Chapter 2

ETHANIEL

“Easy, easy,” Ethaniel said softly as he helped his uncle to sit up in bed. “When you’re ready, uncle. There’s no need to rush.”

The older man who clung to Ethaniel shook his head. “You brought me tea and I can see it steaming. I’d rather drink it hot. Push that pillow behind me and I’ll be fine.”

Ethaniel tried not to frown. His Uncle Jeremiah had good and bad days, with no way to predict what each morning would bring, but even the exhaustion that carved deep circles under his uncle’s eyes wouldn’t stop his morning tea. “All right,” Ethaniel replied, arranging the pillows until his uncle nodded.

“You’re such a sweet boy,” Uncle Jeremiah murmured as Ethaniel handed him the tea and put the small tray with oatmeal and apple slices on his lap. The warmest blankets were piled high on Jeremiah’s bed, enough to keep the chill away. Morning had come a few hours earlier, but the fat gray clouds dropping early spring rain erased any sunlight they might have had. The shadows were deep across part of his uncle’s room and Ethaniel found himself wishing they could afford a place without the stairs that made Jeremiah wheeze for breath as he climbed to his room. Using the stairs was difficult now, with the way his lungs were growing weaker. Jeremiah insisted almost daily he could do it, and Ethaniel replied every day that they’d try but not to expect much.

They never tried. Jeremiah had only the strength to make it to the small bathroom a few yards away and back. If Ethaniel found his uncle managing to sit in the armchair near the window, he counted that as a very good day.

He wanted, desperately, to be able to take care of Jeremiah in these long hours, listening to the man’s rattly breathing, handing him clean handkerchiefs when he soiled his sole enchanted one, the one that used to clean itself. That had been Ethaniel’s first major success as an enchanted tailor, and his uncle had kept it all these years, even renewing the pattern when it slowly faded. But keeping them warm and fed was priority, which meant Jeremiah’s shop was priority.

In those first few months, Ethaniel had lost more customers than gained. Jeremiah had a reputation as long as his arm and everyone from railroad magnates to minor nobility came to see him. But he wasn’t Jeremiah — no, he’d been sixteen and run ragged trying to eke out a living going to patterning classes while working two jobs. He’d been too proud to ask his uncle for work, and Ethaniel had known the patterning classes would pay off. Enchantment work in tailoring was run by the Patterning Union, named after the first magical tailors who had called themselves “patterners” for copying designs from nature into their clothing. It was a history that went even further back, to the days of Cunning Folk and their hedgewitch magics.

Those with a Patterning certificate attracted higher-paying customers and got a vote in union matters. A civilized affair for what was considered civilized work. Ethaniel was reliant on this system, just like Jeremiah had been. The unions did well protecting workers, but like any organization, they had their issues. He’d rather stay part of the union — and under its umbrella of protection — than be an unlicensed patterner. It wasn’t illegal, but it was no way to make a living. The cruelty of the system was that you needed money to afford anything in this damnable world, and he had made the choice, as had his uncle, to stay on one side of the line.

Good patterners could not only sell their work at a premium, but also sell copies of old designs. Each design came with an inherent copyright, but any copyright holder could let others copy it to use on their own work for pay. Buy a copy of the pattern from someone with a reputation for craftsmanship, learn it, use it and charge others for it. Buying an “aged pattern” wasn’t cheap; most patterners couldn’t afford it, or saved for years for one choice. And that was if it wasn’t sold during those years.

Ethaniel clenched his jaw as he watched Jeremiah slowly spoon oatmeal into his mouth. Magic had done much for society, and yet the money was a continual barrier. Wasn’t that always the case?

With a sigh, Ethaniel got to his feet. “Do you need anything else, Uncle? There’s water by your bed and oh, wait, your books—”

“I’m fine, boy,” Jeremiah rasped, waving his empty spoon at Ethaniel. “You worry too much. I’m not dying today.”

“Uncle.”

“Go on. I know you’ve got someone coming in this afternoon.” Jeremiah’s eyes, as rheumy as they were in the weak afternoon sunlight, seemed to glitter a little. “Tall, likes dark colors. Works at the museum, right?”

