Beth led his cart to one of the small, borrower-sized doors dotting the building’s foundation. Most were for regular entry, but this was the wide, sliding door that opened to his shop. He pulled out a key and hauled the door open. When he secured his cart inside, he came back out to meet a kneeling Mr. Cuffee.

“Here you are, Mr. Beth.” The giant handed him the box of beads. Beth took it in both arms and hauled it to the floor by his work station. Mr. Cuffee folded the brocade into a smaller, tighter bundle and offered it next. Beth did his best to avoid touching the silk to the ground as he carried it like a rug and stashed it on a shelf. The money, Mr. Cuffee gave to him in a drawstring purse made of purple velvet. It was the largest and heaviest. 

“All secure, Mr. Beth?” 

He scanned the shop, then nodded up at the middle-aged human. “Yes, thank-you.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Cuffee’s moustache contoured his upper lip as he smiled. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

The giant stood and set off.

Beth hesitated. “Mr. Cuffee?” He called. The man turned to look down at him. It was not with unkindness, but the towering, undivided gaze set him on edge. He mustered his courage. “Thank-you for dinner. It was… it was good.” 

Thoughtful. Accommodating. Delicious. But all he managed was good.

Mr. Cuffee smiled again. There was fondness in his crinkled, umber eyes. Somehow, Beth got the feeling he understood. He put a hand to his chest. “You are very welcome to dine with us again, Mr. Beth. Have a good night.”

The borrower struck a match to light the shop candle while he watched the black oxfords recede. He sighed.

“Who was that, JB?” 

He turned to find Florence in the door to the house. She was absent of Margaret’s children, on her hip or pulling at her skirt. Perhaps they were eating their own supper.

Beth rolled the wide shop door shut and locked it. He smacked his lips. “A friend of my client’s.”

His sister raised her brows. “Eloise Elliott’s friend? Don’t let Ethel catch wind of that. She’ll chase him down the street and beg him to take her to get a signature.”

Beth chuckled at that. “He just came to drop off supplies.”

Florence followed his sight to the bundle of silk on the shelf. “Goodness.” She slid to the golden fabric shining in the candle light. “Have you ever seen anything so fine?” She just dared touch it, like she was petting a rare animal. “Finer than this?”

Beth bit his lip. Yes, the dress it came from.

Florence set her eyes to the box by the work table. She darted over and lifted the lid with a gasp. “Oh, JB! They’re beautiful. You have to let me help you with them.”

He dipped his head appreciatively. His sister spun around the room slowly, looking for more treasure. She stopped at the velvet bag. “What’s this?”

“Never mind that.”

She shot him a strong stare. “You mean the purple, velvet bag isn’t from Miss Elliott?” She pulled the drawstring loose before he could get another word in. “Good heavens.” Florence stepped back. She gave him an amazed look. “What kind of shoes are you making for the woman, JB?” She stuck her head back in. “Is it a gift to Christ himself? What is she paying you? How much is this?”

“A hundred dollars,” he said softly.

“A hundr—” Florence whipped her head around so quick, her blonde hair hit her in the face. Her eyes were as wide as buttons. “A hundred dollars, JB?” She whispered. 

“I tried to say no,” Beth explained. “She told me to accept her money or accept losing her business.”

Florence blinked. She straightened, raising her brows. “I think I like this woman.”

“I don’t,” Beth shook his head. “There’s something… about her.”

Florence pulled the bag closed. “You think she’s playing at something phony?” 

He stared at the gold-spun silk on the shelf. It should be on a grand stage somewhere, a luxurious party or ball, rather than in his dusty old shop. “I don’t know.” He admitted. “I can’t… she’s so… frustrating. Firm, then gentle, then…” He shook his head. He was so humiliated, then so honored. “She’s just so sure. Everything must be perfect. Exactly how she wants it. Nothing can be improper, or dirty, but…”

She employs me.

“…but she’s not always so horribly unkind.”

Florence studied him closely. “Be careful. There’s not a bean out there I’d trust, but one throwing around a hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?” She let out a low whistle.

Beth just bobbed his head and took a seat on his work bench. The table lip pressed against his back. “She wants me to go with her,” he admitted, terribly quiet.

“What?”

“France, Italy, Australia… Chicago… She wants me to tour with her. In-house cordwainer.”

His sister gaped at him, bug-eyed. 

Beth gestured at the shop falling down around their ears. “It would pay for the house. It would pay for everyone’s house. Margaret, Aunt Violet, Uncle George, Genieveve, Ike, Mildred, their kids… Everyone. A few years of that kind of money,” he pointed to the velvet purse, “and we could buy a house big enough for beans, and every borrower in the world could move in.” 

Florence bounced her hip. “And what’s in it for her?”

Beth wiped his mouth. “I don’t know. She says the shoes.” He drummed his foot. “She says the shoes are beautiful. That she likes beautiful, custom things.” He stared at his brogues. “She says she likes my work.” 

His sister weighed the words. “Maybe she’s honest.”

“I don’t know,” Beth shook his head. “But I can’t go. It’s never… have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“No.” Florence admitted slowly. “No, I haven’t. It would destroy Mother.”

Beth closed his eyes. The devastating confirmation washed over him. 

The floor creaked as Florence shifted her weight. She hugged her elbows. “It would be like losing Father all over again.”

“No,” he shook his head. “No. I would write. And I would send money. Father never did that, he just…” he clenched his fists, rocking. “He just disappeared.”

“And how do you know the same won’t happen to you?”

“I don’t,” he sighed. “I don’t, Florie.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “That’s why I’m not going. I’m doing this one job, and then Miss Elliott goes off to Chicago with her bright, shiny new Mary Janes.”

Florence nodded. There was a shared melancholy in her eyes.

“So not a word of it.”

She nodded again. “Sure.”

“I mean it. To Mother, or Margaret, or the little ones, and especially not Ethel. It isn’t happening. Don’t put it in her head.”

“Agreed.”

