Lana set aside her glasses with a tired sigh, raising her hands to rub at her eyes. When she opened them again the computers glaring light burned, and she groaned. Squinting one eye open she spotted the time in the bottom corner, 3am. Her eyes trailed up to the open document-one more hour wouldn’t hurt. Returning the glasses to her nose Lana lifted her hands to the keyboard and went back to work.

Not twenty minutes went by before a small shadow moved beneath the monitor, her typing coming to a halt. “Why are you still awake?” Olivia stepped into the light, stopping just before the keys. Her short hair was a ruffled mess, and Lana leaned down slightly to get a closer look at the four inch tall woman.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” She asked softly. It was faint, but she imagined she could just make out a smile in the shadow of Olivia’s face. Suddenly overcome with the need to be closer, Lana scooped her up in her hands, smiling at the surprised laugh as Olivia laid back in her palm. “You did, but I don’t mind,” tiny hands reached to hold Lana’s face as she pressed her lips over her legs, stomach, then face.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, pulling back. “Look, thirty more minutes and I’ll be there-“ Olivia scoffed.

“Uh huh, I’ve heard that before. Get up, or I’m turning this off,” she made to move out of her palm but was easily pinned by Lana’s thumb. Olivia glared up in challenge, “what are you doing anyway?” The soft pad of the giant thumb gently ran along the length of her bare legs; Lana smiled upon noticing Olivia was wearing a shirt she’d bought for her. It was simple with the logo of her favorite band and hung down almost to her knees, just the way she liked it.

As Lana’s thumb trailed back up she caught the edge of the tiny woman’s shirt and found herself wondering what panties she was wearing tonight-oh how she itched to see. But she couldn’t, not now. There was work to be done. “Something that should have been done days ago,” she admitted finally. She gently placed Olivia on the desk, “thirty more minutes, I promise.”

Lana refocused on the screen, her hands moving slowly at first as she began typing again. She ignored Olivia’s presence-if she wanted to hang around Lana wouldn’t stop her-but she was determined to keep her word. Thirty minutes, no more, no less.

Olivia had other plans, and she knew just what to say to catch her attention. “Want to play a game?” She asked suddenly. Lana paused, brows furrowing. “Does it include preventing me from working? Or trying to get me to bed?”

“You don’t have to stop working, but I am trying to get you to bed.” If the lighting were better Lana would clearly be able to see the mischievous grin on the other woman’s face. Still, she listened curiously. “I’m going to play with you-“ that was not what she expected, “get you off, that is. However, so long as you’re sitting here working, you’re not allowed to touch.”

Heat rushed to Lana’s face at the abruptness of Olivia’s claim; she let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but already there was a warmth forming at her center. “And how exactly is that supposed to get me into bed?”

“Because, the rule is, if you want to touch or take matters into your own hands, you must do so in the bed. Otherwise you lose.” Lana smirked, leaning forward to loom over the tiny woman. “And if I take you right here anyway?” Her voice dropped to a whisper; Lana was so close now her breath ruffled Olivia’s hair. Yet she stood firm, holding her eyes. “Then I’ve still prevented you from working.” The smug tone sent Lana sitting upright, “fine. You’ve got yourself a deal. Thirty minutes, right? That’s how long you have to get me out of this chair.” She missed the triumphant look on Olivia’s face, focusing instead on slipping off her shorts, leaving the panties on. She offered a hand and lowered the woman between her legs.

Olivia was quick to find her footing on the soft cushion, Lana’s thighs rising like walls on either side of her.

“Remember, no touching, or we go to bed,” she reminded.

“Sure, sure,” Lana shrugged. “I remember. Goodluck.” Without warning she adjusted, pulling the seat beneath the desk. Olivia was jostled by the movement and caught herself on Lana’s thigh. She would have glared up at the larger woman, but her sky now consisted of the bottom of the desk.

“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. 

Burying his face into his bed, Beth pulled the blanket to him and froze. He rubbed his fingers. The texture was wrong. The fibers were huge.

This was not a blanket. This was a towel. A human towel. The bed smelled like jasmine and sandalwood. A chill washed over him. This was not his bed. This was not a mattress. It was a feather pillow. 

