Patricia Briggs - The Price

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The Price

Patricia Briggs

Year: 2000

Molly couldn't recall just when the first time she'd seen him had been. Never before this summer

certainly.

She did know that it wasn't until the fourth market of the season that she'd begun to watch for him. It was

then the market steadied to a trickling flow of people rather than the flood that came initially. Sitting at her

booth, she had time to observe things that on busier days escaped her notice.

He would wait until she was occupied with a customer before coming to her small booth and touching the

weaving on the tables. If she stopped to talk to him, he turned away and melted into the crowd as if he

were uninterested.

Her first thought was that he was a thief, but nothing was ever missing. The next explanation that

occurred to her was that he was too abashed by her looks to approach. She knew that many men, even

ones she'd known in childhood, were intimidated by her looks.

Being beautiful was better than being ugly, she supposed, but it caused quite as many problems as it

solved. For instance, it cost her several weeks before the idea that he might be worried that she would

find him frightening crossed her mind.

It wasn't that he was ugly, but he didn't look like anyone she'd ever seen either. Small and slight — he

moved oddly, as if his joints didn't work quite the way hers did. He reminded her of the stories about the

fauns with human torsos on goat's feet that ran through the hills. She'd even stolen a quick glance at his

feet once, when he thought she was haggling with a customer — but his soft leather boots flexed just as

hers did.

If she'd been certain that he was frightened of her, she would have let him choose his own time to

approach her. But she had watched him closely last market day, and he didn't seem the sort to be easily

intimidated. So she brought her small loom with her, the one she used for linen napkins, though usually

she preferred to work with wool since wool caught her dyes better. The loom made her appear to be

busy when there were no customers about — and so she hoped to lure him to the booth.

He wandered over casually, and she pretended not to notice him. She waited to speak until he became

engrossed in a particularly bright orange-patterned blanket before she spoke.

"It's my own dye," she said without looking up. "There's a plant in the swamp that a marsher collects for

me each spring. I've never seen a color that can match it — rumpelstiltskin, they call it."

He laughed, before he caught himself; it sounded rusty and surprised, as if he didn't do it often. She

wasn't certain what the joke was, but she liked the sound of his laughter, so she smiled into her weaving.

"I know it," he said finally, when she thought that he'd decided to leave. "A wretched-looking plant to be

responsible for such beauty."

She looked at him then, seeing his face clearly for the first time. His features were normal enough, though

his nose was a bit long for the almost delicate mouth and eyes. His skin was mottled and roughened, as

though someone had carved him from old oak and forgotten to sand the wood smooth. The effect was

odd and unsettling.

He stood still under her regard, waiting for her judgment. She smiled, turning her attention back to her

weaving. "Beauty is as beauty does, sir. A blanket will keep you warm whether it is orange or

dust-colored."

"But you made it beautiful."

She nodded. "That I did, for I must sell it, and most people look for pretty things. My face calls more

people to my booth than might otherwise come here, and I am glad of it. But the blanket I sleep with is

plain brown, because I find that it suits me so. Your face, sir, would not cause me to cross the street to

look at you, but the way you touch my weavings led me to tease you into this conversation."

He laughed again. "Plain-spoken miss, eh?"

She nodded, then inquired mildly, "You are a weaver as well, sir?"

"And you are a witch?" His voice imitated hers.

It was her turn to laugh as she showed him the calluses on her fingers. "Your hands have the same marks

as mine."

He looked at her hands, then at his own. "Yes," he said. "I am a weaver."

They talked for some time, until he relaxed with her. He knew far more than she about weaving in

general, but he knew hardly anything about dyeing. When she asked him about it, he shrugged and said

that his teacher hadn't used many colors. Then he made some excuse and left.

She wondered what it was that had bothered him so as she packed the merchandise that hadn't sold in

the back of the pony cart with the tables she used to display her goods.

"Patches," she said to the patient little pony as he started back to the mill, "he never even told me his

name."

On the next market day, a week later, she brought some of her dyes with her in a basket, making certain

that she included some of the orange he had admired so much. She left it out in the open, and it wasn't

long before he approached.

She kept her gaze turned to the loom on her lap as she spoke. "I brought some dyes for you to try. If you

like any of them, I'll tell you how to make them."

"A gift?" he said. He knelt in front of the little basket and touched a covered pot gently. "Thank you."

There was something in his voice that caused her to look at his face. When she saw his expression, she

turned her attention back to her weaving so that he would not know she had been watching him: there

were some things not meant for public viewing. When she looked up again, he was gone.

She didn't see him at all the next time she set up her booth, but when she started to place her weavings in

the back of the cart, there was already something in it. She pushed her things aside and unfolded the

piece he'd left for her.

Her fingers told her it was wool, but her eyes would have called it linen, for the yarn was so finely spun.

The pattern was done in natural colors of wool, ivory, white, and rich brown. It was obviously meant for

a tablecloth, but it was finer than any she'd ever seen. Her breath caught in her chest at the skill necessary

to weave such a cloth.

Slowly she refolded it and nestled it among her own things. Stepping to the seat, she sent Patches toward

home; her fingers could still feel the wool.

The cloth was worth a small fortune, more than her weavings would bring her in a year — obviously a

courting gift. To accept such a thing from a stranger was unthinkable . . . but he didn't seem like a

stranger.

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Patricia Briggs - The Price

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