Forging Golden Slippers (Once Upon an Enchantment #2)

One - Mina

I looked at the sign swaying in the breeze and sighed. It hung from a pole of twisted wrought iron, decorative but simple. The sign itself said only Smythe it would be a travesty if the entire thing was made of the expensive metal.

The goblets on the middle shelf were even worse. They teetered at odd angles. I wouldn’t have been surprised if drinking from one resulted in a sliced lip. Even the chunks of colored crystal pressed into them as decoration lacked symmetry.

Morbid curiosity kept me moving. I had to see what was on the top shelf. Going up on tiptoe when I got close enough, I saw the smith’s examples of jewelry. Half a dozen rings sat on the shelf. Each one looked more painful than the last to wear. They were oblong rather than round, except for one that looked triangular more than anything. The designs etched into the bands looked more like random scratches than deliberate decoration.

Skorsa’s smith had no ability whatsoever with precious metals. Even if he had any artistic vision—which I doubted considering what he had on display—he lacked the dexterity to shape gold into delicate pieces.

I sighed. I had hoped, but I wasn’t truly surprised. With any luck, the general store kept a supply of jewelry. The owner traveled to Haiwella every fortnight to restock his shop. Maybe he also carried pieces for the young men of the village who needed betrothal gifts.

Most likely, those men made a trip to the city on their own. Skorsa wasn’t so far from the capital to make the journey difficult.

If Master Kiels had nothing in stock, I’d have to ask him to purchase something on my behalf during his next trip. I wanted to choose the piece myself, but replacing the necklace I had brought to Skorsa with something appropriate took priority. In fact, I might even be better off relying on Master Kiels to pick the piece. I hadn’t done so well the first time around—hence my current predicament.

With one last look at the awful pieces on display in the cabinet, I turned away. The door to the forge opened when I was halfway across the room. I hadn’t even realized the pounding had stopped until I heard the squeak of hinges.

I froze, not wanting to be caught scurrying out of the shop. Slowly, I pivoted to face the man wiping calloused hands on a soot-stained apron.

“May I help you?”

About my age, with short cropped brown hair, the smith looked strong enough to lift me with a single hand. The breadth of his shoulders was even more noticeable because he wasn’t so tall that I had to crane my neck back to meet his eyes, which was a pleasant change. I was of average height, but I swore the men of Skorsa all towered over me. It made me miss the heeled slippers I had left back in the city, the fashionable footwear impractical on the village streets.

The smith’s dark brown eyes met mine for a bare instant. I saw shadows and silence in their depths. Then his shoulders slumped, and he looked at his toes.

“I’m not sure,” I said, suddenly fearing I’d hurt his feelings if I told him no. I prayed to Affenala that he wasn’t responsible for the rings. The man was young enough that his former master was probably still the primary smith. Would it be better if the man who had taught this one his trade had made those monstrosities? I gestured at the locked cabinet. “Are those the best examples of the smith’s gold-work?”

A strange expression crossed the man’s face. One part embarrassment, one part contempt, and a healthy dose of shame underneath it all. “Yes. We don’t get much demand for expensive pieces in Skorsa. I think your family is the only one in the entire village to own a gold candlestick.”

I reflexively patted the charm hanging from a silk ribbon around my neck. I had no actual blood ties to the Wrison family. The mind-bending charm ensured everyone thought I was Mina Devale, Eliza Wrison’s niece from the city. The magic was powerful enough that no one even noticed the similarity between my well-known real name, Princess Charmina Devaoile, and my assumed one.

“I was actually thinking more along the lines of jewelry than candlesticks.” I tried to remember anything the Wrisons might have told me about the village smiths. Was it a father and son operating the forge? The sign out front implied as much, but in a village like Skorsa, the name wouldn’t have changed for generations. I couldn’t remember if the family name was even Smythe, which struck me as odd. In the few days I had been in Skorsa, the young women had filled any gaps the Wrisons had left in my knowledge of the villagers. Or so I had thought.

“Master Powell doesn’t make jewelry.”

I looked at the cabinet once more. “Then the rings are your work?”

He scowled. “No. Those are Powell’s. But they also are not jewelry.”