The real mattress stretched as a vast ocean of padded plum-blankets at his back. Beth did not dare turn to see if its owner still lay beneath the covers. His breath was loud in his ears. His pulse was heavy in his veins. He laid very still. The dark-stained door was ajar, like it was the night before. Light bounced off the crystal knob as flecks of rainbow. The white-and-blue floral wallpaper of the hall was lit by an unseen window. Beth could just make out the honey hardwood peeking from under the maroon carpet. 

It rumbled. Hips wrapped in mulberry silk barged through the door. 

Beth nearly leaped out of his skin, then snapped eyes shut. He seized the towel and tried to deepen his shallow breathing. The earth dipped. 

“Jiiiimmy,” Eloise Elliott sang. The pillow sunk by his feet. “Jimmy?”

He gripped the towel tighter. He was suddenly aware of how naked he was beneath it. His breath quickened. 

“Jimmy, your rags are ready. And, I made breakfast!” 

He trembled.

“Oh, for—” The towel rustled around him, then the feather pillow dropped away. The warm air rushed out of his cocoon of safety as it jerked into the sky. Beth was pressed to a warm surface through the fabric. He could hear a pulsing. The honey hardwood floor passed by. 

Eloise Elliott carried him out her bedroom, down the hall, through a purple-and-teal parlor, an airy, pale-blue dining room, and into a simple, cream kitchen. It was the first room in the apartment that had an air of mundanity. 

She set his towel-wrapped form on a wide, oak table in the center of the room and Beth snapped his eyes shut again. But she was not content to let him pretend. A red nail wormed past his shield to poke him in the chest. She rolled him over. Her enormous, pointed face loomed above him, meeting the borrower with a round nose, strong cupid’s bow, thick lashes, and warm, fawn skin. Long, thin eyebrows raised and mahogany eyes looked him up and down. Her lips curled into a smile like he’d said some joke just the two of them knew. 

“Cassie?” 

“Miss?” A woman answered. 

“Bring the rags here.”

A second giant stood from a kitchen chair. She was less extravagant than the dancer, in her sensible, oatmeal-grey cardigan and modest, wide-collared blouse the color of dusty roses. Strawberry blonde hair was curled and pinned into a faux bob, clipped back from her pale pink face on one side. The only flash to her was the small, gold crucifix around her neck. She presented a tiny bundle for the table. 

“Excellent, thank-you.” Eloise motioned to him. “Cassie, this is Mr. James Beth.”

The woman fixed hazel eyes on his face. She looked only a year or two his junior, as old as his sister Florence. She smiled, polite and warm, and not at all like she was talking to a four-inch tall man swaddled like a baby. “Beth?” She asked earnestly. “Like Macbeth?”

He stared blankly.

“Mr. Beth is a cordwainer, he’s agreed to make a pair of shoes for me.” Eloise explained. 

“I see.” Her face remained unreadably polite. 

“Mr. Beth, this is Miss Cassidy Mulligan, my maid, seamstress, and personal friend. I trust you’ll treat her as a gentleman, just as you did for me?” Her eyes twinkled knowingly. 

He mustered a nod. Miss Mulligan did not seem the flashy kind he expected Eloise Elliott to keep in her company, but nor did she seem surprised to find a strange man spending the night in her bed. He swallowed. “Seamstress?”

“More repair than anything,” Cassidy admitted. “Miss Elliott has an out-of-house designer.”

“Are—are those my clothes?”

“Yes, here.” Cassidy unraveled the bundle, pinching an old, worn tweed jacket. “Washed and mended, as requested.” She turned it over. The back was stitched up in six spots; gnarly gashes stretching from shoulder to vent. The large, long stitches could only have been made by a bean. He didn’t doubt Miss Mulligan had done her best, but the damage was done, pinched in odd places and nigh unwearable. Better suited for real rags than a jacket. 

Miss Mulligan draped it gently on the edge of the towel while Beth watched her hands warily. Her fingers were calloused, less glamorous than Miss Eloise’s, but clean, with plain nails trimmed short and neatly filed. Working hands. 

The rest of his clothes seemed to be in better condition, at least. Cassidy had managed to scrub the mud from every scrap. Beth retreated into the towel as she left them in offering, face red as she raised his old long johns. Those, he snatched from her directly. The slight tug before she let go sent him recoiling farther back than he expected. He grasped the towel for support. Clenching teeth, Beth pulled it over his head and shimmied into his long johns. He snagged trousers and shirt next. 

