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 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 la
dies 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.
“Wait—” Vaughn walked over to the table and looked down at the brownie. Even though he’d made these gloves and knew damn well what the stitching would do, he just needed to hear it. “These will keep her seizures from happening and nothing else. Right?”
Mossthicket bowed her head. “We had a bargain and I’ve not played you false.” She smiled up at Sarah, cheeks curving in a mask of pleasure. “Besides, I like the young lady. She reminds me of my goddaughter.”
He nodded, but the sense of creeping wrong would not let go of his spine. Vaughn knotted his hands into fists as Sarah pulled on the gloves. She frowned, shoulders drooping in disappointment. “I—nothing feels different.”
“That’s what you wanted though, wasn’t it?” The brownie winked and scrambled to her feet. “Wear them for a week and see if things aren’t different. And now—I’ll take my payment and go.”
“I trust they are to your liking.” How could he care what she thought of his craftmanship now? But he watched her face anyway as she picked the gloves up, running her fingers over the embroidery.
“You do fine work.” She pulled the gloves closer, peering at the variegated thread he’d used for the sun’s rays. “Might be that we can work together again in the future.”
“Thank you.” It was rude. That was why he said it. “No.”
She shrugged, one cheek curving up in a grin. “I’ll give you time to think it over. I could use guild quality gloves. I’d cut you in on the profits.”
“I am really not interested.” What was Master Martin going to do when Littleberry failed to show up tomorrow? God. She had killed Littleberry, who was yes, going to turn him in, but the brownie had not deserved to die for that.
“Hm.” She threw the gloves around her shoulders like a cape of the sky. “And when the young miss’s gloves wear through? We’ll talk again, I’ve no doubt.”
The oilslick blossomed around her, and she melted into it, gloves and all.
Vaughn dropped to his knees. What had he done? All he’d wanted was for his sister to be safe and healthy and happy and he’d bound himself to a murderer.
Because Mossthicket knew he would do anything to keep his sister safe and healthy. He hadn’t agreed to a new bargain, but he was bound by it nonetheless. Gloves to make a princess this time. What would it be next? Gloves to kill a king? Despite his best effort to smile at Sarah, each breath hurt as if he’d broken his shoulder anew.
Sarah knelt next to him, putting a honeysuckle clad hand on his arm. “Vaughn? Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.” He wiped his cheeks, and his hand came away wet.
“Liar.” She tweaked his nose, laughing.
That single word nearly broke him, because he would never be able to join the guild after tonight. The brownies valued an honest man and the stink of lying would stick to him for the rest of his days.
Vaughn sat back on his heels and clutched Sarah’s hands in his. The kidskin was fine and cool beneath his touch. She didn’t need to know. Sarah never needed to know the cost. “There… Now you look like a lady.”
* * *
Mary Robinette Kowal is the author of The Glamourist Histories series, Ghost Talkers, and the Lady Astronaut duology. She’s a member of the award-winning podcast Writing Excuses and has received the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, three Hugo awards, the RT Reviews award for Best Fantasy Novel. Her stories appear in Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and several Year’s Best anthologies. Mary Robinette, a professional puppeteer, also performs as a voice actor (SAG/AFTRA), recording fiction for authors including Seanan McGuire, Cory Doctorow, and John Scalzi. She lives in Chicago with her husband Rob and over a dozen manual typewriters. Visit maryrobinettekowal.com
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all of the backers and readers!
Thank you to all the writers who allowed me to reprint their amazing work for this anthology. Thank you to Amanda Makepeace for providing the cover art this year. Thank you to Polgarus Studios for the interior layout and Pat R. Steiner for the cover layout.
I wouldn’t be able to do this without your help!
Thank you all, so much.
—David Steffen—
Backer Appreciation
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The Long List Anthology Volume 4 Page 39