A Hem of Crimson Velvet

The climb out of the sluice timbers had cost Jory what little remained of his good humor. Squeezing up through the coal chute and into the rear storerooms of the commercial lane had left his knees aching fiercely, and his wire spectacles kept sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with river grime. While Bramblefoot and Pip wedged themselves between two grain crates near the cellar trapdoor, Jory had backed himself deep into the tailor shop's rear alcove, pressed flat against a rough pine partition behind an upright rack of stiff, undyed canvas.

The dry scent of sheared sheep fleece, tallow soap, and chalk was an enormous relief after the brackish stink of the weir, but the relief lasted only until his swollen knuckles knocked against something hard wedged between two dense bolts of grey broadcloth. Jory reached into the narrow gap, expecting a lost wooden spool or a tailor's horn bodkin. Instead, his fingertips caught the stiff, cracked edge of calfskin.

He worked it loose with careful pulls, holding his breath as the dry vellum crackled. It was a leaf from the split tax volume—the very one Bramblefoot had burst open against the weir pilings. Ink lines ruled in cochineal red crisscrossed the page, detailing Master Garrow's third-quarter wool manifests and municipal import exemptions. It must have snagged on the damp hem of Jory's own smock when they tumbled through the floor hatch, only to dislodge here against the fleece.

He opened his mouth to whisper across the floorboards to Bramblefoot, but a high brass chime cut him short. The shop's front door swung open on its iron hinges, admitting the brisk clip of leather-soled shoes and the pompous clearing of a throat. A municipal customs clerk had stepped to the front counter, loudly inquiring about the delivery of an embroidered doublet for the autumn banquet.

Before the apprentice behind the counter could offer a stammered answer, the street bell jangled a second time, louder and far heavier. Iron-shod boot heels struck the oak floorboards with measured weight. The brass cage of a watch lantern clattered against an iron cudgel ring.

"Master Eldon," boomed the unmistakable rumble of Sergeant Corin. "Save the boy your excuses on the doublet. I need a word about anyone who came through your back door from the wharf alley in the last ten minutes. We have water-rats loose from the weir, and they're carrying stolen Crown paper."

Jory froze, the reclaimed ledger leaf pressed flat against his chest. Through a split in the canvas rack, he could see the back of the apprentice's trembling neck and the wide, gleaming brass rim of Corin's lantern casting long, barred shadows across the front showroom. Worse still, Jory glanced down at his own feet. In his haste to wedge behind the rolls, his salt-crusted boots had pushed past the fringe of the canvas frame, heels dug into the floorboards, dark river mud caked conspicuously against the polished pine.

At the central cutting table, Master Eldon paused with a pair of long iron shears poised mid-stroke over a length of damask. The old tailor’s grey brows drew together. He did not look at Corin, nor did he answer immediately. His rheumy eyes drifted over the boy at the counter, past the stacks of folded linen, and settled directly upon Jory’s mud-stained boot toes protruding from the base of the rack.