“Yes. Yes, of course.” Vaughn wet his lips and walked a little closer to the table. “Shall I show you what I want?”
Mossthicket glanced at the gloves at her feet. “Seizures?” Lifting her head, the brownie looked past him to where Sarah still sat with her back to the table. “Her?”
“This is my sister.”
“She can turn around.” The brownie crouched next to the gloves, grunting. “Your work?”
“Yes.” Vaughn glanced at Sarah, who had spun quietly in her seat to peer over the back of it. Her eyes were wide and he realized that this was likely the first time she had seen a brownie since they were very small. “I can make any changes you require.”
With a tiny hand, the brownie waved him into silence. She picked up the gloves, holding them so close to her eyes that her long nose seemed to be smelling the flowers. As she studied them, the tips of her ears went up and down with something like curiosity.
“Huh.” She set the gloves on the table. “You’re not with the guild, or you wouldn’t be calling me, but you do guild-quality work. Why?”
This was not a line of questioning he expected, but Master Martin had always impressed upon him the importance of complete honesty with brownies. Other members of Faerie, not so much, but brownies prized the honest man. “I’m a journeyman.”
Her brows went up in surprise, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “With?”
“Master Martin.”
“Ah... Well. That explains why you do such good work. Excellent craftsman, that one, even if he is a bastard.” She tugged on one of her ears, cocking her head to the side as she studied him. “Who gave you my name?”
“The brownie Littleberry.”
She barked a laugh, entirely outsized for her frame. Standing, she dusted her hands off. “Shame you’re a liar.”
“Wait! No. It’s true—” Sweat poured down his back and calves and squirmed along his scalp. “I mean. I learned your name from him, but he didn’t offer it. I was just there when you were mentioned and—well. But it really was Littleberry.”
How could someone so short make him feel so small? He might as well be an apprentice again whose stitching was found lacking. Mossthicket crossed her arms under her bosom. “And under what circumstances, pray tell, would that learned fellow utter my name to a member of the oh-so-august Worshipful Society of Glovers?”
“You ensorceled some gloves for O’Connell? Strength gloves?” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I was robbed by a man wearing them. Littleberry recognized your work from... traces? On me?”
Her face went very still. “You were robbed. With strength gloves.”
At his side, Sarah burst out. “Don’t you dare doubt him! He’s been in constant pain since then. Just look at his face!”
“I am,” the brownie said.
“It’s all right, Sarah. I’m sure that our visitor doesn’t doubt that.” How bad was his face now? Had it gone the same greenish yellow as his shoulder? “The point is simply that I knew that you were willing to do unlicensed work and, well, I have such a need.”
“Just the gloves for seizures? You don’t want to add chastity or beauty to the stitching? I could make her talk like a lady and dance like an angel. She could marry any lord in the land...”
“NO!” Sarah rose to her feet, face flushed. “Nothing that makes me not me.”
“Are not the seizures part of you?”
Vaughn stepped between his sister and the brownie. “Leave her be.”
“They are, but they stop me from doing things I love. They make my brother afraid to leave for fear that I’ll take ill while he’s gone. Those other things? What if I were to take the gloves off and my lord hears me speak with my country tones, and my ordinary face?”
The brownie shrugged. “Is no matter to me.” She pointed at Vaughn. “Here’s the bargain I’ll offer you then. Make three sets of gloves for me, to my specifications, and the ones for seizures are yours.”
“What... what gloves?” Three pairs of gloves? Three. Where was he to get the leather for that many sets of gloves? He might be able to get another set out of the kidskin he’d stolen, but it depended on the color.
The brownie winked. “Nothing that a man of your skill can’t make.”
Oh no. He knew better than to make a deal with a brownie without all the details. “The materials though—I mean, if the gloves you ask for require the skin of a virgin, then no. Or if they need diamonds, I would have to beggar myself and at that point might as well hire someone else to make the seizure gloves. I shall need to know the specifications first, before I can agree.”
