13th day of the Turn of Lamoth, 4966
A summer heat wave had gripped Fernsford for well over a week.
The blistering weather was the primary topic of conversation in every tavern, shop, inn, house, and street corner—any place where two people happened to convene.
At dawn’s first light, the air was uncomfortably warm and muggy. By afternoon, the day was sweltering to the point where each breath felt like a gulp of exhaust from the smithy forge. Evenings were so stifling that people did nothing but stay home lounge about a tavern, drinking warm ale and complaining some more. Come nighttime, the populace was exhausted but restful sleep eluded everyone. It was impossible to sleep well in the heat.
Most citizens within the Southlands' city were convinced that a pair of the Gods and Goddesses, Mu and Sutri, had reignited their tumultuous relationship and the poor mortals of Terrene were suffering the effects.
The solitary figure bent over the striking iron, hammer in one hand and a long pole of glowing iron gripped in the other, thought such talk was pure folly. The idea the Gods and Goddesses could affect the weather seemed preposterous to him. Privately, he harbored serious doubts whether there were such things as divine beings at all. Thaddeus was a practical man and he had seen little evidence to convince him of their existence.
People ascribing the miserable weather to a pair of perhaps fictional beings bothered him, but nowhere near as much as everyone's incessant complaining about it. If anyone had a right to complain about suffering exposure to the heat, it was him. Compared to the near-oven inside the smithy, even standing in the blazing, midday sun on the hottest summer day in Fernsford would feel like a crisp, cool Harvest morning.
Thaddeus’ thick, black curly hair and quick, bright smile supposedly made him a favorite among the eligible ladies of Fernsford, yet he was not sure if his friends were mocking him with the tales. He supposed he might be good-looking, but he did not have time for such foolishness. His duties kept him extremely busy and, most of the time, he did not mind. He counted himself lucky.
The young man rhythmically, repeatedly brought down his hammer, pounding the heavy shaping hammer into the pole, trying to will the blasted metal into the desired shape. His crisp, brilliant blue eyes glistened with each strike of the hammer as sparks flew from the glowing orange end of the iron. Unfortunately, the pole was not cooperating and each blow set his headache flaring anew. Each strike against the metal might as well have been straight against his temple.
He took short breaths at regular intervals, trying to sustain his strength, all the while silently pleading for the correct shape to appear. The last thing he wanted to do was to put the pole back into the forge, reheat it, and start over again.
Glaring at the misshapen lump of metal at the end of the iron pole, Thaddeus was confident he had done something wrong. Frowning, he realized he had been using the wrong technique for well over a minute. The metal was past the point where he could hope to recover from his mistake.
“Hells…”
As there was no possibility to fix what was supposed to be the first section of a new wagon hitch, the young man halted his blows. The last clang of metal on metal rang out, echoing through the dark smithy, tolling like a final-hour bell and announcing his failure. With sweat pouring off his brow and soaking his smock, he bent over to stare at the uneven metal, silently wondering what he had done wrong this time.
As if the master blacksmith had heard his thought, an amused voice from a few feet away said, “You were striking too hard, Thaddeus. Much too hard. Whatever did that pole do to offend you?”
Looking up at his master, Thaddeus said in protest, “But you said last time I was not hitting the metal hard enough.” This had been his fourth failed attempt. The first time, he had been striking too fast; the second had been too slow.
Smiling, Mastersmith Claude pushed himself away from the tempering bench he had been leaning against and approached his frustrated apprentice. Claude Henese was in his late forties, portly, and had straight brown hair that was long enough that it fell in his eyes when he bent over the anvil. The man was short—a good six inches shorter than Thaddeus—but he carried himself with an air of supreme confidence. Master Claude might be the best blacksmith in Fernsford—perhaps in all of the eastern Southlands—and he knew it.
“I said that then because you were hitting it too softly then.” Reaching out to take the hammer from Thaddeus, he added, “Just as you are striking it too hard now." He gave Thaddeus a slight smile and said, "Move aside and I’ll show you again.”
A deep, frustrated sigh exploded from Thaddeus and he dropped—almost tossed—the pole in disgust onto the anvil, setting off a loud series of echoing clangs through the shop. Reacting quickly, he reached out and grabbed the cool end of the pole before the length of metal bounced away and fell to the floor. Should any grit or sand touch the glowing end, Thaddeus knew he would have to beat it back out again.
Gripping the pole, Thaddeus glanced at Master Claude and found the blacksmith fixing him with a deservedly reproachful glare. Upset with himself for his bad behavior, Thaddeus frowned and said dejectedly, “Sorry, Master.”
In a sharp tone, Master Claude said, “Saying ‘sorry’ will not regrow a finger, Thaddeus.” Thaddeus’ gaze shot to where the mastersmith was missing his little finger on his left hand. “What is the first thing I said to you when you stepped into my shop?”
Staring at the anvil, Thaddeus mumbled, “Be safe. Be careful. But above all, be safe and careful.”
“Ah… so you head is not as addled as it would seem, then?”
The elder blacksmith went quiet, shaking his head and peering at his apprentice. In the silence, Thaddeus clearly heard the hum of mid-morning bustle in the street outside. Normally, the resonant sounds of the smithy drowned out the muffled city noises.
After a time, Master Claude finally stopped shaking his head before letting out a heavy sigh.
“You have talent, Thaddeus. Truly, you do. And you have both the strength and determination this profession requires. But you simply must learn to take criticism better. If it were easy to learn this craft, everyone would do it.”
Nodding—which only made his head pound more—Thaddeus said, “Yes, Master.”
Fixing him with a steady eye, Master Claude said, “I was going to reheat the iron myself to show you the correct striking technique again, but after your outburst, I think you should have the honors.”
The punishment was minor, nothing more than a mundane task Thaddeus had done countless times before. Yet Thaddeus’ wounded pride coupled with his pounding headache had turned him irritable and irrational. Gritting his teeth, Thaddeus said, “Right away, Master Claude.”
Reaching down with his mitt-covered left hand, Thaddeus gripped the cool end and clamped a set of tongs on the barely-glowing end. Lifting the heavy pole with relative ease, Thaddeus turned and walked the ten paces necessary to reach the open mouth of the forge. With each step, he felt the heat radiating from the forge increase, toasting both the air and the short stubble on his chin.
Stopping two feet before the superheated orange coals glowing from within, Thaddeus closed his eyelids halfway, trying to shield his watering eyes from the intense heat. Master Claude insisted he would eventually become accustomed to the searing temperatures, but Thaddeus had spent over a year in the master's tutelage and his eyes still teared when he worked the forge.
Careful not to let the iron rod drop, Thaddeus set the tong-end down gently on the edge of the forge mouth. After wiping his watery eyes with his shirtsleeve, he slid the end of the pole into the glowing coals and waited for the metal to reach correct temperature. Sweat trickled down his brow, mixed with his tears, and dripped off his chin. He was miserable, yet determined to persevere.