Beth and Eloise had settled on a two-month update. Beth ordered the leather, cleared his schedule, and pulled out the first block of beech. He started on the right foot. Sketching out the pattern for the last, he took extra care to lay out all the curves and lines along the precise measurements. Then he pulled off his shirt and grabbed his axe. A human craftsman would use a knife, but there was not a wood knife he could properly maneuver that would be big enough. 

Beth worked the block down chunk by chunk, chip by chip, until finally it started to resemble a clunky, heelless Mary Jane. Now, he took a knife to it. 

Knives, chisels, gouges, and rifflers, until finally, the shape was right. He checked his notes furiously, aligning the last with the paper outline and keeping his measuring tape at arm’s reach. But it was more than just the simple shape he was after. It was the movement of it; the foot and shoe in unison. The roll of a step. The sharpness of a turn. The pressure points along the heel, the ball, the toes. Support for the joints, the arch. Room for every digit, from big toe to pinkie. He was in constant refinement. Was the waist too tight? Too loose? Was this curve too narrow? Too broad? Too steep?

Beth ended every day hot, sweaty, and muscles aching. But it was a hundred-dollar ache. Who knew when he would ever feel it again.

You could, a voice whispered to him. You could feel the ache of hundreds of dollars. And a full stomach. And a secure life.

But it wouldn’t be secure, would it? A life on the road, open to a world of gigantic, strange hands? Watching eyes, careless feet? New York was hard enough, he’d never survive the unknown beyond it.

You could, the voice said again. It sounded an awful lot like it came from plum-painted lips. Don’t you want to see it? The world?

Beth could not bring himself to answer the voice. Instead, he threw himself into sanding. It was long, and laborious, and least of all meticulous, but in the end, the beech-wood last was smooth to the touch, not a splinter to be found. 

Then he did it all again for the left foot. He worked through the night more than he cared to admit to his family, but the night before the two month mark felt as though it were only an hour. Blinking dry eyes open, he packaged the lasts and was off to Eloise’s apartment. Mr. Cuffee met him, just as before, to chaperone his cart to the tiffany-blue parlor where Miss Elliott awaited him. 

Today her dress was smooth silk, the color of ripe tangerines and with a shine that moved like the sun over the surface of the sea. A black-and-white sash was tied at her hip to match the scarf over her sculpted curls. She was removing shiny saddle oxford heels, black-and-white to complete the set. They were not bespoke.  

“Mr. Beth!” Eloise greeted. “I’m in a bit of a rush to get to my lunch meeting, but I should have just enough time for our appointment.”

“I’ll be brief,” he promised.

Mr. Cuffee made his leave. Beth pulled out the lasts and Eloise pulled off her stockings. Her eyes ran over the carved beech curiously. “May I?”

He nodded.

She took the wooden models into her hands. They fit easily, lifted high above his head as effortless as the breeze. “You made these from scratch?”

He nodded. 

Eloise ran her thumb over the arch. “I’m impressed. Your woodworking skills are as fine as your shoes.”

He dipped his chin. “Need to be. Now, I just need to compare it to the real thing.”

“Of course.” She set the lasts next to her feet. 

Beth fetched his notes and measuring tape. Strolling slowly around the two sets of feet, he assessed right and left. “Hold your heel?”

“Statement, Jimmy.”

He sighed quietly. “Hold your heel. Three inches. I need to see it in position.”

“Very good.” She raised her right heel.

He put a hand against it. “A little higher.”

The gigantic foot did as directed. Unlike the last, it was warm and alive. The skin was thick, but not so thick as wood. A real heel, attached to a real girl. Beth unwravelled his measuring tape. Clenching his jaw, he slid a hand under her heel.

“On my lead,” he pipped up. Then carefully, he lifted his palm. Beth wasn’t sure how much force to use, but Eloise responded to the slightest push. He watched the measuring tape. “There.” He said. “Can you hold there?”

“As long as you need, Jimmy.”

“Thank-you.” He ran his hand along the side of her foot, over the arch, to the top. He’d run his hands over its wooden twin a hundred times. He settled his palm over the first joint of her big toe. “Need to file this down more,” he murmured to himself, “half a millimeter.” He stepped back and let his hand fall by the wayside. “You can release now.”

The heel lowered to the floor. The other raised. “This three inches?”

Beth reached up, pulling at her heel. “Just so.” He inspected the foot from top to bottom, then its wooden twin. This one was identical.  

“That’ll be all for today, Miss Elliott.”

Both heels flattened. Eloise reached for her stockings. “Marvelous. When shall I see you next?”

He collected his measuring tape. “A month.”

“Mm.” She bent to touch the lasts. “May I?”

He looked up. “Oh. Uh, please.”

Easy as the breeze, she loaded the lasts into his cart, and he was off. Finally, it was time for the main show. Bringing the shoes to life. 

Beth drew up and cut out the patterns for the Mary Janes, transferring them to the full-grain leather to slice it. Each one was different; the pattern for the right couldn’t be used for the left, nor the reverse. Not for true, bespoke work. The same needed to be done for the lining. Unfolded, the fabric spread as a sea of silk waves, like his floor was made of molten gold. There was a yard and a half margin for error, but Beth still struggled to keep his hand from shaking as he put shears to it. 

The lines were crisp and clean, edges finished quickly to keep from fraying. 

He prepped the leather with an awl and the needles with waxed thread. The sharp, metal points were large and long enough to be sabers, thicker and stronger than standard sewing needles. Beth constructed the uppers with a saddle stitch, joining leather and silk together as he went. He punched holes in the straps and added matching gold buckles. 

He paused his sewing to lay insole boards below the lasts and trim them to size. Pulling the semi-finished uppers over the lasts, he searched for wrinkles and cut away excess. He let the leather stretch and settle into shape while he glued the edges to the insole boards, mindful to leave the gold brocade free. Constantly trimming the bottom flat, flat, flat, Beth attached the toe puff to the front and the counter stiffness to the heel, then encased the whole of the shoe with the silk lining and stitched it into place.

