“So the shoemaker traced and cut what would be the finest pair of shoes he ever made. As night chased away day, he neatly arranged his tools and leather, ready for him to mold and cobble by the light of a new day. That night, he went to bed with a clear conscience, a full heart, and a prayer for the future.
“As he slept, three pairs of mischievous hands set to work. When the shoemaker awoke the next morning, he found a beautifully cobbled pair of shoes without a weak stitch or seam out of place. Delighted, he ran his hands along the soft, polished leather, tested the inside with his fingers, and very closely examined the heel. There was no doubt as to the exceptional quality of the workmanship he held in his hands.
“Knowing that the shoes were not fit for just anyone to wear, he bravely took them to the wealthiest people in town, offering his wares with a knock at their doors. The first door was shut in his face, the second and third ones, too, but on the fourth try, the wealthy townsman chose to humor the poor man and let him in. He even went so far as to try on the shoes, and as soon as he did, he had to own them. Never in his life had he stepped into a more comfortable, more expertly tailored pair of shoes. He paid the shoemaker, even more than asked, for he recognized their true value, and then he paid again with a basket of food.
“The shoemaker happily took the basket home, and even shared the food with some poor people he passed along the way. Now, eager to return to his favored craft, the shoemaker set out to buy more leather, this time for two pairs of shoes. Because a man who has one wants two, a man who has two wants four, and so on, and so on, forever. Once home, he traced and cut the leather, then left it on his worktable with the intention of finishing the shoes by the light of a new day.
“No sooner had he gone to bed, then three sets of mischievous hands set to work. When the shoemaker awoke the next morning, he found two pairs of finely crafted shoes on his worktable, shoes as perfect as the first pair had been. Remembering the events of the day before, he set out once more for the wealthy quarter, readying to knock on a door, when he was interrupted by a servant.
“‘Are you the shoemaker who knocked on my master’s door yesterday?’ he wanted to know.
“‘I am,’ the shoemaker replied.
“‘My master wishes to speak with you,’ the servant said. ‘His good friend bought your shoes and hasn’t stopped praising them since.’
“‘I have two more pairs with me,’ the shoemaker offered.
“‘Then come along,’ the servant gestured toward the house.
“The shoemaker easily sold both pairs of shoes, and he took the money he’d earned to buy food and enough leather for four more pairs. The remaining coins he gave to a little girl in a dirty dress that was too worn to risk washing again.
“The shoemaker returned home and, though the light had not truly gone by the time he’d finished cutting the leather, he left it at his table to see if the finished shoes would be there a third morning in a row. He went to bed and three sets of mischievous hands set to work. The next morning, four perfect pairs of shoes, polished to a shine, awaited him on his worktable.
“He set off again toward the wealthy part of town, where he quickly sold the shoes. Then he bought some food and enough leather for eight pairs. Because a man who has one wants two, a man who has two wants four, and so on, and so on, forever. Returning home, he shared some coins with two haggard travelers, dusty and unkempt from the harsh demands of life on the road, to buy a hot meal for the first time in weeks.
“The shoemaker came home and cut the leather as before, but this time he told his wife, ‘I want to see who helps us. Tonight, I shall hide behind the door and watch for whomever comes.’
“The shoemaker stayed up, but only when the night was at its darkest did the owners of the three pairs of mischievous hands appear at the shoemaker’s table.
“The shoemaker was astonished to see three little elves, in various stages of dress, pick up the leather he’d left out and begin to create the beautiful shoes he’d been finding on his table each morning. Mesmerized, he watched them work, and they were none the wiser to his presence.
“The next morning, he told his wife of what he’d seen to which she shivered and said, ‘I don’t like to think of half-dressed elves dancing about my house.’
“‘But their work is so fine,’ the shoemaker countered. ‘Much better than mine.’
“His wife shook her head. ‘At least let me make them proper clothes.’
“‘No,’ her husband said firmly. ‘For once you do they will disappear, because if magic is paid for, the debtor is unbound.’
“‘What then?’ his wife demanded to know.
“‘I will keep leaving leather out, and they will keep making shoes for me. I shall become an exclusive business that sells only to the rich, and every day I will find someone to do a charity for, because that is what brought the elves to me.’
“To this day, that is how it goes.”
It was only after the tale finished that I realized how quiet the area around me had become. There was still plenty of noise at the lower tables and the ones across the banquet hall from me, but not a sound came from the any of the chairs within earshot. Many of those sitting close to us were listening and even much of the king’s table had fallen silent.
That was the first time I felt, if only for a few flickering minutes, the magic my father must feel when he used his way with words to spin a story. For the first time in my life, I understood him and his pervasive need to enchant someone, anyone, with a tale. The feeling was intoxicating, like holding the rope tied around a man who was dangling from a cliff and knowing only I had the power to save his life. My father was no magical being, but he’d found a power of his own, one he gave shape to in the tales he told.
Not as if that was enough to excuse him.
“Quite a story,” Sir Grigory broke the silence.
