The path from the Wilison house's back door to the herb garden sent me directly past the household's two steam accumulators. These sturdy metal chambers stood taller than I did and were wider than they were tall. They were set several metres from the house. This distance was a careful balance between the benefits of shorter piping on one hand, and the requirements of safety and not shading the house on the other hand. The farm machinery ran on a separate, larger system. The household steam boiler was a little further away. The herb garden was on the opposite side of the boiler, but my walk was nearly twice as long due to the fenced-off solar reflectors around the boiler. Cutting through the middle of a solar collector was absolutely not a safe choice during the daylight hours.

I dutifully walked the long way around the holy site. A field of assorted grasses lay to my right, populated with mobile chicken coops. Either Chalice or Chastity had already collected the eggs, and an older brother would soon move the coops. The almost still air and autumn sun combined to make pleasant conditions for an afternoon walk. An easterly breeze should soon bring cooler air, but I expected to be back indoors before the evening change. However, the wind was not nearly so predictable as the inexorable passage of the sun. Few things were. Even Mount Capture, visible in the east, had been a volcanic eruption in the untold past. Mountains looked unchanging, but they were worn away by the unstoppable forces of weather and time. The unseen boundaries which defined the territory of the demons had been set by The Great Maker Himself, yet those could change or dissolve without warning. This was the reason why I slowed my gait as I neared the enclosed herb garden.

I had never liked approaching the edge of the construction envelope. The feeling of dread had only increased as I grew to understand the danger. By necessity the enclosure was inside the safe zone, but that was only a small comfort. Just knowing I was a few steps away from the realm of impurity was enough to make me walk a little slower. It was like how the presence of a cleric made even the most pious stand a little straighter and choose their words with a little more care, even as they tried to act completely normal. I knew full well that walking slower would not change anything. It was not as if I could cross the line accidentally, and it would not matter if I did. My brothers and many others were presently harvesting crops in the fields beyond the line, with negligible additional danger, but being so close to the line reminded me of the unknown peril which hung over everyone.

Nowhere was completely safe. Each person lived only so long as the Maker willed. All anyone could do was hope, and obey. For me, in the present moment, that meant picking parsley. I set down my basket and drew the bolt to the enclosure's door. There was no lock. Locks were a waste of valuable time and metal which added nothing to security. Wire mesh and a bolted door was enough to keep out hungry animals, while nothing would stop raiders, demons or...

A movement on the edge of my vision startled me, shattering my reflections on security. I instinctively raised my crossbow and confirmed that it was loaded as my mind flip-flopped between running back to the house and hiding in the herb garden. Before I could move one way or the other, my eyes caught up with my instincts. I could see the aproaching object well enough through the garden's wire mesh. It was human-shaped, lit by the fading rays of the sun, and walking in a civil manner. There was probably no danger.

To get a better view, I entered the garden and walked through the rows of herbs. I reached the far wall, which was right on the edge of the building envelope, and looked through the mesh at the stranger, keeping a steady aim just a little too low to hit him or her. No one was working in the closest field, and no one should have finished work yet, so I had not expected to see anyone in the area, much less anyone approaching my home from the forest. I was concerned, but much less than I would have been if darkness had already fallen. If it was dark, I would be pointing the bow a few degrees higher. No, if it was dark I would not be outside.

"Peaceful greetings," the stranger called as our separation fell to about ten paces. His accent was quite strange, as was his manner of dress. The cut of his dark brown trousers was oddly tight, and the style of his high-collared, thigh-length, black jacket was unlike any I had seen. He wore a helmet which seemed like a mixture of a riding helmet and a mining helmet, yet eerily distinct from either. Much of the top of his face was obscured by thick, dark eyewear of a ridiculously large design. I could see some skin, which appeared youthful and a similar shade to my mother's: lighter than many in the family but by no means approaching pale. Aside from the clothing, something about the newcomer seemed subtly wrong, and clearly foreign.

"Er, I mirror your greetings," I said politely. I was never comfortable when meeting strangers, but Father regularly drilled all his children in the practice of proper hospitality. To display shyness was a weakness, and the way of weakness went to ruin.

The stranger continued approaching until he reached a reasonable distance for conversation. "I'm Skids Dro."

"I am Charity Wilison," I said, a little concerned by the stranger's loose manner of speech. Now that he was closer, I could see that he wore black gloves which were missing the tips of their fingers. I also noticed that he was slightly shorter than me, and belatedly realised that the jacket was actually a loose, sleeveless vest. Under the vest, he wore a very deep purple shirt, which was barely distinguishable from black. Even through the wrist-length sleeves, I could see that the stranger's muscles rivaled those of any of my older brothers. None of the articles of clothing bore any insignia or patterns, and all were clean and in good condition. What I could see of his face and fingers was undecorated. That was comforting.

Satisfied that I was not in imminent peril, I lowered my arm.

"That's all?" the stranger asked, sounding a little puzzled.

Leaving him confused seemed wrong, so I continued sharing. "I have a middle name too. Mari."

The stranger's puzzlement persisted. "But... Wilison?"

The question stung. "Is there something wrong with my family name?"

The stranger tilted his head to my left, seeming no less confused. "It's... different." As he spoke he stepped forward, gradually enough that I barely realised that it was happening. "What does a Wilison do?"

I could not see the stranger's eyes, but I imagined that I and my life were being examined like a microscope slide. The thought reminded me of the time I stole a look through my brothers' microscope, just to see for myself that it really functioned as promised in books. The guilt added to my discomfort, but I pushed it aside so I could try to navigate the conversation. "Pardon?"

"Your role."

