I guided Emily forward by the elbow, careful to keep my pace slow and steady. The blindfold wrapped around her eyes was already smudged with charcoal fingerprints from her attempts to peek, though she’d been good enough not to lift it. Mostly. Her free hand hovered in front of her like she was afraid of walking into a tree—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

  “You’re enjoying this far too much,” she accused, though there was laughter in her voice.

  “Patience,” I said. “You’ll ruin the surprise if you trip.”

  I’d gone to great lengths to make sure she couldn’t guess where we were. We’d ridden for nearly half a bell through the wooded paths around Pine Ridge, doubling back twice, crossing a shallow stream, and even circling a clearing just to throw off her sense of direction. She’d complained about it the entire way, but I’d noticed the way she leaned forward in the saddle, curiosity winning out over irritation.

  She had no idea.

  The papermill had gone up quietly. I’d told her we were expanding one of the forges, and between that lie and the general noise of construction in Pine Ridge these days, she hadn’t questioned it. Everyone involved knew to keep their mouths shut. Not out of fear, but because they wanted this moment just as much as I did.

  Her employees had been the ones to shape this place. Every improvement came from countless small conversations Emily hadn’t even known she’d inspired. Offhand comments she’d made while teaching, muttered frustrations while fixing torn sheets, hopeful what-ifs spoken aloud while staring at bad batches.

  The process of making paper had grown with each passing day, far beyond what I had first imagined. When the idea first occurred to me, I had hoped it would be simple: grind something down, spread it out, let it dry. Cheap writing material and something to sell.

  And in a way, it really was that simple, if all you wanted was rough, stiff paper that bled ink straight through to the other side.

  But real paper—good paper—was work.

  Getting to where we were now had taken the combined efforts of nearly everyone in North Cove. Smiths to shape fittings and shafts. Carpenters to build frames, presses, and tables. The process was improved by the tanner, the fuller, the weaver, and a handful of others, even Cookie; each added something essential. Together, they’d created paper that came frighteningly close to parchment.

  The first step was soaking the raw material. Hemp cores went into large tubs near the mill, while longer hemp fibers were soaked at the weaver’s shop. The soaking alone could take up to two weeks, softening the fibers enough to work.

  Once softened, the material was ground down by a heavy grinder attached directly to the water wheel shaft. For book paper, or anything meant to be softer, it then went into a second tub filled with a light lime-water solution. Roger the fuller had suggested the lime, claiming it would strengthen the fibers. He was right. After just a few hours, the difference was noticeable. Leave it longer, and the fibers began to weaken instead, perfect for toilet paper. That process gave it a feel surprisingly close to what I remembered as modern paper. Roger also insisted the pulp be bleached in the sun if we wanted it lighter in color.

  From there, the pulp was poured into a long trough that reminded me of a horse feed bin. Two people could work on either side, scooping pulp into trays of various sizes. After letting the fibers settle, they stacked the trays and passed them along. Another worker would pull a tray free onto a sheet of cloth, press it gently with a second layer of fabric, and hand it off. Someone else would then peel the damp sheet away and hang it on a line, like laundry drying in the sun. For cheaper paper, the process stopped there.

  Book paper took more work.

  After partially drying, each sheet was brushed with a thin mixture of water and animal gelatin. That idea had come from the tanner, and it worked beautifully. The gelatin sealed the surface, keeping ink from bleeding through. The treated sheets were stacked again—about twenty-five at a time—and pressed to squeeze out the excess. Then they were rehung to dry once more.

  Once we had the tools to make a table vice to press the paper, this would all go much faster.

  Those drying lines were arranged in a massive spiderweb pattern, all attached to a central shaft linked to the main drive. The whole thing turned slowly, letting air circulate evenly. The structure could hold well over a thousand sheets at once.

  Once dry, the paper was stacked again and fed beneath a trip hammer to even out the thickness and smooth the surface. The change only came about because one of the children grew bored with swinging a mallet all day and wandered into the smithy to ask if the stack could be run under one of the lighter-pressure trip hammers instead. Ingenuity born of laziness. Finally, the stack was trimmed to a uniform size, and the paper was done.

  Emily’s people had tested the entire process more than once while she was away, making sure every step worked smoothly. They estimated it would be at least ten times faster than the old method.

  I made it sound easy—but it wasn’t. This was the work of more than twenty people from entirely different trades, all contributing knowledge outside their own fields. It took months of trial and error to get the ratios right in the chemical baths, to find the correct amount of gelatin, to learn how long was too long. I’ll take some credit for pushing them in the right direction, but they were the ones who made it work.

  In six months, together they had created something that would have taken individuals years to discover.

  That was the power of a collective mind, pointed in the right direction. Pine Grove was changing. People were beginning to seek opinions outside their own trades—and once that door opened, well... things were going to get fun.

