The thaw came slowly.

Not the dramatic kind that split ice with sound and spectacle, but the gradual softening that crept into the ground first, then the air, then the habits of men who had spent months bracing against cold. Phillip noticed it not in the weather reports but in the yard outside the foundry, where boots no longer rang sharp against frozen earth and the mud returned in narrow bands along the cart tracks.

Spring was arriving.

It changed the rhythm of the days.

Phillip woke later than usual that morning, not because he slept deeply, but because nothing demanded him before dawn. No priority flags. No urgent summons from Whitehall. The sounder in the next room clicked twice while he lay there, then settled into silence. He listened long enough to be certain it was routine traffic and not something waiting for him, then sat up.

The house felt warmer. Someone had stoked the fire before he woke. Henry, probably.

He dressed and stepped into the kitchen to find exactly that: Henry standing at the stove, sleeves rolled, stirring something that smelled better than the usual utilitarian meals they had grown accustomed to.

"You're cooking," Phillip said.

Henry glanced over his shoulder. "I'm experimenting."

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "That's never reassuring."

Henry smiled. "Sit down. If it's inedible, we'll pretend it was intentional."

Phillip did as told, settling at the table. The window beside him was open an inch, letting in air that smelled of damp earth and early grass rather than frost. Outside, a cart passed slowly, wheels heavy with mud, not ice.

Henry set a bowl in front of him. "Eat. Before you find an excuse not to."

Phillip took a spoonful. It was good. He paused, then took another.

Henry noticed. "That pause tells me everything."

"This is acceptable," Phillip said.

Henry laughed and sat across from him with his own bowl. They ate in relative silence, broken only by the occasional click from the sounder down the hall.

After a moment, Henry spoke. "You have a visitor today."

Phillip looked up. "Official?"

"No," Henry said. "Personal. Or as close as that gets for you now."

Phillip waited.

"Alderman Price from the town west of here," Henry continued. "The one along the western spur. He's invited you to dinner."

Phillip frowned. "Why?"

Henry shrugged. "Because you're responsible for half the reason his town no longer feels isolated. And because his wife insists."

Phillip considered it. "I don't do dinners well."

"You eat," Henry said. "You speak in complete sentences. That's all that's required."

Phillip sighed. "When?"

"Tonight."

Phillip set his spoon down. "You planned this."

Henry smiled without apology. "Yes."

Phillip shook his head, but did not refuse.

The rest of the morning passed without incident. Phillip walked the foundry, spoke briefly with foremen, reviewed a handful of reports. The work had shifted again, less frantic now, more deliberate. Repairs, refinements, expansions that assumed the network existed and would continue to exist.

That assumption still unsettled him at times.

By early afternoon, he left the foundry on foot, choosing the longer route through town rather than the direct road. Shropshire had grown used to him by now. People nodded. Some greeted him. Others pretended not to notice, which he appreciated just as much.

He passed the station and paused, as he often did, to listen. The operator inside glanced up and smiled briefly before returning to her work. The sounder clicked in steady, unhurried patterns.

He continued on, following the road westward. The poles marched beside him, but the wire now dipped less dramatically between them, the tension adjusted for warmer air. Birds perched on the crossbars, indifferent to the current humming beneath their feet.

Phillip stopped once to watch a group of children playing near a ditch. One of them pointed up at the wire and said something Phillip could not hear. Another shrugged, already bored, and they returned to their game.

That, too, felt like progress.

The town Alderman Price governed was not large. A few streets, a modest square, a church, and a cluster of shops that served surrounding farms. The telegraph station sat in a converted storeroom near the council office, its newness still obvious against the older stonework.

Price met Phillip at the edge of the square, hat in hand.

"Lord Wellington," he said, a little stiffly. "Thank you for coming."

"Phillip is fine," Phillip replied. "If you insist on a title, I'll insist on walking back."

Price blinked, then smiled awkwardly. "Phillip, then. My wife will be pleased."

They walked together toward Price's house, a solid brick building with a small garden that was just beginning to show signs of life. As they went, Price spoke with the careful enthusiasm of a man unused to hosting someone whose decisions had national weight.

"The line's been good for us," he said. "Merchants hear about shortages sooner. Farmers know when to bring goods to market. Even the doctor received word from the county hospital faster than ever before last week."

Phillip nodded. "Any issues?"