Dressed, Beth paused to take a slow, deep breath. The room was quiet beyond his frail privacy. Waiting. He ran hands over his face.

“I couldn’t find buttons small enough to replace the ones on your shirt,” Cassidy said apologetically as he emerged. “I’m sorry.”

He held up a stiff hand of forgiveness, unable to look as Eloise silenced her snicker. He pulled up his suspenders and stuffed his gloves into his pocket. He left his jacket draped where it was. “...Breakfast?”

“Ah! Yes.” Eloise turned to the counter and produced a plate of toast, glistening with strawberry jam. 

Beth blinked. Cassidy pressed her lips together in the attempt not to laugh. 

“What?” Eloise puffed her chest. “Mr. Cuffee has Saturdays off!”

Cassidy dipped her head to remain polite. “I’ll whip something up, Miss.”

Eloise sat back in her chair, legs crossed. She picked up a slice of strawberry toast and took a defiant bite. “If you must.”

Two hot pans later and in front of Beth laid a feast he could not believe. Fat, meaty slabs of bacon, still sizzling and snapping in its grease. Half a dozen poached eggs, topped with a heaping of crushed black pepper. Cut and quartered cantaloupe, nearly spilling over its china bowl. A steaming pot of dark roasted coffee. More toast, piled into a hill of wheat and slathered thick with salted butter. 

Cassidy set down three plates. One for herself and of course one for Eloise Elliott, and one for Beth. She plated a whole poached egg and slab of bacon for the borrower, along with a cube of cantaloupe and two torn pieces of toast, one with butter and one with jam. They poured him a cup of black coffee in an old shot glass, enough caffeine to kill him. It smelled like heaven. 

Beth rolled up his sleeves. They had no borrower-appropriate utensils, so he had to use his hands. Eloise wrapped a napkin around his neck like a bib. “Can’t have you ruining more clothes on this venture, Mr. Beth.” She grinned. 

He only half-tried to maintain his dignity at the kitchen table. Egg yolk ran down his forearms. Bacon grease smeared across his chin. Fruit juice dribbled onto his bib. He stuck his entire face in the shot glass and chugged hot coffee until he was dizzy. 

Beth collapsed against the discarded pile of his towel. He felt like a stuffed rat. Round and fat. He could not recall ever feeling quite like this. He had only managed to tear through a quarter of his egg, and even less than half of that of his bacon, but if he had any more, he feared he would be sick. Still, he munched on cubed cantaloupe and strawberry toast while Eloise and Cassidy discussed weekly plans. It was just nine o’clock in the morning. 

“I’ll package up the rest of your bacon, Mr. Beth.” Cassidy promised as she cleared his plate. “The fruit and egg is much too messy to carry.” 

He nodded his thanks. Eloise wet a napkin and offered it to him with a side of soap. “You shouldn’t need another whole bath, do you think, Mr. Beth?”

He accepted it with a cherry-red face and an eager shake of the head. When he was done, Eloise put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her knit fingers. 

“So,” she drawled. “On the matter of business.”

Beth cleared his throat, untying the bib to check for any stains on his shirt. It seemed he escaped unscathed. “I’ll need to schedule a consultation.” 

“I have a tour in Chicago in six months I would like a new pair for.”

He nodded. “As soon as possible, then.”

Eloise held up a finger, then disappeared from the kitchen. She came back with a little black book and a fountain pen. “Let’s see.” She licked her finger and flipped the pages. “How long do you need?”

“A few hours. Four or five.” 

“I see.” She flipped another page. “I could move my lunch date and make tomorrow, at noon?” 

Beth thought for a moment. He nodded. 

“Marvelous.” She looked to Miss Mulligan. “Your day off tomorrow, isn’t it? Sundays?”

“Yes, Miss.” 

She nodded. “Tell Mr. Cuffee to collect our new friend Mr. Beth outside the building tomorrow at noon sharp. Explain the situation.” 

“Will do, Miss.” Cassidy set a bundle of neatly tied parchment paper on the table, then pressed her mouth into an uncertain line. “This will still be difficult to carry, Mr. Beth.” 

“I had a cart,” he wet his lips. “Two floors above, before the cat found me.”

“You poor thing,” she frowned. 

“The bellhop may have found it.” Eloise said. “It would be in the lobby.”

The maid turned to the door. “I’ll check.”

