instead of the British industrial revolution, a magical revolution takes place in the late 1700s that results in the United States never becoming a superpower. Britain engages in a policy of isolationism, keeping all magical technology locked within its borders, while maintaining a dominant position on the world stage. As a British magic dealer, an opportunity presents itself in 1834, so you start illegally transporting bottles of elixirs into the United States and turning a huge profit—until something unexpected happens.
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Part One
The American wizarding revolution I
This isn't the story I was supposed to be writing.
The next morning Cobb is up at dawn. He stands in the entrance room of the warehouse, picking at a small cut on his finger, waiting for the carriage bringing the next collection of crates. In the small kitchen sunlight pours through the open window. Mrs Blake bakes pies and pastries to sell in the shop. Cobb lingers by the doorway staring at the shine of dust on the stone countertop where she works. There are shouts and the scraping of wheels on the gravel outside. Mrs Blake shouts something in reply and then apologises for the racket.
The carriage creaks to a halt outside, but the doors are barred by a large chair. Cobb steps round it and goes to the rear doors. He pulls to them and peeks inside, but the trip isn't going to work. The crates have been stacked precariously. Cobb bursts through the doors and his feet crush the crates. They slump to the floorboards. He frowns down at the mess and the pain in his finger flares. The blisters are small but he is sure they will become bigger.
"Good morning Mr Gaunt. I hope you haven't had any more accidents," Mrs Blake says.
She has been putting on her apron and is wiping the flour off her hands with a stained cloth.
"Just a small one. I'll be right with you in a few minutes," Cobb says.
"Well, we've never had one before, so I've never seen it. Anyhow, no need to be alarmed. The King or the Ministers will be round soon to inspect and settle the bill. My man will be back tomorrow to get the rest."
"Then we'll just have to repack them and wait, then," Cobb says.
He looks over his shoulder as he leaves.
"Don't worry about it," Mrs Blake says.
"Don't worry about a damned thing," Cobb shouts out the doors at the deliverymen.
"Yes sir," they say, sharing an unpleasant look.
"And don't move the chair."
"I wouldn't think of it."
They are surly and Cobb can't blame them. By the time he's finished three more crates have been moved from the back to the van and onto the street.
"Can you be having a drink up on the rooftop tonight?" one of the men says. "We've got a bit of a wager going on."
Cobb frowns.
"A wager," Cobb repeats.
"Two bottles of the stuff, if you win."
Cobb swings the crate down from the van by his fingers and looks at it. The bottom is cracked and smashed, but the rest of it looks alright.
"Two bottles," Cobb says.
"Two bottles," the man says.
Cobb shakes his head.
"You should have said so in the first place. You'd have won it right off," Cobb says.
"Right," the man says.
"You can't have the bottles or the crate, both. They're on the virtue of honesty."
The man scratches his head.
The other man, who has been making large gestures, says: "You're the one who said it."
Cobb grabs the crate.
"I'm not playing, if you are," he says.
"We mean a nice little drink in your honour," the other man says.
"A drink?" Cobb says.
"A celebration. We'll have a bit of a sing-song and then bring you the crates."
"I said I'm not playing," Cobb says, but he is smiling.
"Sorry," the man says. "I should have known better."
Cobb shuts the rear doors and goes to the drivers cab.
"You alright, Mr Gaunt?" Mrs Blake says.
"Just an accident," Cobb says.
He holds up his fingers and she smiles.
"You can't win them all," Mrs Blake says.
"No, you can't."
Cobb stands by the front of the van and runs his fingers over the wood, feeling for a splinter. He turns his palm over, so that the back is exposed, and then rubs his thumb over the splinter, trying to break it off. He watches the street while he rubs and the carriage moves away, followed by the van and a score of other wagons.
He rests his hand on the back door and pulls it open. The carriage is loaded and the horses are moving. Cobb sniffles. He feels like crying but he doesn't. Instead he turns and walks back into the warehouse, rubbing his thumb over the twirled splinters of wood and on through the crook of his knuckle.
Mrs Blake calls out that dinner is ready. She doesn't say anything about the crate; not in words anyway. Cobb prepares dinner and tries to explain it to Robert, but he doesn't understand.
"New Greenstuff!" he says.
Cobb frowns. He explains it again and Robert nods, then frowns, then nods again.