Price hesitated. "Some worry about dependence. About what happens if it goes quiet."

Phillip stopped walking. Price halted with him, surprised.

"That's a fair worry," Phillip said. "Make sure they keep alternatives. Bells. Runners. Habits. The wire is not a replacement for thinking."

Price nodded slowly. "I'll remember that."

The dinner itself was simple and warm. Price's wife, Margaret, proved to be a sharper conversationalist than her husband, asking Phillip about his work not with awe but with practical curiosity.

"Does it ever stop?" she asked over the meal. "The messages, I mean."

Phillip considered. "It slows. It rarely stops."

"And you?" she asked. "Do you ever stop?"

Phillip smiled faintly. "Less often than I should."

She nodded, as if that confirmed something she already suspected. "You should learn. Systems don't break when they're rested. People do."

He did not argue.

After dinner, they moved to the sitting room, where a small fire burned low. Price poured drinks while Margaret excused herself briefly. When she returned, she carried a folded paper.

"This arrived yesterday," she said, handing it to Phillip. "At the station. It was meant for the council, but I thought you might want to see it."

Phillip unfolded it. The handwriting was careful, deliberate.

It was a message from a neighboring town, warning of a bridge damaged by floodwaters and advising a reroute of traffic before market day. The timestamp showed it had been received hours before the damage became visible on the road.

Phillip handed it back. "They did exactly what they were meant to do."

Price exhaled. "That's what I thought."

They spoke for a while longer, about small things. About weather. About the stubbornness of older council members who distrusted anything they could not see. About the way the wire had become a topic of conversation rather than suspicion.

Phillip left before it grew too late. He declined the offer of a carriage, choosing to walk back along the road while there was still light.

The return journey felt different.

The air was softer. The ground uneven but no longer treacherous. The wire overhead caught the last of the sunset, glowing briefly before fading into shadow.

Halfway back, he heard voices ahead. Raised, tense.

Phillip slowed, then continued cautiously.

Two men stood near a pole, arguing. One held a hammer. The other gestured sharply at the wire.

"You can't just nail a sign to it," the second man said. "It's not a fence post."

"It's wood," the first replied. "And it's on my land."

Phillip stepped closer. "What's the problem?"

Both men turned, surprise flickering across their faces when they recognized him.

"Sir," the man with the hammer said. "I was just putting up a notice. For my livestock."

"On the pole," Phillip said.

"Yes," the man replied defensively. "It's sturdy."

Phillip looked at the pole. At the wire above it. At the insulator seated carefully at the top.

"You drive a nail into that," Phillip said calmly, "and you risk splitting it. If it splits, the line sags. If it sags, the wire breaks. If it breaks, the next station loses communication."

The man hesitated. "I didn't know."

"I know," Phillip said. "That's why I'm telling you."

The other man folded his arms. "We've been trying to explain."

Phillip nodded. "Put your sign on a separate post. We'll provide one if needed."

The man with the hammer looked uncertain. "You would?"

"Yes," Phillip said. "Tomorrow. Ask the foundry."

The man lowered the hammer. "All right."

Phillip waited until the tension eased, then continued on his way.

He reached the house near the foundry just as dusk settled fully. Henry was in the drafting room, papers spread but untouched, staring at the wall.

"You look thoughtful," Phillip said.

Henry glanced up. "You look less tired."

Phillip shrugged. "Dinner helps."

Henry snorted. "I should force it on you more often."

Phillip removed his coat and sat. "The town is doing well."

"Most are," Henry said. "The ones that resist loudest usually come around quietly."

Phillip nodded.

They sat together without speaking for a while, the sounder clicking intermittently, the fire settling into coals.

Eventually, Henry spoke. "Do you remember what you wanted before all this?"

Phillip frowned. "I wanted things to work."

Henry shook his head. "Before that."

Phillip thought back. To sketches. To engines. To systems that existed on paper rather than in lives.

"I wanted to build things that lasted," he said.

Henry gestured toward the window, where the wire was just visible against the dark. "Looks like you did."

Phillip watched it sway gently in the evening breeze. "Now I want to make sure it doesn't outgrow the people it's meant to serve."

Henry smiled. "That might be harder."

Phillip nodded. "Yes."

The sounder clicked again. Phillip glanced at it, then deliberately did not move.

It was routine.

For once, that was enough.

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