Chapter 8
After a great deal of deliberation, Roderick and Peter assigned me to work with Lochlan at his knitting booth the next day while they went on some mystery errand related to the shipment.
Before going, I’d firmly instructed myself not to think of Lochlan as anything other than another target, but my chest kept tightening each time I saw him, and I immediately decided that I hated the giddy sensation that swept through me each time Lochlan caught me looking at him.
The small handcart creaked in protest as Lochlan and I hauled it along the narrow forest path, its wheels catching on roots and stones so that the contents kept getting jostled around and the table we’d loaded into it jutted over the side a few inches.
Burlap sacks filled with yarn and neatly stacked bundles of scarves weighed the cart down slightly, the smell of wool wafting about in the cool air.
Lochlan leaned into the handles, while I walked ahead, clearing branches off the trail and kicking rocks out of the way to make the path easier for him.
“Why do you do a knitting booth?” I asked him, trying to keep the conversation casual. “Do you make a lot of money with it?”
“Hardly,” Lochlan said with a slight grunt as one of the handcart wheels bumped over a root. “But it’s a convenient outlook post, and the Nightsworn would never suspect a man who knits scarves and socks.”
“I’ve seen the Nightsworn,” I told him, bouncing along at his side. “Those are the king’s rangers or spies, right? And they can arrest people.”
“Right. So stay out of their way and keep your head down.”
“Is that why Roderick and Peter didn’t come with you?” I asked slyly. “The Nightsworn watch for them, don’t they?”
“You really shouldn’t talk so much,” Lochlan told me. “It’s prudent to listen more than you speak. You never know who might overhear you.”
“So then why are we actually here?” I asked, kicking up clods of dirt as I walked along. “I won’t tell anyone.” I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key.
Lochlan shot me a look. “It’s easier to move products when everyone thinks you’re harmless. And on that note, if anyone comes and asks about alpaca yarn, you let me handle them directly, understand?”
“Sure thing,” I said breezily. “I don’t like alpacas anyway. They make me sneeze.”
The market was already awake when we rattled in.
Animals let out bleats, barks, and clucks; goods were already being set out; and the air was sharp with the smell of smoke from breakfast fires.
Lochlan guided the handcart into a gap between a honey seller and a woman peddling chipped crockery near the intersection of two roads.
“This is a good spot,” he said, coming to a halt. “Here, help me with the table.”
We unloaded the table and began setting up, arranging the display with skeins of yarn and knitted goods in attractively placed piles.
“Put these purple socks over there,” Lochlan instructed me, handing me a pair of blue stockings.
I took them, puzzled. “You mean blue?”
“Right, right,” he mumbled. “Just put them over there. And don’t touch this basket.
” He set a wicker basket loaded with extra fluffy yarn below the tablecloth, hidden from the customers’ sight.
He arranged a different yarn basket next, humming under his breath, mixing reds with greens, blues with grays, all entirely wrong in terms of color coordination, and yet he was completely confident as he did so.
Finally, he took out a sign that said Handknits.
Fair Price. and propped it up near the front of the booth. “Where did that green scarf go?”
I looked all around the booth and even went to check in the cart but couldn’t find a single green scarf. “Did we leave it back at the cottage?” I asked, lifting baskets and shifting around piles of yarn to look underneath.
“Never mind, I found it,” Lochlan said, pulling out a long scarf that was a rather ugly brown color.
A suspicion niggled at the back of my head. “Can you not see color?” I asked, a smile quirking at the side of my mouth.
“I see color just fine,” Lochlan grouched. “Everyone else just seems to disagree with me on what color it is that I see. And remember, if anyone asks for alpaca—”
“I know, I know. I send them to you.” I tilted my head as I considered Lochlan.
He had set his chair down next to the booth and had already taken out his knitting needles and looped on a new set of stitches.
A colorblind bandit who associated with slave traders, used a knitting booth as a lookout post, and was a trained healer…
I couldn’t quite figure him out, but at least he was interesting to observe. He caught my eye and I quickly looked in the opposite direction. I needed to find him a great deal less interesting. He was in league with Roderick, the man who had sold my sister. That alone was enough to condemn him.