Finally, Beth cut the leather for the outsole, heedful to the exact shape and size of the bottom of the shoe. He watched with great satisfaction as it sealed every layer in a clean, even level. 

He pulled a pair of French heels from his stock, adding and shaping layers of leather until they were perfectly three inches tall. Beth dressed them in gold silk and hammered on tips. Lining the heels below the lasts, they looked like fully assembled Mary Janes. But not yet. 

Beth climbed inside the giant shoes, the hollow encasement of Eloise’s feet, and settled at the highest point. Lining up nails half as tall as he was, he swung a hammer over his head until they all but disappeared into the insole board. Now, the heels would go nowhere. Eloise could dance up the road from New York to Chicago and they wouldn’t so much as budge. 

As requested, he added plentiful padding. He couldn’t have her feet aching while she traveled the world. He finished the interior with the same leather he began with. A little sanding and buffing, and the shoes were ready for their trial try on. 

Though this time he had no Mr. Cuffee to escort the valuable goods, Beth packaged the shoes tenderly and delivered them to Eloise’s apartment where Miss Cassidy met him at the bottom. 

“Hello, Mr. Beth.” She greeted giddily.

“Hello,” he said. He eyed her shifting feet. 

“I’m so excited to see Miss Elliott’s shoes,” she beamed, hazel eyes aglow. “I’ve never seen bespoke shoes, and gold ones at that, too.”

“Ah.” Beth drummed fingers against his cart. “Up we go, then.”

Miss Elliott received him in her parlor for the third time in as many months, fashioned in a powder blue dress with a square neckline and lots of lace. She was adorned with copious pearls at her neck, wrists, and ears. If she was anywhere near as excited as her maid, she hid it better.

He tipped his head to steel his nerves. “Miss Elliott.”

“Mr. Beth.” She raised a curious brow, spying the plain cardboard box in his cart. “May I see?”

He nodded, grinding teeth to hold his ground as the giant crossed the parlor to stand before him. She wore no shoes, ready to try his. He fidgeted as she took the box from the cart. Up above, where he could not see, she pulled the lid off. 

Cassidy gasped softly behind him. He turned to see her lean in, chin lifted to catch a glimpse. Eloise raised one golden heel, rotating it in the sunlight. 

“They’re beautiful, Miss.” 

Brown eyes inspected the heel closely. “Yes, they are.” 

“They aren’t finished, yet, Miss.” Beth wrung his hands. “I need to be sure they’re proper, first.”

Eloise took her eyes off the Mary Jane to gaze at him. “Shall I try them on then, Mr. Beth?”

He nodded. 

She took a seat on the lounge couch, removing the lasts from the shoes and setting the box aside. The glamorous pair, she placed reverently on the floor. They slipped on like they were always meant to be there. Like her feet were incomplete without the glittering gold appendages, her body made whole. 

She secured the straps gingerly and stood. Eloise shifted her weight for a moment, feeling, then did a twirl across the carpet. Arms raised, she stepped back, to the side, forward, and to the side again. A simple box waltz. 

Cassidy clapped enthusiastically. “Oh, they’re wonderful, Miss!”

“Yes,” Eloise agreed, turning once more. She did another box waltz, this time stepping forward as the leading dancer. “I can’t wait to break them in.”

“It shouldn’t require much,” Beth assured. 

“Would you like to try them with the dress, Miss?” Cassidy gestured towards the bedroom hall. “I can fetch it, if you like.”

“No, thank-you, Cassie. I would prefer to hold the final viewing for when the heels are finished.” 

“Alright, Miss.” She smoothed her skirt. “I’ll go press your dress for tonight’s dance then, shall I? The ruby one, from Paris. Call for me when Mr. Beth is ready.”

“Thank-you, Cassie.” Eloise stopped her waltz to address him. “How much is there left to complete?”

Beth cleared his throat. “The beading. It’ll take a few weeks. Very detailed. And any adjustments, those too.”

Eloise looked down at the shoes. “I don’t think adjustments are necessary.” 

“Hm.” Beth crossed the carpet, hands outstretched to meet the Mary Janes, like he was approaching a wild animal. “I need to be sure of it.” 

He ran palms over the toe box, feeling for the fit. He slid his hands down to the arch, skimming fingers along the underside of the outsole to check the stitch. The gold fibers in the silk shimmered up at him as he rounded the heel. It looked so much better up here in the open light than in the dim, low-ceiling basement workshop. It was almost a shame to take them back; this was where they were meant to be, on the feet they belonged to. Seeing the world.

Beth assessed the uppers of the other Mary Jane, then took hold of the strap and pulled himself up. 

“Oh!” Eloise shifted.

Beth clutched the strap to keep his grip, flexing his feet to stabilize himself atop hers. “Sorry! Sorry!” He shouted, getting to his knees. “I should have said something first!”

The tendons below him relaxed. “Stable now, Jimmy?’

He swallowed. “Yeah.” He leaned up on his forearms, breathing out slow. He gave the strap a wiggle, then ran fingers over the holes to make sure they were still properly spaced. Beth stuck two fingers between the body of the strap and Eloise’s skin, nodding to himself. He checked the buckle lay flat, then dismounted. His feet hit the thick, turquoise fibers of the carpet and he trudged over to the other shoe. 

“Climbing up again,” he called. 

“Alright; I’ll do my best not to buck you off, Jimmy.”

Beth patted the side of her foot with a nervous chuckle. “I uh, I appreciate that.” He took hold of the golden strap, stepping up onto the lip of the shoe and swinging his foot over. He put a hand to the top of her foot to balance himself, still clutching the strap with the other. The skin below his palm twitched. He moved both hands quickly to the strap.

The shadow above him retreated. Heart freezing, Beth looked up. Eloise peered down at him, leaning over with her skirt pulled back and gathered in one hand. She waved fingers at him. “How’s it looking, Jimmy?”

