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Tires, rims, or anything round require a block for molding. One end is fixed to your anvil while you strike the other with your hammer.
Sea water caressed the soles of her feet.
Thessa was seated beside Leora on the ledge overlooking Crescent Moon Bay. It was the same boulder she’d sat atop many times before. The warm stone beneath her seat and salt air whipping through her hair were just as calming as Leora’s presence.
Thessa looked toward her. “Thanks for coming. You really didn’t have to?—”
“But I like your spot.” Leora cut in. “Thank you for sharing it. You don’t have to do everything alone … You know that, right?”
Thessa shrugged. As the sun grew larger, and the tide higher, she wondered if her gift was somewhere past the horizon, perhaps too far to find her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horseshoes clopping on cobblestones. One male hopped off a wagon as it rolled to a stop. He was tall and lean with ivory skin and wine-red hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears. He inspected the wagon, crouching down by the hind wheel before shouting, “It’s the rear; the spokes are broken.”
A loud curse cracked from the other side of the carriage.
A different male, bronzed from the sun, hopped off next. His ink-black hair was sheared shorter than his companion’s but still long enough to catch the light. The shining blue hues reminded her of starling feathers.
Thessa and Leora had already slipped their clogs back on and climbed over the iron barrier between the sea and land. They were approaching the wagon like two curious felines.
The first male continued, “Axel looks in good shape, but the rim is warped. Would need a proper forge.”
Thessa’s ears perked up while the other male kicked the wagon and grumbled something coarse about cobblestone streets.
What a shame, she thought. Not the broken wheel. It was a shame there was no forge at the townhouses. That’s what she needed right now. Thessa missed the workshop. She missed the soot on her brows and the hammering, all of it.
Her trade had been deemed useless in the townhouse. The house matron secured the town blacksmith for all repairs, and for things that weren’t even broken—thingsthat needed tending to inside her private room, it seemed.
Thessa would huff while scrubbing when he’d waltz into the kitchen after one of hisrepairs,schmoozing the cooks for a free meal.
Thessa and Leora were a few feet away from the wagon when Leora asked, “Everything alright?”
Thessa gestured at the bent iron and broken spokes. “Their wheel is mangled.”
Leora made an “O” shape with her mouth, before restarting, “Well, our townhouse is a short walk away, our matron can request the smith, if you’d like.”
Thessa grunted.
Leora elbowed her.
The red-haired male replied, “Thank you, but we’re expected at the festival before it begins. We’ll have to make the rest of the way by foot.”
“But what about your wheel?” Thessa asked, eager to fix it even though she had no tools.
“We’ll figure it out,” the dark-haired one answered before turning back to his companion. “The greens aren’t far, grab a barrel, we’re walking.”
“What’s in the barrels?” Leora asked. She’d never been one to mind her own, so why start now.
The red-haired one replied, “Sack mead, my dad brews it. I’m Emiel by the way.” He smiled briefly, but long enough to reveal two dimples and lively green eyes.
Leora and Thessa eyed each other in silent agreement—these males were delightful to look at.
“This is my friend Soren, please ignore him,” Emiel added before turning toward him. “I can run back for the last barrel while you set up and serve? I’m faster than you?—”
“And leave me to fend off the murder of witches?” Soren pointed toward her and Leora.
“Did you just refer to us as a flock of crows?” Thessa asked sharply.
“Vultures, better? These barrels will last this festival an hour, two tops.”