Yet after only a handful of heartbeats, Thaddeus decided he had had enough of feeling like a side of beef roasting. Tossing his mitt to the ground, he untied his heavy leather smock, ripped it off, and tossed it aside. Hoping to gain some additional relief, he pulled his shirt over his head and stood shirtless in the smoky blacksmith’s shop. He frowned, disappointed to discover that he was still hot and uncomfortable.
“Hells…”
He bent over to retrieve his mitt, shoved it back on his hand, and rotated the pole in the forge, kicking up a burst of sparks and flames. After hanging his shirt on a peg in front of him, he moved to the right side of the stone forge and, with a few swift pumps of the bellows, he introduced fresh air into the forge, feeding the fire. Each burning breath he took further dried out his already parched mouth.
Turning around, he grabbed a clay jug of clean drinking water and took a deep, refreshing sip, relishing the liquid rushing down his throat, not even bothered by how warm it was from sitting near the forge. Putting the heavy jug back down on the table with a thud, he returned to the pole to check on its progress. He pulled it out to find it glowing bright; the reddish-orange color looked about right.
Using the tongs in his right hand, he lifted the rod, spun around, and hurried back to where Master Claude stood waiting, arms crossed. The mastersmith had a bemused expression on his face that gave Thaddeus pause. Slowing his step, Thaddeus wondered if he had done something wrong. He glanced at the pole and went over everything the mastersmith had taught him about the proper way to heat up a pole of this weight and size. He would bet good coin that he had done everything right.
Thaddeus shot a worried look at Master Claude as he placed the heavy pole on the anvil. The mastersmith was shaking his head slowly, an unreadable, blank expression etched on his face.
With a cocked eyebrow, the blacksmith pointed at Thaddeus' chest and asked, “Do you think it wise to walk around with hot iron like that?”
Thaddeus looked down and realized he was still shirtless.
“Is that safe, Thad?” pressed Master Claude. “Is that careful?”
As his cheeks turned red with embarrassment, Thaddeus said, “I’m sorry, Master. My mind is not on my tasks today.”
Eyeing Thaddeus closely, the blacksmith asked purposefully, “And why is that, exactly?” His overly inquisitive tone worried Thaddeus.
While sharing the reason for his absentminded condition with the mastersmith would be bad, Thaddeus did not want to lie, either. Therefore, he chose to remain silent.
Master Claude took a step closer.
“Get in a bit late from welcoming in your yearday last night?”
Thaddeus winced. He had thought he had been impressively stealthy last night, both when sneaking out of his room as well as back into the smithy. Lying now would only make things worse.
“Yes, sir. I did.” Meeting the blacksmith's eyes, he added, “I am sorry, sir.”
Master Claude studied him quietly for a long moment before letting out a small sigh.
“I understand, Thad. Truly, I do. I suppose you only turn twenty once, right?”
A flicker of hope filled Thaddeus’ chest. Thinking that he was about to get away with his willful transgression, he gave a thin smile and said hesitantly, “Yes, sir. Just once…”
Master Claude might be a strict taskmaster, but he also was a reasonable man. However, Thaddeus' blatant breaking of one of the smith's prime rules was not something Thaddeus expected Master Claude would let pass.
He gnawed on the inside of his cheek; he should have stayed in last night.
Suddenly, a whiff of peculiar smoke tickled Thaddeus' nose. After a year spent in the hazy shop, Thaddeus had come to recognize the scent of the forge. This odor was not smoke from the forge. He was about to turn and look for the source when Master Claude finally spoke.
“Did you have a good time, Thad?”
Thinking back to the late hours spent with a few friends at The Demon’s Mug, playing countless hands of knuckles and drinking too many summer lagers, Thaddeus nodded.
“Quite a time, master.”
“That's good to hear,” replied Master Claude with a genuine smile.
Thaddeus stared at the blacksmith, confused. As an apprentice, he was expected to follow Master Claude’s set schedule, which included evening curfews and early mornings, leaving nearly no time for himself. Honestly, Thaddeus did not mind the heavy, strict workload. He was lucky to have secured this apprenticeship in the first place.
Master Claude stepped forward again, stopping mere inches from Thaddeus’ face. His eyebrows drew together slowly, creating a deep furrow in his forehead.
“I am glad you enjoyed yourself, Thad. The happy memories of your revelry will help you get through the difficulties of the next few weeks.”
Thaddeus’s stomach clenched.
“Difficulties, sir?”
Master Claude nodded firmly and said, “Your duties have just increased twofold, Thad. Perhaps threefold.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Two or three, it doesn’t matter. Your tasks will be so arduous that you shall go to bed exhausted at the end of each day. And I expect that when wake up, you will still be exhausted.”
Thaddeus dropped his chin to his chest. This was the reaction he had expected. As he stared at the floor, another waft of the unusual smoke tickled his nose.
“Look at me, Thad.”
Thaddeus steeled himself and lifted his head to meet Master Claude's gaze.
“Here is what you are going to do.” With a nod of his head in the direction of the forge mouth, Master Claude said, “First, you are going to go over and extinguish your shirt before it sets the whole shop ablaze.”
Whirling around, Thaddeus saw that his tan workman’s shirt was indeed on fire, flames licking their way up from the bottom.
“Hells!”
He rushed over, grabbed the clay jug of drinking water, and dumped a little on his shirt. The drops of water that landed on the hot forge-stone hissed, evaporating in an instant. He had resisted dousing the shirt with the entire jug of water, knowing the rush of cool water might crack the forgestone. Flicking the shirt from the peg to the ground, he stamped on it, trying to put out a sleeve that was still alight. After few fervent stomps in which he kicked up a dust cloud from the dirt floor, the shirt lay extinguished.
With his back to the mastersmith, Thaddeus stared at the lump of muddy, half-burnt, completely ruined shirt, mortified by his carelessness. He shut his eyes and muttered, “Blast it.” That had been his best workshirt.
Slow, steady steps approached from behind. When Master Claude stopped beside him, Thaddeus mumbled, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot today, Thad,” replied the mastersmith.
Thad remained silent, wondering the coming weeks would hold for him. He would not be surprised if Master Claude had him cleaning out the forge every night.
“Now that my shop—and probably the Merchant's Quarter—is saved from fire, we will discuss the remainder of your tasks. First, you have the rest of the day off. No smithing for you today.”
Surprised, Thaddeus opened his eyes and turned to stare at his master.
“Pardon, sir?”
“You are of no use to me in your condition, Thad. This is a dangerous trade.” Pulling up his left sleeve, Master Claude pointed at the long, thick, raised scar that ran the length of his forearm. “I got this when I was an apprentice because I was not paying attention. I will not have you make the same mistake.”
Thaddeus had always wondered about the injury but had never asked his master how it had happened. Among the sub-culture of blacksmiths, it was not something about which members spoke.
“However, Thad…do not think the day is yours to do with as you please.” He cocked an eyebrow and said, “Not any longer, anyway.”
Confused, Thaddeus asked, “Sir?”
Master Claude sighed and shook his head slowly.
