Torn, page 3
I raised a silent eyebrow. It didn’t matter that a laborer was a woman—until it did. The limits that marriage and children would place on me were plain, and were plain to any woman.
The conversation shifted to finding work this winter, but the tone was tainted with the conversation that preceded it. They no longer spoke merely about job leads and which warehouses would have slower business over winter, but made implicit arguments for their discontent. I had nothing to add to their discussion and my coddle had gone cold, so I went home, but the echoes of the conversation followed me like a shifting shadow, deepening the cold dusk of the late autumn evening.
3
KRISTOS CAME HOME LATE, WAKING ME AS HE TRIPPED OVER A CHAIR in our row house’s tiny kitchen, and I woke early to get ahead at the shop, so we didn’t talk about our argument at the tavern. I reworked our order schedule, pushed off an invoice I could avoid paying for a week, and managed to secure enough projected income in the coffers to be sure I could pay Alice and Penny for the next month. The door of the shop opened and closed as I finished my tabulations, and I left the book open in case of a new order.
Instead, a shy Pellian girl, her cloak a faded blue wool, stood nervously in the entry, just far enough inside to close the door against the draft.
“Emmi!” I had few friends in the Pellian quarter of the city—I lived in the working-class row houses near the commercial district where urban and provincial Galatines and recent immigrants washed together, driven by the necessity of proximity to businesses and trade at the center of town. Moreover, my business absorbed most of my time. I didn’t have time to shop for Pellian spices in the Pellian market; I bought mainly Galatine produce and herbs from the nearby stands and street criers. I didn’t socialize by the well like the Pellian housewives did; I barely socialized at all, only at predominately Galatine taverns with Kristos’s predominately Galatine workmates when he prodded me.
In truth, both Kristos and I had followed Mother’s example of working for Galatines, following more lucrative local work instead of maintaining strong ties to the Pellian community. She frequented the Pellian market, but dressed, spoke, and behaved in as Galatine a manner as she could to please her employers. If I were completely honest, I had taken her strategy a step further, distancing myself from the stereotypes of Pellian charm casting by making my shop as modish and Galatine as possible—and myself, as well, in the process.
“I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I—I had hoped to talk to you and wasn’t sure where you lived, so …” Emmi’s fingers worried the hem of her cloak.
“I’m at the shop more often than I’m at home anyway,” I replied. “You can come in.”
She edged further toward the counter. Over a year ago, two timid Pellian girls had approached me to ask how I managed to run a business selling charms. Emmi and Namira had both been trained by their mothers and sold charms out of their kitchens; they were shocked that a woman was running a successful business in the art. I was ashamed to admit that my first thought was protecting the uniqueness of my business, but remembered quickly that the Lord of Coin would not grant permits to too many identical businesses. It couldn’t hurt me if a few backdoor charm casters could mend their linens with a bit of luck thrown in. We had a fluid clutch of around a half dozen women, from sixteen-year-old Emmi to octogenarian Lieta, meeting once a month to discuss the craft.
There was little I could teach anyone about basic charm casting that they hadn’t already learned from their mothers, but the nuances of how to charm more than clay tablets and what to blend aside from herbal slurries soon took over our conversation. I found, as well, that I was curious about the Pellian quarter of the city, where I had never lived, and the Pellian customs that I had only a vague familiarity with. My parents may have been Pellian, but the way we had always lived, outside the Pellian quarter, working for Galatines, moved us farther away from the island our parents left. These women, however, kept Pellia far closer than my family had.
None of them had ever sought me out outside of our meetings, and I couldn’t guess at what Emmi wanted now.
“Are you well?” she asked, a bit stiffly, mimicking proper Galatine greetings.
“I’m fine, Emmi, and you?” I’d cut her off before she began to inquire about my health and the health of my relations, as Galatine housewives were apt to do.
“All right.” Of all the Pellian women I knew, Emmi was probably the most facile with Galatine culture—born here, attended Galatine school—and yet she still stood on the periphery of comfort in my shop. “I just—well, I was hoping to ask a favor.”
I nodded, agreeable. “What do you need?”
“It’s more than a little favor, I just—I wanted to know if you’re hiring any assistants.”
I was taken aback. Emmi had never expressed interest in learning my trade, only the transferable nature of charm casting. I wondered if she simply wanted a Galatine trade to advance beyond the barter-and-scrape marketplace of the Pellian district. She knew that the likelihood of replicating my business was very low, and hadn’t had much luck charm casting in anything but the clay tablets she had learned on.
“I don’t want to steal your business or anything!” she added in a rush. “I just—money’s tight this year. I’m a quick learner,” she said hopefully.
I sympathized—after all, my mother’s tactic had always been integrating herself with the Galatine ateliers, not hiring out mending from the Pellian quarter. Still, I couldn’t hire Emmi. Not now. I was unsure if I could even retain the assistants I already had—competent, able seamstresses who didn’t require the extensive training that Emmi would.
“I’m sure you are,” I replied slowly. “It’s not a good time of year, Emmi. Everyone tightens the purse in winter—buy what they need for the winter in the autumn, and then my business drops off until spring. Maybe in the spring,” I added, more for the benefit of reassuring myself that I would try than as any kind of promise.