Anticipation and dread rose up in Ethaniel, mirroring each other, twining together until all he could feel was a flutter of nerves in his belly. “He’s a friend.” Sort of. “And I’m only fixing a ripped hem. Nothing drastic.”

Jeremiah only chuckled in response and after a few moments, Ethaniel took the creaky stairs down to the shop’s backroom, where bolts of fabric in every color sat waiting to be molded into something new. He liked it back here — it was quiet and had a low, humming energy that didn’t bother his innate magic. The spools of enchanted thread would lay dormant until Ethaniel activated them with his patterning, but sometimes he swore the very promise of magic lay like a thin haze over the room.

The jacket he’d promised to mend was ready to go, but its owner would come by in person to pick it up. Aubrey wasn’t the type to send an errand boy to handle much, especially not his clothing. The man was rather particular, and Ethaniel found what most would call fussiness rather attractive.

What he wouldn’t tell Jeremiah was that he and Aubrey were a tad uneasy with each other of late. What had once flourished between them had gone sour over an argument about Ethaniel’s magic and a difference in what they each believed to be his potential — Ethaniel liked patterning, liked running the shop, and Aubrey firmly believed Ethaniel’s talents would be in high demand at the museum. Aubrey was in charge of the Magnificus Collectio, a secret curation project attached to the tourist trap museum Darwin’s Attic. And Aubrey insisted the Collectio needed Ethaniel’s keen eye and knack for patterns, both magical and mundane. But it hadn’t been until Aubrey expressed a belief that they could find a caretaker for Jeremiah that their conversation had broken down. Ethaniel wouldn’t give Jeremiah up for anything — or anyone.

Over my dead body, Ethaniel remembered saying, watching with a sour taste building in the back of his throat as Aubrey registered the venom, the defensiveness. They hadn’t seen much of each other since, and apologies had been exchanged in terse handwriting. The very air between them felt unresolved. They didn’t own each other, of course, and neither he nor Aubrey had ever made mention to be more than quiet moments exchanged in the dark of the shop’s backroom or Aubrey’s office. Ethaniel didn’t have proper privacy with his bedroom next to Jeremiah’s, and Aubrey was particular about who he let into his home.

But what Ethaniel feared out of all the possibilities that came with the jangle of the shop bell was how his heart would feel upon seeing Aubrey again. Delight? Remorse? Wariness? A combination of all three, perhaps?

With a shake of his head, Ethaniel plucked up a neatly folded bundle of white cloth and went to the front of the shop. He had work to do, and worrying about Aubrey’s appearance in the very near future wouldn’t finish the patterns he’d yet to enchant.

Over the years, Ethaniel had found that doing more of the “showy” work in the front of the store tended to draw in the observers — and the tourists. Jeremiah had never been one to turn away tourists and their questions; many smaller towns didn’t have many magic users (if any), and if they did, it was one poor sod stuck fixing bent horseshoes or mending sunken roofs. It wasn’t that geography played a role in those born with magic versus those without…but it did factor into decisions made later in life. Cities had more opportunities for magic users, more chances to use their talents for money or fame. Or, in the case of some, a chance to flee the harsh whispers and dirty looks aimed at them from a very young age.

Despite all the advances of society, religious animosity and superstition still reigned in many places where small minds tended to rise to power. There were dabblings of it even in metropolitan areas like New York, but mostly through the signs of street preachers yelling hoarsely about the ills of “magic and sodomy”. But those sentiments weren’t kept to ragged men and women standing on banana boxes with handwritten signs. It chilled him to think of the larger implications, especially considering anyone dressed like a normal person could be so bigoted.

Ethaniel picked a spot where the spring sun shone through the front windows of the shop; a cure-all, hopefully, for the way his thoughts rambled about. And he needed a clear head to finish the delicate patterning on a lawn shirt for his newest customer. Mr. Addington had wanted Ethaniel’s best quality lawn — not cheap by any means, but not the finest of fabrics — and had given Ethaniel a beautifully drawn diagram to follow for the pattern.

