The Long List Anthology Volume 4

by David Steffen

  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.

  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.

  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 liniment.”

  Half a laugh didn’t hurt too badly. “True, but she’s old and her joints ache.” Perhaps he could borrow some of that liniment…

  “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. Would you 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 ye 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 ye 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 nights 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 ye 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 ye?” Master Martin held up his hands. “It is not permanent. Take the week. I’m not a cruel man. If ye 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 ye 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 from 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.”

  “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 ensorcelled 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.”