Long practice kept me from showing my agreement with this harsh, albeit accurate, indictment. The way he spoke of the other smith, I knew there was no love lost, but that was no excuse for me to disparage a man I didn’t know.

I altered my assumptions about the smiths of Skorsa. Probably not a father and son. At least, I hoped not. “What about you?”

“What about me? ”

I didn’t let his curt response deter me. “Do you make jewelry, Master —?”

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. That he wouldn’t even tell me his name. He seemed to consider his options very carefully before saying, “Smythson. Alan Smythson.”

Smythe & Sons. The shop belonged to Alan’s family, but the primary smith was Master Powell. In a place like Skorsa, where shops were passed down in families for generations, there was likely an interesting story behind that dichotomy. And still, I had heard nothing about Master Powell or Alan.

Alan was looking at the floor once more.

I repeated my question. “Do you make jewelry, Master Smythson?”

He shrugged. “I enjoy doing intricate work, but I don’t have the materials to make jewelry. Nor is there enough of a demand to take the time away from other projects.”

“But if you had the materials, could you do anything with them?” I cocked my head to the side, trying to figure Alan out. Not quite nervous. Not quite diffident. More like he had learned to throttle his own emotions. Not hide them, like I so often did at court, but force them down.

His eyes narrowed.

I tried to radiate encouragement and optimism, not sure what I could say to reassure him that this wasn’t an elaborate joke at his expense. I wanted to hear his answer. At the very least, this was a smith who recognized quality—or a lack thereof—when he saw it. Perhaps he could also do what Powell could not.

Alan walked back to the cabinet filled with a waste of gold. He reached above it, behind the finial, and grabbed something.

I went up on tiptoe instinctively, trying to see the object. I saw nothing until he turned and lowered his arm. With a flick of his wrist, a coil of copper wire unfurled. No, not wire. The copper had been formed into a delicate chain .

I stepped closer, lifting the chain to my eye level, even while Alan kept one end pinched between two fingers.

Each link of the chain came in a unique shape: some oblong, some round, others square. A few twisted instead of laying flat. A smattering of links interwove with two neighboring links, others laced through three or four other rings. Together, they formed an elegant, distinctive piece.

It was exactly the type of intricate, sophisticated, yet still understated style I wanted for a present for Eliza Wrison. I looked up at Alan, noticing all at once how close we stood. I swallowed, but didn’t step back. “You made this?”

He tugged the chain, sliding it off my hand, and sighed. “Yes.”

“Perfect!” I wondered at his fatalism. I hadn’t been able to hide my surprise, which had nothing to do with him creating the chain, but rather with the existence of such an exquisite piece at all. Still, I would have expected him to bristle at my surprise. Most men our age would have reacted poorly. Most older men, too. If a master jeweler in Haiwella had showed me that chain, I would have been just as shocked, but he would have puffed out his chest and started enumerating his experience and qualifications.

I reached into the pocket of my dark blue skirt. “Could you make another if I gave you the material?”

Alan frowned.

I pulled the necklace I had bought in Haiwella out of my pocket and unwrapped the handkerchief folded around it.

A seemingly solid band of gold and rose gold, the necklace followed the latest court trend. It resembled a wide collar that circled the base of the neck and extended over the collarbone for the width of three fingers. In the center, four seed-sized sapphires lay embedded in the gold in a diamond pattern.

I had brought gifts for all three members of the Wrison household as a thank you for hosting me while I visited Skorsa. I had intended to give the necklace to Eliza, my supposed aunt, at the end of my stay. Less than a week into living with Magistrate Wrison, his wife, and their son, and I already knew the necklace did not suit Eliza at all.

If I gave her the stylish—by city standards—necklace, Eliza would thank me profusely, then place it in a safe place, never to be worn. Even after the fashion trickled down from court and less expensive variations traveled from Haiwella to become popular in the village, she would feel silly wearing such a showy piece.

I had avoided picking a necklace with the large gemstones favored by most of the women at court, knowing that such a gift would be impractical. But surrounded by the ostentation of ladies dripping with jewels, it hadn’t occurred to me that even without a thumbnail-sized gem, the necklace still called attention to itself. There were some women in Skorsa who would love such a present. Eliza Wrison wasn’t one of them.

