Bespoke

by Amanda Dykes

  Silence.

  “Ja-ames,” she called, trying to keep her voice light. The warmest place on the island was as cold as ice. Abandoned. And her bicycle… was gone.

  Back outside she ran, down the cobbled street. Past the bakery where the smell of sweet rolls blew like a gale when the door opened as she passed by. She collided straight into strong arms, scrambling to find her footing.

  “Slow down,” James chuckled, brushing the loose strands of hair from her face. His smile vanished, though, and he must have read the panic on her face for his voice grew grave. “What is it?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Missing,” she gasped to catch her breath.

  “I’m here,” he said, serious still.

  Yes, he was. Dark lashes framing blue eyes that flustered her frightfully in the way they beheld her.

  “I mean the—” a quick look around showed her it was safe to speak the secret, but she whispered it still. “The bicycle is missing.”

  “Ah,” James said, mirth pulling his smile into that slow warmth of his. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Follow me.”

  He led her to the stone outbuilding behind the forge, a place that had always housed the forge’s supplies. But as James dashed toward the weathered red door, a boyish look of eagerness on his face, Aria suspected something more than iron and coal was hidden inside.

  She stepped into the room, shrouded in a sacred quiet. An oversized desk was pushed up against the solitary window, wood-topped in warm dark tones, with legs of slowly wandering iron scrolls holding it up. Lanterns hung on either side of the window, tiny lights splashing shadows down along with the morning sun.

  The whole room ushered her in with its warmth from a small stove in the corner. And in the corner opposite stood a sight that had Aria blinking back tears—the gleaming brass bicycle. Assembled and nearly ready to go. She’d seen it before, of course, but almost every bit of it was there now, from spokes to wheels. All but the handlebars.

  Aria cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. With another glance around the room, she gave James a quizzical look. “A bit different here now, isn’t it?”

  James beamed. “When my father asked me to take over the forge, he did this for me. He said it was a place to think, that everyone needed a place to think. Come,” James gestured toward the desk and pulled out the wooden chair for her. “I’ve something to show you.”

  From a small drawer, James pulled a folded paper. He held it in both hands and shifted slightly. Why was he so nervous? It was rather endearing, but he was so serious, Aria stifled a smile.

  “You might not like this,” he said, unfolding it corner by corner. “And… it’s alright if you don’t. But if you do, I mean, that is—if you’d rather—”

  She grew serious too, now, watching the way whatever that paper held pulled at him. She nudged her chair to the left, making room as he bent nearer, so close his jacket pressed against her ever-so-slightly.

  He placed the paper before her and smoothed it out. His eyes narrowed in a study of the diagram before them, the same way he’d taken in her bicycle sketch that first night.

  Quickly, Aria shifted her gaze to the diagram. She could feel every piece of the sketch—from the ruler-straight lines to each of James’s notes written in such slanted, stiff characters—all of it flying from the paper to her mind as she pieced it together.

  “It’s…an attachment,” he blurted. “For the bicycle.” A wavering hope threaded through his words.

  She didn’t look at him. Only stood, paper still in hand, and paced in front of the fire. At one point she stopped, ran a finger beneath his notes, and shook her head, trying to take it in.

  “I know,” James said, hanging his head. “It’s…not… maybe it’s…”

  “Amazing.” Aria whispered the word, and fixed her eyes on the man who’d thought of this.

  “I know it might not even work,” he winced, “but if you’ll look at the diagram you’ll see there’s a way we can fit the disc so that it won’t—wait. Did you say…”

  “Amazing, James. This,” she held the paper up, an excitement breaking through her entire being, “is brilliant. How did you ever think of such a thing? A music box! Or not a box at all really—but a music apparatus? To be played by the wheel as it’s pedaled…” she shook her head again and joy traversed James’s face. What would it mean to Father, to hear notes from her, just one last time?

