She spoke patiently. ‘I tested them earlier. In water. Not a drop got in.’
‘But that’s not water in that bucket!’
‘I know.’ She had both gauntlets on now. She flexed her hands and felt the pull of the supple leather against them. For only a moment, she considered that she was wearing someone else’s skin on her hands. A dragon’s, certainly, but had not he or she thought and spoken just as clearly as a human? How would she feel about someone else wearing her skin as gloves? She stared at her green-gloved hands for a moment and then shook her head. ‘I’m going to try it,’ she said, as if any of them had doubted it.
The Silver in the wooden bucket swirled sluggishly. No one had jostled it. It had not ceased its restless motion since Carson had slowly lowered the bucket into the stuff, poked it with a long stick to make it tip, and then gingerly hauled it up again. He had held it by a length of dry rope to allow every droplet of Silver to drip back into the well before setting it beside the well mouth on the paving stones. They had all gathered around it, to watch the slow undulation of the liquid within.
‘Is it possible it’s actually alive?’ Tats had asked.
No one had tried to answer. And no one had touched the bucket since, but still the stuff moved, coiling within itself, silver, white, grey, a fine thread of black, moving like liquid snakes tangled with one another.
Slowly, being very careful not to splash, Thymara pushed her right hand into the bucket of Silver. She went no more than fingertip deep and then drew her hands out. For a moment, the Silver clung smoothly. Then it began to pull away from the glove in droplets. She held her hand over the bucket and there was silence as they watched the Silver droplets fall.
‘Do you feel anything?’ Tats asked tensely.
‘Just heaviness. Like a wet glove.’
She moved her fingers, flexing them slowly, and the droplets ceased falling and spread evenly over the gauntlet. Thymara caught her breath as they began to spread upward, toward the cuff, but they stopped at the wrist, forming a perfectly straight line there.
‘Umh.’ Carson had squatted down beside her to stare at her hand over the bucket. ‘Wonder how they made it do that? Stop instead of spreading all the way up to your arm.’
‘Enough experiment for one day?’ Tats suggested.
Thymara shook her head slowly. ‘Stand back. I’m going to move over and touch the wood.’
As she slowly straightened and then took the two steps toward the completed well cover, the gathered observers moved in a circle around her. She turned her hand slowly as she went, palm up, then back up, then palm up, keeping the Silver evenly spread.
‘Is that something you remember to do?’ Carson asked her, and she replied tightly, ‘I don’t know. It just feels like the way to do it. To keep it from dripping off.’
She squatted by the well cap and set her laden glove on it. ‘What do I do?’ she wondered aloud. Then, before anyone could reply, she drew her hand along the wood, stroking the rough plank with the grain. ‘I’m pressing on it, trying to make it smooth,’ she said.
All were silent, watching. As she trailed her fingers on the board, the Silver drained from the glove onto the wood until her hand was gloved only in green dragon leather. The Silver was smooth on the wood in the wake of her hand, but only for a moment. Then it began to gather itself up into tiny balls on top of the plank.
‘I knew it couldn’t be that easy,’ Tats muttered.
Thymara scowled at it. She ran her glove over it again, and again the Silver coated the wood obediently. She stopped and watched it gather itself up into tiny balls like droplets of dew. ‘Why does it do that?’
‘No one told it not to,’ Alum observed.
Thymara gave him a sharp look. She ran her fingertips across the Silver and wood again. ‘Be flat, be smooth.’
The Silver scattered before her touch, ran in erratic circles behind it. For a moment, it smoothed itself into an even sheen over the wood, and then bubbled up again. Harrikin crouched down beside her. ‘May I try?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘With the other glove?’
‘You remember something?’ Carson asked him, almost sharply.
‘Maybe it’s like the dragons. Maybe you don’t tell it what to do. Maybe it needs to be persuaded.’
Thymara held out her free hand, and he carefully drew the glove from it and slid it onto his hand. It fitted badly on his larger hand and the fingertips were empty and flopping. Thymara lifted her hand away and his took its place. He glanced at the others self-consciously, then visibly focused himself. ‘Be smooth and lovely. Bring your beauty to the wood. Shine and gleam. Be as strong and smooth as the face of a placid lake, be strong as polished metal.’