Alan’s jaw dropped when I unwrapped the necklace. His hand drifted toward it, but he pulled back. I held it out closer to him, trying to get him to take it. “Can you make a chain by melting this one down?”

He reached for the necklace again, stopping when his fingers brushed the metal and looking up to check my reaction. When I just smiled, he picked it up and brought it closer. “Melt it down?”

“Or do the two types of gold make that a silly idea?”

He flipped the necklace over and traced one of the nearly invisible seams where gold and rose gold met.

I wasn’t sure he had even heard me. “Can you melt this down and use the material to make a chain like the copper one? I want a necklace for Aunt Eliza, something that suits her better than this. Maybe you could alternate between the two golds in the chain, then have the sapphires hang from the chain one after another?”

He flipped the necklace back to the front. “Keeping the sapphires together in the diamond arrangement would look better. They are too small to stand on their own. I could make a pendant out of part of the gold and embed the stones in that. ”

He paused and risked meeting my eyes a second time. I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

He looked back at the necklace in his hands immediately. “There’s more than enough gold here to make two chains, one rose, the other regular gold. Twisting those together instead of alternating the links would add an extra dimension. Or perhaps two chains of each.”

“I want Aunt Eliza to feel comfortable wearing it any day, not just special occasions, so nothing too ornate.”

“Of course. I’d make the chains quite thin. Even with four chains, it will still be delicate.”

“I’m sold. Everything you’ve said sounds wonderful, so I’ll trust your judgment. When should I come to pick it up?”

Alan hesitated. For a moment, I thought he was about to shove the necklace back at me and refuse. Then he squared his shoulders, drawing to his full height, which was a bit taller than I had first thought. “I’ll have to finish it before Powell returns from this trip in three days. Why don’t you stop by the day after tomorrow?”

I hadn’t expected him to finish it anywhere close to that quickly. I still had nearly a month in Skorsa and didn’t need the necklace before I said my goodbyes. Then again, it was probably for the best if I found out sooner rather than later if I needed to send for something in Haiwella.

Instinct said I would not need a backup plan, though.

***

Leaving Alan still staring at the necklace in his palm, I stepped out of the shop. Bright sunlight momentarily blinded me, and I walked directly into a body when the door swung shut behind me. Hands gripped my arms. I blinked a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the light, and recognized Sam helping me regain my balance.

Though the entire village thought us to be cousins, there was very little resemblance between us. Sam took after his father, with dark skin and hair. I was supposedly related to his mother, who at least had the same hazel eyes as me, though she was golden-tan with auburn hair to my fair skin and blond locks. Without my charm to twist thoughts around, a blood tie between any of the Wrisons and myself would be laughable.

Sam glanced at the sign hanging above the shop door, then back at me. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing visiting the blacksmith’s, Mina?”

I smiled. Sam had started treating me as a younger sister the moment I arrived in Skorsa. He alternated between being protective, exasperated, and suspicious—just like my younger brother back home. He was only a year older than me, but he still managed to imbue his concerns with the authority of age, something Noel never managed.

“Salvaging the thank you present I bought for your mother back in Haiwella.” I let Sam steer us past the tavern. “I bought her a wonderful necklace, the height of fashion back in the city.”

Sam winced.

“I know,” I laughed. “She’d never wear it. I hoped the smith might do gold work as well as iron.”

Sam continued to lead us to the edge of the cobbled square, greeting everyone as they wrapped up the day’s business. Cutting across the square by the fountain took less time, but Sam never took the shortest route—which explained how he had ended up outside the smithy in time for me to bump into him. The direct route between the village hall and the Wrison home passed nowhere near the forge, which stood halfway around the square in the opposite direction.

“He claims to.” Sam rolled his eyes before rushing forward to help a woman trying to balance a baby and a loaf of bread while being pulled forward by a toddler. He rescued the bread before it hit the ground and gave it to the toddler, who accepted this new responsibility with solemn focus. Then Sam came back to my side, continuing as if nothing had happened. “Master Powell is a fine blacksmith, for the most part, but his goldsmith claims lack substance. Every time a man starts courting someone, Powell tries to convince him to buy one of his so-called rings as a betrothal gift.”

