by Nancy Warren
“A wise decision,” Margaret Twig said. I didn’t like the slight tone of menace in her voice. I couldn’t help but recall the woman had tried to steal my beloved familiar. What would she have done if I’d refused to employ Violet? I wouldn’t have put it past her to make my shop invisible. I really needed to work harder at controlling my magic, just so I could counter her spells.
“I’ll be there tomorrow at nine,” Violet said.
“Come at eight-thirty, so I can train you.” I didn’t really need her that early, but I had to remind all of us who was the boss.
Then the three of them turned and headed for a both selling rocks and crystals.
Rafe glanced between me and Meri. I held up my hand. “Not one word.”
He said, “I’m all but speechless.” Then, "Have you had a chance to tour the market, yet?"
"I haven't."
“I would like to very much,” Meri said.
I nodded. It was hard not to be drawn in, with all the lights, crowds of people walking up and down, the smell of German bratwurst in the air. So long as I dodged the three twisted sisters, it would be fun. He held out an arm to each of us and said, "I'll buy you both a Gluhwein.”
I laughed. "Good thing our work day is over." But it was chilly and the hot, spiced wine sounded very good. He got us both a glass. After sniffing it suspiciously, Meri tasted it and decided it was very good. We wandered among the booths looking at pottery, hand-carved wooden toys, candles, quilted cushions, tiny felt animals. Then there was the food! Artisanal cheeses, honeys and jams, the warm, yeasty smell of bread, and chocolate.
When we’d circled the market and returned to Timeless Treasures, I followed instinct and walked across the street to the soap booth, Bubbles. The redhead was organizing her shelves, as she currently had no customers. I said, “Hi, it’s Gemma, isn’t it? I remember you from the orientation.”
She glanced over and seemed pleased that I remembered her. “That’s right. I can’t remember your name, though, sorry.”
“I’m Lucy. And this is Rafe and Meri. I’m helping with Timeless Treasures.”
“You’re busy. People are going crazy for those long stockings.”
“You’ve been doing well, too. Who doesn’t love handmade soaps?”
She laughed. “Yeah, I’m happy. If I was as busy as you I’d go crazy. It’s only me, you see. A friend was supposed to help me but she got sick at the last minute and couldn’t come.” She shrugged. “So, it’s just me.”
That sucked. “Well, if I’m around and you need a break to go to the loo or grab a sandwich, or something, just let me know. I could fill in for you for a few minutes.”
She looked truly grateful. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
Rafe asked, “Are you from Oxford?”
“No. Crawley, actually. In Sussex. But I’ve heard this is a good market. Always wanted to come.”
He nodded. “Well, good luck.”
He walked us home deep in thought. “What’s on your mind?” I finally asked.
He glanced over at me. “Nothing, really. I was thinking that there are a lot of fine markets closer to Crawley than this one, that’s all.”
“I’m sure Gemma had her reasons for choosing Oxford.”
“Yes. I’m sure she did.”
Chapter 3
I was walking down Broad Street heading toward the Christmas market. It was Sunday, and my shop was closed, so I was free to help in Timeless Treasures. It was nearly noon and I was passing Weston Library, which is a newer complex, part of the Bodleian, but across the street from the grand, old library. Apart from the usual groups of students with their heavy book bags, shoppers, and tourists, I noted a line-up of people waiting in front of the double glass doors. I stopped to see what the attraction was and noticed a brand-new exhibition that had just opened. A large sign read: The Chronicles of Pangnirtung: Ancient Myth and Modern Legend. A Dominic Sanderson retrospective.
I'd have stepped around the end of the line, dodged the student walking his bike along the sidewalk, and kept going, but someone called my name. "Lucy?"
I turned to see Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm standing near the back of the line. He wore a navy blue coat done up against the cold and round his neck was a handknit scarf. Now that I owned a knitting shop, I noticed these things. I recognized the wool, and could take an educated guess at the dye lot. I suspected his aunt had knitted that scarf for him.