She nodded. “It’s only that—with the riots last summer, a lot of prices went up, and Papa hasn’t had as much work because they canceled some of the building projects in our quarter, and the lady who hired Ma for laundry fired her. Not many Galatines are using the Pellian district markets—I mean, fewer than usual. I was hoping for—well, for any work right now.”
I was surprised, and a little ashamed of my surprise, at realizing that things were difficult for Emmi and my Pellian acquaintances. “What’s going on in the quarter?”
“People are nervous about the riots last summer and all the talk still going on.” Emmi shrugged.
“But that—the riots were all over the city last summer.” Many of Kristos’s acquaintances from the Laborers’ League had been involved, though he was quick to argue that the League didn’t organize the riots. Angry people throw things, he’d said with a shrug when I pressed him. “The worst one was near Fountain Square, after all!”
“Plenty of people in the Laborers’ League are Pellian. I guess people think the quarter isn’t as safe as it used to be. One of the fires was in our market.” I recalled this—a quick-moving blaze that was fortunately cut short by one of the summer cloudbursts that swept in from the coast.
“There are still more Galatines in the League.” I sighed, frustrated. I filed this away as another grievance to raise with Kristos the next time he extolled the virtues of the movement. “Emmi, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any work right now.” Even if I did, I thought, I couldn’t afford to train someone in fine stitching unless business picked up, which dug at my conscience more than anything. “If I do, I’ll let you know, though. I promise. I’ll think of you first.” Maybe I could train her for some simple basting or hemming, or if we got very busy, sweeping and tidying the studio.
She chewed on her lip, disappointed. “I understand,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry. I really am, Emmi.” I closed my tabulation book, still open, still not as full of orders as it needed to be, still precariously balanced between income and expenses.
“I’ll see you at our next meeting. Usual time and place?” She managed a smile.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, reminding myself to come in early all week to free an afternoon to meet with my charm-casting friends.
I retreated to my private corner of the shop, blocked off with decorative screens, and picked up the kerchief I’d started for Mrs. Bursin. I needed to charm cast without distractions, but of course had to stay accessible to Penny and Alice, so my little fort built of fabric-screened frames worked well. Still, they both knew that when I disappeared inside, I wasn’t to be disturbed except when they truly needed me. Both were so capable now that interruptions seldom happened. One or both would leave me soon enough for better jobs, I wagered with a sigh—and then I would have the expense of training a new assistant to grapple with.
I couldn’t think about that now. Instead, I held the needle gently between my thumb and forefinger, and exhaled. When I inhaled, the seam I had sewn the previous day began to glow, faintly, to my eyes only. It looked like a single strand of golden sunlight woven through the plain fabric, softly lit from within.
My mother had taught me to charm cast and to sew. Years of derision from Galatines stopped her from trying to sell her traditional charms, though, and we never made more than her day wages, earned stitching yards and yards of hems at a small second-rate atelier. Despite her fatigue, she trained me to cast charms while evening stole the last of the light from our crumbling cellar-level flat.
Even with my mother’s rigorous training, I didn’t really know how it worked.
All I knew was that I thought about good fortune, or love, or health for the person the item was meant for, and my thread would begin to glow. If I maintained my concentration, every stitch I took with the glowing thread would be like one word in an incantation, one ingredient in a potion, the whole piece working as a completed charm when I was done.
There was a feeling, too, that welled within me when the process was working just right. A kind of deep-seated happiness, simple but complete, like the feeling that came with seeing a baby laugh or smelling fresh-baked apple pie or hearing soft rainfall on the roof. And though I was tired—and hungry—after working on a charm for a few hours, I was calmly content.
“We don’t make house calls except to established clients,” I heard Alice say as I set the finished kerchief aside. I whisked to the front room, where she stood behind the counter with a resolutely lifted chin, hands folded primly over her white apron.
The young woman waiting at the counter wore her hair piled fashionably high on her head, topped by one of the more ridiculous of the season’s caps that I thought had an uncanny resemblance to diapers. Her gown was of a brilliant blue print, one that I would have loved to ply into a creation of my own, but had clearly been reworked. A smaller woman wore this gown before my visitor, I surmised from the way the front accommodated a new panel and the marks along the shoulders where the seams had been let out. The gown had been given to her. Probably by her mistress.
She was a lady’s maid, I deduced before Alice could speak again. And ladies’ maids often ran errands on behalf of their very wealthy and influential mistresses.
“May I help you?” I asked in my friendliest voice.
Of course Alice piped up first. “I was just explaining to Miss Vochant that we don’t—”
I silenced Alice with a quick tap on her wrist and a tilt of my head that told her she was wanted in the back of the atelier. Immediately.
“Please continue,” I said.
“I am sorry to intrude,” Miss Vochant said. “But my mistress has heard … good things about your work.”
“Indeed,” I replied blandly. I never assumed patrons wanted charms until they asked for them. It maintained some of the mystery. Some of the intrigue. Some of the reason I could get away with charging so much.
“Yes, she … she has need of a few new items for her winter wardrobe, and would very much like them to have your unique touch.”
