Free Serendipity Market by Penny Blubaugh Page A

magic of his own, to guide us. He knew every hidey-hole in town.
    â€œThen autumn skidded into winter. Our adventure rapidly became less wonderful. We decided, after a miserable night of cold during the first snow, that we needed a permanent place to call our own.
    â€œThe next day, chilled and bedraggled, we walked up and down the main street of our adopted village. We looked in all the windows, remember, Earl? We listened at all the doors. We stopped at the shoemaker’s. We knew he was a shoemaker from our earlier, carefree wanderings, when finding a home had been of no importance. We were sure that we knew everything about everyone in the village. We observed without being observed ourselves. But had we not known how this man made his living, we would have found it out only by the conversation we heard through thekeyhole of the garden door. There was nothing in his street window to indicate a trade.”
    â€œThe window was, in fact, completely empty.”
    â€œThe shop was unhappy.”
    â€œAs were its inhabitants. They were saying…No. You tell, Maddie. You do it so much better than I.”
    â€œEarl. How kind.”
    â€œI always am.”
    â€œThe shoemaker and his wife were saying they had nothing left. The new shoemaker, to the north and across the square, had taken all their business with his fancy shoes made with polished leathers. Our shoemaker made working shoes, sturdy and long lasting, but suddenly everyone needed to look as if they were going to town, going to the palace, going to a ball. No one, it seemed, had the money left over for strong, simple shoes.
    â€œThe shoemaker held up a piece of golden leather.”
    â€œWe saw, through the keyhole.”
    â€œHe told his wife that it was the last piece he had. Tonight he would cut his last pair of shoes, tomorrow he would make them, then heaven alone knew what would happen.”
    â€œDon’t forget, Maddie and I watched. And we remembered what we saw. We knew, for example, that the barber was not at all kind to his wife or to his children.”
    â€œWe knew that the vintner drank more of his product than he sold.”
    â€œWe knew the new shoemaker, the one who called himself a cobbler, used old leather and colored it the shades of the rainbow to disguise its poor condition. We knew his dyes would fade quickly. We knew he used one stitch when he should have used three. And that his soles were thin and slippery.”
    â€œAs was his soul, actually.”
    â€œEarl! A metaphor.”
    â€œWe knew good things, too. We knew our shoemaker spent long hours on his shoes, charged as little as possible, believed devoutly in the power of a good pair of shoes to smooth out a day.”
    â€œWe listened, and the brown dog listened with us. Then he shoved us closer to the door with his dark coconut-brown head. ‘Do you want us to go in?’ I asked. He didn’t bark, seeming to know our need for stealth, but he did nod his head.
    â€œEarl said, ‘We do need someplace to sleep.’
    â€œI said, ‘We could help.’
    â€œThat night, when the shoemaker and his wife had gone to bed, we magicked his door lock and crept into his workroom. The golden leather was cut, ready to be stitched. It was going to make a beautiful pair of brogues.
    â€œWe pieced the leathers together, Earl and I. We stitched the leathers to the soles with stitches so fine, no human would ever have been able to match them.Not even our shoemaker.”
    â€œAnd certainly not the cobbler to the north.”
    â€œWe added decorative accents. Embossed leaves around the lace holes. We polished the leather until it shone like fresh coins. Then, just as the sun was cresting, we climbed the narrow ladder stairs to the attic. We’d made shoes for the shoemaker and found a place to stay for us. An even trade. To make sure he saw things as we did, to make sure he appreciated our part of the bargain, we