“I want it to shine, but only in lower light,” Mr. Addington said the other day when he’d stopped by. The man instantly caught Ethaniel’s attention, and not only from a prospective customer’s standing. He clearly was moneyed, that posh London accent ringing home in Ethaniel’s ears, so he let his gaze lock on the newcomer. The man’s garments flowed with bohemian influence but also with the sensibility of someone used to much more rain. And even from the shop counter, Ethaniel saw the fine embroidery work, the perfect fit.

The man’s focus was keen as he eyed fabric books, and when he leaned in over a swatch of dark blue silk, Ethaniel smelled neroli and beeswax. It instantly went to his head. Mr. Addington was a complex knot of contradictions, from the accent to the dress to the way his hair was a bit too long to be fashionable, but shone all colors of copper and chestnut in the thin sunlight streaming through the shop windows.

And the man caught him staring. Oh no.

But instead of castigating Ethaniel, Mr. Addington cast his own gaze away, as if embarrassed. “I’m desperate for spring weather, so I might have dressed the part,” Mr. Addington said, running a hand down his overcoat. It rippled like water, the blues and silvers glistening. It was very good enchantment work and likely a custom pattern.

Ethaniel heard a vague apology in the man’s words and instantly felt badly for him. “It’s beautiful,” he said, motioning to the man’s coat. “I’ve seen work like it before but if you want something similar, I’m afraid my patterning isn’t up to the task.” A small lie, but a necessary one.

“Oh, no, it’s not that at all.” Now the man smiled, shoulders pulling back. It was like that with some folks — a bit of kindness and they found themselves once more. “Please call me Calix. I’ve heard wonderful things about your embroidery work and was hoping to get a spot on your calendar.”

Ethaniel shook Calix’s hand with an even, professional smile as warmth flared in his chest. It was nice to hear a London accent again, and Ethaniel couldn’t help but feel a sense of kinship. That was far easier to focus on than the way this man appealed. “Ethaniel. Welcome to Twisted Silver Tailors.” He pulled out his patterning catalogs along with a menu of garments, from popular to unique, all with prices and fabric availability. He’d never go back to paper now that enchanted slabs were available. “What did you have in mind, Calix?”

Calix — Mr. Addington’s — design wasn’t the difficult part of the patterning. Ethaniel could do this part with his eyes closed, if need be. He let his gaze flicker up to the windows, catching sight of a few passersby leaning in. Waiting.

With a smile meant for himself as much as the strangers outside, Ethaniel made a bit of a show of laying the shirt and Calix’s artwork flat on the counter. He smoothed his left hand over the bright white shirt while placing his right on the parchment. Parchment made transference a bit easier, for reasons still not fully unraveled by magical theorists. Warmth instantly cascaded up his right arm, and Ethaniel let his eyes drift shut as that sensation rushed up through him, elation and pain at the same time blending into a mindless haze of power.

That feeling bolted up and over — over his shoulder, into his neck, across his face like a whip crack, and just as he could feel his energy begin to wane, it all at once shot down his left arm. It was lightning in his skin, leaving behind ozone and lingering warmth and a numbness in his fingertips that would last only a few minutes. And even with his eyes closed, Ethaniel could see the haze of blue and gold light dimming as the pattern settled into the shirt, then disappeared.

Ethaniel cracked one eye open to check the parchment. Blank, as it should be. He didn’t need to look at the shirt to know the pattern was there, waiting for his enchanted thread to finish the job. The power sang to him, a low thrumming of energy under his palm. Beckoning. Uncle Jeremiah called it their family’s siren song, and continually reminded a younger Ethaniel to be thankful their calling was in threadwork and fabrics, and not in something more flashy but far more dangerous. That was the other side of his family’s specialty.

Ethaniel slowly, carefully sat down on the stool behind him and chanced a glance at the windows. Those same tourists were still staring at him, except one now was reaching for the door. Ethaniel motioned the woman inside, and it looked like she would, but another figure rushed inside.

“You!” A gnarled finger pointed in Ethaniel’s direction. “Magic! You were doing magic!”

Ethaniel froze, giving him time to swiftly take in the older man’s appearance. His clothes were ragged but clean, and his silver hair and beard were neatly combed. But there was a wild look in the man’s eyes that had Ethaniel reaching for the knife concealed under the counter. “Can I help you?” he asked, concern growing.

