Head Master called the first meeting of the artisans that afternoon in an upper room in Wright Hall. Ishmael studied the faces of the others as they arrived: friendly, serious, round, angular. He considered the set of their eyes, the planes of their foreheads, the curves of their eyebrows. He regarded the tilt of their heads, their manner of moving, their facial expressions, even the way they listened. Up to now, they had just been apprentices in the other Halls. But the conversation he had with Michael at the Cairns about working with the others sprouted in Ishmael’s mind, and now he saw possibility in each of them.
As soon as the last artisan arrived and took his seat, Head Master began. “This is a grand gathering. I am absolutely delighted with your plans. The result is bound to be impressive.” He looked through his thick spectacles at each of them. “However, there is much work to be done. Because the posticum has already opened, work must begin immediately. At the opening ceremony, Aaron and the Hall of Sound will present their anthem.”
Aaron, the former bell ringer, nodded.
“Ethan and the Hall of Manufactory suggested that they lay a stone threshold across the posticum entry to discourage the wall from closing. Though we’ve never done this before, I think it is a wise precautionary measure.”
Ethan gave a quick nod, and Head Master continued.
“Following that, Ishmael from the Hall of Hue will release the necessary light into the posticum, and work will begin in earnest. Once the posticum is officially opened, the work will pass from the Hall of Shape to Manufactory. When Manufactory has finished their work, the schedule must become more flexible. You must do your tasks in a timely manner and keep the work moving along, while being sensitive to the fact that the Hall of Hue is working under imperfect conditions.” Head Master clasped his hands together. “Any questions?”
When no one responded, he continued. “While you won’t necessarily understand the specifics of each other’s work, it would be good to have a general idea of all the plans.”
He turned toward the opposite end of the table. “Dora, let’s start with you. Do you have your initial drafts ready?”
Ishmael watched as Dora’s long, slender fingers unrolled a large scroll. “I have a detailed drawing of the landscape. I’ve based most of my structures on the curved shape of the dot.” The posticum entrance was centered at the bottom. The upper right area was water. The rest of the land was divided into eighteen overlapping circular sections. The shoreline curved from corner to corner, separating land from water.
“Considering the troubles with the Hall of Hue—” Her silvery voice paused as she glanced up at Ishmael. “We thought it might be easier if two-thirds of the area was water, leaving only one-third as land. That way there would be less detail for all concerned.”
Ishmael was touched by her kindness. “Thank you,” he said.
“I would also like to adjust things a bit here,” Dora said, pointing to the top left corner. “It has too much line in it, but we should be ready to turn the plans of the coastline over to Ethan soon.” She looked at the Manufactory artisan.
He nodded. “We’ll start immediately on the scaffolding, then. I expect it’ll take us a week to build the coastline and fill the area with water.”
“Wait,” Ishmael blurted out, looking around at the others. They sat there, as if Ethan hadn’t just said the most extraordinary thing ever. The Motion artisan rolled a pencil on the surface of the table, back and forth and back and forth. Aaron, the Sound artisan, tipped his head, as if listening to the echoes of Ishmael’s voice in the chamber. Keturah touched her nose delicately with one finger. No one looked dismayed by what had been said.
“A week?” Why was no one else dumbfounded by this? “Color Master told me this posticum is supposed to be forty square miles. How can you possibly build scaffolding for forty square miles in a week? And where will you get all that water to fill it?”
Head Master smiled at him. “Ishmael, though this is new to you, it is not to us. The walls of the Commons are riddled with posticums. Each Hall has taken part in countless creative challenges and posticums. What the Shape and Manufactory apprentices propose has been done in similar ways before. A posticum opens, the House of Æther provides materials, and we create.”
Ishmael bit his lip.
Head Master continued, “The other part of the speed is simply practice. The apprentices have had years of experience here—experience that you haven’t had yet.”
Ishmael nodded, one stiff nod. He was certain he would never be able to do his part in such a short amount of time, even if he had years of experience.