Sure enough, there it was. Miss Mulligan placed his slab of bacon in the back, walked him to the side door, and saw his way out. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Beth. It was a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled warmly. “Miss Elliott looks forward to your appointment tomorrow.”

Beth nodded, as if in a dream. The giant watched him make his way down the alley before closing the door, and that was that. He adjusted his old tweed jacket. It did not fit right. 

Beth made it home in a little over an hour, waddling his full stomach to his apartment. It was housed in the basement of a barber shop, dotted with other borrower dwellings the owner rented out. To his cousins, mostly. It wasn’t like they all took up much space. Better to rent an apartment than have your entire family evicted from a generational, unauthorized burrow. Or so his folks had decided. His grandparents still lived wild.

“Where have you been?” Florence asked as he struggled through the door with the bacon. She shared their mother’s sand-blonde hair and blue-gray eyes with him, though hers were more of a bright blue than gray. They were full of scrutiny. She bounced Margaret’s middle child on her hip while he played with her ponytail. She raised her brows at the large bundle of parchment paper and followed him to the kitchen. 

A single terracotta tile made their floor, worn in well-traveled paths. Cabinets fashioned from old red and blue tins lined the back and left wall, their doors simply lids put on hinges. The mismatched countertops were fashioned from tossed out bathroom tiles; green, pink, and orange. An old tuna can was their sink, host to everything from dishes to baby baths. His ears reddened at the sight of it; the last time he had been washed in a sink, he could barely crawl—until last night. 

A blackened baked-bean can had been cut and fitted to be their wood stove on the back wall, stocked with a pile of scraps and kindling. A hutch with an odd collection of dishes sat on the right wall, with a matchstick chair in the corner where his oldest sister Margaret sat breastfeeding her youngest. Over her head was a line of rusty borrowing hooks, rickety relics fashioned from needles in a bygone age, not like the modern ones made from mass-produced fishing hooks.

By the wood stove hung a family portrait, a young James and Florence in the front with Margaret keeping a hand on each of their respective shoulders. Their mother and father stood proudly behind, his father with his dark, hooded eyes, combed curls, and thick, brown moustache; his mother with her lively eyes, contagious smile, and a hand around her pregnancy bump. The painting and its wooden frame had been kept dusted and generally clean, but there was a shiny, spotless circle around his father’s face. 

Beth flopped the package onto the low, carved block of pine that was their dining table, careful to avoid tripping over the bottle-top stools. His mother turned from the counter, wiping a hand on the apron of her faded floral dress. “What’s this?” She waved a wary wooden spoon at the bundle. “Where did you get this?”

Margaret looked up from her perch by the hutch, cradling the baby’s head. Little Harold. He had his mother’s hair, the only pair to inherit it from his namesake. “What is it?”

Florence pulled back the parchment paper. “Bacon!” She proclaimed. “An entire slab of bacon!”

His mother and sisters scrutinized him with a look of part wonder, part apprehension. 

Beth smacked his lips. “New client. We shared breakfast.”

His mother pushed wispy blonde hair from her thin face. She crossed her arms, spoon in hand. “Human client?”

He nodded.

“And they shared a meal with you?” Florence bounced the toddler again. Her long bangs bounced with her. 

Beth nodded again. A longing hit him, for the poached eggs, and the overflowing cantaloupe, and the dark roasted coffee, and the rolling hills of toast, slathered in salted butter and strawberry jam. He was suddenly hungry again. He wished he could have brought it all home with him. The plentiful bacon was still an incomplete feast without it. He scanned the doorway. “Where’s Ethel?”

“Out with friends.” Margaret said. 

“Again.” His mother rolled her eyes. “Well then, I’ll find something good to cook this with.”

Florence whistled. “Bacon for the next week, if it keeps.” 

“Offer some to Aunt Violet, if it looks like it won’t.” Margaret suggested. She used her shoulder to push pinned-up curls away from her ear, cooing at Harold. He touched her face with a remarkably tiny hand.

The floorboards creaked overhead. His mother hissed and covered the clean dishes by the sink with her arms. Beth eyed the invisible behemoths above and made his way to his studio shop.