He was carrying a Bodleian Library shopping bag imprinted with the book cover of the first book in the Pangnirtung series. A painting of snow-capped mountains and in the foreground a small group of Katookuk, mythical creatures nearly as famous as Hobbits.
"I didn't peg you as a fantasy reader," I said, walking up to him.
He smiled his rather charming smile and the edges of his green eyes tilted upward. "It was these books that turned me into a reader. I loved them. I only wish Professor Sanderson had written more. This is the fortieth anniversary since they first came out, so they’ve published an anniversary edition, with a new introduction by the author, so that’s something. I’m lining up now to get them signed.”
Even though I wasn’t a fantasy reader, I knew about the books. They’d been a massive, world-wide hit, spawned movies and merchandise. "Professor Sanderson still teaches at Oxford, doesn't he?"
"Yes. At Cardinal College, in fact, just down the road from your shop."
"I have to confess I never read the books. I saw the first movie, though. "
He made a tsk sound. "You know the movies aren't nearly as good as the books."
I shrugged. "Give me a good romance or mystery any day. I always struggle with fantasy."
"You don't believe that mythical creatures could have existed in lands long ago and far away?" His tone was teasing, but he didn't know that I lived with mythical creatures every day. They weren't long-ago or far away. They lived beneath my shop and knit sweaters. I supposed, being a witch, I was a bit of a mythical creature myself. "I prefer novels set in the real world."
The temperature must have been near freezing, as our breath made vapor trails as we spoke. "I suppose I see enough dark reality in my work. I read fiction to escape." The line edged forward and I took a step to keep talking to Ian. "What are you doing up this way? Obviously not going to see the Sanderson exhibit."
I laughed. "No. I'm peripherally involved in a craft booth selling knitted goods. It was set up by some of my customers. It's called Timeless Treasures."
"I'll have to stop by. Not that I need anymore knitted goods. Since my auntie’s discovered your store, she keeps me well-stocked."
And, since his auntie didn't find it easy to get to Oxford from the village where she lived, it was usually Ian who came in to pick up the supplies for her. I was always happy to see him. I definitely had a little crush on him, and there was a certain expression in his eyes when he looked at me that made me think he might have warm feelings for me, too. However, we never acted on those feelings. I didn't know what his reasons were, but mine were that I didn't want a sharp eyed police officer getting too close to my secrets.
Still, he was good company and he’d proven to be a good friend. I always felt safer when he was around.
A sort of a quiet buzz went through the line and we both turned. Coming out of the door was a man, so full of importance he must be something to do with the exhibit. He was on the short side, heavily built and had a round face and full lips. He looked like a man who enjoyed food and all the pleasures of life. He wore a gray woolen overcoat and the top buttons were undone so I could see a cheerful blue and yellow bow tie. He said, in a loud, reverberating voice, “Thank you all for coming out today. I’m Charles Beach, Dominic Sanderson’s agent. Volunteers will be going down the line and collecting your names. Professor Sanderson regrets he won’t have time to put any special messages in your book. Just the name you write down and his signature. And, please, no questions. Dominic only has limited time.”
Ian shook his head, looking disappointed.
“I was hoping for a bit more. Maybe a chance to tell him how much his books have meant to me. Sounds like an assembly line, though, doesn’t it?”
I had to admit, it did. He stepped out of the line. “I’ll walk to you down to the market instead.”
"It's going to be a good market, this year," I said. Having been at the planning meeting I knew that they were expecting a record number of craftspeople.
He nodded. "I just hope everyone behaves."
"And buys lots of lovely handcrafted gifts."
He chuckled. “You're becoming quite the entrepreneur."
I hadn't thought about it, but I supposed I was. I cared about how well my shop did, and I'd grown to care about my suppliers, the people who crafted artisanal yarns, and my customers who put their time and energy into making beautiful garments. The shop earned enough for me to live and hire an assistant, but the margins were tight and I was quite happy scheming of ways to improve the bottom line. I'd gone to business college for two years and I was glad that I understood how to read a balance sheet and the basics of running a business.