“Dora, the rest of your plans are underway, then?”
“Yes, Head Master.”
“Do you foresee any difficulties?”
Dora shook her head.
“Excellent.” He turned back to Ethan. “And Manufactory?”
Ethan glanced over at Dora. “Aside from the challenge of bearing the weight of so much water, we should be fine. My plan is based on flexibility and stability using covered gears and pulleys.”
“Do you have enough supplies?”
“Manufactory Master has one of the apprentices organizing our storage room so we know exactly what we have.”
Head Master’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Good. Once you’ve got the foundation and water set, we’ll schedule a tour for the other artisans. Thaddeus, how about you?”
“The plan for motion is based on chaos and order.”
“And how will you execute that plan?”
“Waves.”
“Excellent.” Head Master looked expectantly at Ishmael, and Ishmael realized it was his turn. He looked down at his parchment and cleared his throat. “Our plan is simple. That’s probably its only redeeming quality.”
“Ah, simplicity. There is beauty in simplicity,” Head Master said gently. “Do you have enough color?”
“I hope so. The salvaged color is mostly green and blue.”
“Are you comfortable using the older techniques to transfer the color?”
“I’ve practiced a few of them. That was one of our first lessons.”
“Undoubtedly, you will become more comfortable as you work.” Head Master moved on to the Hall of Sound.
“Aaron?”
The tall boy in the corner tipped his head in a way that reminded Ishmael of Phoebe.
“Connections,” he said, his voice pleasant and smooth.
“Can you elaborate?” Head Master asked.
“Sound touches everything; it connects to everything. Past to future. Tangible to intangible. Emotion to logic. My plan is to forge as many connections as I can between sound and the other elements of this posticum.”
Ishmael blinked. He understood very little of what Aaron said, but it seemed like something Michael would appreciate.
Head Master turned to the petite Scent artisan. “Keturah?”
“The focus of my work will be the scent of possibility.”
“And Gabriel?”
Gabriel sat across the table from Ishmael. His face was open, and Ishmael tried to figure out what color he would represent in the spectrum if he were a member of the Hall of Hue, but Gabriel was not red, or orange, or any of the other colors. Gabriel was not Hue; he was Gustation. He probably had a taste assigned to him, something far from Ishmael’s ability to comprehend.
“My plan involves opposition and contrast with flavors,” Gabriel said.
Possibility, connections, wave, opposition. Ishmael had no idea how waves would manifest chaos and order or what the scent of possibility smelled like, or how sound could be connected to everything. He had no idea how taste could have opposition and what any of this had to do with a palette of green and blue. He missed the rest of what Gabriel said as his thoughts struggled with these ideas. He didn’t belong here. Their plans had so much sophistication to them. His plan was nothing but the scribbling of a simpleton.
MANUFACTORY
Michael gazed at the mess before him. The storeroom was filled with bolts of fabric spread onto the tables and out halfway across the floor. Rolls of heavy paper stood up in the corner, though one had fallen and leaned on a table. Drawers holding thin sheets of metal lay open, the sheets half in and half out. Blocks of wood and stone were haphazardly stacked, with a lone pencil shoved into a crack. Barrels of filler—sand, gravel, fluff—had disgorged their contents, which lay scattered on every available surface in close range. Buckets of nails and tacks spilled into each other, and dozens of bottles had glue slopped over their sides. There were even a few whirligigs and flying tops from the celebration scattered over the rubble.
Ugh.
Until his arm healed, Manufactory Master said he should clean and sort, so the mess was left to him. Him and his bum arm.
However, Michael was certain no one would notice how quickly or how slowly the storeroom was cleaned and organized. He was certain no one would notice if some of the materials mysteriously wound up elsewhere, like in an innocuous little machine that helped concentrate the diffused light of the Commons. Though Dora hadn’t understood what Michael wanted to do and sent him on his way, he was sure he could figure out how to make a machine on his own to help Ishmael. He just needed some time to tinker.