Beth stilled his wild heart, wetting lips. “G–uh, good.” He returned to the strap and swallowed, sliding fingers over the brocade. “The holes look even. Buckle’s straight. Flat.” He wiggled the strap. “Feels secure.” He slipped his two fingers beneath it. The skin twitched again. He tried to ignore that he could see a few faint veins, here where the skin was thin at the top of the foot. Thin, and sensitive. “But not too tight.”

“You’re satisfied, then?”

He surveyed the shoe from this vantage, then its twin. He wondered what they looked like to Miss Elliott, way up yonder. Even just here, on the sloped top of her foot, he was almost twice as tall. “Yes, I’m satisfied. There shouldn’t need to be adjustments.” He craned his neck to meet her eyes. “I can begin the beading.”

Eloise gave him a smile; beautiful, and joyful, and proud. “I can’t wait to see it finished.”

Beth couldn’t help it, then. He smiled back at her. 

Eloise looked over her shoulder. “Before I hand them back, I have something for you.” 

“You do?”

She bent over, arm extended. Beth tried to spot something in her hand, but it was empty. And headed right for him—!

He yelped as a wall of fingers slid under his chest, looping below his arm. A massive thumb settled over his shoulder. The pressure of digits squeezed him, and Beth thought he might throw up on her new shoes. His stomach reeled into the air. He scrambled to grab hold of her fingers. “Miss Elliott—” Beth gasped, throat dry. “I—rather hoped we were past all—this—!” 

His head spun as she stood. Mercifully, she deposited him atop the cocktail table. “Shall I ask then, next time?” 

Beth stumbled to regain his footing. Heart in his throat, he leaned over the edge. The tabletop dropped sharply to the floor below. He wobbled, recovering his balance. Next time. 

He turned to find a set of two small boxes. One of them was as long as he was tall. Beth blinked, pointing to his chest with an uncertain finger. “…For me?”

Eloise nodded. “For you.”

He rounded the long box. His mind ran with what could be within. Sparing a nervous glance at the giant’s attentive stare, Beth knelt and took hold of the lid. It was his turn to gasp.

Neatly displayed within the box was a smart, three-piece suit, fitted from steel-gray wool with a tight sharkskin weave; soft, shiny, and new. It was double-breasted, sewn with marbled-brown buttons and assembled with a white dress shirt and caramel tie; Beth couldn’t help but notice it was the same brown as his brogues. So was the pair of leather gloves and the felt fedora laid atop the suit, its hatband a match to the gray weave. 

He stood, stunned. Eloise observed his reaction like a hawk. “This is…? But this must have cost you…” He shook his head, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Are you trying to buy my service?”

Eloise put a hand on her hip. “That is generally how it works.”

“No, it isn’t.” He ogled the three piece suit. It laid before him in offering. It would be the nicest, most fashionable thing in his wardrobe. Like the check, all he could do was stare. Again, he said, “I can’t accept this.”

Again, Eloise Elliott waved her hand. “Of course you can. Consider it part of your payment. What else am I going to do with it? Wear it on my pinkie?”

Still shaking his head, Beth closed the lid on the suit to assess the other box, almost in a trance. He was met with a collection of newly-pressed striped boxer shorts, a week’s worth in baby blue, salmon pink, and lime green. White tanks sat folded next to them. He could not help but pick up the box and run his fingers over the crisp material inside. They looked straight out of a fashion magazine. He had never even heard of a pair made for borrowers. 

“Better than rags, Jimmy?”

“Why… why are you so…” Beth clutched the fabric. “So kind to me?” He could not think of a better word. He was not sure it was the right one. “Food… a dining table… a hundred dollars… now this… I’m…” Tiny. Powerless. Poor. He could never repay her any of this charity. He would live the rest of his life indebted to her. “I’m a borrower.”

Eloise tilted her head at him, still standing like a skyscraper in her golden heels. She cast down a teasing smile. “I have a soft spot for small things, don’t you remember?” 

“Is that it?” His voice tremored. Beth held up the striped shorts, his grip shaky on the box. “You do this for every small, sad, scared creature you see?”

She watched him. The smile was gone.

“You give me this, and it’s still all I am. Borrowing. At least before I took what was unwanted. This… this is too much. It’s too nice. It’s too good, too good to take. I’ll keep my rags.”

“I’m not just giving it to you to replace your rags.” Eloise leaned over the table, landing hands on either side. “Sad as they may be.”

She was too big. Too close. Too sudden, right in front of him. He was boxed in. But Beth could not move; he was rooted to the spot, stripped shorts wrinkling between his fingers as the dancer’s face loomed, pearls dangling. All he could do was arc himself back to meet the depths of her brown eyes. They were serious. 

“I’m giving it to you because you’re a skilled man. I’ve seen you work. Felt you work. You have talented fingers, and expert eyes, and you make beautiful things. A man like yourself should always be dressed to match his best.” Eloise shifted her weight to point a finger against his chest, raising it to tilt his chin. “I grew up watching too many men like you live and die before any beautiful thing they made saw a lick of appreciation. And no means to remedy a thing myself.” With her gentle fingertip, she pushed the box further into his arms. “I have the means now. I mean to appreciate it.”

Beth stood there, trembling. He dropped the shorts into the box and clutched its sides. “You…” he finally managed, “Did you hire borrowers to make these?”

“Cassidy took your measurements when she mended your rags.” Eloise shrugged. “They might be a little off, but they can be adjusted. There’s a lovely little tailor shop here in Manhattan with a borrower department that makes them to order.”

“And the table? The dining ware?”

“A high end furniture store, borrower-run.” She cocked her head. “Is it a crime to buy from the little guy?”

“It’s—” He fumbled. “It’s odd.”

Eloise laughed. She tucked curls behind her ear. “Can’t you accept when a gal likes you, Jimmy? Most fellas would be leaping for the opportunity.”

