Here Max could forget what he was, what he’d lost. He could forget what he longed for and lose himself in the comfort of solid rock and yielding metal. Rock was secure and didn’t shift. Metal would always be made beautiful by lap and graver. Unlike the beauty of a certain thieving fairy, the beauty of bright-cut silver was his to enjoy and revere. Gold never denied him. Brass never deemed him unworthy. He urged his pony Mavis through the tunnel past gobs coming and going, tool bags slung over their shoulders and Davy lights dangling from their hands. “Whoa, girl.” The wagon rolled to a stop at the back entrance to the Bower of Elyse. He jumped down and stroked Mavis’s golden neck while a crew of goblins swarmed over the rods of cold iron stacked in the wagon’s bed. In pairs, they hefted the rods over their shoulders and hauled them inside. Goblins were immune to iron’s toxicity no matter what ground it came out of.
