If the Shoe Fits
by Natalie Bucsko
God is in the rain. Monsignor Murgia said that in a sermon once and now, trudging through the cemetery in a downpour, I hope it isn’t true. I don’t need Him mucking everything up.
My ring finger throbs. The braided iron burns against my skin, a shackle binding me in more than marriage. A burden I cannot shed. The metal cuts deeper with each step, sensing what I’m trying to do, determined to stop it. It will kill me if I’m gone too long. The heat from it already reaches my elbow, warning me to return to the villa.
I’d gone to the Monsignor a month after the wedding, malnourished and sobbing as I described how I’d been treated. The degradation. Showed him the wounds from the needle pricks, the pattern of them on my arms, thighs, and stomach. I pleaded for help, confided the marriage wasn’t consummated. Surely there was a way out? Ducats clinking in his pockets, the Monsignor told me his hands were tied. He told me that I was mistaken; I’d been given more than a girl of my station could have dreamed. I should be grateful.
I learned then to trust no man, for their allegiance is too easily swayed by the weight of gold.
Tonight, the air is thick and dark, the new moon combining with rain to swallow light and sound. Lightning strikes illuminate the hazel tree growing from my mother’s grave, ominous and foreboding in the tempest. In the momentary glow, with the thunder crashing out a beat, the mushrooms in a circle around the grave and tree look like they’re dancing. Perhaps they are.
Holding my lantern high, I step into the fairy ring, sea-blue silk slippers sinking into black mud. The ring tries to force memories into my mind. Of me crafting the design on the slippers for a shipping magnate, embroidering kraken, merfolk and other sea creatures being bested by sailors. Of the Barone, Pablo di Pietro, showing up in my shop with one slipper, saying it was left behind at the party. Presenting the second of the pair later to be my wedding shoes.
Bile comes up along with the memories. I let the traitorous slippers sink deeper into the mud as I shake away the images and the nausea, using my anger to fight the ring’s power.
From my cloak I pull a thick needle and thin silver wire. In this liminal space where life grows from death, in this liminal time with no moon at midnight, months shifting one to the other, I stitch an archway into the bark. Root to branch. These are the times and spaces where the veil is thin. With chain stitches and French knots, I craft a doorway between worlds.
The ring pulses with scorching heat as I finish my work. The earlier deluge has dissipated to a fine mist and, in the lantern light, the droplets glisten before the arch. I consider the door. I’ve never imbued embroidery with magic to connect different realms before. I don’t even know if it will work, or if the ring will prevent it. It’s a guess based on myth and rumor, on secret learning done in snatches, so, I’m at a loss for how to proceed. I don’t know exactly what I’m inviting over, or how my request will be received, but desperation leads to questionable alliances. Trembling, I knock inside the arch three times.
I stumble backward as the silver arch begins to glow and vibrate. The space inside the door is illuminated from within, warm but not inviting. A silhouette takes shape, tall and lean. Frozen, heart clamoring, I watch a long, satin-clad leg step through, followed by another.
Satin. A poor omen. My husband’s voice was smooth as satin thread when he wooed me under false pretenses.
A man, or an approximation of one, stands before me. Well-dressed and groomed. His hair, down to his waist, looks like night spun into glossy thread. His eyes are like nebulas. But his beauty is deceiving, for when he smiles, his teeth are like a fox.
His gloved hand extends in my direction. “Can I have your name, child?”
“So what they say is true,” I scoff. “How reassuring that you live up to your reputation, attempting a swindle immediately. You may not have my name, trickster kin, but you may refer to me as Ella.”
He considers me suspiciously, sniffing the air close to my body. “Kin?” Dubious eyes scan me from head to toe. “What makes you think we’re kin, Ella?” My name sounds like a curse on his tongue. Before I can answer, he removes his glove and places his hand on my forehead. His skin is cold and electric. My head burns as he forces my mind into memory.
~*~*~*~*~
With wedding bells still ringing, my new husband escorts me to his villa.
I thought of it that way: his villa. What a fool I was to not recognize what my instinct was trying to tell me, to not see what was happening before it was too late.
No staff waits to greet us as I am escorted into the family estate. My husband and his daughters, who are only a few years younger than I, hurry me across the grand foyer and up the stairs.
I had thought the lack of staff was surely a whim of romance—no chance of interruption as we celebrated our vows. After all, the wedding had been only us, his daughters, and the Monsignor. Out of respect for his late wife’s family, he said.
Reliving the memory now, I can see what I could not see then: his daughters eying me like vultures.
