The scent of beeswax and rosewater clung to Antoine like a second skin. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom of his workshop, illuminating a half-finished glove—ivory silk, almost translucent. He didn’t sell warmth, not exactly. He sold whispers.
He traced the delicate floral pattern with a blackened needle, the silk yielding under his touch. Each stitch wasn’t merely binding fabric; it was etching a ward, a plea to whatever forces might listen. Reims choked on sickness. People needed more than prayers.
“Another order for the countess?” Madame Dubois, his stout neighbor, appeared in the doorway, balancing a chipped porcelain bowl. The aroma of garlic and onions followed her.
“The usual,” Antoine murmured, not looking up. His fingers moved with practiced speed, knotting a complex glyph into the lace of the thumb. It wasn’t the lace *for* the countess, though. That was merely a cover.
“She fancies herself a protector of the arts, that one.” Madame Dubois sniffed, depositing the bowl on his workbench. “All fluff and no substance.”
“Substance doesn’t pay the bills,” Antoine countered, smoothing the silk. He glanced at the bowl. Leek and potato soup. Heaven.
“True enough.” She peered closer. “That’s… intricate work. More than usual, even for you.”
He let a slow smile curve his lips. “A new design. A favor for a distant admirer.”
“Admirer?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You, Antoine? I thought you were wedded to your needles.”
“Everyone needs a hobby.” He snipped a stray thread. “Speaking of hobbies, did you hear old Manet finally succumbed? Down by the river?”
Madame Dubois shuddered. “A bad week for the parish. A *very* bad week.” She turned to leave. “Just… be careful, Antoine. These times…”
He didn’t bother replying. Madame Dubois always worried. But this wasn’t about worry. This was about survival.
He carefully folded the finished glove, then tucked it inside a larger parcel. Rough linen, stained with travel. He’d arranged the network weeks ago. Farmers, peddlers, even a traveling minstrel. Each one a silent messenger.
“Lyon tonight,” he muttered to the empty workshop.
Later, under the bruised twilight sky, he met Jean-Luc, a wiry man with eyes that missed nothing. Jean-Luc took the package, barely a glance exchanged.
“Anything new?” Jean-Luc asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.
“For the apothecary. Rue Saint-Honoré. Instructions on a poultice. Vervain and rue. Tell him to emphasize the vervain.”
Jean-Luc nodded, adjusting the weight of the bundle slung across his shoulder. “And the one for Marseille?”
“The fisherman. The harbor master’s daughter. The symbol for purification. He’ll understand.” Antoine pressed a small silver coin into Jean-Luc’s hand. “Keep the fires burning.”
“Always,” Jean-Luc replied, disappearing into the labyrinthine streets.
Antoine watched him go, the scent of beeswax and rosewater suddenly a thin shield against the creeping dread. He wasn’t a healer. He wasn’t a priest. Just a glove merchant. But sometimes, a whisper woven into lace was more powerful than any prayer.