It was the largest part of the apartment, but the ceiling was as equally low as the rest. His wide work table was littered with tools and a half-finished project. His polish-stained apron draped over the long-legged chair with the wobbly back. A few cracks in the foundation paneled with recycled glass served as windows to let in pale, dusty sunlight. A wooden door sat next to a wide, wooden one that could be slid open to haul in supplies or human-sized shoes. He often kept it open during hot, summer months, but these days, it was closed more often than not. His cart was docked nearby. The walls were flushed with tools hung from tacks and shelves of leather and canvas. Another sliding door to the left led to a basement within the basement, where all his stock too big to be kept in the main shop lived. The majority of the studio was an open floor, with plentiful space to work on large projects.

Beth stood before the candle in the far right corner. It was nearly as tall as he; white wax pooled in a pile around its base and dripped off the edges of its low cart. Beth pulled a match from its box and swung it against the wooden floor. The room filled with warmth. It swam with the smell of leather, glue, and polish. 

Beth dropped his apron over his head and tied it tight at the waist. He picked up the shoes at his work table, a pair of night-blue pointed slippers in need of new soles for his cousin Genevieve. 

He sighed and got to work. 

The states… Paris… 

Right foot.

Florence… Sydney… 

Left foot. 

Chicago. 

Beth shook his head. He packaged up the slippers and headed out to deliver. When he got back, his mother was waiting in the shop doorway. 

“James,” she greeted. She put hands on his shoulders, brushing off the ruined tweed. “You didn’t come home last night. I worried. And your jacket…”

Her eyes closed as he touched his forehead to hers. Fingers traced the letters JB into his shoulder, the way she did when she was anxious. They shared the same initials; James and Jane. She scrunched her nose. “You smell like...” 

He breathed in sharply. “There was a cat. I had help.” 

His mother opened her eyes. They were the same shape as his. They were afraid. “From this new client of yours?” She whispered.

Beth nodded. 

Her forehead twitched as she scrunched her brows. “What kind of job?”

“Custom.”

“Man?”

“Woman.”

“Type of shoe?”

“Ballroom. Haven’t established style.”

“Ballroom?” She pulled apart. 

“A local performer. Eloise Elliott.”

“Eloise Elliott?” A voice came. Ethel poked her head into the shop. Unlike the ever-practical Margaret, her hair was cut into a real bob, but it looked longer now that it had lost its curl, like she had been out all day. He didn’t want to imagine what wild adventures she’d gotten herself into. She’d just turned nineteen, but she still seemed a baby to him. 

Green eyes glittered and she slipped in past her mother and brother. “Eloise Elliott is not just a local performer. She’s a star. A global star. I heard she’s even going to tour Australia this year.”

“You want to be a dancer yourself, do you, missy?” Their mother asked.

“Maybe.” Ethel began waltzing with an imaginary partner. “I could be quite good, you know.”  She spun around the work table. 

“This Elliott,” his mother said. “You are sure? Stars can be difficult.”

The last twenty four hours flashed before his eyes. He could only nod. 

“Hm.” She sucked at her teeth. “Do you think Elliott might be a future re-occurring client?”

Beth flexed his jaw. “Depends on this job.”

His mother looked his face over. “Better make it good, then.” 

Beth stared at the floor as he nodded in absent agreement. If only she knew who was dragging their feet. But he knew the full story would frighten her. His mother did not need to hear it, especially not the night he’d shared with his client-to-be. Now he was home, it somehow did not bother him as much as it should. Still, his face burned at the memory of her fingers on his body; titanic thumbs scrubbing at his chest, his thighs. His back.

“Maybe you can get a reference for some of her other ballroom friends.” Ethel raised her arm as she twirled herself. “Set up a new base of clientele.”

His mother looked to him. “When is the consultation?”

Beth cleared his throat. “Tomorrow. Noon.”

She smacked her lips. “Better pull out the bean supplies, then.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” Ethel bounded to slide open the storage door. 

His mother shuddered. She reached for her thin braid with all its bits and pieces sticking out, fingers tracing invisible letters over the woven hair. Her eyes were far away. 

Beth took her hand. She looked at him in surprise, and he knew he had interrupted a runaway stream of thoughts. He sighed. Her hands were worn and knobbly. They had raised a dozen children, between her siblings, her own, and her grandchildren. They were skilled craftsmen in their own right, he knew. Working hands, whose lovely dresses and smart trousers had once caught the attention of a young shoemaker. He knew what it meant to her that he kept this studio alive.