“Magic,” the man whispered. “The air reeks of it. Do you know what you’re doing with your magic? Are you using it to help humanity, or are you one of those frivolous types who flaunt it?” The man slid closer and Ethaniel’s grip on the knife handle tightened as the man pulled out a thin book. “Do you know that man is not meant to use magic this way? Do you know that every time you enchant a shirt or handkerchief, you’re committing a grievous sin?”

Ethaniel let out a breath but didn’t relinquish the knife. “And who are you preaching for, grandfather?” he asked, voice as calm as he could make it. If he showed relief, the man might take it as an opening to continue preaching, and he did not need that driving away customers, not with spring retinue and wedding season fast approaching.

The man’s hand shook, but his voice was steady as he answered. “I preach for the truth,” he declared, “and the righteous! Those who need to know the dangers of magic, and understand that our world is poisoned! We need order in chaos! We need magic in the proper hands!” The man flapped the little book in Ethaniel’s face, suddenly aggressive. “We need order, my boy! Take this, read it, learn it, and come to us when you understand your sins and the error of your hedonistic ways!”

The pamphlet was dropped on Ethaniel’s counter and the man turned to leave, but then spun around and said, “Are you one of those perverts? You shouldn’t be doing magic if so! You’re denigrating magic for your own disgusting purposes!” He spat on the floor and yelled, “Perverts!” before dashing out the door, leaving Ethaniel with that word echoing in his ears.

“Of all the fucking days,” he muttered as he finally let go of the knife and glanced down at the pamphlet. It was a neatly printed thing, bright gold lettering on a navy background, proudly proclaiming that “The Golden Order is the only path forward! Repent, rejoice, and learn the ways magic is harming our world!”

Ethaniel fought back an eye roll. On any given day, those walking the streets would be shouted at by street preachers standing on boxes and accosted by highly intrusive questions about their lives, their beliefs, and their proclivities. For all the parts of New York that welcomed those typically living on the fringes, there were just as many individuals and organizations fighting against what they saw as vice and sin. What the vice was, what the sin was, depended on the literature. The Golden Order was something he’d heard a bit about, but they’d never made their beliefs rather clear…until now.

Curiosity got the better of him, so Ethaniel flipped open the little book to see a handwritten message in the front.

To those reading this little book of miracles:

Know that the Golden Order is for honesty and fairness, order in chaos, and the proper containing of the magic that suffuses our world. We may never know the source of this magic, or why some can wield it and others can’t, but we at the Golden Order know it, like any power, needs to be regulated. It shouldn’t be in the hands of everyone; only those with proper training and soundness of mind should practice such a dangerous, yet beautiful, art form.

If you seek advice or counsel, our doors are open to you. Order in chaos, my friends, and soundness of mind and body!

Below that was an address off the newly built Riverside Drive in Manhattan. A very expensive bit of property for sure, since the Riverside was being touted as the new playground for the moneyed and powerful. Ethaniel drummed his fingers on the countertop, thinking. The particular slant of the handwriting pulled at him, as if he’d seen it before, but after a moment he scoffed, flipped the pamphlet shut, and promptly dropped it in the bin. He had no interest in any of these organizations. He’d seen it all before – religious or charity organizations promising to help those in need, only to have them turn away anyone who wasn’t light-skinned or didn’t dress “properly”. The Golden Order was one of these, using thinly-veiled language to proclaim their real values.

Ethaniel took a few more deep breaths to focus and shake off the encounter before putting his hands back on the shirt to check the enchantment’s stability, when a familiar head of copper and chestnut hair popped up between the sudden gap of the door and the rush of sunlight. “I’m so sorry,” Calix said as he shot Ethaniel a hesitant smile. “Did I interrupt? Are you open?”

“Do come in, Mr. Addington,” Ethaniel said, trying to cover his surprise at the man’s appearance. “Apologies. I was just transferring your pattern over and that bit of the process always leaves me a tad discombobulated.”

Calix’s smile grew sympathetic. “I’m so sorry. I…I had no idea.”