Pablo opens a heavy door, intricately carved and adorned with iron fittings. Confused, I look around. In place of the marital suite I am expecting: a large workshop, filled with tools and supplies for embroidery. In the back, a cramped nook with a straw bed, dirty fireplace, and a corner with a wash basin and chamber pot. Iron bars cross the small windows.
“What’s this?”
There was no accusation in my tone. How could there be? I was too naive to suspect anything requiring accusation.
His face changes in front of me, the light he once gave off shifting from warm beams to cold disdain.
I don’t need the fae to pull that part of the memory out. That transformation is sewn into my brain.
“This is your home now.” He shoves me farther in. “I know what you are,” he sneers. A triumphant look spreads over his face, grotesque and domineering. “Your magic belongs to me now. I bound you to me with that ring. You’ll use your gifts for no one but my family. Behave and your life will be as comfortable as possible. You can earn a better bed, finer clothes. Even extra food. Refuse… Well, punishment won’t be quick or painless.” He spins away and strides from the suite. The door closes with a bang, drowning out the pulse beating in my ears.
I stand alone in the workshop, wearing the sea-blue slippers, not understanding what magic he thought I could perform.
~*~*~*~*~
I rip myself away from my kin’s hand and the unwanted memory. I swallow another wave of nausea, leaning against the hazel tree.
He licks his lips, savoring my pain and fear. He sniffs me again. “A half-breed? We’ve not had a half-breed in centuries. Fascinating.” His rose-pink tongue darts out again as his eyes hungrily scan me, as though he didn’t truly see me when he first arrived. “Was a parent of the Duskweaver clan? You must know I am Nyxion.”
He sees no recognition for either name in my eyes.
“You didn’t know?” There’s suspicion in his tone, but curiosity too.
“I had no idea until Pablo, the Barone, enslaved me.” I motion to the grave. “My mother died when I was young. I never knew a father. Perhaps she would have told me when I was older, given the chance.” I blink to keep from crying. “Pablo discovered what even I did not know—that my embroidery was witchcraft. The ship magnate’s daughter, who Pablo described as a ‘middling prize at best,’ outperformed his daughters at a society ball. He refused to accept that was anything but magically aided. He discerned I was imbuing each piece with magic, granting wishes and fulfilling dreams through my designs. I don’t know if it started when I was a girl, or when I opened my shop.”
My body shakes with anger at the surfacing memory, my rage burning like the ring on my finger, dissipating the sadness, as my kin reaches for my head again.
~*~*~*~*~
“Please, Husband, I don’t understand!” On my knees two days after the wedding, I beg Pablo to explain.
“You’ll refer to me as Barone. I am your husband legally and in name, but only to secure your witchery for me and my family. Not in practice, not in any way that matters.” He pushes me away as I crawl nearer to him.
I want to reach for my past self, help her, but I am forced to merely observe and not alter.
“I am not a witch! I do not know what you speak of, Hu– Barone,” I whimper.
“Witch, fae, demon—whatever you want to be called. Your lies won’t free you. I know what you are, what you can do.” He moves to the slippers sitting on the sill, picking one up to examine. “How fortuitous that girl left this shoe accidentally. It got me thinking. I noticed some of the other villagers with unusual good fortune had embroidered pieces. It wasn’t difficult to figure out.” He throws the shoe back on the sill. “And now that magic belongs to me.”
The ring burns hot as I rise to strike him. But my hand connects with his face nonetheless. He merely laughs and leaves the room, the door slightly ajar.
The shock of that first burn from the ring frightened me. I still haven’t become fully accustomed to it. Tonight is the most I have tested its boundaries.
With the door open, I gather a few things and take the opportunity presented. I flee the villa and run. Run, run, run without destination or direction. Just away. But the ring doesn’t let me escape. It scorches white hot.
I clench my left hand reflexively, the despair that bottomed out my stomach when I realized what the ring’s binding truly meant creating an abyss just as deep tonight, watching as I give in.
The ring slowly fades to cool as I walk the path back to the villa.
Pablo awaits me with a smirk. “It would be very foolish to try that again.”
~*~*~*~*~
I take a steadying breath as my kin removes his hand. I lift my skirt. “I wondered at first why he picked these shoes. Why propose to me with something I made for someone else? But it became clear. He knew I had never owned silk as fine as these slippers before. Knew I would be flattered he thought my designs worthy of being worn at a Barone’s wedding. And wanted to trap me with the objects that had bested him.” I pause a moment, take another deep breath, trying to offset the pain of the ever increasing heat of the ring.