We both moved to the left to give a woman pushing a stroller toward us more room and then Ian put an arm around me and pulled me closer to him as a cyclist dodging a van nearly crashed into me. He dropped his arm immediately but I liked the way his cop’s eyes were always looking ahead, watching out for trouble.
The crowds grew thicker the closer we got to the market. I could hear a school choir singing holiday favorites, see the twinkly lights in the brightly decorated booths, and shoppers happily crowding around them for that unique stocking present.
And speaking of stockings as we grew closer to Timeless Treasures I could see a woman lining up to pay, with four of the handmade stockings hanging over her arm. Behind her another woman, presumably her friend since they were chatting together, had two draped over her arm. I was going to have to put all the knitting vampires onto turning out stockings if we were going to keep up with the demand.
It was less busy across the street at Bubbles and so I led Ian over there. I may have had an ulterior motive in trying to keep him as far away from the vampires as I could. Gemma was using a big knife to cut a solid block of her handmade soap into smaller pieces. The soap was a pale purple and I could smell the lavender essential oil she’d mixed into it. There were little dots of lavender like purple freckles in the soap. I introduced the two of them, leaving out the fact that Ian was a cop, since he wasn't on duty. I explained that it was Gemma's first year at the market.
"Enjoying it so far?" Ian asked. It was an innocent enough question.
To my surprise, her face grew dark. "What's in the bag?" she asked.
Ian didn't get ruffled. He dealt with ruder people than her every day. He held the bag up. "They put out a new illustrated edition, for the fortieth anniversary. I bought it for myself as an early Christmas gift."
Gemma went back to cutting soap, using so much force the bars of soap bounced on her board. Ian and I exchanged a puzzled glance and he said, "Not a fan of fantasy?"
She glanced up and back at her soap. "Not a fan of the author."
Ian took a step back, as though he didn’t want his precious books too close to that cleaver. "Well, I'll let you get on with it. I hope you have a successful market."
She nodded and muttered what could have been thank you and we moved away. When we were out of hearing, I said, "What was that about?"
He shrugged. "The author, Dominic Sanderson, is a notoriously tough professor. Perhaps he gave her a bad mark."
I glanced back at Gemma. Her lips were pressed in a tight line. She began wrapping the newly chopped bars of soap with strips of hand-made paper. I could just glimpse the silver from the pen she’d used to write the names of the soap on the paper labels. “Perhaps."
"If you'd told her I was a police officer, I might've thought she had reason to dislike my sort."
"You mean, she might have been in trouble with the law?"
He shrugged. "It's been known to happen."
We’d come to the edge of Broad Street and St. Giles and we both hesitated. He said, "I don't suppose you—"
"Lucy! Thank goodness. I thought that was you." It was Clara, who'd taken the first shift in the booth, with the help of Alfred. "Excuse me for interrupting, but we’re going to run out of stockings. People have been telling their friends and they’re coming, specially to buy them. Also, can you take some of the cash to the bank? I don't like having so much in the booth."
"Of course," I turned to Ian. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"
He shook his head, looking rueful. "Doesn't matter. You’re obviously busy. Hope you have a successful day."
I watched as he strode away, book bag swinging from his hand. I wondered very much how that sentence would have ended?
Chapter 4
I collected the sizable amount of cash, as discreetly as possible, and then headed back towards Cardinal Woolsey's with a list of items I was to bring back, mainly stockings.
I hadn’t walked far when I felt a cool shiver run down my neck. Even though it was December, and cold, this was a particular kind of chill that meant Rafe was in the vicinity. Sure enough, he materialized by my side, as tall and brooding as ever.
"Is this a social call?" I asked him as he strode inside me, silent.
"I'm keeping an eye on you with all that money. I don't want you to be robbed."
I glanced up at him from under my lashes. "Worried about my safety?"