All that morning, customers came up and fingered the goods but, more often than not, would leave without purchasing anything.
Most women gave the same stiff smile after touching the lumpy patterns and would move on, occasionally whispering to a friend that they could do a fancier pattern at home and in better colors, too.
Lochlan wasn’t at all bothered by the remarks and sent each on their way with a friendly wave. “Have a great day!” he called after each one.
“Lochlan? Is that you? I thought I heard your voice.” An old woman tapped out the path in front of her with a knobby cane and stretched out a hand, searching.
“Auntie Mable! It’s so nice to see you,” Lochlan said. Instead of chatting from behind the table like normal, he walked around to greet her, clasping her hand into his own and guiding her to the table. “Would you like a seat?”
“No, not today. My grandson’s birthday is coming and I wanted to get him a new scarf. I do love your patterns.” Her hand searched as she blindly felt for the scarves.
“Thank you, Mable. You’re very kind. I have a new apprentice with me today. This is Gil. Gil, this is Auntie Mable.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said loudly, nudging some of the scarves closer to her. “Would you like me to help you pick a good color?”
“Oh no. I judge products based on their texture, not their color. Lochlan knows all about that, don’t you, my boy?”
Lochlan grinned sheepishly. “I have an inkling. Speaking of which—I made a new scarf and thought of you. I think you’ll like it.”
He pulled out a scarf that was the same shade of brown as dirt. “I think it looks like a sunset.”
I bit my lip. It shouldn’t be funny. I could think of many situations that would be much more difficult for Lochlan if he couldn’t tell the difference between colors, and I also felt bad for Mable.
She would have no idea that Lochlan sold her a hideous scarf.
She would likely present it to her grandson and announce that it was like the sunset in front of their whole family.
Mable was running her hands over the scarf. “It has good tension. You do make interesting patterns. How much do I owe you?”
“For you, not a single copper. Just tell your grandson happy birthday from me.” Lochlan beamed as old Mable felt for his cheek to pinch it.
The dirt-brown scarf was clutched in her other hand, and I felt a strong urge to sneakily swap it out for a prettier one.
She and Lochlan might not know the difference, but Mable’s grandson probably would.
“You’re a good boy, Lochlan. And I had a question for you. My hands have been stiffer and more sore lately. What do you recommend?”
Right—Peter had said Lochlan was a trained healer.
I listened in as Lochlan gave instructions to Mable about what solution to soak her hands in at night and how to massage them to decrease the aches and stiffness.
Why was he being so kind to her? I refused to examine the growing warmth in my chest. Nothing good would come of it.
“Can you remember all that?” he asked Mable patiently. “I can write it down for your daughter to read to you if you’d like.”
“No, I can remember. I’m blind, but my memory is just fine,” she said. “Gil?” Mable looked in the wrong direction.
“I’m over here,” I told her, and she turned, hand outstretched to find me. I hoped she wasn’t going to pinch my cheek, but the hope was quickly dashed. Once her hand touched my shoulder, she searched for my face and pinched my thin cheek.
“Be a good apprentice for Lochlan and eat some more. You feel too skinny. Lochlan, feed that boy! I need to find some cabbages now.”
I couldn’t help but like Mable, even if she pinched my cheeks. Lochlan told me to mind the shop and helped Mable find the vegetable booth she was looking for. If I’d had an aunt or grandmother, I’d have liked for it to be someone like Mable.
“Is she your aunt on your mother or father’s side?” I asked Lochlan when he got back.
“Neither. She isn’t my aunt at all, but everyone calls her Auntie Mable. The entire town sort of adopted her as part of their family.”
“I like her,” I told him.
Lochlan laughed. “She’s my only regular customer. Apparently my designs are so hideous that only blind people want them.”
“We’ve had other customers today,” I pointed out. “You sold several pairs of socks and a baby blanket.”
“That’s true,” Lochlan agreed, then lowered his voice. “But just between us, I wouldn’t care if I didn’t sell any. The money doesn’t matter to me.”
“Is that why you gave one to Mable? Just to be nice?”
Lochlan leaned back and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “I suppose. She’s nice to everyone, so I figure I can be nice back.”