  Raking his fingers through his hair, James took up her pacing where she’d left off. “So the disc indentations will catch the tines,” he was muttering now. “When the wheel revolves… see?” He was beside her, holding one end of the paper as she held the other. “We’ll take the workings of a disc music box and mount it—and then cast a disc for your song…” he scratched his head. “You wouldn’t know where we might find one… would you?” Mischief twinkled in his words. “Because if you do, I can ensure it’s put back to rights later.”

  Aria laughed at his eagerness. “I know just where to find one.” She shook her head in wonder, hand resting at her throat. Her eyes travelled to the short bars of music at the bottom of the page. That he’d thought of this song, even...

  The idea of it filled her. Just little bumps, catching metal tines. Disruptions on their own, but spaced perfectly to span these four measures-- the injuries to the smooth metal would make a song. A perfect one.

  Now if only James would let her be the one to pour the molten brass to create the disc…perhaps it was silly, but she longed to touch, to pour, to be a part of the transformation.

  “Could we really make a proper disc for the music player out of it? It’s a simple song, I know, but can we do it?”

  “We can,” he said, determination so strong in his voice she could feel it. Aria followed as James led the way back toward the forge. “And we will.”

  _______

  James was so thankful, his steps fairly pounded with it. As he kindled the foundry for the last bits of brass they’d need to pour the music disc, he watched Aria move about the forge, so at home here he couldn’t imagine it without her. She was quiet as she swept, no whistling or humming now. But every now and again she’d stop her sweeping and just look at him, wonder written in her lovely features.

  So she didn’t despise him, then. She very well could have, and had every right to.

  “I’ll be back soon,” James said. “I’m going to finish the handlebars—I left the pipe for them outside overnight to freeze.”

  “To…freeze?” Her laughter spilled forth, glowing warmer than all the embers he’d ever stoked.

  “It doesn’t sound right, does it? But the ice inside braces it, so it won’t be crushed during the bending.”

  Aria seemed to let those words sink in, then gave a little wave.

  “I’ll be back soon,” James said. His heavy boots carried him to the door, where he paused. She was just so quiet. Foreboding concern washed through him. “Are you alright?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Never better,” she said. Gathering the broom close, she drew herself up and gave a playful shooing motion out the door. But one last glance over his shoulder and he caught the tiny step she took toward the foundry, where fire burned deep inside. Just as quickly though, she resumed her sweeping.

  James crunched over frost-glazed ground to the side of the stone building. Steps firm with purpose, he gripped the frozen pipe, taking care as he pulled, pounded, and bent it around his shaping cylinder. First one way, then the other, as the sharp break of ice crackled inside. And as he turned each curve, a thought began to dawn. Tomorrow, Aria would grasp hold of these bars. This chance she’d given him—perhaps it was unintentional, but somehow it seemed to matter—she’d given him the chance to place music right back into her hands.

  The sharp air filled his chest with a new hope. A few more taps, a turn or two more… and the handlebars were done. Finished. Ready for her to--

  He froze, one foot through the door. She stood at the
foundry. Arms at her sides, but so close—he could see the effort it was taking her not to reach for the ladle, dip it in.

  Aria, no!

  His mouth moved to form the words but something stopped him. A scene in his memory flooding back, his ten-year-old-self causing the injury he’d been desperate to prevent with those very words.

  It was as if the cold from the handlebars seeped into his bones, spread through his body and he moved with the slow restraint of the frozen brass wrapping its cold grip around the shaping cylinder. Steady. He set the handlebars down and felt the frost in his bones dissolve into the warmth of the room. Hand sliding around her ungloved one, he meant to stop her. To still those arms and keep his promise.

  But then she turned her head, those dark curls brushing just beneath his chin and such a yearning in her eyes…

  “James…” a score of pleading notes burned between them in that one word. But something changed in that instant—all questions etched in the curves of her face, replaced by something deeper still. She raised those silent fingers to trace his jaw as she spoke. “It’s alright,” she said. A step away from her foundry. A step toward him. “Thank you…for keeping your promise.”

