“Let me see them in better light,” the jeweler said.
He swooped them into his palm and walked away. At such times, she feared that he’d simply keep them. A man could say she was lying, that she was a thief, that no woman could create jewelry such as this. There was little she could do if such a thing happened. At best she could go see the other jewelers who rejected her and ask them to acknowledge seeing her work.
Behind her, the door opened and closed.
“When you enter a shop, close the door behind you, young lady,” the jeweler said without looking up.
“I thought I had.” Tam glanced to the door where the dark faery now stood. The shadows in the store seemed to stretch out to caress him, as if they couldn’t resist.
Irial smiled at her, and she had to struggle to pretend not to see him. If ever there were a man—a creature—striking enough to lure her away from her plans of spinsterdom, Irial was the one. Her gaze slid over the width of his shoulders as she forced herself to pretend to seek the phantom wind that had opened the door.
“Courage,” Irial whispered as he walked close behind her.
Tam stiffened. Faeries ought not speak to her. They were to think that she couldn’t see them.
Better a faery than a human come so close, though. Human men were anything but appealing to her. They spoke to women as if they were either daft children or dolls. They made the rules, controlled business and laws, and women had to learn to make do—or marry. It was outrageous. At least the faeries seemed to treat men and women, or the faery equivalents of them, the same.
The female ones could be as monstrous as the male ones.
Humans weren’t like that. Men acted, and women reacted. Men decided, and women coped. It was absurd. Tam had hoped it would be different in New Orleans. The city was even more vibrant than Chicago. The first legal “red light” district? Who could imagine such boldness, such audacity? It made the city seem forward-thinking, so Tam had moved.
Not to work in the sin dens, but in hopes that a city where women were educated, where they owned business, would be better for a female artist, too. She’d had such dreams.
“Would you be interested in purchasing the pieces?” Tam asked in a ladylike, gentle voice, hating the need to use such a tactic. “Few women could resist their beauty.”
“This one.” He held up the ring and quoted a lower price than the piece was worth.
“If you doubled that, I’ll give you a second piece,” she gestured at the brooch.
“Double for all three.”
Reluctantly, Tam nodded. She couldn’t afford to refuse—or to demand more. She needed money to live. Everyone did, but a woman alone had fewer options for finding it. Selling a few pieces of her jewelry here and there meant she had enough to afford rent and food. Selling these would allow her a full four months if she was careful. Three if she bought more supplies to create more pieces and try yet again with another jeweler. Creating art wasn’t reliable work, but if she sold it, she earned enough to live on for months. No other job would pay so well—at least no other job that allowed her to stay clothed.
Work in a brothel—or marrying a man—would pay better, but with men came children. Children were a whole set of demands that would end her ability to create jewelry, and worse still, they’d lead to a level of risk that she couldn’t fathom. Hiding her ability to see the fey things was hard. Hiding a child’s ability? That was a terrifying prospect.
As Tam waited for her money, she tried not to look at the faery who was studying her yet again. Shadows from the wall seemed to ooze toward him, as if they had a mind or heart. She understood the impulse. He was breath-taking, but some prickle on the back of her neck reminded her that faeries and humans never mix well.
“Here you go.” The jeweler handed her a bag.
Again, she was left hoping he was honest. Counting the money out would be insulting, and if he’d shorted her, she couldn’t expect to get money. Life was about power, and Tam had none.
If she was shorted on what he owed, there was always wash she could help one of her neighbors do. They took on a little more if she offered to help, and it let Tam make ends meet when there were no other options.
“Courage, love,” the faery whispered again.
“What about an apprenticeship?” Tam asked the jeweler hurriedly before he walked away, sounding a bit desperate now.
“For a woman?” he sounded thoroughly shocked.
“I could learn and then carry the information to home. My father’s not well enough to leave the house, you see. It would be as if you were teaching him, but—”
The jeweler reached over the glass display case and patted her hand. “Women are gifted in many ways, but in learning such a skill? I think not. I’ll take the three pieces, and you tell your father I’ll need him to come himself next time—or I’ll come to him.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said. She would speak it into the air. There wasn’t any more likely way to reach him—if he was even alive.
Money in her possession, Tam stepped out of the shop, the third one this week. There would be no fourth one. She’d sold the only thing she had to use to convince a jeweler to work with her. The sale was good enough, better than nothing, but it also meant she had to begin again and hope that in a few weeks or months she’d have better luck.
Someday, her luck would change. It had to.
She swiped at the tears on her cheeks, not quite able to stop them from falling today but not letting them run free either. The faery glared at the shop as if he was as affronted as she was.
“Fool,” Irial, who had followed her into the street, said.
Tam didn’t reply—although she agreed with him.
Irial
Irial watched her leave. Tear tracks were still fresh on her skin, and every impulse in him said he needed to follow, to comfort, to touch her. There were good reasons not to, but Irial rarely felt compelled to follow reason. That was the prerogative of the High Court. The Dark Court had the opposite motivation. Passion drove those that aligned with shadows. The Dark King would rather lose himself in pleasure and impulse than logic and restraint.
“How in the name of madness am I to keep you safe if you never are where you say you are?” Gabriel slid from his steed with a rumble that had mortals looking around to see why the ground shook.
Irial gave his closest friend, guard, and all around most-trusted faery a look that would’ve sent most creatures to their knees.
The muscular Hound snorted. “Don’t give me that look. One of these days you’re going to get stabbed or burned alive or—”
“And unless it’s a regent, I’d be fine.” Irial shook his head. “Most of those bold enough to stab me aren’t kings or queens, are they?”
“Both Beira and Keenan would gladly stab you.” Gabriel folded his arms.
“But the kingling is weak, and Beira isn’t here.” Irial started to walk, stepping around the passing humans. He trailed his hand over the cheek of a woman who startled as he passed. She wasn’t Sighted, not like lovely Thelma, but she had an ancestor somewhere in her past who had been. Those who were sensitive to the fey were alluring enough that Irial made note of her. Sometimes a man had needs.