Master Martin scowled. “I’ll think on it. For the time being though, you stay here in the back. I don’t want one of the customers catching sight of you.”
“Of course, sir.” The pencil rolled off the workbench, and Vaughn reached to catch it. The movement sent a lance through his left shoulder and he couldn’t hold back a cry.
“I think the lad is really hurt, aren’t you?” Littleberry’s voice piped like an ancient bird, as his head cocked with curiosity.
“It’s nothing.” He moved more cautiously, keeping his arm close to his side. The last thing he needed was for Master Martin to decide that the injury meant he couldn’t work.
“Is that the truth?” the brownie asked.
“It’s just bruises. He had strength gloves and I reckon didn’t realize how hard he was grabbing me.”
Master Martin straightened, blinking owlishly. “Strength gloves. Are you sure?” His professional assessment suddenly came to the front and this was why Vaughn put up with his peevishness, because the man knew his stitching.
“Red oxskin. Fool’s knots and chains, on the knuckles.” Vaughn hesitated for a moment, but training would out. “Green flamestitching up the side that had the peaks distinctive of Master O’Connell’s work.”
Master Martin slapped his handkerchief down on the workbench. “That gad-about. He’ll ruin the guild’s reputation, selling to any old person. Let me see.”
“Sir?”
“The bruises.” He beckoned with one hand. “Let me see the bruises.”
“Yes, sir.” Vaughn unbuttoned his doublet, which came off easily enough. He undid the string that held the collar of his shirt closed. Any hope that he might be in better shape today vanished when he tried to pull his shirt off. He closed his eyes, and took a careful breath before trying again.
“Here, lad.” Master Martin’s hands were unexpectedly gentle as he helped Vaughn get the shirt off. His fingers were soft from the oil he worked into them every day. “Ach. Oh... that’s strength gloves for certain.”
Of course it was. Vaughn wasn’t an idiot. If not for this, he’d be only a year away from doing his journeyman project and applying to be a Master at the guild. He nodded, lips pressed together around the words he couldn’t say. “Yes, sir.”
“I want Littleberry to take a look at this...”
“Sir?”
Master Martin waved a hand. “See if it was done with unlicensed goods. I’ve had a suspicion that O’Connell has been doing that. Keep your shirt off a moment.”
Skin standing all over gooseflesh, Vaughn tried not to shiver. Even standing on the workbench, the brownie barely came up to his shoulder. He cocked his head to the side, studying Vaughn as if he were a pair of gloves. “Hm. Sit, would you?”
Vaughn slid onto the tall stool next to the workbench. The brownie’s cool, dry fingers danced over his skin, marking each of the four livid bruises on the front of his shoulder. Wetting his lips, Vaughn stared steadily ahead at the windows.
He was looking past the glass, and only when Master Martin moved did he realize that there was a reflection there. For the first time since the robbery, he saw his own face and it was no wonder Master Martin had jumped. His cheek was swollen and purple, with a nasty cut that was nearly black in the reflection. The bruises stood out clear as anything in livid purple splotches against his winter white shoulder.
“Aye. ’Tis the work of Mossthicket.” Littleberry stepped back, sighing. “The marks are all over it.”
“So they’re unlicensed.” Master Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “You said you recognized the stitching as O’Connell?”
“Yes, sir.” Vaughn swallowed. “His flame stitching has a distinctive point and—”
“Any chance you’re wrong?”
Of course there was a chance he was wrong. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to pull them off and look at the maker’s mark. “It was dark, sir.”
Master Martin grunted. After a moment, he handed Vaughn his shirt. “Let’s get you dressed again, lad.”
“Thank you, sir.” A half-dozen questions pestered his tongue for voicing, but Vaughn knew his place. The master helped him get the shirt back on and even with assistance, Vaughn felt queasy all the way to his knees. He breathed through gritted teeth, waiting for the pain in his shoulder to pass enough that he could pull the doublet on.
“I’ll tell her majesty when I cross the border, but like as not she’ll do nothing.” Littleberry tugged on one of his ears. “Not without the actual gloves.”