His face was red. “I’m—I’m not ungrateful—”

“Then say yes.” She fixed both hands on the tabletop. Pursing lips, she paused, tapping her nails. “Jimmy, my tour date has been moved up. I leave in a week.”

Beth stepped back, blinking rapidly. “But I—I need more time. I can rush the beading, but it’ll still take—I’d have to—”

“You’d have to come with me.” Eloise said quietly. 

The devastation washed over him. He couldn’t breathe. Beth squeezed eyes shut. He clutched the box with both arms, rocking on his heels. 

Paris…

Florence…

Sydney…

“...Chicago.” He said finally. “I… I could come with you to Chicago, just to finish this order. And then come straight home.”

“Okay.” Eloise’s lips tugged into a smile, but it looked more like a frown. “Jimmy, my offer still stands. I will pay you, handsomely, if you will make and repair ballroom shoes for me. I will supply you with food and lodging, and you will tour with me. You can go home at any point. I can increase my security, and offer accommodations, but I will not beg. You either come with me, or you don’t. If Chicago is it, then so be it. But don’t keep dragging your feet.”

He stared intensely at the honey hardwood floor below. At the golden sunlight, spilling across the turquoise and amethyst rug, dancing over pink and orange flowers bursting from a Chinese tree. He sucked in a breath, looking over the parlor with watery eyes. The grand piano faced him, glossy and pristine and begging for someone to play it. The high ceiling painted like heaven swelled with light. The French window was open to a brilliant sky, stretching over the wide world beyond this fabulous room. 

He could go back. Back to the dusty basement shop and the network of crowded apartments, tiny even for tiny people. Back to discounted repairs for cousins and rich beans looking down their noses at him as their embarrassing last resort. Back to pushing his old cart down an alley, praying another cat did not think itself lucky.

He would miss his mother, and his sisters, and his nieces and nephews, and his cousins, and his uncles and his aunts. He would be scared. And small. And perhaps even sad. But more than this, he knew. He knew that if he went back, he would stay there, and watch Eloise Elliott go on to the world, and regret it forever.

“Any point?”

“Any point.”

Beth thought for a moment more. “No more baths.”

Eloise Elliott laughed. Her eyes glimmered with amusement. “If you promise no more messes.” She held out a fingertip. “Deal?”

Beth shifted the box of clothes to one arm. Somewhat miserably, somewhat elated, he reached out and accepted her fingertip. They shook on it. 

“Excellent.” The man put a hand to his chest. “I am Mr. Cuffee. Miss Elliott sent me to receive you.” He stepped aside as he opened the door. “Right this way. Can I help you with your cart?” 

Beth shook his head. He pushed the cart harder; faster. Mr. Cuffee followed with slow, careful steps to the elevator. The bellhop eyed the odd pair, but kept his mouth shut. 

Up, up, up they went, down the hall, and then, there she was.

Eloise Elliott awaited him on the lounge couch of her parlor, in a sage day dress embroidered with small, yellow flowers and framed in lace. Her curly, honey-blonde hair was styled in loose finger waves, pinned behind one ear with a matching beaded clip. Pearl earrings hugged her ears, while a pearl necklace draped lazily around her neck. Her sharp cupid’s bow was painted plum again, but now her warm, fawn cheeks were painted too; a melon-pink rouge, and her eyelids a light taupe, lashes lined with kohl. 

“Mr. Beth,” Eloise Elliot smiled. She made no effort to get up. He supposed she was closer to him like this, anyway. “How marvellous to see you again.” 

Beth mustered a curt nod, already regretting coming.  Standing before the giant woman’s intense eye, he might as well have still been naked. He felt a mad man for even daring set foot in this apartment again. Repressing his nerves, Beth wheeled his cart to the slender cocktail table between couch and chair like he had any dignity left.

The room was tiffany-blue, the shade and hue of a fresh robin’s egg in April. Velvet, eggplant-purple drapes framed the long French windows behind the couch, their tassels dancing in the sun. A wide, arched doorway led to the pale blue dining room on the right. The ceiling was as high as heaven, and looked it, too; painted with songbirds soaring across crystal skies and curling clouds, a work of art framed by crown molding dusted in gold-leaf. Tall, potted palms fanned built-in bookshelves and a grand piano with a lacquered walnut veneer. The seating was just as purple and velvet as the drapes. Two plush chairs were adjacent the lounge couch in audience of the piano; seated on either side of a cocktail table with their backs to the wall of the dining room. A turquoise and amethyst rug covered the hardwood with an orange and pink floral scene bursting from a Chinese tree. 

“Can I get anything for you before you begin, Miss Elliott?” Mr. Cuffee asked.

Eloise looked to Beth. Heart furious, he shook his head. “No, that will be all, thank-you, Mr. Cuffee. Just ask Jack to pick up the refreshments for the gala on Saturday.”

“Will do, Miss.” The butler bowed his head and left. 

Eloise set eyes on the borrower. “I’ve never had bespoke shoes before, Mr. Beth. Tell me, where do we begin?”

“A few questions.” Beth turned to his cart, riffling to pull out his notepad and borrower-sized pencil—a broken off piece of lead, sharpened to a point. “What style are you looking for?”

She crossed legs, setting her chin on her knuckles. “Mary Jane.”

“And the shape?”

“Almond.”

“Heel?”

“French. Three inches.”

He lifted eyebrows. “Tall for dancing.”

Eloise smiled shamelessly. “I like to be tall. A gal’s only five foot four, you know. I’m still not gonna look a fella in the eye, but.” She shrugged. 

Beth ogled the woman sixteen times his size. After a second too long, he asked, “Leather or wood?”

“For the heel?” Miss Elliott thought for a moment. “Leather. Better impact.”

“These shoes will absorb shock better than your standard.” He affirmed. “Color?”

She stood. “On that, I intend to take advantage of the promise of custom.” Beth clutched his pencil and notepad as the living mountain rumbled by; beans still moved far too fast and far too loud for his liking. Eloise breezed past the front door and headed down the hall where Beth remembered her bedroom was. He shivered. 

