Page 24 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Blaze,” she breathes, tucking a slender hand under the hem of my shirt. “Blaze, I—” But I don’t get a chance to hear what she’s planning to say. A loud crack pierces the air, followed by a resounding thud as the bed breaks under us.

“Are you okay?” I ask Jo, quickly standing up from the mattress-turned-ramp and pulling her to her feet.

“Bodily? I believe so. But what am I supposed to do about this?” She waves at the pile of splinters, voice breaking. “How am I to afford a new bedframe? We will both be sleeping on a lounge chair. I’ll have to drag up the one from the front room…”

“I can fix that!” I rush to say, pointing at the offending furniture. “I’m really good with wood!” I spin on my heel and walk toward the stairs, tucking my shirt into my trousers.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get new posts to fix the bed. I’m serious, I’m good with wood. You’ll never know it was broken when I’m done with it. That was a woodshop we passed this morning, down on the corner, right? They should have something I can use.”

“Let me fetch my coin purse,” Jo says after a moment. “If you insist, you’ll need a few pounds.”

“Fuck. I completely forgot about the fact that I’m flat broke here. I don’t want to take your money, Jo,” I grumble. While I’m not an overly proud man, dammit, I’m not a fucking freeloader.

“Either you take this and fix the bed,” she says, pressing a coin purse against my chest, “or you’ll be carrying up the settee for me and I’ll blame you daily for the dreadful quality of sleep I shan’t have.” She has a knowing smirk on her face, like she already knows she’s won—she has, but I still don’t like it.

“Fine, wife, you win this round.” I concede and step closer. “I’ll be back.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then plant a quick peck on her forehead. Disappointment stabs me in the gut when she winces, and I already know what she’s going to say.

“Blaze, we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have—that is,” she stammers, frantically brushing out her skirt.

“It’s okay, Jo, I know,” I tell her, because I do. “This isn’t real,” I add, voice barely over a whisper.

She finally meets my eyes, giving me a quick nod. I give a small smile, then go down the stairs.

“I need two six-inch posts, roughly eight inches long, as well as all this.” I tell the white-haired man behind the counter, gesturing to a hammer, a small handsaw, a few awls, and a midsized plane.

I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting when I had walked into this shop—maybe I’m too used to my time and expected it to look more like a predecessor to Lowe’s—but I was gobsmacked when I opened the door into one of my wettest hobby-dreams. Old foot-powered lathes, every possible size of chisel imaginable, long tables littered with mallets and bevels, augers here and saws there…I must have spun in stunned circles for ten minutes before the shopkeeper asked if I was lost.

If he only knew.

“You need a what now?” the man asks, leaning over the counter and turning an ear toward me.

“Uh, a post, oak if you have it, about yay thick.” I hold my hands up to mime the width. “By about yae long?” I gesture to indicate how long the post should be. “It’s for repairing bedposts.”

“Ah!” he says, then raises an eyebrow conspiratorially. “Should I dig up some walnut slats as well? A ride like that is bound to need a cradle,” he cackles.

I swear, this time blows my mind—the women are clueless and the men all joke like teenagers.

“Ha, thank you, sir, but I’ll just be needing the posts for now,” I reply awkwardly.

“Well enough, son. Can you pull the post down, though? I’m afraid I’m no good at dragging down the hard woods at my age.” He shuffles along the counter and beckons for me to follow him.

“Don’t you have an apprentice or anyone to help you?” I ask as he leads me into the back of the shop. Shelves line every wall, and several stacks of various types of wood are set in the middle of the space. What I wouldn’t give for a shop like this to tinker around in.

“Just me, I’m afraid. Lost the previous lad to consumption a year before last and haven’t found anyone with half a brain to replace him—God rest his soul.” He points up to a row of oak posts, then steps aside so I can ease one down.

“That’s a shame—both the consumption and the fact that you’re running the place alone.”

“Well, unless you know anyone who wants the job, I’ll keep plugging along until the reaper comes,” he says with a laugh.

“What about me, sir?” It’s perfect—if he hires me on, I would be helping him, doing a job I really enjoy and, most importantly, I could help Jo cover the costs of keeping me around.

“You?” The man stops and turns to peer at me over his glasses.

“Why not? I’m no master, but I like to make and fix things in my free time.” I shrug, not thinking I could tell him about the four years of wood shop I took in high school, so this would have to do.

“Well,” he sighs. “I suppose if you’re going to be my new apprentice, you should call me Albion and drop the ‘sir’ nonsense. When can you start?”