The brownie jutted out her lower lip. “Yellow kidskin, embroidered with the sun. Blue kidskin, embroidered with the moon, and black kidskin, embroidered with the stars.”
“Only those? Nothing else on them?” He had worked in suns on blue, with swans, to dispell melancholia. Stars aplenty, on deep navy, with the zodiac to aid astrologers. But these pairings… he did not know them.
“That is all.”
“But—what are they for?”
She shrugged. “Will you or no?”
Well, what answer was he expecting when she was asking for unlicensed gloves? Kidskin was possible. Those were common enough colors that they were always in Master Martin’s shop. He could steal them after Littleberry had left with the master. Only... “Are you specific about the exact shades and dying methods of the leather? Likewise, the thread employed, both its composition and precise shade?”
Mossthicket shook her head, tips of her ears curling down. “See, now. This is why I don’t usually work with the guild proper. All these questions...”
All these questions? Of course he needed to know—oh. Oh, of course. The brownie was bargaining. Much as he wanted Sarah to be free of the seizures, it was no good if they were to be trapped in a bad bargain. And, as Master Martin had taught him, you had to be willing to walk away. Vaughn took a deep breath and his heart ached as badly as his shoulder, because he might be wrong. But he had to try to force the brownie’s hand. “Well. I don’t want to trouble you with my questions. Perhaps someone not associated with the guild would be better suited for your project. I am sorry that we could not come to an agreement.”
“And the lady here?”
“We shall continue on as we were.” Though how, he did not know. “The honey and bread are, of course, my gift to you for your time.”
His entire body screamed at him, as he turned his back on the brownie, stretching a hand out to Sarah to bid her do the same. He had been rash enough in stealing the leather. Agreeing to a bargain without the details was fool’s talk and exactly what led to ruin. They would be prudent and they would retrench. Yes, he would have a debt to the master, but that at least was a known quantity.
“Hold on now, sir.” The brownie’s raspy little voice sent a shiver of relief through him. “Hold on now. I haven’t said I wouldn’t give you the details. You want to know the exact specifications at the beginning? Well, that’s all right since you were so good as to show me the gloves you want ensorcelled. It seems fair, it does.”
Vaughn bit his tongue to keep from offending the brownie by offering thanks as he turned back around. “I have paper. Would you be so good as to write your needs down, and if I am able, I shall fulfill them to the letter.”
With a laugh, the brownie laid her finger alongside her nose. “Ah. You’re a sly one. To the letter, indeed.” She nodded. “Give me the paper, then, sir and let us make our bargain.”
IN THE FRONT of the shop, Master Martin spoke in his honeyed tones to a fine gentleman looking for elegance gloves for his daughter. Vaughn pulled his stool closer to the window, trying to catch the last bit of daylight before he was forced to light a candle.
The skin under his left eye itched. He rubbed it, without thinking and nearly cursed aloud as he cracked the scab that was healing. Blood spotted his forefinger, and he slid back from the bench before he could get anything on the gloves he was working on.
“What ails you, young sir?” The piping voice came from his knee.
Vaughn tilted his head down to meet the gaze of Littleberry. The brownie’s eyes were bright with interest.
“Nothing, th”—he bit the thanks off just in time—“that is of any concern.”
The brownie smiled, wrinkles curving into a map of concern. “How are you healing then? Come now, tell me true since Master Martin isn’t here.”
Vaughn grabbed a rag and pressed it to the spot under his eye. Guild brownies valued an honest man, and he wasn’t sure he could even remotely be considered that anymore. “Well enough all things considered. I’ve still some aches and pains, but I’m much improved from a fortnight ago.”
“You look more tired though, begging your pardon.”
That would be from staying up late stitching Mossthicket’s gloves, but that truth was not one he needed to share. Vaughn pulled the cloth away and the bleeding had already stopped. Gingerly, he probed the spot. It was still tender, but his fingers came away dry. “There. See?”
Master Martin pushed through the curtain into the back, rubbing his hands together. “A fine day. That’s the seventh pair of elegance gloves! Oh, how I wish King Henry went looking for wives more often.”