He glanced down at me. "Protecting the profits from our first Christmas market."
I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. His sense of humor was so dry I was sometimes tempted to dust it. "Timeless Treasures is doing remarkably well."
He nodded. "If this keeps up, we’ll turn a nice profit." Rafe had never taken business college that I knew of, but in his six centuries on earth he'd obviously run quite a few businesses and amassed several fortunes. Yet, he was as pleased as I was to see the tiny holiday stall making money.
"Have you decided what charity you're going to support?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. I imagine we’ll end up taking a vote when the market is over. Those of us who walk the streets at night see the homeless. Perhaps we can do something for them. Naturally, I always believe in supporting the work of the Bodleian." Rafe was an antiquarian and rare book expert, and often did work for the Bodleian Library. “The money won’t go to waste.”
He walked with me to the bank, where I deposited the cash into the night safe drop box, and then to Harrington Street. Above the closed shop, my flat was packed with vampires knitting with astonishing speed. I gathered up two dozen of the newest Christmas stockings, a few more children’s sweaters and children's hats and woolen mittens. I said to Gran, "Clara says to put all your efforts into the stockings. They’re outselling everything else four to one."
Gran was delighted and clapped her hands, though I imagined everyone in the room had heard me. She said, "Right, everybody? Finish whatever you’re working on now, and then we’re all to work on Christmas stockings."
Hester, the eternal teenager, rolled her black lined eyes heavenward, groaned, and slouched back on the couch. "I'm sick of knitting stockings. Why can’t I make something else?"
Sylvia snapped at her. "This is the season of gift giving and goodwill. Nobody wants your depressing black shrouds." Hester frowned but Sylvia wasn't far off. The teenager’s latest obsession had been to knit endlessly long black wraps that were anything but cheerful.
"Fine," she said with a scowl. "I’ll knit something nauseatingly cheerful with little yellow duckies and bunny rabbits all over it."
Gran looked at her with pity. "That's for Easter, Hester dear. This time of year we want reindeer and snowmen, Christmas baubles and trees laden with snow."
“I feel nauseous." She got off the couch and dragged herself to the table where all the wools and patterns and notions were stored. She helped herself to red and green wool and was soon busily handcrafting one of
the very popular Christmas stockings.
Gran watched Hester with exasperated affection, which was pretty much how most of us regarded Hester most of the time. She said, "Hester was the clever one who created the extra long stockings. And look at how popular they've become."
Hester glared at her. "I was bored and forgot to cast off, that's all. They were never meant to be this long." But I could tell she was pleased to be acknowledged for her design, however it had come about.
"What do you think of this one, Lucy?" Dr. Christopher Weaver asked. He was meticulous in all his projects, and, when I looked at the stocking he was working on, I had a sneaking suspicion he’d only brought it to my attention so that I could praise him. And it was, indeed, the most beautiful piece. He'd created an old-fashioned Christmas tree, with candles instead of electric bulbs, and all the baubles and the candles were fashioned out of gold, silver, and jewel-colored threads. I said, "We’re going to have to charge more for that one. It's exquisite."
Hester immediately threw her needles down and made a rude noise. "What's mine then, something for the bargain bin?"
I couldn’t believe I’d been so tactless. I opened my mouth to say how valuable every contribution was, when Gran caught my eye and shook her head slightly. She said, "I think, Hester dear, that we have to price our stockings according to the work that's gone into them, the attention to detail, and the final product. That doesn't make yours dull, or pedestrian, just a little more basic."
"Basic?" shrieked Hester. "I'll show you basic." And then she marched over to the table where we kept all the supplies and chose some tiny sparkling crystals and lengths of jewel-colored thread.
I looked Gran who nodded knowingly and then winked at me. Oh, she was good.
Hester now sat down and took her stocking seriously, determined to make hers more beautiful than anything Christopher Weaver could create. In fact, a healthy sense of competition entered the room and work that had perhaps begun to grow tedious was now suddenly infused with creative spirit and one upmanship.
