I took the name of a dead canary.

My birth coincided with the collapse of a nearby mine—the most catastrophic collapse the continent of Belavere Trench had ever known. All 104 men within those tunnels were buried alive that day, with the exception of one—my father—who miraculously emerged from the dust, suffocated canary in hand.

My father liked to retell that story whenever whiskey persuaded him to, which was often. “Heard the blasted thing fall right off ’is perch, I swear it! She was always bloody squawkin’, you see? Never fuckin’ let up. Named it Caranina after that singer lady, you know the one? Moment she went quiet, I knew somethin’ weren’t right. Next I knew, the whole fuckin’ place was cavin’ underfoot. Barely reached daylight.” Fletcher Harrow would gesture to me then. “Came home to find me girl were born! It were fate, you see? God snuffed that canary so that I could see Nina with me own eyes!”

He’d smile for a moment, remembering a newborn version of me, and then he’d remember those 103 men buried and grow solemn. The solemnness would turn to anger. Anger meant whiskey.

“Fuckin’ mines,” he’d mutter. Then, “Fuckin’ swanks in their fuckin’ fancy robes,” and as though the words were combustible, other craftsmen, whatever their trade, would ignite.

Together, they’d cradle their cups and curse their poor fortune. They would blame the Head of House first, then all the Lords, then all Artisans for their luck in life.

There were only two kinds of people in the world, and I’d known it before I could talk. There were the people like my father, who worked honestly. Craftsmen who were paid far too little for their long days in the mines, the factories, the farms. And then there were Artisans: the fortunate. The high-society swanks with their magic.

“Who says they’ve got more to offer than us, aye?” This, from some other drunkard. “Sittin’ in their fine houses, butlers and all.”

“God’s whores,” someone would say. “If Idia appeared before me, I’d wrap me hands ’round her holy throat.”

But the Holy daughter, Idia, was likely somewhere high above laughing. The Artisans were in Belavere City, miles and miles away. And as for these men, their fortunes would never change. Their fate had been determined for them in childhood when they had been put on a train to that fancy city, prayed to Idia, and swallowed a solution that would determine if magic lived within them, or if they were of better service out in the brink of the continent, sweating and moaning and occasionally being buried alive.

Eventually one would speak too brashly or throw his glass, and the coppers would drag him out and jail him a night or two, but this was the extent of their rebellion. There was no one out here to fight but each other.

And anyway, who could raise a hand against those Artisans, whose blood was imbued with magic? Surely not this sorry lot.

I chuffed from my barstool, imagining these bloated clucks stumbling toward a blue-robed, Belavere-branded Artisan. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Nina,” my father said, just now remembering I was there. “Go on home, now. Tell your ma to heat some supper. I won’t be far behind.”

Ma wouldn’t be at home. Hadn’t been home in several years now. But whiskey was a magic all its own. Nothing to do but nod.