“I had planned on giving you the afternoon and night off today, Thad. It is your yearday, after all.”
Thaddeus' heart sank and he rolled his eyes, angry with himself for not waiting one more day.
“But instead of relaxing, you will go see Oren Tailor and purchase a new shirt. Tell him to deduct its cost from what he owes me.” A slight grin spread over his lips and a strange, conspiratorial tone entered his voice as he added, “And tell Oren hello for me, will you? He always insists he's too busy to speak with me when I stop by, but I suspect you will get his full attention.”
Thaddeus' eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side, not understanding the man’s meaning.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing, Thad.” Master Claude’s gaze turned steady and strong. “Now, when you return—straight away, mind you—I want you to scour the shop until it is cleaner than it was the day I opened it. Each tool is to be wiped down and appropriately sharpened or oiled. Then, tonight when I am done with the day’s work, you will sweep and scrub the forge. Oh, and have it ready and hot again by sunup.”
Thaddeus groaned inwardly. Cleaning the forge meant no sleep for him tonight. It would take until well past midnight for the coals to cool to a point he could even begin to clean it safely.
“And then tomorrow—just as Mu’s orb is peeking over the eastern horizon—we will start with your lessons again and you will finish that wagon hitch, do you understand?”
In a meek, humble tone, Thaddeus murmured, “Yes, sir.”
Master Claude gave a firm nod and slapped his back, his palm smacking Thaddeus skin.
“Good. Now get going.”
“Yes, Master Claude.”
Thaddeus turned around and headed for the door that led to his room. He planned on washing up and retrieving a new shirt for his trip across the district to the threadspinner. He had only taken a single step when Master Claude spoke in a quiet, calm voice.
“Where are you going, Thad?”
Turning to face his teacher, Thaddeus eyed the smith oddly.
“To clean up, sir?”
He held out his arms to show his hands and forearms covered with enough soot that it looked as if he were wearing black gauntlets. Thaddeus expected his face was a filthy as his hands.
“Was that on your list of instructions?” asked Master Claude crisply.
Cringing, Thaddeus shook his head.
“No, sir. It was not…”
Master Claude pointed to the front door of the smithy and said, “Go on, then. Be sure to hurry back.” The mastersmith was going to make him walk across the district shirtless and filthy.
Hanging his head, Thaddeus stepped past the mastersmith and walked across the dimly lit room, ducking under and around the various tools of the trade hanging from hooks and pegs, silently swearing to never disobey the man again.
Pausing at the oaken door, Thaddeus listened to the muted sounds indicating today’s activity amongst the merchants’ quarter was busy, typical of any Sixthday. Thaddeus took a deep breath and considered if he should ask for a reprieve. Feeling Master Claude’s eyes on his back, Thaddeus knew there was no chance the blacksmith would change his mind. While today’s lesson had originally been about how to craft a wagon hitch, it had turned to into one about duty and diligence.
Lifting the latch, Thaddeus shoved the door open. The bright burst of daylight, temporarily blinded him.
Master Claude called out, “Oh. One last thing, Thad?”
With eyes half shut against the day’s brilliance, Thaddeus glanced over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir?”
“Happy Yearday, young man. Enjoy your time at the Tailors.”
Peering into the dark interior of the smithy, Thaddeus swore Master Claude was grinning. Holding back a sigh, Thaddeus said dejectedly, “Thank you, sir.”
Facing forward, Thaddeus stepped outside and into the mid-morning sunlight, wearing only his boots and breeches. He squinted and clasped a hand to his eyes, wincing as his headache flared anew. It felt as if a blacksmith was in his head, pounding his temples with a shaping hammer.
The air was stifling, but still cooler than inside the smithy. Reaching behind him, he pulled shut the door to the smithy and waited for his eyes to adjust as a rush of sounds from the busy Merchant Quarter washed over him. Up and down the street, people were talking, laughing, shouting, and haggling. Thaddeus cracked open his eyes, sure that he already was the object of stares. However, people were so busy going about their day’s duties that, so far, no one seemed to have noticed the shirtless, filthy blacksmith apprentice. It was only a matter of time, though.
Looking across the street, Thaddeus spotted a familiar face and glowered.
“This is all your fault…”
The young man responsible for Thaddeus’ situation was standing with his father and brother behind the stand they set up in front of their bakery each day. The trio was working in concert to deal with a number of regular customers.
Thaddeus glared at Sevan, frowning and repeating the words the young man whispered last evening in a bitter, mocking mumble.
“C’mon Thad, we’ll just stay out for a little while…”
A year older than Thaddeus, Sevan Pargette had been last night's instigator, dragging Thaddeus out to The Demon’s Mug. The baker’s son stood two inches over six-feet tall and had blonde hair that glinted red in the sun. His quick smile and even quicker wit endeared him to most everyone; Sevan was always ready with a jest or clever quip. When Thaddeus had first secured the apprenticeship with Master Claude and had moved into the smithy, Sevan had befriended him, welcoming him to Fernsford and introducing him to a number of other young men their age. A few of them had been at the tavern last night, ushering in Thaddeus’ twentieth year.
Sevan happened to glance up and look across the street, spotting Thaddeus through the throng of people moving along the way. A giant grin spread across his face.
Thaddeus frown deepened, turning into a full-blown scowl.
“I should have told you to go pound dough last night…”
Sevan leaned over, said something to his father, and pointed in Thaddeus' direction. Riles Pargette glanced up, took in Thaddeus’ shoddy appearance, and smiled as well. The youngest Pargette, a skinny boy of only thirteen years named Gamin, followed his brother and father’s gaze as a wide, silly grin split his face. Sevan said something else to his father and Riles nodded. Reaching around his back, Sevan untied his gray, flour-dusted apron, lifted it over his head, and tossed it the display table while moving around the corner of the stand.
Thaddeus shook his head, expecting Sevan was on his way to rub salt into his wound.
Sevan hurried across the street, deftly dodging people going about their business. At one point, Sevan unwisely leapt in front of a man driving a pair of horses drawing a wagon stacked tall with crates. Thaddeus cringed, sure his friend was going to be knocked to the ground or at least spook the horses with his sudden move. Sevan’s risk earned an angry shout from the driver as he passed, but the young man paid no heed. Sevan did not worry much about consequences. Thaddeus friend was fearless.
Sevan halted a few paces from the stoop of the smithy door, flashed a wide grin, and asked amusedly, “And how are you feeling today, Thad?”
Still blinking against the bright sun that seemed determined to shine straight into his eyes, Thaddeus replied, “Hush it, Sevan. You know exactly how I blasted feel.”
“Hopefully it’s better than you look.”
Grimacing, Thaddeus asked, “That bad?”
“I’ve seen people look worse,” said Sevan. His grin widened. “Not many, though.”
“I’ve rarely felt worse,” replied Thaddeus. Looking past his friend, he noticed people had started to discover him in his dirty, shirtless glory, openly staring as they walked in either direction along the street. His trip across the district was going to be terribly embarrassing.
