Sir Wilkinson did not accept lodging within the cooper's house.
He thanked Seren with a bow of restrained courtesy but chose instead to remain beside his cart, as though long years had trained him to trust canvas and wheel more than plaster and beam. Beneath a hooded lantern he labored late, the soft cadence of metal striking metal threading through the yard long after the village had gone still.
Roald did not sleep.
Near midnight, he slipped from his pallet and crept outside. Moonlight silvered the yard. Sir Wilkinson stood with one glove removed, his right hand exposed in the lantern glow.
Roald stopped.
Where flesh ought to have been, iron lay instead.
From wrist to fingertip, the hand was wrought of articulated plates and jointed rods, each finger moving with deliberate precision. Cables of fine braided wire vanished beneath the cuff of his sleeve. When he flexed it, the iron digits obeyed.
Sir Wilkinson noticed the boy's stare.
"Curiosity again," he said evenly. "A fine servant. A poor master."
Roald swallowed. "Did you fashion it?"
"In part." He rotated the wrist. The mechanism turned with a faint, controlled click. "The original was taken at the foundries of Dillaclor. A furnace door failed. Iron does not forgive carelessness."
"And yet you work still," Roald said softly.
"I work because I must."
He replaced the wheel housing of his cart, revealing for a moment the strange inner architecture: interlocked gears, a coiled spring of formidable tension, shafts that could extend outward and lock into paddle-like blades. It was no common merchant's wagon. It was something nearer to a thinking machine.
"You bound steam into tin," Sir Wilkinson said at length. "Poorly sealed."
"It burst," Roald admitted.
"Twice?"
Roald blinked. "Aye."
"Then you learned."
Silence settled between them.
"At dawn," Sir Wilkinson continued, "I ride east for Dillaclor."
The words struck like a bell.
"I would come," Roald said before fear intervened.
Sir Wilkinson regarded him, iron fingers flexing faintly.
"Why?"
"Because the river is larger than this village," Roald answered. "And I would know how to master it."
Sir Wilkinson's gaze sharpened.
"Mastery is a dangerous word."
He reached into the cart and withdrew a small roll of parchment and a stub of charcoal.
"Very well," he said. "Draw."
Roald hesitated.
"Draw me a vessel driven by steam," Sir Wilkinson said, "but one that does not belch black smoke like a sinner's chimney. The rulers of Dillaclor have grown weary of craft that fouls their skies. They demand refinement."
Roald's heart pounded. "I have never drawn such a thing entire."
"Then begin now."
The lantern was lowered between them. Roald knelt upon the packed earth and began to sketch: a narrow hull; twin sealed chambers; a redirected venting pipe that condensed vapor before release; paddle-wheels mounted low to preserve balance; a secondary chamber to reheat escaping steam and reclaim its force.
His hands trembled at first. Then steadied.
Sir Wilkinson watched without interruption.
When Roald finished, the boatwright crouched beside him. The iron fingers traced the lines delicately, smudging charcoal where corrections were needed.
"You would redirect the vapor back through a cooling coil," Sir Wilkinson murmured.
"It would condense," Roald said. "Return to water. Less smoke."
"Less waste," Sir Wilkinson corrected.
He studied the drawing a long while.
At last he rolled the parchment.
"I was sent from Dillaclor by command of its ruler," he said quietly. "The city prepares for expansion—new docks, new foundries. I am to be raised to the post of Royal Craftsman when I return."
Roald scarcely breathed.
"But a craftsman elevated alone becomes stagnant," Sir Wilkinson continued. "I was charged to travel the provinces and find one mind not yet hardened by guild jealousy. One apprentice worthy to inherit what I shall build."
His iron hand closed, the joints whispering.
"If your drawing had been folly, I would depart alone."
"And now?" Roald whispered.
Sir Wilkinson rose.
"Now you may ride east—if your father consents.