  My thoughts were interrupted by an exasperated sigh.

  "Amos, why did you drag me all over the woods just to bring me back to the river?" Emily demanded. "I can hear the trip hammers in the forge from here."

  Ah. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.

  "Just take off your blindfold and be amazed, Em," I said lightly.

  She did.

  Yanking the cloth away, Emily froze, then the room seemed to explode into motion around her. The workers closed in at once, pointing, talking, gesturing wildly. Everyone tried to explain everything at the same time. Voices overlapped, hands waved, gears were spun, and levers pulled.

  I quietly stepped back into a corner and let it happen.

  Emily stood at the center of it all, wide-eyed and completely speechless. They showed her the massive copper tub filled with lime solution, explaining how much more it could hold. When someone engaged the gears, and the mill came alive, her breath caught so sharply I thought she might actually cry.

  She barely blinked as she watched the great web of drying lines begin its slow, deliberate spin, strands shimmering softly as they moved. Mesmerized didn’t even begin to cover it.

  By the time they finished telling her the story of how the first paper mill had been built, the tears started. Then the hugs. Lots of them.

  I watched it all from my quiet corner, unable to stop grinning. It was completely worth it. Not just because Emily was happy.

  We were going to make a butt load of money.

  After a while, Emily disentangled herself from everyone else and made her way back over to me. Without a word, she threw her arms around me and squeezed tight. I hugged her back, careful not to knock the breath out of her.

  "Glad you like it, Lady Emily Paper," I said, patting her back.

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  Emily felt me stiffen and pulled back just enough to look up at my face. My frown must have been obvious. "What’s wrong?"

  "I don’t know," I said slowly. "It’s just… well, you know. This place feels like the beginning of something new. And whenever that happens, it feels like you’re supposed to be in danger somehow."

  She stepped back, concern flickering across her face. "Danger?"

  "You know," I said, gesturing vaguely. "An assassin jumping out. An old boyfriend trying to drag you off. Or me crawling across the floor after being declared dead."

  "Amos," she said flatly, "you cannot just let a nice moment exist, can you?"

  "What? I’m serious. Don’t you feel it?"

  She sighed, the long, resigned kind.

  I am sure it meant she thought my point was valid.

  "And he wasn’t my boyfriend," she added. "We were just friends."

  "Okay, okay, sorry," I said quickly. "It just feels like the other shoe should drop right about now."

  She frowned. "I have no idea what that means."

  "You know what?" I said, rubbing the back of my head. "Neither do I. Well, I know what it means, I just don’t know why it means what it means."

  I hesitated. "Uh… sorry, Em. I didn’t mean to ruin the moment."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  She smiled, one of her real Emily smiles, and shook her head. "That’s all right, Amos. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t know how to ruin a moment."

  "Uh… thanks?"

  We both laughed, the tension breaking as easily as it had formed, and I led her out of the shop. The sounds of the mill followed us, the creak of the wheel, the soft slap of wet paper, the murmur of voices settling back into work.

  Just outside, Emily slowed and then stopped.

  She turned south, eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the patch of land nearby where brush had been cleared and stakes driven into the ground. Fresh earth showed through the grass like a half-finished thought.

  “What’s going on over there?” she asked.

  “That,” I said, following her gaze, “is where we’re going to attempt to make the first printing press.”

  Her head snapped back to me. “That thing that makes copies of books using stamps?”

  “That’s the one.” I smiled.

  The setting sun caught in her eyes, and for a moment they sparkled like polished glass. “I want to invest.”

  I sighed. “I should never have taught you that word.”

  I really had let the cat out of the bag. Keeping her money secure had been easy enough until I’d made the mistake of showing her exactly how much silver she was earning. She’d gone completely still, just staring at the number written on the page as if it might change if she looked away.

  Eventually, she’d asked what a girl like her was even supposed to do with that much money. I’d suggested a shopping spree. That idea had excited her far more than I’d expected. Perhaps that really was a universal instinct for women.

  After that, I’d offered another option.

  I explained that the truly wealthy invested in land, in businesses. I told her about leveraging money, about making silver while you slept. That was the moment something ignited behind her eyes. From then on, she’d been relentless, insisting we needed to find ways for her to do exactly that.

  Her first instinct had been to buy land from me immediately. Honestly, I wasn’t opposed. Unfortunately, she’d climbed as high as she could without royal permission. Granting baronies required the king’s authority, and as Benjamin had explained, only within the last twenty-five years had King Asput allowed the dukes to oversee some distribution. In rare cases, they could even promote counts—though it was nearly unheard of.

  Well. It had been unheard of until me.

  The Duke of Kimton’s actions had been a massive overreach, one he’d only gotten away with because the king had lost so much power within his own court. That, and the inconvenient detail that I’d saved the old duke’s life. The king had looked bad either way, so he’d chosen support over conflict.