“I know it’s hot, Thad, but it is customary for people to wear shirts unless they are bathing or swimming,” teased Sevan.
Glaring at his friend with narrowed eyes, Thaddeus said, “I’m not out here like this by choice, Sevan.” He briefly relayed the events of the morning in the blacksmith shop to Sevan. Upon hearing about the shirt on fire, Sevan burst into a fit of unrestrained laughter.
Amidst bouts of chuckling, Sevan managed to ask, “So, Master Claude is sending you to the Tailors like that?”
Thaddeus nodded and sighed.
“Afraid so.”
“I could lend you one of my shirts,” suggested Sevan. “It might be a little big, but it’d be better than walking across the quarter bare-chested.” Giving Thaddeus a wink, he added, “Although I’m sure the women between here and there would be quite happy with the display.”
Even before taking on the apprenticeship, Thaddeus had been a well-built, muscular young man. A full year of intense, physical work had only added to his physique.
Thaddeus shook his head and said loudly, “No, Sevan. Master Claude was explicit in his directions. As embarrassing as it will be, I will walk over there like this. I deserve my punishment and I will take it.” He nodded in the direction of the closed oaken door to the smithy.
Sevan leaned forward and said whispered, “Practicing to be a playman are we?”
Unable to help himself, Thaddeus grinned. His friend had deduced he was putting on a show should the blacksmith be listening.
Standing tall, Sevan said grandly, “How noble of you, Thaddeus! If you are not the most honorable soul I know, then…well, then I am an ijul! Master Claude is blessed to have such an honest, upright young man as his apprentice!”
Rolling his eyes, Thaddeus muttered, “That’s a bit much, Sevan…”
With a smile and a shrug, Sevan said, “Hey, if you are going to put on a show, I would like a part.” He jabbed a thumb in the air, motioning over his shoulder. “Did Master Claude say anything about you not being allowed to eat?”
Thaddeus hesitated. That had not been on his list of instructions, but he was awfully hungry. Surely, the mastersmith would not begrudge him a bite.
As he stood there, wavering in his decision, the muffled voice of Master Claude called from inside the blacksmith shop, “Go and get some bread, Thad! Then, go!”
Sevan and Thaddeus both looked at the shut oak door. Smiling, Sevan called out, “Good days ahead, Master Claude!”
“And good memories, behind, Sevan! Now, get going! Thad has work to do!”
“Already gone, sir!” exclaimed Sevan as he turned and began walking back across the street. Thaddeus followed his friend, weaving his way through the crowd. As they dodged the citizenry of Fernsford, Sevan glanced back and, with a glint in his eye, asked cavalierly, “So, you are going to Oren Tailor for a new shirt?”
Nodding, Thaddeus replied forlornly, “I am.”
“Well, either Master Claude hates you or he hates Oren Tailor.” His eyes ran over Thaddeus again. “I wonder if Father would let me come along. I’d love to watch Oren’s face when you walk into his shop like that…”
Thaddeus was doing his best to ignore some of the open-mouthed stares from the men and women around him. Keeping his gaze locked on Sevan, he asked curiously, “Why is that?”
Sevan’s grin turned sly.
“Oh…no reason, Thad. Just promise me you’ll tell me how your visit goes later.”
Thaddeus eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Sevan…? What aren’t you telling me?”
Lifting his eyebrows high, his friend grinned at him, apparently taking immense pleasure is some private jest he did not seem willing to let Thaddeus in on.
“There's a lot about Fernsford you still don't know, Thad. What better way to learn than on your own?”
Thaddeus glared at Sevan and grumbled, “Some friend you are…”
The pair made their way through the crowd, most of who gawked at the soot-covered, shirtless young man, and marched to the stand before the Pargette Baking House. As they approached, the two Fernsford citizens talking with Riles Pargette glanced up, took in Thaddeus's appearance, and grinned wide. Young, pole-thin Gamin Pargette smiled foolishly.
Riles locked his eyes on Thaddeus and asked loudly, “Forget something on your way out this morning, Thaddeus?” Thaddeus’ face grew hot with embarrassment. At least the soot would cover his blushing.
Thaddeus quickly explained what had happened with his shirt, watching amusement spread across the assembled men’s faces. Once he finished his story, Thaddeus shrugged and concluded, “As embarrassing as this will surely be, I deserve it. I broke Master Claude’s rules.”
Riles shook his head slowly, glanced at Sevan, and said, “I told you that Claude would find out.”
Surprised, Thaddeus glanced at Sevan and frowned.
“You told your father?"
Sevan shrugged. “Actually, he suggested we take you out." Glancing at his father, he mimicked his father's mannerisms, saying, “‘The eve of a young man’s twentieth yearday is too important to let pass by.’ That's what you said, Father.”
Riles grinned wide.
“True enough.”
Thaddeus sighed. Riles had a much different way of dealing with his two apprentices. Of course, they were both his sons. Thaddeus envied Sevan and the relationship he had with his father. Glancing between the Pargettes, Thaddeus sighed, wondering what such a connection must be like.
A brigand attack on his village when he was only seven years old had left Thaddeus an orphan and had forced him to live with his mother’s sister in the coastal Argolles Barony. Life had been hard—but mostly bearable—until two years ago when his aunt had passed away, leaving him with an uncle who had been using Thaddeus as near-slave labor on the family farm since he had arrived. Uninterested in the life laid out before him, Thaddeus had left the farm and had worked his way west toward Fernsford. A series of fortuitous, unlikely events had led him to his position with Master Claude, leaving Thaddeus convinced that fate had finally taken pity on him.
An orphaned young man with no standing or family heritage rarely found an apprenticeship with a tradesman. Yet, Master Claude had selected Thaddeus last year at the Leisure Day festival for Duryn, the God of Industry and Crafters. Every year, during The Great Artisan’s feast, the tradesmen of Fernsford looking for apprentices would select young men and women to join them to learn a profession. Master Claude’s selection of Thaddeus had surprised most of the other tradesmen in the city. Thaddeus had been stunned as well. Orphans were castoffs, typically destined to menial labor. Thaddeus was not even sure what had possessed him to enter his name into the list of potential apprentices.
When others asked Master Claude why he had chosen Thaddeus, the mastersmith would say that he saw something in the young man before quickly changing the subject. Whatever the reason, Thaddeus was eternally grateful to the man. The life of a blacksmith might be full of arduous work, but Thaddeus' future was much brighter now than he had ever expected.
Sevan’s father grabbed a split-rye loaf and tossed it to Thaddeus.
“Consider this a peace offering, Thaddeus,” said Riles. “True, I was the one who suggested Sevan take you out for your yearday…“ He eyed his eldest son purposefully. “However, I also said he should run it past Claude first, which it seems he did not do, despite the fact he told me he did.”
Sevan’s wide grin slipped a bit. Thaddeus bit into the still-warm rye bread, relishing the flaky crust and soft, steamy middle while taking a moment to revel in Sevan’s suddenly uncomfortable position.