I dared glance at the king and caught him watching me intently, a cheeky grin he didn’t bother to hide lingering at the tip of his lips. I wished then that I had a shawl to wrap around me, as I was sure the king was seeing more of the truth of me than I cared for him to.
The quick burst of the opening doors drew our attention to the front of the room, where two new guests entered the hall. From the push and scramble that accompanied them, I could tell that they were important, and not expected.
I willed myself to sit unperturbed and told myself I would be allowed to see them when they came into view before the king’s table. Sure enough, a man with a neat beard, fierce purple eyes, and an enveloping thin purple glow approached the king, who immediately stood and offered the chair beside him. Behind the mage was his apprentice, a tall man, with a well-kept brown beard and—Merlin? What was he doing here? And with his master, no doubt.
“His Majesty will forgive the interruption,” the mage said with a bow, “as you can well imagine my desire to meet your magical guest.”
“Of course,” the king said readily, gesturing toward me.
The mage strode up to me and bowed low over my hand. As he stood, he whispered quickly, “We’ll talk later,” before straightening with a wide smile.
Still smiling, the mage strode back to the head table, took the proffered chair to the king’s right and proceeded to chat amiably, looking to all the world as if he’d come to visit on a whim.
Merlin stepped into view, and with a subtle flick, beckoned an empty chair over to him. He sat down to my left, but not before Lady Mulberry caught sight of him.
“You know each other?” she asked, perhaps noticing the lack of formal introductions.
“Yes, milady,” he replied respectfully.
She studied him a minute, not just measuring his looks, but taking in the entirety of his being, of the being he’d come in with. “How?” she asked simply.
“We’re from the same village,” Merlin answered.
That gave the lady pause. “Magicals the lot of you. Do you know of this special shoemaker?” she inquired.
Mer
lin glanced at me with raised eyebrows.
“The one with the unique employees,” I supplied. He’d heard Father’s tales. I didn’t need to say anything more.
A small smile danced across his lips and he raised his brows even higher. I gave a small, single shoulder shrug, which I hoped the king’s aunt couldn’t see.
“Indeed, I do,” Merlin replied. “Do you wish for a pair from him? They’re really quite wonderful.”
Lady Mulberry waved her hand dismissively. “Mine are quite adequate, thank you.”
Merlin returned her comment with a polite, but closed smile and she turned her attention elsewhere. I had to admit, I was beginning to glimpse the benefits of actually being a magical. The Pomeranian glowered at the both of us before turning his head after his master.
“What ails him?” Merlin gestured with his chin.
“My presence, it would seem.” I rolled my eyes. “Please turn him into a fish or something.”
Merlin tilted his head. “A fish?”
“So I can bait him,” I immediately replied.
“Or hook him,” Merlin suggested.
“Or bring him down to scale,” I countered.
“Take him out of water?” Merlin asked.
“Or fin-ish him,” I concluded. “Feed him to a cat.”
Merlin chuckled. “I don’t suppose the king would appreciate the slight to his aunt.”
I raised my eyes upward to indicate I didn’t care, though we both knew well enough, my present circumstances firm proof of it, that I wouldn’t intentionally do anything to anger the king.
“I have to apologize at my sudden departure today—” Merlin began, but I cut him off.
“I know, I know.”
“You look lovely,” he added.
“Why are you here?” I asked, more interested in this most recent development of my story.
“I told my master about the little man and he wants to speak with you,” he said simply. “This incident might be bigger than either of us realize.”
I glanced back at the king’s table and sought out the mage for a clue as to what Merlin meant. Outwardly, he looked to be enjoying himself, but I’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d bent over my hand. Something was worrying the venerable mage. Something that had to do with me.
I tried to push my own worry aside, tried to focus on enjoying the rest of the banquet, but my appetite was spoiled. If Merlin hadn’t been there, I don’t know that I could have stayed until the end. As soon as the last of the desserts were cleared away, I was ready to make a mad dash for my room, but was stayed when the king made no move to leave.
Instead, we all watched as he signaled his steward over and whispered a few words in his ear. The steward nodded in understanding. Without preamble, without explanation, he expertly yanked the gold tablecloth from the king’s table, so swiftly that barely a spoon shifted. The steward held up the stained tablecloth briefly for anyone watching this odd behavior, then, without a word, strode over to the fire and tossed the whole thing in.
Lady Mulberry’s dramatic gasp was not the only audible one in the room. As for me, however, my blood boiled and I could feel my face flushing. Did the king have any idea what it had taken to get that thread made? Even if I hadn’t spun it by my own hand, it had cost me my only connections to my mother, let alone the sleepless nights and hours of confused agony.
The king watched the proceedings with his usual neutral expression, and just once I would have liked to see him be anything but nothing. Even anger would have been a welcome sight at that point.
The steward didn’t seem too perturbed either. He stood stoically as the tablecloth was illuminated by the enveloping flames. He slid his pocket watch out from his vest and waited, every second feeling like a day slipping away from me.
Finally, he returned the watch and reached for the fireplace poker. He jabbed the metal into the fire, pushing it beneath the tablecloth and lifting it out of the fiery hearth. He held it like that for a few more ticks of eternity, a steward brandishing a gold-draped lance.
