Come wi’ us for a look,’ he’d said, after Mrs Armitage explained that Silas was new to the area and looking for work in a forge. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot!’

Silas had cast a longing glance at the bed before following Fred out of the house and over the stone bridge that spanned the river. They turned right along a lane lit only by the moon. ‘If we’d gone’t other way,’ said Fred, ‘we’d arrive at Mousehole forge which tha’ll ’av ’eard of.’ Silas had been forced to admit he hadn’t. ‘Anvils,’ said Fred. ‘World famous, exported round’t globe. I served me apprenticeship there.’

‘I’m wantin’ to be right in the town,’ said Silas. ‘A big place. An armoury. Atlas. Summat like that.’

‘Good to see a kid know what he wants. All in good time. Tha’ll need to be apprenticed, get union approved. That can’t just walk into a job like this.’

They had walked some distance, the sound of the river never far away, when Fred stopped at a set of iron gates, a brick building behind the thin bars, every window lit with a yellow glow.