I clear my throat. “For a year now I’ve been bound to him and my stepdaughters. He lets me leave the villa because the pain is too great if I’m away too long.” If I could remove the ring, I’d surely see my skin branded from the burning of each attempt to flee. “It’s also good for me to be seen around the village, act the part of the Barone’s wife.” My skin burns so hot with wrath I can barely feel the ring. “I would imbue a gift to a would-be rescuer, but he has bound me to only serve his family—I don’t know if it would work. Or who would believe I need rescuing enough to help me. I still don’t really understand how my magic works or how to use it with purpose.”
A sly smile is the fae’s only response. A magpie lands on my mother’s tree. We three consider each other a moment in the silence.
“Let me see the shoes, Ella.” Less a curse this time, but still disgust.
I remove the slippers, my feet landing in the mud with a squelch, and hand them over.
The mud vanishes from the silk at his touch. He examines them in detail: long fingers tracing the patterns, pink tongue tasting the threads, sharp nose inhaling the length of each. Finally, he holds them at arm’s length, turning them to take in the entire motif. “These are… exquisite, half-kin. Not the magic, that’s rudimentary at best. But the craftsmanship. The craftsmanship, Ella,” now my name sounds like a hymn, “oh, you are a true artist.”
Tears break the dam. With heaving sobs I weep out, “Thank you.”
He passes over the opportunity to take a debt from me, just squints those nebulous eyes. “An odd reaction, half-kin.”
I ball my fists, take a moment to choke back the sobs. “They have no understanding of what it takes to create these designs. The time, the stamina, the passion. All they care about is the magic. They want it to look good, of course, but they ask for the impossible. Demand at midnight a change for a garment to be worn the next day as though these things are done with the wave of a wand.” My anger calms my sorrow. “It’s one thing to steal my magic. I didn’t know I had it to steal and had unknowingly given it to others for years. But they’ve never admired the designs. They only care if the color of the thread is ‘right.’ What my magic will bring them.”
“Show me.” He reaches out his hand again. This time, I lean my head against it willingly.
~*~*~*~*~
My stomach roars in agony, distracting me from the pain of my still bleeding thighs. A petal-pink dress and lilac-purple sash lay tangled on the floor, evidence of a recent failure.
This memory is three months after the wedding. Ninety-two days of dresses and sashes, of balls and dinners. All that time, both of Pablo’s daughters remained without a worthy proposal. I had been desperate for them to wed, hoping I might buy my freedom.
My hands are steady as I work, despite the hunger, despite the wounds, despite my terror.
The previous two weeks had been the worst yet. The next ball was two days away from that night. I hadn’t eaten properly in six.
Pablo’s daughters storm in, returning home from a state dinner, wrath vibrating off them. “You’re not trying hard enough on purpose! You don’t want us to succeed!” The eldest spits at me, whipping a dress at my head. “You think we’ll let you go? You’ll convince us you were wrong? We know what you are, witch. Perhaps you need better motivation.”
The eldest was the one who reduced my meals to almost nothing when she was unhappy. The hunger pains are doubled now, the feeling from the memory amplifying tonight’s empty stomach.
His younger daughter rips a chunk of her skirt off and stomps on it. She grabs a needle, begins to prick me, a poke for every detail she didn’t like. She lists them as she draws blood from my arms as I work.
I run my hands over the scars on my arm. I wish Pablo had been the one to come that night. My husband, in name only, attempted to motivate me with promises of feather beds and extra meals. He never attempted to fake affection but he didn’t wound me.
The Sandman’s call makes my eyelids heavy, but I slap a cluster of wounds, using the pain to jolt myself awake. I have precious little time to finish, now that they have demanded new colors, having learned a Marchese’s daughter would be wearing a similar blue.
When they finally depart on their journey to the ball, seemingly satisfied, I collapse on the pile of straw and weep.
~*~*~*~*~
His smile at the memory raises my eyebrows. He chuckles. “Human words for us are humorous. Trickster fae. Hellish demon. Evil witch. Unless we’re using our magic for them.” He wiggles his fingers, adopting a falsetto. “Then we’re pretty fairies that grant wishes, watching over them like a protector.” He scoffs. “How many of the mortals who bought your work and had good fortune think they received some fairy blessings? That your husband and his daughters covet your magic but still call you ‘witch’ is laughable.” He considers me again. “How did you come to me?”
