Free The Novelty Maker by Sasha L. Miller Page A

crossing through the mess of the workshop without so much as looking back at Cole.
                    "Maybe you shouldn't," Harlowe said, pausing to nudge a drill under a table. He glanced over his shoulder at Cole, half his frown visible and the rest obscured by the mask he wore.
                    "Harlowe, what in the world?" Cole asked, exasperated. He was well used to Harlowe being somewhat mercurial, but Harlowe had never told him to not visit before. "Are you all right?"
                    "This isn't funny," Harlowe said, finally turning to face him. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded, worn page. He tossed it at Cole, who barely caught it as a breeze from the windows tried to snatch it away.
                    Unfolding the page, he skimmed it, his stomach immediately turning at the opening of my dearest Harlowe. It only got worse, as the letter writer proclaimed their undying affection for Harlowe and their admiration for his work. It was signed, your secret admirer , complete with a little sketch of a heart, and Cole scowled at it.
                    "What is this? Who gave it to you?" Cole demanded, angrier than he should be. Harlowe was a friend, nothing more.
                    "You didn't write that?" Harlowe asked, his voice somewhat unsteady. The mask covering most of his face sometimes made it difficult to read Harlowe's expressions, but Cole had known Harlowe long enough to be able to pick up some of what he was feeling from his voice.
                    "No," Cole said, staring down at the letter again. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but that didn't mean anything. Transcribing shops could be found on every second corner; it was no chore to find someone else to write a letter.
                    "It came this morning, special courier," Harlowe said, stepping forward and taking the letter out of Cole's slack grip. He folded it back up and tucked it into his vest again. "You're the only one I know who could send something that way."
                    Cole snorted. "You were going to lock me out of your workroom because you thought I sent you a secret admirer letter? You should be happy to get one of those. It means someone likes you."
                    "Well, I'm not happy," Harlowe snapped, turning his back on Cole and walking away again. "I should lock you out anyway. It's not professional."
                    "You're never on the sales floor," Cole said, shrugging, stepping over a half-assembled something on the floor.
                    "No one wants me on the sales floor," Harlowe said, opening a door and stepping into a small office. "Did you want tea?"
                    "No, thank you," Cole said, following Harlowe into the office. "Your boxes are much better than Bingley's. Lady Codd had one last week and everyone was gushing about it."
                    "Whatever," Harlowe muttered, flipping the tail end of his braid over his shoulder. He pulled out a small ledger, making a few marks.
                    He'd only ever removed his mask in front of Cole once, and only then because he hadn't had a choice. Bingley had managed to set off a machine he'd been working on, spraying Harlowe's face—and mask—with something dangerous enough it needed to be washed off immediately. Harlowe had never said how he'd come by the scarring that marked the left side of his face and rendered his left eye useless, but it was obviously a sensitive subject so Cole had never asked.
                    It was the reason he avoided the shop floor and the reason he rarely took commissions personally. Cole had been an exception—he'd managed to come to the shop when the owner, Bingley, was out and neither of the shop girls could answer his questions. So he'd been shunted into the back room to wait