A moment later, Eloise Elliott returned with the most spectacular gold gown in the world. 

The long, sleeveless bodice was embroidered with swirls of golden beads, spread like branches whose leaves were full and made of sunlight. Amber beads the shape of raindrops hung from the trim of the dropped waist, before the fabric turned to a gathered skirt with a handkerchief hem. He caught the shape of rose petals in the brocaded lamé as the skirt moved. The neckline was scooped, but Eloise turned it on its hanger in a twirl for him and revealed the deep, plunging V of the back, lined with more droplets of the beaded amber trim.

“I would like shoes to match this, do you think you can manage?”

Beth gaped at the glittering gown. He closed his mouth. “I—I’ll have to order fabric.”

“No need. My designer left me some for repairs. This should be enough, no?” She held up at least a yard of the gold brocade lamé. It would be the finest material Beth had ever worked with. His palms began to sweat just thinking of it. He bobbled his head.

Eloise placed the folded fabric on the cocktail table, setting the gown’s hanger on the coat rack by the door. She stood to admire it a moment before turning back to him. “I have some beading for it, also. I’ll have Mr. Cuffee find it before you go.”

Beth scribbled that down. Gold brocade lamé. Beading. “Any cut outs?”

“Teardrops. Over the ankle.” 

“And a leather sole?”

“Yes. With extra support.” Beth wrote it down, then realized she was staring. He took a sharp breath and made himself meet her eye. “Do you think you can do it, Jimmy?”

He looked to the folded gold on the table. His cart, full of tools. The exquisite gown hanging by the door. He nodded.

“Excellent.” Eloise’s smile was radiant. His insides felt like they were made of liquid. “What next?”

Beth held up a finger, then climbed his cart to pull a roll of paper from the pile. He carried it to the hardwood behind the chairs, set weights on the curled corners, and pushed it flat. Eloise craned her long neck to follow his movements. His heart pounded. Eyes accompanied him to his cart as he pulled a sharpened, human-sized pencil and returned to the paper. 

“Here,” he said. “I need to trace you.” 

An eyebrow raised. “Of course.”

The weights rumbled. Beth craned his chin up. Then up. And up. He gripped the pencil to himself as a looming shadow fell over the paper. He took several shuffling steps back to the edge, but it was hard to meet her face from this angle. A gigantic pair of white, stocking-wrapped feet settled before the paper. 

Toes the size of his head lifted off the hardwood. “Do you want these off? Barefoot, I mean.”

Beth glanced at the giant, then back to the paper. “If you would.”

The green curtain of her dress dipped as Eloise balanced to take the stockings off one at a time. Beth occupied himself with his pencil until she draped them over the back of a chair. Her eyes dropped onto him expectantly. Smacking lips, Beth gestured to the paper. 

Eloise stepped up. “Ready when you are, Jimmy. As long as you promise not to look up my skirt.” 

His face bloomed red. Eyes pointed fiercely down, he approached her right foot. It was rough and calloused, but still neatly-kept. Working feet, he supposed. Even they smelled of sweet florals and wood, over twice as long as he was and almost as wide. He’d find out by exactly how much soon. 

He stopped by the side of her big toe and put pencil to paper. Careful not to wrinkle it, Beth dragged the pencil down the inner line of her foot. When he reached the arch, the muscles beside him tensed. Eloise fidgeted her toes. 

He put a hand against her ankle.

“Sorry.” She relaxed. “Ticklish.”

He continued. The pencil line wrapped around the wall of her heel, all the way to the outer joint of her pinkie toe. She only wiggled a little when he got to the tips of her toes. Beth wasn’t even sure the giant woman was aware of the movement, but he could feel her eyes on him as he finished, gaze as intense as it had been in her sink. Quickly, he moved to her left foot and asked himself again what the hell he was doing. He scurried away when he was done, setting down the giant pencil to run to his cart. He grabbed his measuring tape, throwing it over his shoulder like a bundle of rope and hurried back to the towering titan, still standing on the paper. 

Beth settled in front of Miss Elliott, brushing his hair back. It still smelled faintly of coconut. He dared to look up momentarily. “Clear the way, if you please.”

Giant feet rose and stepped back. “Whatever you say, baby.” 

His ears turned scarlet. With a nervous nod, Beth shifted his measuring tape from his shoulder, unravelling it as he walked from the outline of her second toe to the center of her heel. He tried to straighten it. 

“Let me.” The dancer descended upon him. Massive, manicured nails pinned down the ends of the tape, as effortless as she’d pinned him.

Beth collected himself, throwing a thumbs up while he ran to get the large pencil. “Hold it tight,” he called, not even sure if the towering woman could hear him. She kept it secure regardless. 

Beth dragged the pencil all the way down the measuring tape, then shifted it into the crook of his arm while he pulled out his regular pencil and paper to note the length. Two-hundred-and-twenty-one millimeters. He checked the arch length and wrote that down, too. 

“Great.” He directed eyes to Miss Eloise, who was still watching him from her kneel. “Thank-you.”

“Other side?”

He nodded. 

Two-hundred-and-twenty-three millimeters. 

Staring at the giant with wide-eyes, Beth wet his lips and hesitantly tugged at the measuring tape. Eloise released it. He blinked, relieved. He still expected her to grab him at any moment, and fingers would spread him wide and open, vulnerable and powerless again, but she never did. She was following his lead now. 

He could not believe it. He made sure not to turn his back as he went to remove the weights.

“Here, allow me, sugar.” Eloise lifted hands.

He jumped out of the way of her fingers as they plucked the weights from the floor, like they were nothing. She shifted, and the paper rolled onto itself with a snap. 

Before Beth could say a thing, she collected the roll and rounded the chairs. He met her by the cart, and she let him direct her to the best spot for it. It was odd, how helpful she was now. He supposed that was because he had something she wanted. He could not decide if he was better for it.