Master Martin nodded. “The guild will have the same problems. Still. I’ll report it to the warden and see if anything comes of it. Unlicensed gloves... The devil take O’Connell.”
FOR THE SECOND night running, Vaughn had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. The bruises on his shoulder hurt with every inhalation and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d make it to the top of the stairs. At least tonight he had shoes.
No candlelight under the door tonight. He sighed with relief that his sister had been smart enough to go to bed. Vaughn pushed the door open.
The stench of vomit and urine smacked him in the face.
“No...” He fumbled for the candle that sat by the door. The fire had burned out and the room was as dark as the stairs. “Sarah?”
Heart stepping up its pace with every beat, he knocked the candle to the floor. “Damnit. Sarah!”
Dropping to his knees, Vaughn fumbled in the dark, until he laid hands on the candle. Forcing himself to slow down, he found the tinderbox. Struck it. Lit the candle. Lifting it high, with his good arm, he turned.
Sarah lay in a jumble on her side next to the bed. A puddle of vomit soaked her hair. A litany of fear filled his head as he scrambled across the floor to her. Please don’t be dead. Please. Please. Vaughn set the candlestick on the floor. “Sarah?”
Her cheeks were pale, but—thank God—her pulse beat visibly in her throat. Vaughn slid his hands under her neck and knees to lift her. This was going to hurt and he goddamn didn’t care. He ground his teeth together, braced, and lifted.
Something in his shoulder popped.
White and red and black explosions peppered his vision. Screaming, tumbling forward, he dropped Sarah. His left arm cushioned her head, only because he couldn’t move it out of the way. They both landed in the pool of vomit.
Sarah’s head flopped back and she moaned. She didn’t wake up. Please, God. Please, let her wake up. Vaughn pressed his good hand against his upper arm, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted the copper of blood. Waves of iron hot and steel cold pulsed in sickening waves.
Gasping around the pain, he tried to pull himself out of it. Sarah. Sarah needed him. Think, Vaughn. Think.
He couldn’t lift her onto the bed. A pallet on the floor then.
Wrapping his left arm around his waist, he buried his fingers between the buttons of his jerkin to keep from jostling it too much. With his good hand, he tugged Sarah’s shift down around her calves and twisted it to get a better grip. Sliding back on his knees and haunches, Vaughn dragged Sarah away from the mess by the bed. Where she’d been lying, the floorboards were stained dark with piss. Which meant her shift needed to be changed.
One thing at a time. Vaughn staggered to his feet and fetched the washbasin. Thank God he’d filled the pitcher before he’d left that morning. He got a clean rag and dipped it in the water, wiping the vomit from her hair and cheeks. A deep purple bruise blossomed on her temple. He built the picture in his head. She’d been getting ready for bed and had a fit. When she fell, she hit her head on the edge of the bed. Only sheer luck had caused her to fall on her side or she’d—
He cut that thought off. She was alive. What-might-have-beens didn’t matter. She was alive. Vaughn got her cleaned up as best he could and dragged the blankets off the bed. Every movement sent fresh pain stabbing through his shoulder. He used the blankets to prop Sarah on her side, head lifted off the ground, and then sat back against the wall.
&nb
sp; Exhausted, he stared at the little garret window. Clouds drifted past, barely lighter than the violet black sky. Carefully, he probed his shoulder. His collarbone was... not right.
What the hell was he going to do?
“VAUGHN?” SARAH’S VOICE was so soft that it blended with a dream he was having. “You’re going to be late.”
But it wasn’t a dream, that was his real sister’s voice and that was enough to knock whatever the dream had been right away. Vaughn dragged his lids open. He was slumped against the wall, with his head at an awkward angle. He sat up too fast, and his shoulder awoke. Gasping, Vaughn clutched his arm and waited for the throbbing to back away a little.
No. He couldn’t wait.
Sarah was still resting on her side, but her eyes were open. She smiled. “Good morrow.”