It seemed to Vaughn that he did that more than often enough. He folded the cloth and set it aside as he sat at the bench again. “Excellent news, sir. I can get those cut tonight.”
“No need, lad.” Master Martin tousled his hair.
Vaughn winced. It was a new, annoying habit, but better than being clapped on the shoulder. Master Martin, to his credit, had only done that once after the robbery. “Sooner begun is sooner done, sir.”
Littleberry climbed the ladder built in the leg of the workbench. “Aye. I can stay as well, to give a hand to the young sir.”
Stay? Littleberry always left with Master Martin. Vaughn picked up his needle and concentrated on the leather in front of him. Or pretended to do so. Sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck. Could Littleberry know that he’d stolen leather? He bit his lower lip as he fit the thumb into the glove. “We’ll be done the faster then. Many hands make light work and all.”
“Did neither of you hear me? There’s no need. We’ve a fortnight to make the delivery so all of us are going home while there’s still light.” He tousled Vaughn’s hair again. “Wouldn’t want you to get robbed again, would we?”
“No sir.” Vaughn put his needle down and thanked God for years of training in hiding his true feelings from the master. “I’ll just tidy up and be off then.”
Because the truth was, he’d already stolen everything he needed. He just felt guilty.
THREE PAIRS OF gloves lay on the table, threads glimmering on them like the sun, the moon, and the stars. A fourth pair with honeysuckle twining in delicate branches lay next to them. Vaughn and Sarah faced the fire, as he waited for the sound of Mossthicket’s arrival.
The earthenware scraped on the table and Vaughn’s head dropped forward with relief.
“I was wondering what you were up to, young sir.” Littleberry’s piping voice drove Vaughn to his feet.
Spinning, he whirled to face the table, where the guild brownie stood with his hands upon his hips. The room seemed to continue spinning around him as Vaughn gaped, gasping for air. He was ruined.
“Vaughn?” Sarah’s voice snapped him back to himself.
“Go—go downstairs to Mrs. Nelson’s.” He could not look away from Littleberry.
“What’s the matter?”
There was no use pretending with his sister that nothing was wrong. Vaughn swallowed, pressing his lips together, and dragged his gaze over to hers. “This is my master’s guild brownie.” The small wordless cry from her nearly undid him, but he pressed on. “We have some business to discuss and it will be easier in private. Please, Sarah?”
She nodded, pulling her shawl tighter around her, and hurried to the door. Vaughn waited, flexing his hands into fists and out again until he heard the door shut and her feet upon the stairs. Drawing himself up, he faced the brownie. “She has seizures. I needed gloves to control them.”
“I know.” The brownie nodded, all wrinkles and sadness. “And how many times has Master Martin warned you about your sister interfering with your work?”
“If she had gloves, she wouldn’t!” He was ruined now, so there was no point in holding back. “Put her in an almshouse? Did neither of you think that, maybe, the answer would be to help us? I even asked if I could make them myself! I would have paid for them and put myself into debt but no, a man of my station can’t own such things. So yes—YES. The honest answer is that I am making unlicensed gloves.”
“There are laws for reasons.”
Vaughn laughed. “What reason? What reason beyond vanity and fear justifies this?”
“In the wrong hands, all gloves can be used for crime.” Littleberry gestured at Vaughn’s shoulder. “Look to your own form for proof. Strength gloves, designed to help master builders lift and steady are instead used for robbery.”
“And what crime would one commit with seizure gloves?”
“Where does one draw the line?” Littleberry shook his head. “The Faerie Queen set the laws and I trust her judgement better than that of a single thieving mortal.”
“I had no choice!”
Litteberry shook his head, and tsked. “We always have choices. You made the choice to steal from your master. You made the choice to create a princess.”
“I—A what?”
Littleberry gestured at the gloves on the table. “The sun, the moon, and the stars? Unadulterated. Did Mossthicket not tell you what she needed them for? Oh, my lady Queen will be wroth with her indeed.”