  The promise to take care of her. Yes. That was right …wasn’t it? Keep her away from what burned her, what took the music from her. Keep her safe. But deep down, he knew there was more to this. Who was he protecting, really, by keeping her from the crucible?

  Slowly, she moved toward the door. There she paused, and a sad smile settled over her. Before he could burst from this steel cage around him, she was gone.

  “ONE DAY MORE, FATHER.” Aria tied the last crimson ribbon on their tree, thankful for the way its height covered the conspicuously blank wall behind it. “And Christmas Eve is upon us.”

  “Yes,” a slow laugh crawled through his words. “And I will conduct the infamous Treble-Clef-Upon-Trouble-Cliff.” He shook his head. “I never imagined this would be my finale, Aria.”

  She lowered herself to the floor beside his chair, taking his hand. “What did you imagine?”

  He closed his eyes, and she could almost feel his remembering. “It doesn’t matter,” he said at length, and squeezed her hand back. “This is better.”

  Oh, she hoped it would be. If they could make the disc work with the music box attachment on the back wheel of the bicycle as it turned… but she didn’t know, now, whether they’d be done in time.

  That night, as she tamed and braided her long hair, she tried to ignore the way the unlit candle in her window called to her. Light me, it seemed to say. But she couldn’t. She turned back the bed sheets, shivered and hopped inside. And as she closed her eyes and turned her back against the window, she willed sleep to come…

  But it would not. Silly as it was, she wrapped her blanket around her and answered the call of the candle. Nothing made sense in lighting it. The blacksmith shop windows were dark. James likely wouldn’t see it. He hadn’t lit his in answer to hers last time she’d tried this. She’d seen the way he’d withdrawn into himself this afternoon, and she didn’t want to force him to re-live that day. But perhaps if he did see her candle… she could speak her remorse. Scrape away the dross of that guilt once and for all.

  Aria retrieved a long match from her mantle, bent to light it in the embers of her fireplace, and cupped her free hand in front of the small flame. But when she arrived back at the window, a tiny movement across the green took her breath away. A light, rising and falling with the swing of a man’s stride.

  In the middle of the green he stopped, raising his lantern in silent invitation for her:

  Meet me at the dune.

  Her nerves washed wild with the sight, the hope of it. She shook her match out, pulled on her boots, and took the stairs two at a time while struggling into her overcoat.

  Out in the night, James was gone. The cold didn’t even register as she stole through the village, but for the way her breath puffed quick clouds into the air. Everything was a blur beneath the dark canvas of the sky, perfectly pin-pricked with starlight. Through the rock tunnel she went, and swiftly through the woods, following the path to their dune where she saw the soft glow of a beach fire, nestled into a clearing among the grasses. And beside it, James.

  He was stirring something. Was that—she drew near to be sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her—the crucible?

  Spotting her, James closed the gap between them swiftly, taking her cold hand in his warm one. “You came,” he said.

  “Of course I came.” She swallowed hard, as if that could contain the surge in her chest she felt in his firelight presence. In the way gentle lines framed his smile.

  A quick glance at the crucible, and he led her toward it. “This is for you,” he said, gesturing toward it. “Brass, ready to be made into the disc that will play your song.”

  Her breath hitched. “Really?”

  He took her hand. “Yes. I should never have stood in your way.”

  “No,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I should never have touched your crucible the day of the accident—I knew I wasn’t supposed to. It was my fault, and I need to ask your forgiveness.”

  “I’m the one who needs forgiving, Aria,” his voice was hoarse.

  She pressed her fingers tight as she could around his as the cold of the night pulled around them. “All is well,” she said.

  “All is well,” he repeated. Letting his hand linger on hers, he guided her toward the ladle that lay on a rock in waiting. Together, they raised it above the glow of white brass. The color of things pure and new. With a single word—“ready?”—he stepped slowly away from her.

  And suddenly, there beneath that clear night sky, it was just Aria and the silenced music, fluid and flowing in a dance of re-shaping.