Gamin stepped forward and teased, “Hah! Father is going to teach you, Sevan!”
Sevan shot his younger brother a withering look. The open amusement at Thaddeus’ predicament continued to fade from Sevan’s face as he looked at his father worriedly.
Nodding his head, Riles said, “That’s right, you should look concerned, Sevan. I give you a lot of leeway—more than your mother likes. I let you free, trusting you to make good choices. And for the most part—you do. But, blast it, son! You must learn more concern for how your decisions will impact your friends.”
Gamin was positively gleeful, singing, “Oooh…you are going to get it!”
As one, Sevan and Riles said, “Hush it, Gamin.” The younger boy took a step back but the eager expression he wore did not diminish. The pair of customers was watching the exchange with interest.
Sevan gave Thaddeus a quick, apologetic look.
“I am sorry for getting you in the fire, Thad. Really, I am.”
Munching on the rye, Thaddeus shook his head, “No worries, Sevan. Truly. You did not force me to go. I could have said no.” He frowned. “Actually, I did. A half-dozen times.”
His protests had been wasted, though. Sevan had a way about him. The young man could persuade a sheep to walk into a den of wolves all the while thinking what an excellent idea it was to do so.
Eyeing Thaddeus, Riles asked, “What does Claude lined up for you? If I know the man, there's more than an embarrassing walk across the quarter.”
Thinking about the long night ahead of him, Thaddeus sighed and said, “Clean the shop, tend to the tools, sweep and scour the forge, and have it glowing hot by sunrise.” The corners of his lips drooped. “And I expect that will be the way of things every couple of days for a few weeks. If not longer.” The Pargettes, along with the assembled customers, grimaced openly at his punishment. Even young Gamin looked sympathetic. They might not be blacksmiths, but they guessed from his list of tasks—and his dejected tone—that he had a long day, evening, and night coming.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Riles said, “Sevan, I think you should offer to help Thaddeus this evening.” Gamin snickered as Riles added, “And every night young Thad has to for the next turn.” At that, Gamin laughed outright.
Sevan stared at his father in disbelief.
“Pardon?”
“Only seems fair, doesn’t it?” asked Riles. “You got him into this. You should share fates.”
Thaddeus opened his mouth, preparing to protest he was perfectly capable of clearing the forge on his own, but Riles Pargette held up a hand, cutting him off before he could speak.
Eyeing his eldest son, Riles said, “So, Sevan? You can either help him, or clean out the ovens every night until the first of Sutri's turn.”
Gamin could not hold back the joy he was experiencing at his brother's plight, clapping and laughing.
Riles shifted his gaze to his younger son.
“If you keep that up, Gamin, you can join him. Taking pleasure in other’s misery is something The Great Quarreler does, Gamin. Not a Pargette.”
Thaddeus winced at the sharp rebuke. Comparing his son’s behavior to one of the evil Gods of Terrene seemed a bit harsh. Regardless, the reprimand was effective. Gamin quickly quieted.
“Sorry, Father…”
Looking back to his eldest son, Riles asked casually, “So, Sevan, what are you plans for the evening?”
Facing Thaddeus, Sevan asked unenthusiastically, “Would you like some help, Thad?”
Thaddeus shook his head.
“Truly, I’m fine, I don’t—”
Riles interrupted and accepted on his son’s behalf.
“Nonsense! Sevan will be straight over after dinner. Keep him as long as you are working, Thaddeus. And don’t worry, I’ll mention this arrangement to Claude after we close up here today.”
Sevan’s face was so downtrodden, Thaddeus almost wanted to laugh. Young Gamin was fit to burst despite his father’s admonition.
Clapping his son on the back, Riles said to Thaddeus, “Show him what being a blacksmith is like for me, eh?”
One of the two idle customers interjected, “Riles? Might you teach a father’s lessons later? I’d like to make my purchases and be on my way.”
Riles nodded and said, “Of course, Teil. Let me finish helping Minard first.” Turning to the man he had been helping when they had approached, Riles asked, “What else did you need, Minard? Sorry to keep you waiting.”
The old, white-haired cobbler shrugged and said, “Don’t be. I was actually rather enjoying this.” Glancing at Thaddeus and Sevan, he added, “Forgive me for taking pleasure in your situation, young men, but this reminds me of a few follies of my youth.”
Grinning, Riles said good-naturedly, “Lies, Minard! You were never young!”
The jest set most of the group to laughing, although Sevan managed only a slight grin. Even Thaddeus joined in, his spirits boosted by the thought Sevan would keep him company at the shop tonight. With his help, they might be done early enough that Thaddeus might be able to steal a few hours of sleep before firing the forge for the morning.
Riles glanced at Thaddeus and said, “You had better get going, son. You’ll want to hurry back and get started on your tasks.” He shifted his gaze to a forlorn Sevan. “And you need to get started on scraping out all of the baking pots.”
Sevan’s shoulders slumped. Thaddeus swore his friend had shrunk several inches.
“I do?”
Nodding, Riles said, “Oh, absolutely. You’ll need something to keep busy while you wait for this evening.”
Sevan sighed and muttered, “Yes, sir.”
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Gamin burst out laughing at his brother’s plight and instantly drew Riles’ hard stare.
“And you, young man, have just earned the opportunity to help your brother.”
Gamin’s laughter tailed off quickly. Peering at his father, he asked, “Truly?”
Riles nodded once.
“Truly, Gamin. I warned you once about reveling in others misfortunes.”
Gamin, often too bright for his own good, pointed at one of the customers and protested, “But Mr. Minard just said he was taking pleasure in their misery.”
Chuckling, Minard said, “He got you, Riles. I did say that.” Smiling wide, he asked, “Must I scrape out the baking pots, as well?”
Riles was doing his best to remain stern, but a flicker of a smile danced over his face.
Staring at his sons, Riles said, “Both of you go. Now. Else I’ll have you dust the ovens, too.”
Gamin turned on his heel, huffing as he marched into the door of the bakery.
Sevan inclined his head in Thaddeus’ direction and said, “See you later, I suppose.”
Thaddeus nodded and gave a half-hearted wave to his friend, both happy and sad of the turn of events. After thanking Riles for the rye loaf, he turned to leave when Riles halted him, pointed to the side of the bakery, and said, “At least go wash your face and hands, Thad.”
Shaking his head, Thaddeus said, “No, sir. Master Claude was very clear.”
“Bah!” said Riles with a soft chortle. “Go and wash. I’ll tell Claude I dunked you myself. It’s not fair to send you to the Tailors looking like that.” The baker gave Thaddeus a wink. “You’ll ruin your chances with a face full of soot.” He exchanged a knowing look with Teil and Minard and the trio of men chuckled.
Thaddeus did not understand the mirth.
“My chances for what, sir?”
His question set the three men laughing anew. Thaddeus stared at them blankly, until the three men’s soft laughter faded away once they realized he was serious.
With raised eyebrows, Riles asked, “You are going to see Oren Tailor, are you not?”
