I

The Arcwrights are an order that is no longer there. Nobody agrees on when they went, or where, or whether “went” is the right word. Their sign was a violet arc, and it still turns up in places it has no business being.

II

Some accounts say they made arcs: doorways to somewhere else. The ledger doesn’t confirm it, and the accounts don’t agree on where the doorways led.

III

A guild came out of their tradition and kept one of their habits: holding things. Fire, frost, rot and bloom, bottled in brass and glass, sealed, catalogued and put to work.

IV

One of the guild’s alchemists pushed further than the rest. Her last experiment ran through the vaults like a struck match, and she was at its heart when it did. Her entry stops mid-line.

V

The elements woke. They remember every year in the jar. Now they march on the gate, glowing through the seams of the vessels that held them. The guild calls it a rescue: transmute them back, and seal them in gold.

VI

Nobody asks what became of her.