I released it, pushing it back, and it flickered and died. Regret accompanied that release. I knew I couldn't hold it forever, but part of me wanted to, wanted to revel in it and bathe in that ethereal glow.
The lights came on and the fridge juddered into life. The background noise re-established itself. Blackbird's hand rested on mine for a moment.
'Are you well enough?' she asked.
I nodded, shaken by the intensity of it.
'What have you done?' Meg asked the question of the two men, glancing at us as if we might leap out of our seats and bite her.
'It was done a very long time ago, Meg. We just carry the burden, as will they.' The old man indicated the children. 'We're not just Highsmiths, we are the High Smiths of the Seven Courts of the Feyre. We have the land and the house and all that goes with it. In return we work iron for those that can't abide it. I didn't know if they would come in my lifetime, but they're here and we must pay.'
'What happens if we don't pay? What happens?' The question was initially to the men, but then redirected to us.
'Mrs Highsmith, we haven't come here to threaten you or your family, but to seek your help. If no one will help us then there may be worse times ahead for all of us, human and Fey alike.'
Her appeal was interrupted by a mobile phone ringing. Everyone jumped at the sound and then listened to it ring until the boy, James, pulled it from his pocket and answered it.
'Hullo?'
He listened for a moment and then continued.
'Yeah, the power's been down here as well. It must have been some sort of problem with the supply.'
He glanced at his father and then at me and then mouthed a single word to his mother, presumably the name of the caller.
'It's fine now and we're all OK,' he said. 'Yeah, thanks. Did it? Yeah, me too. I'll talk to you later. Bye.'
He looked at his mother. 'That was Jaz. The power was off in the village and for miles around. Her mum wanted to know if it was off up here too.' He looked over at me again. 'I think she was just ringing to see if we were all right.'
'You mustn't speak of this James,' his mother instructed him. 'Tell no one, understand. You too Lisa, not even your best friends, OK?' They both nodded solemnly.
'What do you want from us?' She addressed Blackbird and I directly.
'We need to get something remade.' She unzipped her bag and pulled out the wooden box, placing it on the table and sliding it towards the far end within their reach. 'It's been broken for some time, but we've only just found out.'
The old man stepped forwards and unclipped the catch. He lifted the lid of the box and the wrongness spilled out of it. Blackbird hissed between her teeth.
'Snapped clean through,' the old man commented professionally, holding up the handle end. He showed it to his son who took it from him and examined it. 'It shouldn't break like that. Any idea what happened to it?' he asked us.
I was grinding my teeth together at the jarring dissonance it created in the room. It was Blackbird who answered for us.
'We think it was dropped.' Her expression of distaste echoed my own.
'Still, it shouldn't break like that. What do you think Jeff?'
Jeff held it up to the light. 'I think it was cooled too quickly. Look at the way the discoloration's taken here.' He scratched his nail on the flat of the blade near the break.
Their love of the dark metal was a reflection of our own distaste. It came to me that it was what was wrong with the house. It was nicely fitted-out, but it was steeped in iron. When you looked, there were nails hammered flat into the beams, an iron trivet sat on the worktop next to the stove. Everywhere, little bits of it were incorporated into the fabric of the house.
'Can you fix it?' Blackbird's question was straight to the point. We wanted to spend as little time near the knife as possible.
'No, once broken is broken. You can't weld it or even reforge it. The iron's too pure to work it after it's cooled. We can make you another though. We've got the metal, haven't we, Jeff,' the old man offered.
'That would be excellent. When can you do it?'
'We can do it tomorrow. It'll take about a day to make.'
'You'll have it in the morning,' Meg Highsmith interrupted, 'even if they have to work all night.'
They both looked at her, then at each other. Then the old man nodded.
'Tomorrow then, but late morning,' he agreed. 'Lisa, go light the forge, will you?'
The girl nodded seriously to her grandfather and went around the room the long way around the table to avoid us, slipping out into the yard and the last of the daylight.
The old man dipped into the box again and pulled out the other knife.
'This must be the Dead Knife. I've never seen either, though I was told about them, of course. This one is something different, though.' His voice had a tone of respect in it. He passed it to his son, who gave him back the broken Quick Knife to replace in the box. Once the broken parts were seated in the recess made for them, he closed the lid and Blackbird and I could relax. He smiled at our obvious relief at the closure of the box.
'It was never meant for your kind, that knife. Cold iron, it is, and hard as it could be made, though brittle with it. That's why it broke. The tiniest fault would be enough. This is a different matter, though.'
He took the Dead Knife back from his son.
'This was made by the High Maker of the Six Courts. Fey metal, it's near enough unbreakable.' His voice was filled with respect as he examined the leaf-shaped blade, then put the point on the surface of the table and flexed the end of the blade, the tip bending so it formed an elegant curve. He let it go and it sprang back, ringing lightly with a clean clear note.
'Here, it was made for hands like yours.' He passed it across, holding the back of the blade so I could take the handle.
The wooden handle was smooth with use. It had a metal core that spiralled back around the handle end so that it formed part of the handle. As soon as my hand touched the metal, the blade shivered and went black. It didn't just darken, it went completely black. I turned it and it moved without reflection, giving it an odd hollow aspect.
'It was made to respond to the Feyre, just as the Quick Knife was made for human hands,' Ben added.
I put it on the table and slid it towards Blackbird. As soon as my hand left it, it returned to the dull metal it had been. She hesitated and then tapped her forefinger on it, lightly, to test it. Nothing happened, so she picked it off the table and it flickered to life. The blade changed colour, turning ruddy grey and then glowed a dull red.
'It's not hot,' she said, but was then startled as the blade burst into flame, long licks of flame travelling up the blade away from her hand.
'Wicked!' That was the boy, James. It was pretty impressive.
She turned the blade in her hand, the fire rippling up the blade like a burning brand. 'What happens if you-'
The fire along the blade turned blue and intense, the tip turning slowly white, spreading down the blade. I realised that I could now feel the heat coming off it, though Blackbird was unaware of it. She placed the blade back onto the wooden table and then picked it up quickly as she realised it had scorched the surface of the bleached pine. The dark outline of the blade was there, scorched into the surface of the wood.
'I'm terribly sorry…' she apologised, glancing at Meg. The blade returned to yellow flickering flames again.
She turned it this way and that, looking for somewhere heat-proof to place the burning knife.
'Here,' I said, 'give it to me.'
She hesitated, then passed it to me and for a second both our hands touched the knife, my open palm and her fingers on the handle. The flames went black, like the reverse of fire. They still rippled off the blade, but they were flames of shadow, not light.
I glanced up and met Blackbird's look. She felt it too; a meeting in the metal, a mingling of her magic and mine. Her eyes widened and she snatched her hand back. I had felt her warmth. What had she felt that made her