Thaddeus nodded slowly and muttered, “And…?”
The three men stared at him in disbelief. Finally, Riles said, “I need to talk to Claude about letting you out of that smithy more. Go wash up, now.” His grin returned in full force. “But you must go without a shirt. Truly.”
"Why?" asked a bewildered Thaddeus.
Shrugging, Riles said, "It will make for a much better story." The other men began to chuckle again.
Walking away slowly, Thaddeus continued to glance back, wondering at the cause of their amusement. Stepping between the Pargette Baking House and the wood and plaster building next door, Grapefere’s Thatchers, he headed for the water reservoir. Thaddeus had always thought having a bakery next to a straw thatcher was a sure recipe for disaster, but whenever he had brought it up to Sevan, his friend had dismissed his concerns, saying it had been that way for three generations and nothing had happened yet. Eyeing the bundles of dry straw in the back of Grapefere’s, Thaddeus shook his head. One stray ember from the bakery’s ovens, and the Merchant Quarters would go up in flame.
Stopping at the trough of water in the shade, Thaddeus bent and picked up a clean wooden bucket to draw water from the long reservoir. This was the water the Pargettes used in their dough, and they were very particular about the cleanliness of it. Thaddeus was very careful not to touch the water with his dirty hands.
After washing most of grime from his hands, face, and neck, Thaddeus replaced the bucket. He frowned as he glanced at his soot-stained breeches, and concluded there was nothing he could about them. Emerging from the small alley, he spotted Riles helping another group of customers. Not wanting to interrupt, he gave a thankful nod to the man as he passed. The baker nodded back, wearing a mirthful expression on his face.
Thaddeus muttered quietly to himself, “What is so blasted amusing…?
He stepped into the open street, heading to his left and choosing a route to the Tailors he thought might be less crowded. He hugged the sides of the street, trying to hide in the shadows cast by the tall houses and shops of Fernsford. Most of the buildings throughout the large city stood two or three stories tall, but a number reached as high as five floors. In most cases, a structure’s first floor was a few feet smaller on all sides than the top floors, providing a series of covered porches under which Thaddeus could walk. The roofs slanted upward at sharp angles, some in peaks, while others were just a single, slanting plane. Unlike the stone smithy, most of Fernsford was made of wooden walls painted a combination of faded, dirty whites or tans, crisscrossed with wide beams of black wood.
He did not make eye contact with anyone and chose to travel down less-crowded alleys wherever he could. People ogled him as he passed, but he ignored their stares. Despite the sidelong glances, pointing, and muffled chuckles from his fellow citizens, Thaddeus found he was almost enjoying his trip across the city. Rare was the occasion he was outside the smithy during the day.
Thaddeus had only been to Oren Tailor’s shop one other time when he had delivered a set of new sewing needles to the man. When Thaddeus had arrived, a short, thin, balding man had been exiting the front door of the Tailors. Thaddeus had thought him a customer and had tried to move past the man in order to enter the shop. After a quick glance at Thaddeus, the man had thrown up his hands, halting Thaddeus, and proceeded to interrogate the blacksmith’s apprentice, demanding to know what his business was at his shop.
After realizing the man must be Oren Tailor, Thaddeus had introduced himself as Master Claude’s apprentice and had held up the package of needles. Oren had eyed Thaddeus warily as snatched the needles away. Bidding Thaddeus a crisp ‘Good memories behind,’ Oren had shooed him away as one would a pesky, stray barncat. As Thaddeus had walked away, he chanced a glance back to find the rude man glaring at him. The interaction with the clothier had left Thaddeus thinking the man was the most unfriendly and rude person in Fernsford.
Rounding a corner, he spotted the red and white sign hanging over the door proclaiming “Tailors” in square, block letters. Like most shops in the Merchants Quarter, the single building housed both home and business; the family lived in upper floor while the lower was for the shop.
Forced to cross the way, he stepped from the cover of the shadows and onto the cobblestone street, drawing dozens of stares. With chin up and eyes forward, Thaddeus strode to the Tailors’ door and opened it. Slipping into the darkened interior, Thaddeus quickly closed the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust, thoroughly relieved his ordeal was over.
Moments after the door shut with a solid thud and rattle, he heard a woman gasp, quickly followed by an alarmed voice calling, “Oren!”
Glancing about the dark room, he was able to make out a dozen shapes of people standing in the open room before him. Blinking his eyes quickly, it took only a moment for him to realize that the ‘people’ in the room did not have heads and the figure were instead wooden racks set up to hold clothes.
Movement near the back of the room caught his attention and he watched an astonished woman walk quickly to a door on the back wall. She was short and slightly round, waddling as she moved.
With her eyes locked on him, she called worriedly, “Oren! Come here, please!” A muffled voice from the back room said shouted something in reply, only to have the words swallowed up by walls. The woman’s expression hardened before she called across the room at Thaddeus, “What do you think you are doing, marching in here like that?”
Holding up his hand apologetically, Thaddeus said, “I ask for your forgiveness…ah, ma’am.” Thaddeus had no idea who the woman was. She looked of the right age to be Oren’s wife, but he did not know if Oren was married nor did he want to assume. “Master Claude sent me like this.”
Huffing in disbelief, the woman asserted, “That is absurd! Why would he –” The woman cut off her indignant question as her gaze shot to Thaddeus’ right. He eyes went wide as she exclaimed, “Marie! You should not be out here!”
Thaddeus turned to follow the woman’s gaze and found a figure standing so still, that he had assumed it was a wooden frame holding up a light blue dress.
A few feet from the corner of the room, standing in a pool of sunlight streaming through the front window, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Black hair, sleek and pulled back tightly into a ponytail lay draped over her left shoulder, glistening in the sun. Her face was all angles, sharp and severe, but in a pleasing way. High cheekbones sat on either side of a perfectly shaped nose. Her cheeks hinted at dimples as her full lips were turned up into a tiny grin as if she had stumbled upon something amusing. Dark brown eyes regarded Thaddeus evenly, drinking in every detail. Under the young woman’s gaze, Thaddeus suddenly felt more exposed in the dark room of the Tailors' shop than during his entire journey from the smithy.
Thaddeus opened his mouth, intending to wish the vision a good day.
“Uh…”
His mind emptied of thought and he stood silent, lips parted.
The black-haired beauty's lips crinkled upwards as her small smile grew a fraction. She tilted her head slightly, letting the sunlight touch her flawless skin and setting off a sparkle in her eyes.
Thaddeus gaped and had to remind himself to breathe.
“Oren! Hurry, please!”
The woman by the back door startled Thaddeus with her shout and shocked him from his hapless stupor. Thinking he must introduce himself, he took a few steps closer to the young woman when the older woman suddenly called out.
“Stop where you are, blacksmith!”
Apparently, he still had enough soot on him to name his profession.
Thaddeus blindly obeyed and halted his approach, but was still unable to pull his eyes from the beauty. With a slight bow, he found his voice enough to say, “Good days ahead.” He managed to summon a smile.
