“That won’t be necessary,” he said glumly. Hexe stuck his left hand in his pocket, reluctantly withdrawing five crisp hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your money.”
Ms. Pasternak snatched the cash back, tucking it into whatever cleavage lurked behind her whiskers. “Just be glad I didn’t ask for damages as well!” she snapped. As she headed for the door, she paused to give me a warning glance. “I wouldn’t waste your money on him if I were you, sister. The guy’s a charlatan!”
After the front door slammed behind his disgruntled former client, Hexe silently strode out of the parlor and headed for his office. A second later he returned with Madam Erys’ business card.
“C’mon,” he said in a clipped voice. “Let’s go try on some gloves.”
Chapter 12
Shoemaker Lane had, at one time, been the home of the leprechaun cobblers who make footwear for Kymerans and other hard-to-fit customers. They also had a thriving side business selling charmed boots and shoes to humans. Although there were still quite a few signs shaped like oversized boots visible along the street, most of the Wee Folk had relocated eastward to Ferry Street, allowing other tradesmen to take their place.
I paused outside one of the remaining enchanted cobbler shops and stared at a dazzling array of gleaming glass slippers. Each pair had a little sign with a brief description of its particular charm to potential buyers, such as “makes you irresistible,” “world-class ballroom dancer,” or “beautiful until midnight.” Of course, you might have to cut off a toe or two to get them to fit, but then, all fashion has its price.
“Come on,” Hexe said, giving my arm a tug. “You can window-shop later.” He continued down the street, checking the address on the business card with the house numbers over the shops. After passing a tailor specializing in cloaks of invisibility and a millinery selling thinking caps, he came to a stop in front of a wooden trade sign in the shape of a six-fingered hand. Perched atop it was a large raven, preening its shiny black feathers with its ebon beak. As we approached the storefront, it cawed noisily and took to the air.
In the window of the shop were a number of mannequin hands posed in a variety of spell configurations, both left-and-right handed, each sheathed in a glove of some kind. Some of the gloves looked fairly ordinary, but the display also included one made from spiderwebs and another that looked like it was fashioned from pieced together bits of a broken mirror.
The bell over the shop door tinkled discreetly as we entered. The atmosphere inside the shop was strangely close and smelled faintly of dust, like a rarely used storage locker. The back of the shop was curtained off from the sales floor, which featured a long glass display counter, behind which stood a cabinet full of small, narrow drawers that took up the entire wall. An antique cash register, the kind with elaborate scrollwork and amount flags instead of digital readouts, sat unattended on the counter. A pair of white, full-length silk opera gloves were casually draped over the edge of the counter like the shed skins of twin albino pythons.
Hexe stepped forward, looking about the otherwise empty store. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
The curtain at the back of the shop twitched aside and Erys emerged, moving with slightly overly deliberate movements, like an actress playing a part onstage. “Ah! Serenity! Welcome to my humble establishment! You honor me greatly!” She smiled. “I take it you’ve changed your mind since last we spoke?”
“Let’s just say you’ve piqued my interest,” Hexe replied. “How long have you been keeping shop on Shoemaker Lane, Madam Erys?”
“I am a relative newcomer to Golgotham,” she explained. “I only recently relocated my business from the Faubourg Cauchemar.”
“Is there that much of a demand for magic gloves nowadays?” I asked, staring at the wall-sized cabinets in disbelief.
Madam Erys’ pale gray eyes flickered toward me in thinly veiled distaste. Away from the aromas of the Calf’s dining room, I was finally able to get a good whiff of her scent. She smelled strongly of dill and sulfured molasses—two scents that were, in and of themselves, pleasant enough, but, when combined, seemed unnatural.
“Should a customer wish to be a classical pianist, or a virtuoso violinist, I can make them the next Rachmaninoff or Isaac Stern with a pair of silk concert gloves,” she replied stiffly. “Or should they desire to win at the crap tables, I have a pair of special kid gloves that will ensure they’ll never roll snake eyes again. I also have an outfielder’s mitt guaranteed to attract baseballs like a magnet. Anything that can be done by hand, can be enhanced by my merchandise.” She turned to Hexe, flashing him an obsequious smile. “Allow me to show you the gauntlet. Once you inspect it, you’ll see it is, indeed, the genuine article.” Madam Erys pulled one of the drawers from its cubby hole, like a banker removing a safety deposit box, and placed it atop the counter. The interior of the drawer was lined in velvet and contained a solitary chain-mail glove that shimmered in the dusty light of the shop like a jeweled fish still wet from the sea.
It didn’t look forged as much as woven from silver filigree. The palm and knuckle-bridge were protected by a metal cuff of white gold and engraved with the sinuous form of a dragon, while the tips of each digit—all six of them—were capped in platinum and inset with pieces of polished jade to give the semblance of fingernails. It was, without a doubt, the most breathtakingly beautiful item of clothing I’d ever seen in my life.
Hexe removed a small scrying stone from his pocket and passed it back and forth over the gauntlet like a magnifying glass. “It does appear to be Vlad’s spellwork,” he mused aloud. “I recognize his signature from the family archives.” He studied it for a long moment, the glittering silver skin reflected in his golden eyes. “How much do you want?” he asked.
“Are you nuts?” I whispered. “There’s no way we can afford that thing, even if I wasn’t cut off from the family fortune!”
Hexe gave me a tiny shake of the head and put a finger to his lips, his signal for let me handle this. I grudgingly fell silent.
“I would rather not bring something so vulgar as money into this,” Madam Erys replied carefully. “As a loyal Kymeran, it is my honor, nay, my duty to offer such an artifact to you, Serenity.”
“You humble me with your generosity, Madam Erys,” Hexe said, with a ritual bow of his head. “But surely there is something I can offer in return?”
“A royal warrant of appointment would be most appreciated, Serenity. As you can see, my business is not what it could be,” she said, gesturing to the dust gathering in the corners of the shop. “There are still those in Golgotham, and elsewhere, who put great stock in where members of the Royal Family receive their goods, especially the Heir Apparent.”
“Consider it done, Madam Erys,” Hexe replied. “But I only accept your kind offer on condition that it is merely a loan. As soon as I no longer require the use of the gauntlet, I will return it to you, with my sincerest thanks.”
“Of course, Serenity,” Erys smiled, bowing her head. “However, I must warn you that in order for you to wield the Gauntlet of Nydd, it must be bonded to your nervous system.”
“Ah. I see,” Hexe said, the smile falling away from his face. He pushed the gauntlet’s display case back toward the glover. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it in your care until I can afford such elective surgery.”