  As she poured, she could hear the metal making its way down the carefully-placed pipe, into its thin place in the mold, steam piping into the night. Midnight waves lapped at the shore below them, lulling the metal into its new form.

  “Well done,” James said, drawing near once more. “But… there’s one more.”

  One more? Had she missed something?

  “Don’t worry,” James must have seen the alarm on her face. “That was perfect. But I have another mold for you to try. I thought—if you’ll let me—we might pour this one together.” He gestured to a boulder nearby, where a much smaller frame sat. She tipped her head to the side, pushed a flyaway curl out of her face as if the gesture could help her see beneath the surface of the sand filling the mold.

  “What is it?”

  James stirred the metal slowly. “It’s… a promise. For someday.”

  “A pebble?” Aria brightened. Just like the old days. Except there was something different on his face. The glee of his youth, but matured. And…nervous.

  “It is round, yes,” he said. “And small. And a promise. But not a pebble.”

  Aria froze. The weight of his words shone in his eyes.

  He lifted the ladle and opened his arm. She slipped in to his light embrace to slide her arm beneath his. Together they dipped into the crucible once more, and poured into the pipe of the smaller sand mold. The smell of sweet metal mixed with salt air tinged the night with warmth.

  He slowly moved so that he was in front of her, the square wood-and-sand mold between them. “Someday,” he said, “I will properly tell you, Aria St. John. How you are a song in a world of chaos.” He folded her hands inside of his. “Someday I will properly ask you about what’s in this box.” He nodded at the mold. “Someday—that is, if you’re of a mind to,” his eyes crinkled at the sides and she heard the joy of a secret in his words. “We’ll brush the sand away together and let this promise live.” That calloused hand, in all its strength, rose to gently cup her face, twined it with the depth of all he was.

  I will be of a mind to! She wanted to shout, sing it to the waves, holler it at the stars, whisper it straight to him. Instead, she stepped closer as he ran his hands up her arms to warm her. “Jam
es Shaw,” she said, holding his name as she did his heart: like a treasure. “Pray tell, when is this ‘Someday’?”

  “That,” he said, “I cannot tell you. But the question shall come. The promise will keep,” he said. “Promises are for keeping, you know.”

  James leaned his forehead against hers, Aria leaned her head against his arm, twining her fingers with his. “Promises are for keeping,” she said, and met his lips in a single, lingering kiss. A haven of memories and dreams to carry them into Christmas Eve.

  CHRISTMAS EVE SUMMONED he islanders together beneath its starry sky. Bundled in capes and blankets, they caroled soft tunes, jaunty tunes, holy tunes through town until all had joined up. The troupe wended their way through the tunnel, up the dune to the crest, where lanterns lined the path with dancing light.

  Giovanni St. John took his sandy stage. The slightest tremor passed over him as he took a stately bow to his audience of villagers, farmers, and fishermen. Searching for someone, it seemed. There was a somber air of quiet hope about him. One that stayed with him through almost the whole performance.

  Almost.

  The time came for him to raise his hand for the famous four-measure rest. The crowd sat in rapt silence, leaning forward with breath held to watch this man, whose power was still so palpable, simply stand. Head hung. No sign of his signature three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn until, like a quiet tide rolling on delicate notes, the sound of a music box came.

  Wordless, the familiar tune played, unfurling wonder in its familiar refrain:

  Silent night,

  Holy night,

  All is calm,

  All is bright…

  Closer and closer it drew, as a woman all in wintry white spun a bicycle down that lantern-lit aisle on the dune. The audience released their breath, row by row until she passed by with her slow song of redemption.

  Even after she stopped, the tune hung in the air. She stepped toward her father to whisper something in his ear. That brow of his furrowed, he stared at the moonlit bicycle that she gestured toward. Slowly, slowly, he reached through the silence. Grasped her hand and pulled her to the front of the orchestra with him. A question on her face, eyes bright, she looked up at him, and he gave a single nod. Together, they conducted through the swells and pulls of the finale.