“It’s not much, but go ahead and eat,” the old woman told us, picking up a fork.
“It looks wonderful,” Nito said politely, dipping her head.
Charolles gave a slight bow of her own and I followed suit.
I started off with a forkful of the mashed potato thing and broke into a smile at the taste. The word “rustic” might usually have been used in a more mocking way, but I meant it as praise here. While the mash was only lightly seasoned, that just let its own flavor show through even better. It was light and refreshing, the perfect sort of taste for mornings.
The biggest thing was getting to eat warm, home-cooked food around a real table. That alone elevated the meal to the best cooking you could get. Considering it all again, I realized this was a pretty strange experience. Someone we’d only met yesterday had invited us to share her breakfast table. Such a thing never would have happened back in my world; it was only because I’d come here that I was able to experience it.
I finished eating first, Charolles next, and Nito last. The old woman started brewing a fresh pot of tea, and in that slight lull, Nito hesitantly spoke to her.
“Um, is this a shoe shop?”
“Since my grandparents’ time, yes.”
Nito looked down at her own feet and rubbed her toes together. After a long moment of struggling with herself, she looked back up at the woman and spoke again.
“Um... C-Could you tell me your name?”
The corners of the woman’s lips lifted in amusement.
“It feels like a long time since I’ve been asked that. I’m Fago.”
“Miss Fago, can you make shoes smaller?”
“There’s a lot of ways, yes. Are you asking about the shoes you’re wearing now?” she asked, leaning forward to look at Nito’s feet over the table.
I looked over as well. I didn’t actually remember ever having taken a proper look at them before, but the boots she was wearing did seem somewhat too large for her frame. The toes were scuffed too, and there were deep creases in the material. They were well worn.
“They are a little big for you,” Fago agreed.
“I’ve stuffed them with cloth for the time being...”
“Let’s have a look-see. Come this way,” Fago said, standing up and opening the door into the display room.
I decided to follow along as well. She led us through the other door I’d seen earlier. Past it was a small room, practically emblematic of a craftsman’s workshop. The largest fixtures were two desks—one by the wall, the other in the center of the room—both blatantly well used. Tools, sheets of leather, partially finished shoes, wooden molds, hammers, chisels, and all the other accoutrements for making shoes littered their surfaces.
Fago pulled out a high-seated chair from a corner of the room.
“Sit down here.”
Nito climbed up into the chair as she’d been instructed, and then Fago pulled out a footrest and told Nito to put her feet on it. She untied Nito’s laces and took the boots off with practiced movements. When she was done, Nito’s tiny bare feet rested next to them, making the difference in size even clearer.
Fago picked up a pair of glasses from the nearest desk and perched it on her pointed nose, scrupulously inspecting Nito’s boots.
“These aren’t elven,” she said. “This is how they make them in Mid.”
“Mom said she had them made while she was traveling, and that they’d last thirty years.”
Fago snorted.
“Thirty? These are Bragosca’s. They’ll last fifty if you take care of them.”
“Fif—” Nito spluttered.
Her eyes widened so much that Fago laughed.
“Your mom had a discerning eye. These are rare shoes. They use the best materials you can find, which makes them so expensive that people who aren’t clued in about these things would never buy them. If you treat them well, they’ll last longer than a human does. They wouldn’t outlast an elf, though.”
She pulled out the small bits of cloth that had been stuffed inside each boot.
“Right then. I can make them smaller, but...you won’t be small forever.”
“Oh...maybe not,” Nito agreed.
Fago was inspecting one boot—checking the sole, brushing a finger over the seams, and constantly turning it this way and that, making sure she saw each and every inch.
“These are well made. We’d be better off using insoles and stuffing the toes rather than opening them up to make alterations.”
Nito nodded.
“Will that...take a long time?”
“You still have quite small feet, so the pieces of stuffing will be larger, and you’ll need to wear them several times while we fine-tune the fit, so it will take a day or two.”
Fago looked at me.
“Is the car by the temple yours?”
“It is...” I confirmed hesitantly.
“Perfect. There’s something I want you to do to pay for the shoes.”
Work required payment. We’d heard the same thing from Vandyke when he was repairing the Kettle for us. The sentiment went double for expertly done work. Nito was looking at me apologetically, though, so I smiled and nodded to show her that I didn’t mind.
“I want you to check if an old friend of mine is still kicking around. If he is, there’s something I want you to deliver to him.”
“Understood. Where does he live?”
“In one of the villas just past Mercian Street—that place I mentioned before.”
“That’s pretty close. You haven’t gone to check yourself?”
“I could if I were as young as you, or if I had a car, but it’s too much for my old bones. A round trip takes a whole day.”
She put Nito’s boots on the nearby desk and opened the door to a cabinet set within it. From inside, she pulled out a package covered in oiled paper.
“There’s a building with a blue roof right in the middle of the villas. Give this to the stubborn old man that lives there. He’ll know why you’ve come if you give him my name. Just leave it in the house if he’s kicked the bucket.”
“You sure don’t pull any punches...” I said with a strained smile as I took the package, shocked to hear someone talking about death so bluntly.
“I’ll come too!” Nito exclaimed.
She made to stand, then seemed to realize she still had no shoes on. My own gaze dropped to her tiny feet, taking in the light-pink color of her toenails.
“You shouldn’t stare at a girl’s feet like that,” Fago told me.
Her admonishment made me feel like I was doing something dirty. I looked away, clearing my throat.
“I’ll be back in a bit. You just get your shoes sorted,” I told Nito.
Nito used her hands to lift herself a bit and turned to look up at me. She reminded me of a cute little hamster. I could hear her grumbling to herself, trying to decide whether she should put off getting her shoes fixed and come with me.
“Bring me a souvenir,” she decided eventually.
“I’ll definitely keep an eye out for one.”
Before I left, I went back to the other room and found Charolles sitting with her eyes closed. I called out to her and she opened them, giving me a completely blank look.
“I’m heading out for a bit, so would you mind looking after Nito?”
She gave a slight inclination of her head, a strand of hair slipping loose and brushing across her cheek.
“I don’t think she needs it,” she answered.
“Just, y’know... Just in case. I worry.”
“Okay, sure,” she nodded, standing.
That short affirmative was all the reply she offered, and I was lost for words for a moment.
“Are you sure? You don’t want to know how long I’ll be gone or how far I’m going?”
“It’s fine. I more or less know,” she answered.
I watched her pass through the door into the workshop and couldn’t help but let out a mumble at her behavior.
“Cool as a cucumber...”
It occurred to me how strange it was that I felt so at ease leaving things in Charolles’s hands. We’d only barely met, but something about her just made me feel like I could trust her. Nito seemed to feel the same.
I left the shop and started climbing the hill. It had been a while since I’d done such things on my own, I realized. Going off by myself like this made me feel lonely and happy all at once, which I found amusing. I’d reached a point where I could actually look back fondly on my time traveling alone.
It took longer to get back up to the temple than it had taken to get down to the shoe shop. I stopped by our room to collect my backpack and then climbed aboard the Kettle, putting the bag and Fago’s package on the passenger seat.
I’d be driving alone, so I pulled out my phone to put something upbeat on. As the pop music I’d picked blasted forth from the phone, I lit the boiler. Steam-powered vehicles used the heat from the boiler to evaporate water into steam and convert that into a driving force, so I couldn’t start moving until it came to temperature. I looked out the window while I waited, humming along to the familiar lyrics.