The Lightning Bolt by Kate Forsyth Page B

ever made, I do. My father taught me, just like I taught my boys. You know, my father would be amazed at the things we make now from our iron. That foundry! Those cannons and cannonballs, and all those guns. Amazed he’d be.’
    Fairnette was tense and anxious, waiting for her father to grow unhappy, but he rambled on, his mind far back in the distant past. ‘Mainly horseshoes in those days, and spades and rakes andploughs. My father had a good business making those. But his brother! It was his brother who wanted him to cut keys for him all the time.’
    Mr Smith took out his pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco. ‘He was a bit of a wild fellow, my uncle,’ he said. ‘Would wheedle keys to the grand houses out of the scullery maids, pretending to woo them, then get my father to cut them for him before he gave them back. Then he’d break into the house and steal all the silver and the jewels. If they guessed it was him, the maids wouldn’t tell, not wanting to get into trouble themselves. He’d drink away all the profits, though, and so would come back to Father the next week, with another set of keys he’d bribed or charmed or filched away, asking Father to copy them for him quick. In the end, my father made him a little tool, to pick all the locks. Worked like a charm, he said.’
    Luka leant forward, intent. ‘A tool? For picking locks?’
    â€˜Aye. Simple enough to make, he said, if you knew what you were doing.’
    â€˜Do you think you could make me one of those tools too?’ Luka asked.
    â€˜Me? I can make anything,’ the old man boasted.
    â€˜It’s true, he can,’ Fairnette said. She smiled at her father. ‘Father, do you think you could make one for Luka? Please?’
    â€˜Sure I could,’ the old man said. ‘Give me five minutes, and I’ll whip one up for you.’
    Luka’s and Emilia’s eyes met in pure joy.

    While Mr Smith busied himself out in the forge, Luka and Emilia and Sebastien helped Fairnette put her kitchen back in some kind of order. Zizi made herself busy sweeping up with a little broom, while Rollo fled to the garden with a rather charred bone.
    â€˜First time that dog has proved himself smarter than my monkey girl,’ Luka grumbled, scrubbing the panelling with soapy water.
    Van sat and watched them. He had pulled his hood all the way forward to hide his scars, and his stump was tucked out of sight. All they could see of him was his mouth, which was set very tightly. Every now and again he gave a convulsive shudder, which he did his best to control.
    Emilia’s heart ached for him. It must have been terrifying, being so close to a raging fire when he had already suffered such dreadful burns. No wonder he had fallen to pieces.
    Luka evidently had no such compassion, for he cast him an impatient look and said sharply, ‘Aren’t you going to help, Van? Or are you going to make Fairnette do all the work, as usual?’
    â€˜What can I do?’ Van cried, his voice shaking. ‘I’m useless! I can’t do anything! I can’t even sweepup the dirt like Zizi can. You ever tried to sweep with one hand? It’s impossible.’
    Rather startled, Luka picked up the broom and tried to sweep using only one hand, but found he had little control and his arm soon began to ache. He looked back at Van with a new stir of sympathy.
    The scarred boy went on, words tumbling over themselves. ‘I can hardly even feed myself, Fairnette has to cut up all my food, as if I were a baby. I can’t get myself dressed or undressed, or tie my own laces, let alone help Father in the forge, like a real man! I’m useless, absolutely useless. I wish I was dead!’
    â€˜Oh, Van, don’t say that,’ Fairnette cried, tears rising in her eyes again.
    â€˜Why don’t you ask your father to make you something you can stick onto the stump?’ Luka asked, with his usual