Ethaniel waved him away. “No worries. It’s different for every patterner, even if the general theory behind the magic is the same. Miescher’s work with nuclein a few decades ago made other scientists curious about the nature of magic work and…” He stopped, bit his lip. “Well, like I said, it’s a bit different for every patterner. Now, what can I do for you?”

Calix was staring at the counter, eyes drifting between the shirt and the now blank parchment. “Fascinating,” he said softly as he moved closer. “I’m guessing I just missed you transferring the pattern?”

Ethaniel shrugged. His muscles ached with fatigue after the transference, but it would fade within the hour. “Only just, I’m afraid.”

“Blast.” Calix gifted Ethaniel a dazzling smile. The man surely knew how pretty he was? He had to, dressed in all gold and green today, the colors muted but shimmering softly in the afternoon light, making his hair look like fire in comparison. “Well, I certainly don’t want to disrupt your work anymore. But I wanted to bring this by…” and from somewhere in the depths of his voluminous cape, Calix pulled out a sky blue envelope. “The additional pattern we discussed.”

Ethaniel was intrigued. They had discussed another patterning job, for a proper evening jacket, but only in vague terms of interest. And he would never assume a customer would want more work before the initial job was finished. It was an insane amount of trust to put into a patterner — anyone, really. Calix Addington was either naive or completely trusting of strangers. Either way, it was a very expensive custom order and Ethaniel would be a fool to turn it away.

Calix seemed to sense his hesitation. “It’s more detailed than the one you just placed. I thought the extra time might be useful. There’s no rush on my end, of course, but...” Calix gestured around to the shop front. “You are obviously quite busy. I didn’t want to get in your way.”

The apology under his words was evident and it made Ethaniel briefly wonder if Calix was always apologizing where it wasn’t required. He’d been like this man once, young and eager and happy to oblige for others. Years of working in the city, with the milieu of customers with which it came, had worn him down some. Ethaniel couldn’t get a bead on Calix’s age, though he wagered the man was at least half a decade younger. He looked, however, no more than early twenties. A safe, moneyed, cushioned life would do that.

“I’m happy to take on the job,” Ethaniel said, reaching for the envelope. The snap of subtle magic made his fingertips tingle. His gaze shot up to Calix. “Did you pattern this yourself?”

Calix shook his head. “No. It’s…let’s say a family heirloom. I’ve always meant to get it laid down on a garment, and I got tired of looking at it and wishing I had some special occasion to foster its creation. So I decided to change my thinking.”

“Hoping the right event will come along.” Ethaniel chuckled at that before flipping open the envelope. “Sometimes it does take a switch in one’s thinking to make the possible present itself.”

As Calix lingered over a fabric sample book, Ethaniel took the time to closely inspect this new pattern. It was not just good work — it was some of the most complex patterning he’d ever seen. And even stranger, the pattern bore no patterner’s mark. Worried, he flipped the parchment over to look for any kind of stamp and still found none. Unstamped patterns were dangerous — they could be counterfeit or stolen — and inscribing it on anything would bring the law down on his head. Probably not on Calix’s, given the man’s status.

He couldn’t take the risk. But he was curious. “Family heirloom, you said?”

Calix nodded but didn’t look up from a square of cashmere so red, it was almost black. A gorgeous choice. “My mother’s, actually. Her mother was an incredible patterner, but the laws at the time forbade women in that line of work.” Now he did look up at Ethaniel, and they seemed to wear the same expression of suffering, almost a scoff at such backwards thinking. “She’d meant to get it patterned on her wedding dress, but the wedding never happened.”

Perhaps Ethaniel should simply ask and not beat around the bush. “So why does it bear no mark?”

“My grandmother couldn’t risk attaching her name or the family crest to the work at the time. And my mother never got around to licensing it with the local office.” Calix stared hard at the parchment under Ethaniel’s fingers. Calculating something, clearly, from the way his fine brow pinched. “I should have realized that would be an issue for you. I have proof of ownership in my mother’s letters, if that would suffice.”