“Those are betrothal rings?” I shuddered at the thought of some poor woman being stuck wearing one of the clunky, misshapen pieces. “Well, I realized quickly enough that he wouldn’t be of any help to me. Luckily, I ran into the other smith. What’s the relationship there, anyway?”

“Alan?” Sam shook his head. “He’s only a journeyman. Master Powell is his stepfather. Alan’s father was a talented blacksmith, but I think Alan only gained his journeyman status because it is the family business. He hasn’t earned his mastery. He’s rather a disappointment to the Smythson name. The men of that family have been the blacksmiths of Skorsa since the village was first established. It’s a good thing for us that Powell moved out here and married the former smith’s widow.”

Someone who had crafted the delicate chain Alan had showed me hardly deserved the label “disappointment.” I had only Alan’s word that he had made it himself, but his suggestions for the new necklace supported the theory that he had artistic vision. Besides, someone had made it, and Sam had confirmed that Powell produced the amateurish rings. It didn’t sound like there were any other smiths in the village.

“You know,” I mused as we turned the corner leading to a row of houses just north of the square, “it’s in the smith’s best interest to make Alan seem incompetent if he only married into the position of village blacksmith. Surely Alan should have inherited the forge?”

Even if he was only a journeyman, he was still of age. By a handful of years, in my estimation.

“Well, yes, but Powell has precedent to claim the property through his marriage to the late Mistress Smythson. The law might no longer make a wife’s property automatically her husband’s, but the village council won’t force him out without another capable smith ready to take over. ”

I gaped. Sam's default reactions to all people involved doubt and cynicism. This easy acceptance of Powell sounded nothing like the Sam I had come to know. Work with his magistrate father and listening to arbitrations had trained him to never take people’s words at face value. Nor did he trust appearances.

That cynicism had worried me at first. Then I had realized that he never judged a person without finding the truth and never acted on his doubts without proof. Sam researched everything, spoke to everyone, and noticed all the little details most people missed. His distrust wasn’t limited to boasts, either. He looked past the demurs of the meek to see the deeds they hesitated to claim as well.

My first day in Skorsa, he had introduced me to almost everyone as he showed me around. After each introduction, he gave me a private critique of their character. Old Gordy drank too much, but on young children’s birthdays, there was always a treat on their doorstep, and he didn’t have the coin for a pint. Mistress Rennwaithe sold beautifully embroidered handkerchiefs, though she could barely stitch a straight line, and her nephew beamed every time one was bought.

Sam suggesting that Alan attained his journeyman status because of nepotism wasn’t a surprise. But I expected a critical evaluation of Powell, too. Surely, he saw the same things that aroused my suspicions about the situation.

Only he didn’t. Nor did he list all the facts that proved Alan lacked skill. He didn’t even offer an opinion that the forge should be sold to Powell officially. He just accepted that an outsider deserved to take over a Skorsa business from the of-age, rightful inheritor.

“What if Powell doesn’t want to lose the forge, so he ruined Alan’s reputation?” I asked when it became clear Sam planned to say nothing further.

“Alan doesn’t have a reputation to ruin. That’s the problem.”

The words sounded wrong coming from Sam. The Wrison credo focused on fairness and knowing all the facts before forming an opinion. And if Sam often failed in waiting to form an opinion— though he only shared those early opinions with family—he never forgot to check the facts. He loved listing his reasons, even when no one asked to hear them. He always, always, supported his claims with evidence.

If Sam wouldn’t volunteer facts, I’d have to get them myself. “When did Powell come to Skorsa? How old was Alan?”

“About seven years ago. Alan would have been seventeen.”

Old enough to have mastered most of the craft at his father’s side. Old enough to have demonstrated that mastery—or lack thereof—to the village. Changing the villagers’ opinions at that point would have been nigh impossible. Especially for an outsider.

Maybe Sam had solid reasons supporting his opinion. Reasons the natives of Skorsa didn’t need explained. Reasons that might embarrass the village as a whole if mentioned, so even Sam avoided listing them. He had known me for only a week, after all. Even if it already felt like we had always been family.

Well, if Alan destroyed the necklace I had given him and didn’t produce a suitable replacement, I’d just have to ask Master Kiels to procure what I needed.