Free Grizelda by Margaret Taylor Page B

glances back at her and the
laundryman.
    Crome turned back to Grizelda. “As for you,”
he said, “go stand over there where you can’t do any more harm.” He
pointed at the wall.
    She bit her lip, then walked in the direction
he pointed. The room was silent apart from the humming of
machinery. She stood with her back against the wall, fists clenched
tight, feeling the tears hot in her eyes. She’d screwed it up. That
was fast. She’d screwed it all up just like she’d screwed it up
when she got herself caught at the dressmaker’s.
    She stood like that for what seemed like a
long time. In time the laundry started up again around her.
Cautiously at first the goblins resumed their tasks, afraid the
same fate would fall on them if they jammed up their own work. Then
they started to work more confidently. Before too long the laundry
was roaring at full speed again.
    Just when Grizelda was beginning to wonder if
she would be required to stand there for the rest of the day, there
was a burst of activity at the laundry door. One goblin bounded
inside like a small flurry, pushing aside a couple of workers who
happened to be in his way. He was already talking and pushing up
his sleeves without bothering to give Crome so much as a nod.
    “This had better be good, Laundryman. There’s
a combine down in E and two coal washers and the generator’s acting
funny again. We could have a powerout any moment. Is that it?”
Mechanic Lenk pointed at the ruined sewing machine.
    Grizelda made a strangled noise. The mechanic
didn’t notice her, though. As soon as Crome nodded, he strode
towards the sewing machine, still talking a mile a minute.
    “The thing is, I don’t have any extra time to
spare on you. Yes, clothes are important and all, but do you
understand how much work it takes to keep anything running around
here?”
    He gave the situation a quick scan. “You’re
lucky. It looks like I can fix this quick.”
    He threw down his toolbox, rummaged around
inside it, and selected an awl. He tried a variety of angles around
the machine, sighting along the tool like a pool cue, finding the
best way to pry the gnarl of shirt free. Then he looked up.
    “Laundryman! What’s the matter with the girl?
She looks about ready to pass out.”
    Did she really look that bad? She pressed the
back of her hand against her cheek and tried to guess her color. It
probably wasn’t very good. What a disgrace. She wished she could
just hide and not let these goblins remark over her like she was a
zoo animal.
    “It was her fault,” Crome said.
    Lenk gave him a look, but didn’t say
anything. Instead he wedged the awl between the shirt and the
machine and levered it down. With a lot of prying in this fashion
and the help of some scissors, he managed to get the shirt free. By
that point it was not a shirt anymore; it was a tangle of shreds.
He handed the tatters to Crome.
    He gave it a look as if he had just been
handed a cow pile. More out of politeness than anything else he
managed a terse “Thank you for your work, Mechanic,” then he turned
away in search of an appropriate wastebasket.
    Grizelda and Lenk were left alone together.
As soon as he was sure Crome’s eyes were off of them, he set down
his awl and put a hand on her shoulder.
    “You’re Grizelda, right?” he said.
    She nodded.
    “You look terrible.”
    She made a smile that was not exactly happy.
“I’m afraid I do. It wasn’t my fault about the shirt, honest.”
    Lenk checked over his shoulder. The coast was
still clear. “Look, when work’s over, how would you like to come
have a cup of tea? I think you could use it.”
    Tea? Something normal . She could use
that more than anything else in the world.
    “I think I would like that very much,” she
said.
    “Seamstress Grizelda, you may resume your
work.” That was Crome’s voice, in a warning tone.
    Lenk gave her a hurried set of directions to
his home, then he had to leave, grabbing up his toolkit and flying
out the