Behind Littleberry, the world twisted around an oval spot, the center of which danced like an oil slick. Whatever Vaughn had been about to say vanished, as Mossthicket congealed in the center of the oil. Littleberry’s brows went up and he turned to look over his shoulder.
Mossthicket slit his throat.
Hand flying to his mouth, Vaughn staggered back in horror. A pair of silver shears, perfectly sized for her tiny hands, dripped blood on the table. Littleberry clapped his hands to his throat, coughing and gagging blood. He staggered to his knees. Mossthicket caught his body, steering him away from the gloves and pushed him over the side of the table.
His tiny body hit the floor with the sound of breaking twigs. He thrashed once and lay still.
“Oh God...”
Mossthicket wiped her shears on a tiny handkerchief. He knew those shears.
“What—what did you do?”
“Solved a problem.” She slid the shears into the waistband of her skirt. “Best put the body in the fire.”
“What are they for? A princess? What does that mean?”
Vaughn stared at her, all wrinkled ease and calm. Her nutbrown face had set in lines of determination and a single drop of blood stained one cuff. Littleberry was dead. “What should a girl like your sister do, if she wants to rise above her station? Hm? What if the king has called for all of the eligible young ladies to go to a ball, and she should but, alas… Her stepmother won’t allow it. There are rules and laws and none of them are made for the likes of her.”
What would he do? “I damn well wouldn’t kill someone for Sarah.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing that I would.” Mossthicket rubbed her forehead with one hand. “Or did you not think about what would happen to her when her brother was clapped in irons and hanged for stealing?”
Hanged. But he wouldn’t kill. She had killed and he—and Sarah and—Vaughn’s stomach turned inside out. He retched on the floor. Chunks of bread and bile spattered into the blood.
“I’ll deal with the blood and the mess.” Mossthicket’s ears twitched toward the door. “Right now, you best burn the body before your sister comes up.”
He had to repeat the words to himself five or six times before he could make himself move. Put the body in the fire
. Vaughn halted forward and knelt. He could have picked Littleberry up with one hand, but it seemed disrespectful somehow. He scooped both hands under the little body and gagged again, but didn’t vomit, thank God. He almost laughed or cried. The things he was grateful for these days.
His shoulder didn’t hurt at all to lift the brownie. “The fire?”
“Go up like kindling, we do.” She had her hands over the blood, brows drawn down in concentration. “Hush now. I’m working.”
The fire. What was he to do? The fire. His brain emptied and seemed to simply watch as his body turned and walked to the hearth. He laid Littleberry’s corpse on the embers.
A flame curled around the little cotte. With a whoosh, green flames swept down the length of Littleberry reaching for the chimney as if he was going to flee on a column of smoke and fire. Vaughn threw his good arm over his eyes, turning away from the harsh light. His shadow stretched across the room to the door.
Sarah opened it, eyes wide.
He dropped his arm, stepping between her and the table so she wouldn’t have to see the blood. Only—it was gone. Mossthicket sat on the edge of the table, kicking her heels beneath her skirt.
“Are you all right?” Sarah rushed to him and took his hand.
“Yes.” He lied, but his head whirled too much for the truth.
“What did Littleberry say?”
He glanced back at the hearth, but all that was there were glowing embers and a smattering of ash.
Mossthicket smiled at Sarah. “I worked things out with him. Naught to worry about there.” She pulled the seizure gloves over her lap like a blanket and traced the honeysuckle vines with the tip of her fingers. A webwork of light shimmered behind her hand, wrapping around the threads of Vaughn’s embroidery. “ Come now, miss. Let’s fit you with your gloves, shall we?”
Littleberry was dead. Sarah did not know that and never needed to know that. Vaughn let go of her hand, pulling a smile from somewhere. “Go on.”
She lingered for a moment, searching his face, and he dragged the smile higher until she pattered over to Mossthicket. Who had murdered Littleberry.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 12 Page 58