Relief washed through Ethaniel. “It would, actually. Something we could put on file to ensure the pattern is properly yours.” He let his fingers glide over the fine ridges of the pattern, feeling the way the peacock feathers swooped into delicate filigree marks, then back down into floral motifs that could rival any painting in a museum. This pattern was truly a work of art, and he’d be honored to lay it down. But no pattern was worth risking his career, and the roof over their heads.

Calix chose that fine red-black cashmere for his jacket, paid his deposit, and gently put the pattern back in its envelope while Ethaniel wrote him a receipt. The deposit easily paid for another month’s rent on the shop, and then some, and Ethaniel felt good knowing he was attracting such clients. Knowing he could, for one more month, provide for his uncle and ensure they had a doctor on call and tinctures on hand to ease the coughing and pain.

“Thank you again,” Calix said as he straightened his cloak, righting himself to go out onto the busy street once more. “I truly love your work and cannot wait to see my mother’s pattern come to life.”

The praise was a gentle lantern-glow in Ethaniel’s chest. He ought to see this man as any other wealthy customer who came in here — a transaction to be made, money to be put away for his uncle’s care. Simple. Clean.

Calix was different somehow. Perhaps it was his understanding of Ethaniel’s work, or the awareness of the time Ethaniel put into each order. It helped that all his quick mind came wrapped in a rather beautiful outer package, for certain, but Calix was the kind of person Ethaniel treated as the means to an end. Right?

“You are far too kind,” Ethaniel said with a slight smile. “I look forward to making your jacket.”

Calix hesitated in turning toward the door, one hand still on the shop counter. Their fingers inches from each other; Calix’s hand gloved in soft brown kid leather, Ethaniel’s pin-pricked and bare.

“Have a good day, Ethaniel,” Calix finally said, leaving Ethaniel with the scent of neroli oil and a head swimming as if he’d been underwater this entire time.

An hour later, Ethaniel paused in the shop’s back doorway, peering out of the thin space between worn, molded edges of wood. The bell had rang only moments before, but he knew this customer all too well. His heart thundered in his ears. He could be a professional. He could.

Ethaniel pressed his eye to the gap and sighed. Aubrey was turned out beautifully, as always, in a navy so deep it bordered on obsidian. The subtle texture on the coat lapels, at his pant leg cuffs, and even on the ribbon around the man’s top hat were all the same crushed velvet of fine taste and understated luxury. So while in hiding, Ethaniel savored the moment to stare.

Aubrey preferred disguising his sinewy, powerful build behind dark, cleverly cut clothes and some very minor enchantments. Ethaniel had never questioned it, but sometimes his mind floated back to a memory of wandering hands and silent delight at feeling the strength in Aubrey’s arms, his stomach. But it had been the little spark of something darker in the man’s light green eyes that had sent shivers through Ethaniel. They hadn’t been able to take it any further that night, but the recollection of Aubrey in that moment had left Ethaniel floating for days.

Ethaniel watched Aubrey take off his hat and tuck it under his arm, his gold and teakwood cane curled over the wrist of the same arm. Staring at the architecture of Aubrey’s face, Ethaniel felt a pang of longing he’d sworn to shake off. Aubrey was an enticingly beautiful man, all carved slopes for cheekbones and a jawline that made onlookers sigh. But getting to know the man himself had been a challenge Ethaniel willingly stepped up to, from the first time Aubrey had come into Twisted Silver Tailors.

He missed Aubrey.

Ah, that’s what that pang in his chest was. Their argument a few months back had somehow left them stranded on either side of a valley neither was willing to trek across, so here they were. But Ethaniel could be professional, and he knew Aubrey undoubtedly would be as well; perhaps too much. So with a deep breath in and a calm smile on his face, Ethaniel let the door creak open and made his way into the shop.

“Wonderful timing. I pressed your jacket this afternoon.” Ethaniel motioned to the tiny alcove to his right. “Let me retrieve that for you. I’m sure you’ve got business elsewhere.”

As even as Aubrey’s gaze was, Ethaniel could feel himself flush. The visual inspection Aubrey gave him should have been perfunctory. Instead, it lingered on Ethaniel’s face. “Are you ill?” Aubrey asked, his deep voice nearly rattling Ethaniel’s ribs. He ached to hear more of it, on anything Aubrey wished to speak of. He could read apartment building placards out loud and Ethaniel would weep for more.