Why didn't he ask that to begin with? "We farm." I gestured to the land around me, using my left, unarmed hand. "This is the Wilison farm." This was without a doubt the most bizarre conversation I had either participated in or heard.

The stranger turned his head to look around. "Farm, sure. Fine, but you're not what I'm looking for. I need someone who works metal."

"What kind of metal worker? What do you need, Mister Dro?" I kept my weapon lowered.

"Mister? No, my name's Skids, Charity."

I took a step back at the uninvited use of my given name. "Would you kindly address me as Miss Wilison, Mister Dro?"

"As you wish, Miss Wilison," Skids said without hesitation. "But you should call me Skids."

That simply could not be. I shook my head. "I cannot address an unrelated man in such a familiar way."

Skids opened his mouth, closed it again, and shrugged. "If you can't, you can't. The real problem is that I've got a bike that needs repair. I've got copper. To pay, I mean."

Finally, something that made sense. Bike repair was familiar territory. My brothers had broken theirs more times than I could remember. "Oh, you need the blacksmith. What happened to your bike, Mister Dro?"

"Front fork's bent in."

"Badly? How did that happen?"

"Well, there was a big rock, hidden in the grass. I ran straight into it! So I need to put a big hammer to it. Possibly a touch of welding too, if you do that here."

"Yes, but the sun is getting really low. If welding is necessary you are better off waiting until the morning. You will be boarding in Forrester's Crossing tonight, of course. The smith will point you to a boarding house."

"And how do I reach the blacksmith, Miss Wilison?" I had a sense that he was holding in a lot more questions in favour of getting what he actually needed.

"What business..." I began to ask, but I changed my mind when I noticed him shivering in the slight breeze. "Are you cold, Mister Dro?"

"Yes, rather, Miss Wilison. The rock I hit might possibly have been right beside the river..." He left the rest of his story up to implication.

Not wanting a visitor to catch a chill, I redoubled my efforts to get rid of the odd fellow. "Alright, listen carefully. Turn right here, then go left in about a minute and continue past the house until you reach the railway tracks. Turn right and follow the tracks until you reach the bridge. Cross the bridge to get onto the paved road, continue to the right, then take the second road to the left, which is directly after the railyard. The smith is a little way down the hill, on the left side of the street." I pointed in the general direction of Forrester's Crossing proper. "Oh, and do not cross the rails other than by bridge." That ought to be common sense, but this fellow did not seem either common or sensible. He did seem to be a quick thinker though, which was one point in his favour.

"Yeah, we don't step on the rails where I'm from either," he said. That was comforting to know.

"And where might that be?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity. "How far have you travelled on your bike, Mister Dro?" My best guess was that he was from one of the coastal cities. Perhaps Nesquay. The Nesquins reputedly liked to consume very strange drinks.

"North and east of here. Thanks, you've been very helpful, Miss Wilison." Skids turned as if to leave me.

That could only mean Makerslight. Alternatively, he could be lying, but he seemed too earnest for that. Despite all his strangeness he was too civilised to be a barbarian raider, and raiders were not known to travel alone. "Did you travel all the way from Makerslight by bicycle, Mister Dro?" I expected not. His clothes were strange, but they did not look cheap. In spite of the weirdness, I deduced that the outfit was well thought out, for a specific purpose. He was neither poor nor foolish. He should be able to afford to travel by train, and there was no reason for one of The Pure to risk travelling alone over such a distance.

Skids nodded, turning back to face me. "Yes, I did."

"Amazing! How many days did that take?" I could not imagine what it would be like to spend a night out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but what little could be carried on a bicycle.

"Heh, I left very early this morning," Skids said, grinning proudly.

I decided his voice did sound similar to the few Makerslight accents I'd heard, though it was still strange. What I could see of his face wasn't quite right either, but I couldn't figure out why. His story didn't make sense either. Makerslight was 200 kilometres away. The only sensible route was via Burdale, which added about 100 kilometres to the trip. "This morning? How... oh, is it one of those new powered bicycles?"

He nodded again. "That's right. Good guessing. The second left after crossing the bridge, was it?"

"Amazing," I repeated. "Yeah, second left," I remembered to add, though my mind was mostly elsewhere. Steam engines were as old as civilisation, but the idea of being so close to one while moving at high speeds and also being responsible for the steering was frightening. And thrilling. But mostly frightening. "I was not aware they had such long range, but Makerslight tends to be surprising."

"Yes, well, I'd better be on my way."

"Right, night will fall soon. Make haste, but do not rush, especially on the bridge." Rushing led to error, and error resulted in ruin. That reminded me that I was on borrowed time. "Oh, I have parsley to pick!"

"I'll leave you to it, then." This time he actually left, and as he turned away I saw that he was carying a heavy black backpack.

Having remembered why I was outside, I secured my weapon, found the scissors where I had dropped them in the dirt, and scrambled to fill the basket with parsley. Due to my panicked haste, I narrowly avoiding cutting my hand, and dropped the scissors a second time. I was a fool to make that mistake barely minutes after I'd warned Skids against rushing. Folly lead to... no, now was the time to focus on work.

When the job was done, I closed and latched the door, and returned to the house as quickly as I could. I even bent the limits of propriety by hiking my skirt up halfway to my knees. This allowed me to jog half the distance without risking tripping. Beyond that point, I might be spotted by someone in or near the house, and that would lead to questions. While I didn't think I'd done anything wrong in speaking with the stranger, the conversation had left me feeling so unsettled that the last thing I wanted to do was explain myself to someone who hadn't been there. Better to leave the odd conversation in the past, return to normality, and live whatever was left of life with my family.