Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales #4)

“I have a misdirection spell active, as well as a screening charm. King Torgen’s men would be hard-pressed to find us. And given your unusual relationship with your guards, I imagine they are not strenuously searching you out.”

“Maybe,” Gemma agreed. When she turned to study Stil she noticed that his cloak—normally a stark black—seemed to…swirl. There were faint swirls of blue, purple, green, and even reds that crawled across his cloak as if it were rolling like an ocean. “I think I finally see the magic in your cloak.”

Stil looked up. “What?” he said before glancing at his cape. He breathed an oath and dropped a tent pole. “It’s leaking magic.”

“Hm?”

“That demon donkey you’re petting damaged the cloak so much it can’t retain the spells anymore, and they’re dripping out,” Stil said, redoubling his efforts to get the tent up.

“Would you picket Pricker Patch? I’ve got to see if I can repair the damage and stop the leak,” Stil said when the tent was almost set up.

“Yes,” Gemma said.

“Thank you,” Stil said before disappearing though the tent flap.

Pricker Patch gave one loud bray, as if sensing his triumph.

Gemma picketed the donkey, tying his rope to one of the tent pegs. She entered the tent and made her way through the parlor to the hallway of doors. She found the small storage room Stil had shown her on their first day of traveling, where grain, carrots, apples, and hay was stored for Pricker Patch. She struggled to carry the hay through the parlor (wincing whenever flecks of alfalfa and strands of grass dropped) and threw the hay in front of the donkey. She gave the stubborn creature a carrot, and when she returned to the parlor, all traces of hay were gone.

Gemma shrugged off her new cloak—one made in a style similar to Stil’s but in dark green—and made her way to her uncomfortably beautiful bedroom.

She pulled out the black wool cape and studied it with narrowed eyes. The cloak, to Gemma’s critical gaze, was well made. The midnight-blue silk lining was perfectly joined to the black cloak with stitching so tiny and straight, it was perfect. The embroidery—vine-work with the occasional leaf, all made with silver-colored thread—glowed on the dark backdrop, circling the shoulders in liquid lines.

The only work left on it was to finish one embroidered leaf. But even though Gemma had used every bit of skill she had on the item and could detect no imperfection, she doubted it would meet Stil’s standards.

“Perhaps it could hold him over, until he finds a new cloak,” Gemma said, threading her needle to finish the final leaf. Her stomach growled with hunger when she finally put her needle down and trimmed away the last bit of unnecessary thread. She studied the cloak and sighed. “I feel like a fool. Like a peasant offering a king a chicken,” she said before folding up the cloak and draping it over her arm.

On a hunch, she made her way to the parlor and peered inside. Stil was there, stretched out on a settee. His mouth and chin were visible, but his eyes and forehead were tucked under a pillow.

“I would say we should slay the donkey and eat him for dinner, but I suspect leather would be more palatable,” Stil said.

“The damage is that bad?” Gemma asked.

“It’s worse than I would like when I am in an already uncomfortable situation,” Stil sighed, sitting upright. He gave Gemma a tired smile, tilting his head in interest when he noticed she carried something.

Gemma nodded and furrowed her forehead. She took a moment to rally her courage before she said, “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

Gemma wordlessly passed the cloak to the mage.

Stil took the bundle of cloth and unfurled it. His eyes traced the embroidery, and he nudged the inner lining, examining the stitching and the hemming.

“I made it,” Gemma said, for the first time in her life uncomfortable with heavy silence.

“You made this?” Stil asked, briefly pulling his eyes from the cloak.

Gemma nodded. “I apologize if it is not up to your usual standards, but perhaps it could serve as a temporary substitute.”

“Substitute?” Stil laughed. “Gemma this is—it’s incredible. It’s perfect. You really made it?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Excuse me?”

Stil shook his head. “You cannot fathom how rare it is to find something this well made, this perfect. You must have some magic in your blood.”

“I do not,” Gemma said. “Sewing is not magic.”

“Yours practically is. Any kind of craftsmanship has touches of magic—that’s why items can hold magic. But this cloak, Gemma—you must be a genius.”

“Hardly,” Gemma wryly said.

“You think I’m storying you, but I’m serious. It takes great talent and a masterful mind to create something like this, something that practically begs to have magic added to it,” Stil said. “Doesn’t it kill you to give up your creations?”