When her hands were clear, Beth put the giant pencil back and looked across the parlor. “Just, um,” he gestured, “just take a seat.”

Eloise sat on the velvet couch. The long, French windows stretched as a strip of brilliant blue sky behind her. Sunlight framed the frizz of her golden hair as the sun slipped down her shoulders, light wrapping around her like folded wings. Like an angel, his mother would say. His heart pounded like piano keys again.

“I need to take some more measurements,” he explained. “We can start with circumference. Ball of the foot?”

Eloise lifted the front of her right. Beth tossed the measuring tape over the widest point, then paused. The other end of the tape dangled on the opposite side of her foot. He could not go around and gather it at the same time without losing his purchase. He realized what he had to do.

“Hold still,” Beth said loudly, trying to push the fear from his voice. Hands over his head, he clutched one end of the tape and crouched to dart under the giant’s foot. 

It did not move. 

In the clear, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he joined the two ends of tape.

“That worried, were you?” Eloise asked. He stopped. The giant was grinning. “Trust; I’m a woman of control, Mr. Beth.”

He swallowed and made sure the tape was aligned with the pinkie and the joint of the big toe. “A hundred-and-eighty-seven millimeters.” 

The process repeated for the waist of Eloise’s foot, the instep, and the heel, which he found the most nerve-wracking to be under; right where all the weight of her hundred-something-pound body met the floor. Right where she could crush him the easiest. 

His nerves began all over on the second foot. 

“Has anyone ever pinned you during this?” Eloise flexed her toes, as he tossed the measuring tape over the arch of her foot. He stiffened, afraid to meet her eyes. She bounced the ball of her foot. “On accident, or… on purpose?” 

Beth fidgeted with the fabric of the measuring tape. Shaking, he reached out and stilled her jittering. His hand looked so tiny against the curve of her foot. “...It—It’s been a long time since I did this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Beth closed his eyes. Against his better judgement, he held his breath and went under. As he lined up the tape, a knock sounded at the front door.

He sensed Eloise look up. “Come in!” 

The handle fiddled and in shouldered a long, lanky man in a faded navy suit and scuffed oxfords. His coral-red tie was loose and his jacket unbuttoned. He looked of similar age to Beth, with tanned skin, a stubbly, square jaw, and a sharp, Roman nose. In his arms, he carried a large, wooden crate, unlabelled but clinking with glass. With the jerk of his head, the man flung fussed black curls out of his eyes. They scanned the parlor, landing on the scene at the lounge couch. He grinned. 

“And what’s going on here?”  

“A consultation for bespoke shoes,” Miss Elliott answered smoothly. Once again, she made no effort to get up.

“Ah.” The giant man said. Dark eyes fixed on Beth, still holding the measuring tape around the arch of Eloise’s bare foot. The man leaned back in his scuffed oxfords. Beth wondered if he also qualified as dirty, and if so, what was he doing in the house of Eloise Elliott. Perhaps she was about to wash him in her sink, too. His grin grew wider, crooked with amusement. “You’re the shoemaker, are you?”

Beth clenched his jaw. He nodded. “That’s right.”

Miss Elliott gestured to him. “I present, Mr. James Beth.”

He sniffled. “It’s just Beth.”

The man tilted his head and regarded him curiously. “Giovanni Lo Jacono. But you can just call me Jack.” He grinned again. “I’m Miss Elliott’s errand boy, among other things.” He took his eyes off Beth for the first time since he saw him. Raising brows at Eloise, he lifted the wooden crate. Glass shifted and clinked. “I’ll just put these in the back, shall I?”

“That would be appreciated, thank-you, sugar.”

Dark eyes settled on him again. They looked like old, dirty pennies or brown glass, he thought. Like broken bottles littering the shore, scuffed by the sea until smooth and worn. They remained fixed until Jack crossed from parlor to dining room. Heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment, followed by a loud thunk from the kitchen. 

Beth remained still; hovering by the arch of Eloise’s foot as the steps returned. Hands free and weight lifted, Jack slunk lazily from the dining room to the front door. There was an air to him, the kind of careless trouble Beth hadn’t surrounded himself with in years. It raised the hair on the back of his arms. 

Jack whistled at the golden gown on the rack. “That’s mighty fine, Miss Elliott.”

Eloise crossed her free leg and Beth jumped. “Isn’t it just? Mr. Beth is making me a matching pair.”

“Is he now?” Jack gave Beth a look as he pulled open the door. “Must be quite talented, keeping up with something crafted by angels.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a cheeky smile, framed by dimples. He winked. Then he nodded to the other giant. “Miss Elliott.” With that, he was gone.

Beth stood motionless for a minute.

“Are we clear to continue, Jimmy?”

“Yes, uh…” He collected himself and looked down at the tape. “Two-hundred-and-twenty-five millimeters.”

He measured her heel next. He did not know what to make of the odd feeling in his chest. It was… not just intimidation. He was unnerved, but in a way he could not describe. He finished recording the circumference and Eloise tilted her head at him.

“Done?”

Beth shook his head. “Stand up?”

“Stand up, please. Statement. Command.” She scrunched and unscrunched her toes. “Are you the one conducting this consultation, or not?”

Beth cleared his throat. “Stand up, please, Miss Elliott.”

“Oh, and how formal.” He could hear the slyness in her voice as she stood. “Thank-you for the direction, Mr. Beth. Tell me, what is it you’re doing now?”

He held up the length of tape. “Measuring your ankle. I need to know how tall it is.” He pinned one end to the floor with his shoe. The other end, he set against her skin, just where the ankle bone was. 

“Yes,” Eloise said, her tone turning contemplative. “I feel that.”

A shiver travelled up his spine. Acutely aware, Beth pressed his hand to her inner ankle, the tape under his thumb. The skin was warm to his touch. Alive. He checked the tape; exactly ninety millimeters. He moved on quickly to the other ankle, but it was just as warm. 

“That’s all for measuring,” he announced, binding the measuring tape. 