  Politics were messy.

  The end result was simple: I couldn’t make Emily a knight or raise her to equal rank. Until she married, she was stuck where she was. Catherine claimed I could have made her a baroness—but maybe that only worked if a count had more influence in the capital. Or if Emily’d been born into the nobility.

  So Emily turned her sights elsewhere.

  Businesses.

  She’d already invested in several small ventures in Bicman, Alfer, and Melnon. Now she wanted the printing press, and I had no doubt she’d argue for more than forty-nine percent.

  Emily was adorable.

  But there was no chance I was letting her get away with more than ten percent.

  I had a county to run, after all.

  I turned and pointed across the canal, toward the far side where scaffolding climbed skyward and stonework rose in a broad, ugly spiral.

  “So,” I said, “what do you think of our new blast furnace?”

  Emily sniffed. “It’s ugly. And it’s going to be dirty.”

  “What?” I gasped, placing a hand over my heart. “You are mistaken, Lady Emily. It’s going to be magnificent. The thing will stand eight meters tall. That’s like… eight hundred of your pinky nails.”

  That earned me a glare sharp enough to cut glass. She hated when I did that and it was the perfect revenge.

  “Would you please stop doing that, Amos?”

  “Doing what?” I asked innocently.

  “You know I don't like it when you compare things to my pinky nail. Can’t you just say centimeters?”

  “Centimeters are boring,” I said. “Your pinky nail is much cuter.” I flashed her my most dashing smile.

  Her cheeks darkened just a shade, and she turned away with a huff.

  Ha. Nailed it.

  Despite her grumbling, the blast furnace really was going to be impressive. The masons I’d shamelessly stolen from Melnon had been experimenting with concrete ever since I arrived. They were far more skilled now than they’d been last year.

  The new design used fewer firebricks, with much of the stonework replaced by poured concrete. Just not having to shape and set every stone by hand would cut construction time nearly in half. If everything held together the way the tests suggested, we’d have the furnace finished in just over a month.

  It was ugly, sure.

  But it was the kind of ugly that changed the world.

  That month would be enough time to bring the new iron mine fully online. It also meant we were going to need more miners—many more.

  We’d already taken everything we reasonably could from Melnon. What we left behind was just enough manpower to keep the copper mine and the limestone quarry running. Lime production stayed there as well; the burnt lime would be shipped north to Pine Ridge. The entire arrangement was deliberate misdirection.

  With Baron Weston Yarbeth on his way, we needed to hide what mattered.

  The smaller blast furnaces in Melnon were converted into strange-looking outdoor baker’s ovens. The trip hammers and bellows were pulled from the new forge, and then it was “accidentally” burned to the ground.

  By the time we were finished, Melnon retained barely half its former miners and quarry workers. Those tied to copper and lime remained, but the coke furnace was now nothing more than a dedicated lime kiln. The coal mine was abandoned outright. The houses we’d built using concrete were plastered over and dressed up to look half-timbered. Even the main street—once poured concrete—was crushed down into fine gravel.

  At least we’d left them the mine carts and rails.

  I’d expected resistance. Grumbling. Maybe even open refusal.

  Instead, the people agreed without hesitation. They understood what we were doing and why. All they asked in return was that I find a place for them in the north.

  My people really were incredible.

  It was during those thoughts that a soldier approached, bowing low. “My lord, something was found while we were draining the swamps. I was told to bring it directly to you.”

  He handed me a bundle wrapped in hemp cloth. I took it carefully and peeled the fabric back.

  Inside was a glossy black stone, fist-sized, its edges sharp enough to slice my finger if I wasn't careful. I turned it slowly in my hand, feeling the weight of it.

  Not stone.

  “Obsidian,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

  Emily leaned in, her nose nearly touching the surface. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s volcanic glass,” I said. “Forms when molten rock cools too fast. I think silica has something to do with it—but I am probably wrong.”

  “Nobody in the cove has ever seen anything like that,” the soldier said.

  “If they had,” I replied, “they were far more well-traveled than most in this county. You usually only see this near volcanoes, I wonder if Vaspar or Carok have any?”

  Emily frowned at the stone. “But where would it come from? You once told a story about a volcano. You called it Mount Doom. But we don’t have anything like that here.”

  I straightened, suddenly very pleased with myself. If I had glasses right now, I would have pushed them up on my nose to prove how smart my next statement was going to be.

  “It’s elementary, my dear Lady Paper,” I said. “And something I’ve suspected for some time. I believe the cove itself was once a volcano—a caldera. It collapsed inward, and later the ocean breached one side, carving out what we see now.”

  I turned the stone again. “It would also explain the sulfur deposits Kylie found.”

  Both Emily and the soldier stared at me.

  I sighed internally.