The beautiful girl inclined her head and said in a soft, gentle tone, “And good memories behind, blacksmith.” With her smile threatening to turn into an outright grin, she added, “My name is Marie. It a pleasure to meet you.”
The sound of thudding footsteps of boot on wood echoed from the back room, finally pulling Thaddeus’ attention away from Marie. Looking up, his eyes settled on the older woman first, finding her staring back and forth between Marie and him, her expression full of worry mixed with something else.
From the back room, a deep voice called out, “Truly, must you shout, Joanne?”
The woman did not respond to what had to be Oren's question. Instead, she glared at Thaddeus, studying him with critical eyes. Thaddeus wondered what wrong he had committed to receive such a hot stare.
Oren Tailor emerged from the back of the shop and halted the moment he spotted Thaddeus. His gaze rested on Thaddeus a mere moment before shifting to where Marie stood. The looked back to Thaddeus, glowering suddenly, and said firmly, “How dare you enter my shop dressed like that, blacksmith! Have you no decency?”
Thaddeus felt color rush to his cheeks.
“Sir, I am sorry for my appearance. But Master Claude sent me here like this. In fact, he insisted on it.”
Oren's frowning mouth twitched.
“That is nonsense. Why would he do that?”
Nodding, Joanne said, “I asked the same thing.’
“Truly, sir and ma'am, Master Claude ordered me here in such a state," insisted Thaddeus. “You see, my shirt accidentally caught on fire and –“
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Marie. “Are you alright?”
Thaddeus looked back to Marie and found her looking on anxiously.
“No worries to be had. I was not wearing it at the time. It was quite hot in the smithy, so I took it off and hung it by the forge mouth.” He gave an embarrassed shrug and added, “A little too close.”
Marie’s expression changed from kind concern to one of gentle bemusement.
“Surely you are jesting, blacksmith.”
Shaking his head, Thaddeus said, “I would never mock a woman of your beauty, Marie.” A flash of panic flooded his chest. He was wondering from where the brazenness had come that allowed him to compliment a woman he had met only moments ago. “And please, call me Thaddeus.”
Tilting her head to the side, Marie gave him a coy smile.
“A good name. ‘Thaddeus.’ I like it.”
A chill danced up his spine as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight like hundreds of tiny, tempered, iron rods.
Oren rushed from the back of the room, clopping across the floor and coming to a stop between the pair.
“Why in the Nine Hells would Claude send you here like this?”
“As a punishment, I believe, sir. It was awfully embarrassing to walk all the way here like this,” replied Thaddeus.
With a derisive, huffing laugh, Oren asked, “Punishment? For whom, I wonder?” Eyes narrowing, he leaned forward and muttered, “Is this Claude's way of reminding me about payment for the needles?”
Thaddeus stared blankly at the man, entirely unsure how to answer the question.
“Uh…I know nothing about—”
“Oren!” called Joanne sharply. “You haven't paid your due, yet?” The woman appeared an equal mix disappointed and irritated.
Oren’s gaze danced over to Joanne and, with a touch of defiance, he said, “Two of the needles are bent. Why should I –”
From behind him, Marie interjected, “They are bent because you dropped them and then stepped on them, Father! That’s no reason not to pay Master Claude. How dishonest of you!”
Shocked, Thaddeus muttered, “He’s your father…?”
Marie peeked around Oren and gave Thaddeus a brilliant smile.
“He is.”
Thaddeus glanced at Oren. Then at Marie.
Oren was short, balding, and not entirely pleasant looking. Marie was a stunningly beautiful young woman.
Gaping at the pair and feeling a fool, Thaddeus suddenly realized the reason for the comments and mischievous smiles of Master Claude and the Pargette family. Apparently, a few people were having some fun at his expense.
As Thaddeus stared quietly, Joanne hurried across the room, speaking as she approached the trio.
“Truly, Oren Tailor. It is a wonder I ever agreed to marry you.”
Thaddeus glanced from Oren to Joanne.
“You are his wife, then?”
Joanne stared at him as if he had just asked if water was wet and said, “Of course I’m his wife.”
She halted beside her husband and glared at him. “No wonder Claude sent the boy over as such, Oren. I do not blame him.” Thaddeus noticed she continued to look back and forth between Marie and Thaddeus. “Claude knows how protective you are with Marie. I would assume he figured this was the best way to get your attention.” Her eyes narrowed. “And his rightful payment.”
Oren ignored his wife and crossed his arms, assuming a defensive stance. Glaring at Thaddeus, he said, “I will fit a new shirt for you, blacksmith, and then you will go. Is that clear?”
“Of course, sir,” replied Thaddeus. “That is why I am here, after all.” Unable to help himself, he sought out Marie's face, still illuminated in the sunlight. Marie smiled at him, lighting up the entire room. He could not help but grin back. Marie was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Joanne’s voice cut into his reverie.
“Marie! Go and fetch your father's measuring twine.”
A frown crossed Marie's face and it was as if a cloud had covered the sun.
“Yes, Mother.”
After a moment’s hesitation and another glance in Thaddeus’ direction, the young woman stepped from the pool of sunlight before the window and hurried to the back door, dodging the frames of people holding up dress, shirts, coats, and breeches in various states of completion. Thaddeus watched her every move. Just before she disappeared into the back room, Marie tossed Thaddeus one last look and grinned. His heart skipped a beat.
In a strained, jagged-edged voice, Oren hissed, “Blast it, blacksmith! Show some respect! I will not have you—”
Tired of the man’s blatant rudeness, Thaddeus stared at the threadspinner and said, “My name is Thaddeus, sir. Not ‘blacksmith.’ And I have shown nothing but respect since I stepped into your shop. You, on the other hand, have been nothing but sour to me. I’d appreciate some common courtesy.”
Oren stood with his mouth agape, his face turning red as he shook with rage. Yet, as he was inches shorter, bald, and terribly thin, the indignant anger came across more as if he were having a small seizure.
A quiet moment skipped past as the man trembled.
Finally, Oren found his words.
“I don’t care what your blasted name is—”
“Hush, Oren,” ordered Joanne in a firm tone. Her gaze was resting on Thaddeus, studying him. “The boy is right.” Her appraising stare reminded Thaddeus of Master Claude evaluating some hunk of metal on which he had been working, seeking out every little imperfection, real or imagined. “While his appearance is unexpected and inappropriate, there is no need for you to be blasted rude to him.”
Tearing his eyes from Thaddeus, Oren glared at his wife and asked in disbelief, “You are defending him? A young man shows up in our shop like…like…” He spun back and jabbed a finger at Thaddeus. “Like that!? In front of our little Marie and you—”
Joanne interrupted him again, saying, “Marie is eighteen, Oren. She is not little, anymore.”
“No matter!” shot back Oren. “He still came here like—”
Having none of his protests, Joanne leveled a steady gaze at her husband and said firmly, “It is not the boy’s fault—he was simply following orders! Why aren’t you angry with Claude?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps because you have wronged the man by not paying him what he was properly owed?”