Eloise clapped. “Wonderful. Then we can break for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Beth scampered out from under her shadow. 

Thin brows raised. “A little late for lunch, don’t you think?”

Before he knew it, Beth was presented with his second feast in two days. This time, it was held in the honorable host of the dining room. Beth had insisted on making his way to the table himself. Not only was it her, but this was the first he heard of a lady of high class sharing a formal dining table with a borrower, and he wouldn’t shame his people by being carried. Eloise seemed to understand this, at least, and remained hands free. Still, she did not seem overly fond of his borrowing hook as he pulled it from his cart and latched it around the walnut arm of a dining chair. She hovered nearby as he jumped from wooden armrest to white tablecloth. 

While he climbed, Mr. Cuffee came from the kitchen to prepare the table—not with food, but a set of giant dishes and a second, tiny table, complete with its own chairs, tablecloth, and ware. Beth took a bewildered seat. He turned the flawlessly sized silverware between his fingers with wonder. Everything looked as it would in a fine household magazine, shrunken and made perfect for a borrower. 

“You will find I am never unprepared for guests twice,” Eloise remarked. 

He didn’t know what to say. He was touched. No one had ever… to go through the effort of… Beth closed his mouth and swallowed the dryness. “Thank-you.” 

Eloise gave a pleased smile and took a seat. Mr. Cuffee brought him a much appreciated washcloth to freshen up, and dinner began. 

To drink, Mr. Cuffee presented the tables with ginger ale lemonade, then brought out chicken salad and tea sandwiches; perfect triangles free of any crust. They were trimmed even smaller for Beth, the bread halved vertically with an expert cut and filled with a spread of cream cheese and thinly sliced cucumber. All together, his meal barely contributed to Eloise’s single human-sized serving, but this, he learned, was only an appetizer. 

The main course made his mouth water like a dam burst free. Seared pork chops simmered in red wine came with a side of roasted carrots, potatoes, parsnips, and turnips, tossed in oil and herbs, cubed and garnished with fried sage. Tomato soup, thick and creamy, wafted the aroma of sauteed onion; topped with crushed crackers and served with toasted sourdough coated in melted mozzarella, fresh basil, and roasted garlic. His head spun. His nose tingled. His mouth was busy. 

Eloise watched him with an amused little smile as she sipped her ginger ale lemonade. If she had any comments about his hunger, she kept them to herself, but she seemed to enjoy watching him eat. He was not sure he could say the same about her; he only dared glances as the giant dined. She took small, polite bites, but they were still far closer to borrower-sized than not. She corrected his table manners only once, on which spoon was for soup. 

Dessert was butterscotch cake, spongy and moist from a brown sugar syrup. It was frosted with whipped penuche between layers of toasted pecans, chopped fine enough for even a borrower to enjoy. Though Beth would never dare tell her, it rivalled his mother’s best cake. Mr. Cuffee even brought him a to-scale glass of cold, fresh milk straight from a bottle, and Beth could have gotten to his knees to thank the man without it being enough.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” Eloise asked as he shovelled cake into his mouth.

“Mm?”

She took a bite of frosting and pecan. “Chicago, Paris, Sydney. The rest.”

“Oh.” He shook his head vigorously, gluing eyes to his plate. 

“Hm.” Eloise shrugged and delivered herself another mouthful of cake.

While she finished dessert, Beth busied himself with his notepad. He had plenty of time; he still could not believe humans could keep eating so much. It now had to be worth his body weight ten times over, and then some. Or maybe it only seemed so because he ate like a ravenous rat.

Finally, the silver of a fork clinked against a china plate. Beth tried not to tense as the mass of Eloise’s blonde head leaned to look over the edge of the notepad. “Checking measurements?”

Beth looked up and cleared his throat. Carefully, he turned the notepad to the giant. She squinted. 

“It’s a sketch.” He said quietly.

“I see that.” She brought her hand to his table. “May I?”

Hesitantly, Beth rested the notepad on her fingertip. She was mindful to keep steady as she withdrew it, turning the notepad with a long nail before holding the page up to her face. Beth drummed fingers against his table and spied the smear of leftover butterscotch on his plate. After a long, scrutinizing silence, Eloise returned the notepad to his table. 

“I approve.” She rose to fetch her purse, pulling out a fountain pen and a leather checkbook. Wordlessly, she sat to scrawl pen across paper and tore a check free to set it across his table. 

Beth stood so fast he knocked his chair over. He took the massive check with both hands. “I… I can’t accept this, Miss Elliott.”

“Is there a better form? Cash? Coin?” 

He looked up with wide, baffled eyes. He thought he might cry. “Do not make fun of me, please, Miss Elliott.”

Eloise set down the pen and book. “I am not making fun, Mr. Beth.”

He stared at the still-drying ink, the elegant cursive. 

She twisted lips and snatched the check back. “No, you’re right, cash or coin would be better. I don’t know the banks accept borrowers.” 

Beth stood like a statue. Finally, he put hands on the table. “Miss Elliott, I cannot allow you to pay me a hundred dollars.”

Eloise waved a hand, riffling through her purse. “Nonsense. When a foolish client overpays you, you keep your mouth shut.”

“I can’t do that.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is more than my yearly salary.”

She smacked a wad of cash onto the table. With a jingle, a handful of coins followed. “Then you’re making it up in the world, Jimmy. The polite thing is to say ‘thank-you’.”

“Thank-you—?”

Eloise Elliott stood abruptly and charged off. When she returned, she had one hundred dollars, half in cash, half in coin sleeves. She dropped it with a defiant clang on the pristine white tablecloth, next to the remnants of their magnificent dinner. “You will accept my payment, Mr. Beth, or you will accept losing my business.”

Beth stared at the pile of money. It was wider than his entire immediate family, standing shoulder to shoulder. Slowly, he collected his notepad and its open sketch of Mary Janes with French heels, teardrop cutouts, and beaded brocade. “You said six months?”

Eloise Elliott nodded firmly.