I shrug. “Desperation. I learned what I could about magic from those that condemn it at the church, from the old women with older myths and stories of my mother and her ‘strange’ grave, from books I secreted away to read when Pablo and the girls were away. I have no one else to help me. I hoped I was your kin, and that I could call you. So I snuck away tonight to try.” The pain from the ring has reached my neck now, but I fight its call to return to Pablo.
The magpie flits down to rest on my fae-kin’s shoulder. “So, this is why you have called me?” His question is its own answer. Both tilt their heads as they look at me.
I straighten to my full height, an inch shorter because of the mud, displaying the iron band that binds me. “I want my freedom.”
“You think I can remove the bond?” He shakes his head at my nod.
My stomach plummets.
A wicked smile stretches from ear to ear on his beautiful face. He reaches a hand to brush my face, those fox teeth glinting. “The only true freedom is death.”
~*~*~*~*~
The church bells echo off the city walls. A joyous day: Pablo’s eldest nabbed a prince with my magic. The prince knows the Barone is wed, so I am in attendance for appearances’ sake.
“You should think of it as a reward for your good behavior,” Pablo told me earlier this morning. “Don’t forget I rescued you from poverty.”
For the last half-year I learned from Nyxion in secret, honing my craft. Becoming more specific and directed with my spellwork. Discovering just how meaningful words can be when it comes to magic. I am to continue to be his apprentice, as payment for the specific tutelage he has given me for this event.
For four months I have labored over the wedding gown and bridesmaid dress. I even surprised my husband with an embroidered vest for the occasion. And gifted the monsignor a stole.
This morning, as preparations were made, not one of them examined the designs I created. Their sole focus was the tidings I’d stitched in, the fortunes coming next. A fruitful marriage for the eldest. A proper suitor for the youngest. A state position and better title for my husband. Not one took the time to take in the artistry. To see what I’d mapped out for the family with thread and needle. The little touches added from the gifts the magpie left me at my mother’s hazel tree. How my magic improved under the tutelage of my fae-kin.
Pity.
As my eldest stepdaughter walks down the aisle, birds quietly fill the rafters of the church. Pigeons. Doves. Wrynecks. My magpie and her friends. All sent by my Duskweaver kin, who wait for me on the other side of my mother’s tree. By the time the vows are complete, hundreds of birds fill the rafters, waiting. And watching.
Pronounced wed, the prince turns with his new wife and steps into the aisle. The bells peal again. The birds dive. Startled, the guests rise and scatter. The bells keep ringing.
DING
The monsignor is frozen at the pulpit, confused. I wonder if he still has gold in his pockets tying his hands, preventing him from helping his flock.
DONG
The wrynecks attack, rip the flesh from the bones of his fingers. The birds shove ducats down his throat when he begins to scream. I turn my cheek to him, just as he did.
DING
In the chaos, I turn to my youngest stepdaughter. I feel the prick of every needle from eighteen months of dresses and sashes “underperforming.”
DONG
The pigeons peck out her eyes. One thousand stabs of sharp beaks, one for every needle stick. She writhes in pain, blood coating her face.
DING
I turn to the blushing bride, frozen at the altar. Her groom abandoned her in the pandemonium. My stomach tightens at the memory of over a year of starvation, at the hunger for every missed meal when a color was a shade wrong or a ball didn’t produce a worthy proposal.
DONG
The doves tear her open, feast on her entrails. Her screams are swallowed by the bells. The white gown turns pink and red and brown.
DING
“How are you doing this?” My husband. Who used his words to manipulate me, trap me, and never once to love me or thank me.
DONG
The magpies go for his throat. The sound of skin and cartilage ripping is more beautiful than the bells. Blood and saliva drip down his vest, seeping into my enchanted threads.
DING
I step to his side. “You told me yourself, Barone. The bond only allows me to use my magic for your family.” I raise my hand, display the ring, its power already waning. “A wife is family, husband, even if in name only.” Lifting my dress, I reveal the re-embroidered slippers. The magical creatures are besting the sailors now.
DONG
Blood bubbles at his lips. He points his venomous eyes at mine. “Ungrateful witch,” he gurgles.
I press a sea-blue slipper hard on his neck and smile. “If the shoe fits.” ■
Natalie Bucsko is an emerging writer, with works that span from the more literary to the delightfully weird. She lives in the metro-Atlanta area with her incredibly supportive husband, spit-fire daughter, a hyper husky-corgi, and two himbo orange tabbies. She's a proud member of several amazing writing groups and a writing contest goblin.
©Natalie Bucsko