Aubrey continued, his expression unmoving as he gestured to Ethaniel. “You’re sweating. Just there, along your upper lip.” That glass-green gaze flicked up. “Is your uncle well?”

“We’re both as well as we can be. The cold nights don’t help him, but we manage.” And I’m sweating because you make me terribly nervous. “Let me fetch your coat.”

Ethaniel ducked back into the hallway, then the alcove, where Aubrey couldn’t see him lean against the wall and press a hand to his stomach. He felt ill, that much was certain. Aubrey made him dizzy — that was how Ethaniel had explained it to Jeremiah once. As if all the air was sucked out of the room and the only light at the end of the tunnel shone like the bottle green of Aubrey’s eyes.

He took twenty more seconds, then pulled Aubrey’s coat down and slung it over his arm before reappearing behind the shop counter. Aubrey had moved to the other side of the shop, bent at the waist to peer at a display of buttons that had just arrived. They were lovely things, pewter and brass and mother of pearl carved into intricate designs, all based on the Fibonacci sequence. They could hold a standard closure enchantment, certainly, but Ethaniel had hoped someone appreciative of his skills would make the buttons do something more interesting. Swirling designs, color changes based on the ambient lighting. Something more.

“The ammonites are my favorites, I think,” Aubrey said softly upon Ethaniel’s return. He didn’t look toward the shop counter, simply kept staring down at the buttons. “Reminders of a past that we can never claim, because it existed before we were a thought to the world.”

The pithy response he held back nearly choked him. That statement was completely in line with the man Ethaniel knew Aubrey to be, but the wistfulness in Aubrey’s tone was new. What could he say to that? Did Aubrey want him to reply? Torn, floundering, Ethaniel simply hummed in noncommittal agreement and waited for Aubrey to turn his attention back to the matter at hand. Business. Only that. No bantering, no bickering. Just two grown men conducting business.

But then Aubrey continued. “I’ll need the ammonite ones on another coat. I’ll bring it by on Friday, if you’ve room for a drop-off.”

The noise in Ethaniel’s ears was a continuation of his earlier hum, but now it was a buzzing, soft and droning. Threatening. “What?”

Aubrey straightened and took with him the strong, proud line of his back. “The ammonite buttons will look very nice on my wool walking coat, I think. Is a Friday drop-off all right?”

Ethaniel nodded, but his head felt too heavy for his neck. It was a disconcerting sensation. “Friday’s fine.”

“Excellent. I’ll put a deposit down now.” Aubrey was now before him, pulling out a fine leather wallet and peeling off bills. “Or would you rather I pay for the buttons until you can see the coat, and we’ll use that as the deposit?”

“I—” Ethaniel distracted himself by pulling open the coat bag Aubrey had come by for. “I can’t ring you up until you check that everything’s to your liking.” He refused to look up, knowing he’d get caught there, a fish on Aubrey’s hook.

“I trust your work, Ethaniel.”

It was nice to hear Aubrey say his name again. But that buzzing, that low, smooth droning somewhere between his ears and his brain was making it hard to focus. Ethaniel knew Aubrey was only coming around to pick up what he’d paid for. But there were magical tailors with patterning skills a dime a dozen in New York, so why continue to give Ethaniel his business?

It might have been an olive branch, but to Ethaniel, it weighed more than a ship’s anchor.

Ethaniel drew his gaze up, hoping he’d dredge up some courage to keep his lips from quivering as he replied, “Check it anyways. Trust is lovely, and I appreciate the generosity of yours, but I can’t afford to have a single unhappy customer.”

The argument Ethaniel expected never manifested. Aubrey”s silent nod came before he began to gently examine the seams and hems while Ethaniel priced the ammonite buttons. The moment of quiet between them helped settle Ethaniel’s nerves, enough so that when he handed Aubrey the invoice to be paid, his fingers didn’t tremble.

“As I said,” Aubrey rumbled softly at him before backing away from the shop counter, “you do beautiful work. The best in the city.”

Ethaniel foolishly let him go without another word.