Being privy to what felt like a private conversation made Thaddeus suddenly uneasy. Stepping forward, Thaddeus said to the pair, “Pardon me, sir, ma’am…perhaps I will simply leave. I did not mean to impose on you in such a manner. I will come back at a more suitable time. Have a pleasant day.” Disappointed that he would leave before seeing Marie again, Thaddeus nonetheless turned toward the door.
Joanne stopped him, saying firmly, “Hold a moment, Thaddeus.”
Surprised, he stopped and faced the woman.
“Pardon?”
“You are not leaving without a shirt, young man.”
“I’m not?”
“No. You are not.” Glaring at her husband, she said, “And you, my dear Oren, are going to be civil to a paying customer.”
The threadspinner glowered at Thaddeus.
Shifting her gaze back to Thaddeus, Joanne asked politely, “What does my husband owe the mastersmith?”
Thaddeus stared blankly at the woman.
“Pardon me, ma’am, but I do not know. Master Claude said for the cost of the shirt to be deducted from what you owe him.”
Joanne’s eyes flicked back to Oren.
“I don't suppose you know the amount?”
With pursed lips, Oren shook his head and said in a clipped tone, “I can't recall.”
Joanne's frown told Thaddeus she did not believe her husband's reply. The woman seemed ready to say something to that effect when the sounds of light steps approaching from the back room drew all three’s attention.
Marie swept through the door—startling Thaddeus with her beauty again—while announcing, “I am sorry it took so long, but Father did not put the twine in the correct place.” She glanced at her father and said teasingly, “Really, Father, it would be so much easier to find things if you put them in the same place every time.”
Thaddeus grinned wide. He had the same conversation with Master Claude at least a dozen times every turn. Marie glanced at Thaddeus and tossed him a quick smile.
Oren made a begrudging grunt and nodded absentmindedly—similar to Master Claude’s typical response to Thaddeus’ suggestions—but said nothing else. He had returned to glaring at Thaddeus.
Joanne instructed, “Marie, dear, help your father with fitting Thaddeus while I go and try—”
“Joanne!” exclaimed a frustrated Oren. “Truly, you go too far with—”
With a resounding stomp of heel and an exasperated huff, Joanne cut off her husband.
“You brought this on yourself, Oren Tailor! Had you simply paid Claude when the amount was due, I have no doubt he would not have sent over his strapping young apprentice here half-naked!” Her eyes flicked back to Thaddeus. “He certainly seems like a nice young man. He is polite and is learning a trade.” She looked over at her daughter. Marie was still standing in the doorway while staring at Thaddeus with a wide grin. After a moment, Joanne said softly, “Look at them, Oren. They’re grinning at one another like fools. No amount of your blustering will stop this.” A slight, happy smile spread over her face. “This thread cannot be put back on the spool, Oren…”
As one, Thaddeus, Oren, and Marie turned to stare at Joanne. Thaddeus was unsure what the other two were thinking, but he was certainly surprised by what the woman was implying.
“Ma’am, I assure you that I have no…ah…I…I only just met your daughter today.”
“Probably because father won't let me do much of anything besides work in this shop,” huffed Marie.
“We’ve been over this, Marie,” muttered Oren. “You must learn a trade!”
“And I have!” retorted Marie. Her eyes lit up with an admirable, fiery intensity. “I have been helping you since I was seven, father! And don't say I need more practice! I am a far better stitcher than you are!”
Before Oren could contradict her, Joanne spoke
“She is, Oren, and you know it.” Shooting a sharp glare at Marie, she added, “But please, dear, let me speak harsh to your father. Not you.”
The fire held on for a moment in Marie’s eyes before extinguishing. “You are right, Mother.” She looked to Oren and apologized, “I am sorry, Father.”
Father and daughter held one another’s gaze silently.
Thaddeus felt uncomfortable, once again feeling like he had interrupted upon a family moment. Yet, as everyone was standing quite still, he felt it would be overly conspicuous if tried to slip away as he wanted. Therefore, he waited, thinking about what he would tell Sevan about this excursion to the Tailors.
As his friend did not see fit to warn him about the incredibly beautiful daughter of the overprotective Tailor, he no longer felt bad about Sevan having to help him clean the forge later. Thinking of Sevan on his belly, covered in thick, black soot brought a tiny smile to his face. His eyes settled on Marie and his grin widened despite his earnest desire to keep his admiration to a minimum. Regardless of the gloom shrouding the back of the room, her eyes sparkled and she returned his smile with one of her own.
“Hrumph.”
The resigned, exasperated sound pulled Thaddeus’ attention back to Oren. The bald tailor was staring back and forth between his daughter and Thaddeus, a scowl etched deep into his face. With a long, drawn-out sigh, Oren let his shoulders slump.
“Fine. Marie, you can help me. I will measure, you write. We will both sew--let's see whose stitches are best, young lady.” His gaze settled on Thaddeus. “You will be on your way within the hour.” There was slightly less animosity in his voice. Thaddeus guessed it had taken great effort for the man to be civil.
Joanne nodded and said, “Good. Now, get to it. I'm going to go back and look at our ledger and see if I can determine the balance due Claude minus the charge for the shirt.” She began to move toward the back of the room, striding purposefully. “Everyone up here better behave themselves.” Reaching where her daughter still stood in the doorway, she paused for a moment, whispered something in her ear that set Marie's eyes wide and cheeks aflame, and continued into the back after a soft pat on Marie’s arm.
Thaddeus listened to her footsteps move into the back room and clod up the steps to the floor above. Wishing she had not gone, Thaddeus shot a worried look towards Oren, half-expecting the man to rush him with a pair of shears that were on the counter only a few feet away.
Oren took in a short, steadying breath. Sticking out his hand out, he said, “Marie, bring me the twine, please. We have work to do.”
As Marie walked toward her father, she grinned wide, her dimples clearly on display now. Thaddeus smiled back.
Oren took the twine from Marie's outstretched arm and marched up to Thaddeus. Staring up at him, the tailor asked, “How old are you, anyway?”
“Today is my twentieth yearday, sir.”.
“Truly?” asked Oren with a raised eyebrow. “Your build is astounding for a boy your age.”
Thaddeus nodded.
“Blacksmithing is strenuous work, sir.”
Oren grunted. Thaddeus did not know what to make of the sound.
Marie came to stand beside her father and only a few paces from Thaddeus. This was the closest Thaddeus had ever been to such beauty. He blushed as he felt Marie’s eyes running over him, appraising him.
Oren looked at his daughter. Muscles rippled along his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
“Tell Claude I'm charging him more for the extra material to cover your bulk.”
Eyes fixed on Marie, Thaddeus muttered, “Yes, sir.”
Thinking back to his exchange with the mastersmith, Thaddeus wondered if Master Claude had intended this meeting all along. As he shared a quiet, intimate look with Marie, Thaddeus sighed. He would need to thank Master Claude later.
