As they left the smithery, Borel sighed and said, “Perhaps we’ll go after the Pooka this night, and come back for the blade in the morn.”
“My lord, I would have you go armed with a good bronze blade rather than the one of flint.”
“So would I, Flic, yet the moon does not pause in her path, and I would not tarry one moment longer than necessary.”
“Lord Borel, take it as an omen that your blade will not be ready till the morrow. Besides, I would scout the place ere we go, else we will be in unknown territory with peril about. And we yet have a fortnight and seven till the moon rises full.”
Borel sighed. “Again, perhaps you are right. You need to scout, and we need to go fully armed. And speaking of weapons, let us hie to the milliner’s.”
“Weapons? The milliner’s? Why so?”
“You will see, my wee one.”
In the small shop on a side street-Marie’s Millinery-Borel examined a silver needle, one just the size to fit Flic as a sword.
“Demoiselle, have you a silver sequin?” he asked.
“Oui, Monsieur,” replied a fille who had just begun to blossom, she the daughter of the milliner. At a table to one side sat her mother, fixing ribbons to a hat.
“A sequin that is not holed?” asked Borel.
“Oui,” said the daughter.
“Ah, good. And I see by your sign without that you make minor repairs to jewellery.”
“Small things. Nothing major.”
“Can you puncture this sequin in the very center with the silver needle, and then slide it up to the eyelet and fix it in place?”
“What’s that for?” asked Flic.
“Your needle will act as an epee or a foil, and the sequin as a bell,” said Borel.
“A bell?”
“A guard for your hand,” said the proprietress, looking up from the beribboned hat.
“Madame, you are familiar with epees?” asked Borel.
She nodded. “Although I am known as the Widow Marie, a mere milliner, I am well acquainted with fencing blades. My Renaud-bless his departed soul-was a maker of fine epees and foils for going out into the world, as well as fine rapiers. He even made a colichemarde or two.”
“Colichemarde?” said Flic.
“The ancestor of the epee,” said Marie. “For you, though, my tiny Sprite, I would suggest an epee.”
“Why not a colichemarde or a foil?” asked Flic.
“A foil, I think, is not stiff enough,” said Marie, “and a colichemarde is a bit on the heavy side for one as small as you.”
“Ah, then you know what it is I want for my wee friend?” asked Borel.
The proprietress stood and stepped to the counter. She eyed Flic, and glanced askance at Buzzer, and then said, “Sieur, I think a finer choice than a needle would be a silver hatpin or, better yet, a man’s scarfpin; they’re a bit sturdier, less likely to snap. Of course, I’ll need to remove the ornamental head; it would just get in the way. And with the bell fixed in place and the grip properly wrapped with my finest silver thread it will be a weapon worthy of this Sprite.”
At Borel’s assent, she selected several of her scarfpins and held each up next to the Sprite, finally selecting the one that best fit his stature.
“He will need a baldric,” said Borel.
“A matter of a few strokes of needle and thread and a ribbon,” said the milliner. “Step here, Sprite; my daughter will take your measure.” She turned to the demoiselle. “Renee, s’il-te-plait.”
Even as the mother passed through an archway to a back room, “But, Mere, he’s naked,” said the daughter.
“Demoiselle Renee, it’s not as if I am going to ravish you,” said Flic.
Though she reddened, the demoiselle laughed and said, “Wee little thing as you are, I do not feel threatened.”
“Ah, ma cherie, I might surprise you, for I am Fey.”
“Oh!” Renee exclaimed in startlement and backed away.
With an eyebrow raised, Borel looked at Flic, and the Sprite laid a finger alongside his nose and gave Borel a slow wink.
“Fear not, Demoiselle,” said Borel, grinning. “I will protect you.”
Somewhat assured, the young lady stepped to the counter once more and, reddening again, began to measure the Sprite for a baldric.
“Will this interfere with my wings?” asked Flic. “I do need to fly, you know.”
“Perhaps a belt would be better,” said Borel.
“A sash about the waist,” called the mother from the room beyond. “We can fashion a scabbard as well.”
Blushing furiously, the daughter wrapped a thread as a gauge about Flic’s tiny waist, trying to see what she was doing while at the same time trying not to look at Flic’s maleness. Despite their manifest disparity in size, under the blushing demoiselle’s gaze, Flic, grinning, began to respond.
“Oh, my,” blurted Renee, and quickly she pinched the thread at the right length and pulled it free and turned her back to the Sprite.
In that moment the mother stepped in through the arch, the scarfpin free of its bauble and with a pierced silver sequin affixed as a bell.
Flic’s response vanished.
“Though it is not quite ready, let me see how this fits,” she said, and handed the miniature epee to the Sprite.
Flic took the tiny foil in hand and, eyeing the silver shaft, said, “It has no edge.”
“It is meant to stick, to impale, not to cut,” said the Widow Marie.
“Ah, like a bee sting, then,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer. “I like that.”
To judge its fitness to his size, Marie had Flic strike several poses. She closely looked at the grip and Flic’s grasp of it, then held out her hand for the weapon and said, “It seems to suit you well enough. Come back in the morning. It will be ready by then.”
As he gave over the foil to her, “My belt, too?” asked Flic.
Glancing only sideways at the Sprite, the daughter nodded.
“I need to get a mate,” said Flic, as they emerged from the millinery. “I mean, after all, she was fifty times my height.”
“More like twenty-seven or — eight,” said Borel, grinning, “and much too young for you.”
Flic laughed.
“What?” asked Borel.
“Never let it be said that I don’t like tall girls,” replied Flic. They both laughed, but Flic sobered and said, “I repeat, I need to find a mate.”
“Someone to love?” asked Borel, a smile yet on his face.
“That would be fine, but at least someone eager for passion,” said Flic.
“Ah,” said the prince.
As Borel strode on toward the inn, Flic said, “You know, since neither of us will be properly armed until the morning, I think I’ll just fly out to the fields and flit about the flowers for a while.”
Borel broke out in a guffaw, and said, “Luck, my little man.”
Flic and Buzzer took to wing and gained altitude, then shot away, following the river upstream. Borel watched until they were out of sight, then turned and continued on his way to the inn. Once inside, he settled in to a dinner of roast beef and scallions and bread, all washed down with a hearty dark beer. After all, if I fail with the Pooka, this just might be my last good meal.
Borel sat out on the veranda and sipped an unpretentious after-dinner brandy and watched a number of people on the street hurrying home or running errands or strolling leisurely to somewhere. Nearby, the Meander River flowed past, and when the air got still Borel could hear a distant rumble, as of water hurtling apace. The White Rapids, no doubt. As the sun set and twilight drew down, Flic and Buzzer had not yet returned. Borel raised his glass to the deepening lavender sky and said, “May you have found what you seek, Flic, my friend, be it a lasting love or nought but a brief liaison.”