Sharp tears pricked his eyes. Now? When she was awake and safe, now his body decided to cry? Irritated, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his arm. “Good morrow. How are you?”
“Dizzy.” She frowned, plucking at the blanket. “Why am I on the floor?”
“You had another fit.” She would know that, of course. But it saved him from telling her that like as not his collarbone was broken. The strength gloves must have given it a fracture and then it went the rest of the way when he lifted her. “It looks like you hit your head.”
“That explains why it hurts.” She smiled ruefully and lifted a hand to the bruise on her temple.
Outside, the church bells started and Vaughn groaned. He was beyond late. Using the wall as leverage, he pushed himself up to stand. “I’ll ask Mrs. Nelson from downstairs to come sit with you today.”
“She smells of lineament.”
Half a laugh didn’t hurt too badly. “True, but she’s old and her joints ache.” Perhaps he could borrow some of that lineament...
“And I don’t want to hear another story about her dear departed son.”
“Alas, poor Geoffrey. How else shall his adventures in his majesty’s service live on?”
Sarah stuck her tongue out at him, and snuggled into the blankets. “I’ll probably spend the day sleeping anyway. Truly I would rather be left alone.”
“Sarah—I cannot.” Vaughn squeezed his eyes shut as the church bells faded into the morning hubbub of London. He was so beyond late. “I cannot leave you here alone.”
“But I don’t want her! I don’t want to be stared at and cosseted and—I just want to be here and quiet and by myself. I ask little enough.”
“And I just want to come home and not find you drowned in your own vomit!” He squeezed his eyes shut to block out her widened eyes and shock. “I’m sorry. I should not have yelled. Or said such things. Only... please.”
She sighed as if all the fight had gone out of her. “Of course. Only help me up from the floor? I do not mind looking the invalid to you, but at least let me be dressed when she arrives.”
It would make him later still, but Master Martin would have to wait.
VAUGHN COULDN’T HAVE run to work if he’d tried. Every step sent a throb through his collarbone, even with his left arm clutched close to his side. The traffic on the footpaths got steadily finer as he got closer to the shop. He stepped to the side to give space to a pair of gentlemen wearing gloves with egrets stitched on their backs for height. A fine young lady sneered at him as he stepped around her chaperone. Both of them in pure white kidskin with golden chains around each wrist to preserve the young lady’s chastity. There was a lady in pale blue lambskin with gray doves peeping out from her cuffs to keep her in childbearing years longer.
All of these people in their silks and damask wore gloves. His sister needed just one pair. Just one. But of course, you couldn’t have anyone confused about their station. Why, with gloves, a mere journeyman could make himself into a gentleman.
Vaughn resisted the temptation to walk in the front door of the shop and went down the alley. He opened the door to the workroom and—
“Where the devil have you been?”
It was not an honest question, so Vaughn merely lowered his head to Master Martin. “Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry is not good enough! If that sister of yours is going to keep being a problem, I am not certain our relationship can profitably continue.”
Rage broke over Vaughn’s body like a sweat. “My sister, sir, is my own concern.”
“Not if she is preventing you from fulfilling the terms of your contract.”
A small rational voice shouted at him not to argue with his master. The pain in his shoulder drowned that out and only added heat to his anger. Vaughn gestured at his face. “Might I remind you that I was robbed and beaten but two days ago. And yet, I have completed all the work you have set me to. I am late today because I am exhausted and in pain. Am I at fault for being tardy? Assuredly. But you must know that I will still complete the work required of me!”
He had just yelled at his master. Vaughn closed his eyes, trying to calm down. Heat flushed his body, centering in the cut upon his cheek and the mass of pain that was his shoulder. His breath came as if he had been running.
“If you are in that much pain, stay home.”
No, no, no. He could not lose this journeyman position. No one else in the guild would take on a journeyman that another master had dismissed. Vaughn opened his eyes, fists clenched. “Please, sir. Give me another chance. If I might make a pallet here for the next week, until I am somewhat recovered, then you would not have to worry about me being late.”
Sarah would hate it, but he could get Mrs. Nelson to stay with her for a week. It would not take more than that surely.