Miss Vochant was coy. Most ladies’ maids would have bumbled into openly asking for the love spell or money charm or whatever their mistresses wanted by now.
“And who, may I ask, is your mistress?”
“The Lady Viola Snowmont,” she said.
My jaw threatened to drop. Lady Snowmont was a favorite of the queen’s, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and even the court painter. Her father was the Lord of Keys, the justice magistrate, and head of the soldiers. I fought my composure back into line.
“And how might I best serve the Lady Snowmont?”
“She had hoped you could visit her salon next Thursday for a consultation. But of course if that is impossible—”
“I do apologize, but Alice was mistaken.” I thought quickly. It didn’t look good to make exceptions to policies for wealthy patrons—it could make me look as though my shop needed Lady Snowmont to survive. That I was grubbing for favor. No, another tack. “I do not allow my assistants to arrange house calls on my behalf. I must agree to them myself, and make the arrangements. We are so very busy,” I added.
This seemed to work well enough. “All right. I shall tell Lady Snowmont to expect you at two o’clock.” She dropped her voice and smiled. “And I wouldn’t eat before coming if I were you. She always has quite the spread at the salon.”
I returned the smile with a professional nod. “Thank you. Please leave your mistress’s card with me.”
I waited until the door had closed behind her before I did a happy jig around the store.
I half ran home at the end of the day, excited at the prospects my new client might open for my shop, but also because the wintry chill had deepened as evening fell and my thin silk mantelet, a fashionable new accessory I wore in a successful attempt to sell charmed versions to clients, wasn’t enough to keep it at bay. I trotted past Fountain Square, which separated the residential streets from the shops and tradesmen’s ateliers where I worked. The imposing dark granite fountain at its center was covered in a dusting of snow, but it was the common green beyond that had changed the most with the turning of the seasons.
Squat white tents had mushroomed in the trampled pale grass of the park, populated by His Majesty’s royal forces. Their pale blue uniforms, so brightly impressive on parade in the summer, looked wan and tired against the frosty backdrop of the winter city. I exhaled a white cloud as I passed them. Since they had encamped here, at the turning of the fall, the riots that had marked the summer ceased. The relief was palpable in the trade district, and my business had seen a comfortable resurgence after the threat of violence died away. Still, the unexpected summer lull had taken a toll on the year’s expected profits.
“Kristos!” I yelled as I flew through the rattling back door on our low-rent row house. “Kristos, you won’t believe the day I had!”
The quiet house absorbed my voice, and no one came to greet me.
Figures, I thought, prodding some fire into the stove and filling the kettle for tea. I have something happen—for once, something big—and Kristos was gone. I should have expected it, his days reaching far past sunset with the demands of the Laborers’ League. It had been unusual for me to set the second plate at dinner for the last month. In fact, the dying riots of the summer had laid fertile ground for an autumn filled with more intensive activity in the Laborers’ League.
I slumped in my chair, waiting for the water to boil. There was still some ham in the larder and half a loaf of bread. No reason to hurry to the market tonight. I traced the rough wood of the table. It was just the two of us, and had been for so many years that I forgot to think of our little family as missing anyone. My parents had migrated from Pellia to Galitha before we were born, looking for work, so we had always been far from aunts and uncles and cousins. Pellia produced charm casters but little else; perhaps that was why Galatines didn’t believe in the clay charms they saw Pellians peddling in the city. How could the most impoverished country in the hemisphere have any good luck at all? They didn’t understand how Pellians measured luck—by days and by coins, not by lifelong health or wealth. They would buy a charm for a good day at the races or a kiss from a girl they liked and consider it well worth it.
Mother and Papa were like that—one day at a time, good luck for today and not fretting tomorrow. I fretted—Galitha City had taught me to worry. Papa, a fisherman, had drowned when I was still too young to truly remember a time before we lived on Mother’s slim day wages alone, and Kristos and I had been fifteen and thirteen, respectively, when she died of a short but vile fever. It was fortunate we had keen noses for work and the survival instinct of stray cats. We lived like stray cats for a while—taking shelter in friends’ kitchens when they could help us and unused sheds and alleyways when they couldn’t, even swiping scraps from the bakers and butchers and things the street criers dropped. But we learned, and I had learned, more than Kristos, that Pellian ways didn’t lend themselves to economic security in the city like Galatine scruples did.
Now Kristos turned to the Laborers’ League, the workers’ organization that he claimed was the wave of the future, and I honed my charm-making skills, which I considered a relic of the past. Both served us well, in their own way. I made enough money to keep us relatively comfortable, and Kristos’s connections around the city led to jobs for him that funneled more money into our modest purse. If the run of luck with work he’d had through the autumn continued and my business didn’t slow too much over the winter, I could harness more of my profits into growing my business. Well-worn fancies of a larger atelier positioned closer to Fountain Square, with large-paned windows showcasing my best work, quickly encroached on my more pragmatic thoughts. Winter meant, more than likely, slower business for my shop and fewer jobs for Kristos.
My kettle began to hum, steam pouring from the spout, and I poured the boiling water over some musty tea leaves in an old pot. There was a chip in the mouth and the beginnings of a crack along the handle.