Deciding it was cool enough, the steward pinched the tablecloth with one hand and returned the poker to its place with the other. With a resounding snap, he unfurled the threaded gold and raised it up for anyone who cared to see. That the gold threads were intact, the stains removed, the golden sheen pristine.
Overcome, the spectators applauded, and I almost expected the steward to bow, hand the tablecloth off to an assistant, and proceed with his next sleight of hand. Instead, he turned and exited the room with the woven threads of gold, returning a few minutes later to resume his position behind his king.
I caught myself staring at the fire as guests jabbered in awe and appreciation. Feeling a set of eyes upon me, I raised my own to search out their owner. The king. Watching me.
When I finally met his gaze, his lips turned up in a slight smile. “Magic,” he mouthed.
Didn’t I know it?
Men of Purple and Greed
Well after the banquet was over, well after the sky had darkened and the stars came out to play, well after the palace had gone to bed and the distant click of guards on watch was the only sound that echoed, I received two magical visitors in my room. They came, of course, as purple-feathered birds by way of the balcony.
“Couldn’t you come through the door?” I asked, after they transformed back into their human selves. “Surely, no one would question two magicals, whatever they were about.”
“Surely,” Merlin’s master replied, “but two magicals seen entering the room of a girl who claims she can spin straw into gold? No one will question, but all would doubt.”
I nodded in agreement.
“I’m Yarrow,” the mage introduced himself, then used a flick of his wrist to draw up chairs in a loose triangle. “Now, dear girl, tell me everything about this mysterious magical little man.”
I started from the beginning and told Yarrow all about the surprise guest who claimed he could and then did spin straw into gold. I tried not to hold anything back, to tell everything in an honest attempt at naked truth, highly unfamiliar as I was with it. For the most part, Yarrow only listened, interrupting once or twice for clarification on details, like which eye was the purple one, which was green? How tall, approximately, was this little man? If he seemed young and old, ageless and unchanging, then how old did I think he was? What color was his magic?
When I finished, the mage sat in deep silence, perhaps contemplating all I’d told him, turning the information over in his mind. Or he was determining the efficacy of a new spell on houseplants. There was really no way to tell. I glanced over at Merlin who watched his master intently, his expression proving how concerning my present situation might be.
“Is it bad?” I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.
Merlin shrugged. “Could be,” was his unhelpful reply.
We waited some more, Merlin watching his master while I attempted to keep my fidgeting fingers from unwinding every stitch of my dress. Each time the mage master stirred, drew breath, my heart stopped, certain that whatever he was about to say had something to do with a curse that would hang over my family for generations, seventeen perhaps.
“There is a story known in our circles,” Yarrow finally said, and I jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, “of a promising young wizard selected to study under a notable mage master. The young man was a rather talented magical and was quick to surpass most others in his studies. Eventually, he was given the honor of apprenticing to the greatest mage of all, but as the days passed, the young man became frustrated with his role of apprentice. He wanted more. He wanted to be a master himself. And he would have been, with time, but he was also a foolishly impatient young man.
“He became obsessed with his studies, his back bending, his growth stunting, as he poured over his books night after night. With each passing day, he grew more and more certain that if he could only prove how well he could control magic, how beautifully he could mold it, then he would fina
lly become a master in his own right. But the young man didn’t understand that it takes more than magic to make a wizard a mage, especially a master who can teach others, for his mind was clouded with envy, his heart filled with jealous greed. He wanted more and more, like any man who has one wants two, and any man who has two wants four, and so on until all his days are done.”
My head shot up at those familiar words, and the master’s intelligent eyes noticed.
“The little man used that phrase,” I explained.
Yarrow nodded thoughtfully. “It is a well-known teaching in our circles,” he replied.
Honestly, this didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I was growing sick thinking of the two nights I had spent feeding straw into the spindle the little man was coaxing to yield gold. What kind of man had I been locked alone in a room with? He could have easily made me disappear without a trace and no one would have been the wiser.
“The day came when the young man could wait no longer, so he approached his master and asked for the chance to show how far he’d come,” the mage continued. “His teacher, though, knew well that he had not yet come far enough to make him worthy of becoming part of the select group of mages, and so he refused his request. He had seen what kind of plans he had for his magic, and it worried him. The man’s heart had been darkened, his mind had lost its way.”
“What kind of plans?” I breathed the question.
The mage raised an eyebrow at me. “Trying to bring back a beloved kitten by implanting the heart of a bird. Imagine the kitten’s pain at being given a heart so small,” he elaborated. “Things like twisting tree trunks into the likeness of people, but those trees could no longer bear fruit so whole orchards were destroyed.”
I thought of my father and the stories he preferred to live in. “He saw a different world,” I suggested quietly.
Yarrow paused, considering my words. “There is nothing wrong with seeing beyond the way the world is, but at what cost? We do not discourage vision, but it must not lose sight of reality. The insatiable hunger for more corrupted his mind, so instead of finding his place in the making of a better world, he tried to force the world into a warped fantasy.” The master shook his head. “At what cost?” he asked again.
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