A piping voice cut into the silence. “Martin... Be gentle with the lad; those bruises will take a while for healing.”
“Both of you?” Master Martin held up his hands. “It is not permanent. Take the week. I’m not a cruel man. If you take the week, I can use your salary to bring in someone to help, and your position will still be waiting. “
And how was Vaughn supposed to pay his rent without a salary? How were they supposed to even eat? He swallowed. “I could take work home, if you like.”
“No. No... if you are going to rest, then rest.” Not cruel, but clueless.
Something in him snapped, the way it had when his collarbone cracked. Spots danced at the edge of his vision and Vaughn took a slow, careful breath to try to stay standing. “Since I’m here, shall I finish working through the day?”
Master Martin hesitated, no doubt considering the work orders awaiting them.
Vaughn pressed the point, thinking of the stack of blank leathers. “You’ll need time to bring in another glover.”
“If you are up to the task.” Master Martin squinted, light reflecting off his spectacles. “It would be appreciated.”
“Of course, sir. I am at your command.”
STANDING ON THE sturdier of their two chairs to reach the window of their garrett, Vaughn peered over the roofs of London, past the smoke rising from a forest of chimneys and through thickets of laundry to the horizon. The sky glowed pink and red with sunset. The sun itself had dipped out of sight.
Wetting his lips, he hopped down from the chair and hissed as the impact jarred his shoulder. Four days of rest and it still hurt when he moved it. Although at least the bruises were fading from purple into a sort of greenish yellow haze.
“Are you all right?” Sarah looked up, repairing his jerkin by the light of a single candle.
Vaughn waved with his good hand and straightened. “Fine. Sun has set.”
She bit her lower lip, tucking the needle into the fabric on the front of the jerkin. “It won’t hurt to wait.”
It would. He was not going to watch her have one more day of seizures. “I need to be able to make changes if the brownie doesn’t approve of my stitchwork. Once I’m back at Master Martin’s I won’t have time.”
“But you... this was to be your masterwork.” She looked at the table where the gloves he’d made from the purloined leather lay in a shimmering
pile.
He had worked honeysuckle vines around her wrists with cascades of thread in white, yellow, and pale green. The flowers almost seemed to move, even lying on the table. It was beautiful work that no one would see, except for Sarah and, with luck, this brownie. “I’ll make something else. Face away from the table now.”
Were there any guild rules he wasn’t breaking? Calling a brownie in the presence of a non-guildmember. Stealing leather. Calling a brownie without his master. Unlicensed gloves.
His palms were sweating a little as he picked up the pitcher of cream he’d purchased with funds he could ill afford. Carefully, he poured it into a tiny blue earthenware bowl, as prescribed by the agreements between Faerie and the mortal world. He set that next to the gloves, along with a honeycomb and a bit of rye bread. Crossing his fingers, he spun widdershins thrice.
“Brownie Mossthicket, Mossthicket, Mossthicket. If ye have the will, I have presents three to trade with thee.”
And then, pulse pounding hard enough that he felt it in the break in his collarbone, Vaughn turned his back on the makeshift worktable, with the gloves and traditional gifts. If the brownie didn’t come, that was fine. He would try again with a different name. Mind, he had no idea what that other name would be, because all the brownies he knew were associated with the guild, save this one.
Please come. If this didn’t work, he’d—he didn’t know what he would try next.
Behind him, crockery shifted on wood. Vaughn rose onto his toes, but didn’t turn yet. Slurping. Thank heavens. The brownie had come and he’d drunk the cream.
A soft belch. “Who calls me? I know you not.”
Wiping the sweat from his palms onto his doublet, Vaughn turned and stopped with his mouth open. The brownie was a girl. He’d only seen male brownies, but this one had a long skirt and unmistakable curves. “Well met. I am hoping to offer a trade.”
She raised an eyebrow, forehead wrinkling into deep fissures. “You know that you have to offer more than bread, honey and cream. Right? I appreciate the formalities, though.”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 12 Page 57