  Sadly, true genius is rarely appreciated in its own time.

  “All right,” I said after a moment, shaking my head. “Back to the practical problem. Before we start dreaming about resources, we need to deal with safety. This stuff is extremely sharp, correct?”

  The soldier nodded. “The first piece that was found went straight through a farmer’s foot.”

  I winced. “What safety measures are being taken?”

  “By the time I left, Sir Griff was insisting no one enter the new fields without proper shoes,” the soldier said. “Most of the smaller pieces are trapped beneath the peat layer. As the peat is removed, it exposes soil mixed with fragments of this glass. Not everywhere—but when they dug deeper in one spot, they found that larger chunk.”

  I exhaled slowly. “That’s a problem. Obsidian under farmland is a valuable resource, but it’s also a fast way to infect every farmer’s foot in the county.” I paused, thinking it through. “The trade value of an acre of obsidian is probably higher than an acre of crops—at least in the short term.”

  I nodded to the soldier. “Move some of the workers over to the miners and start pulling it up deliberately. Stake out every area where obsidian is found and mark it clearly. Those sections are no longer to be planted.”

  I considered it another moment. “The exchange value of obsidian will outweigh whatever crops we could grow there, and it keeps people from crippling themselves in the fields. Continue clearing the safe areas, but make sure everyone uses gloves and boots. Use rakes or sieves to find and remove the shards. Have the stoneworkers experiment and see what can be made from it."

  “Samual the bowyer is already trying to knap it like stone,” the soldier said.

  That earned a thin smile from me.

  The work of clearing the fields had already been slow enough. Draining the land was only the beginning. As the soil dried, it shifted and settled unevenly, so fields we thought were ready often had to be leveled again. Finding glass buried in the earth added yet another step.

  That meant fewer acres ready for planting.

  I could only hope the soil would be fertile enough to make up for it. If not, we would be selling paper and obsidian for food.

  Now we just needed someone willing and able to buy it.

  Jarum, Cousin of Baron Eval of West Cove

  Jarum stood in the harbor of Vaspar. To call what he saw shocking would be an understatement. Even this early after the stormy season, this place should have been bustling with activity. The merchants were here, but the customers were missing. This used to be the third busiest port in Falmoren, but now it was a shadow of its former self.

  Jarum had left Vaspar only a few months earlier. He had heard the news of the count’s murder while away, but seeing the aftermath with his own eyes was far worse than he had imagined.

  There was genuine fear in the people's faces. It was like the time he went to the Turabe city of Mark. The city was lively until the priests came out of their tower. Then the people scattered like mar before a wolf. The atmosphere was more subdued than a graveyard. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

  The queue to speak with the harbormaster was long, but as a government official, Jarum's sash gave him priority status. He was escorted to a side room and given some wine. It was nothing as good as what he had received last time. The harbormaster in West Cove would be whipped for providing such inferior wine to visiting dignitaries.

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, a portly man with salt and pepper hair came in through the door. And took a seat across from Jarum. He poured himself a glass of wine before he spoke.

  “Well, Sir Jarum, it seems your papers are in order. Sorry for the delay. Things are quite chaotic around here lately,” the heavy-set man said as he sipped his wine. “Tell me what brings you to Vaspar.”

  “I am actually on a diplomatic mission to North Cove. The Baron of Westcove seeks to establish relationships with the new count.” Jarum said.

  The air in the room immediately changed as the pudgy man narrowed his beady eyes.

  “Then we have a problem, Sir. You see, the Count of Vaspar has declared the Count of North Cove a personal enemy and under suspicion of conspiring with his brother Fredrick to kill his father.”

  Jarum was not surprised. Over the winter, the news of the drama concerning these two counts had reached West Cove. What he was not prepared for was the next statement.

  “Unfortunately, I will have to detain you for questioning. We cannot have anyone sympathetic to North Cove spreading discontent.”

  Jarum recovered quickly. Due to his status, he hadn’t been shaken down in a while, but he knew how this game was played.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said, “perhaps I can make a donation to the port and we can begin the investigation promptly. Let us say a half gold crown.”

  “That is quite generous, but unfortunately, we have other dignitaries who have also been waiting their turn. Those were not going to North Cove. The interview is quite extensive, so it must be delayed.”

  “I understand your position, the ports here are very busy. And time is always short. Perhaps a gold crown would allow us to defer this interview to another time.”

  The harbormaster let that statement hang for a moment. Probably trying to see if Jarum would offer more. Jarum was furious. He had never been robbed of so much money at a port.

  “I believe that would be acceptable,” the thief finally said. “Find yourself an inn in the city and stop by at your convenience.”

  “You are most gracious. I will endeavor to return as soon as I can.”

  As Jarum walked out of the office, he shook his head. The writing was on the wall, and he wondered if the new count of North Cove was prepared for what was coming.