![]() ![]() ![]() I sat on the counter at the back, legs dangling, and clicked leather heels against the carved cedar. Or several minutes of tedious polishing, at least. ![]() The frozen beast roared back silently, inch-long teeth promising death. Then he hoisted his flour-dusted club in salute. Tom shoved the curio cabinet aside, making the brass balances jingle. The floorboards creaked as he stepped within range of its wickedly curved claws. And in the safety of my master’s shop, away from the horrors of battle like death, pain, or even a mild scolding, Tom’s courage held no equal. Though only two months older than me, he was already a foot taller, and built like a blacksmith, albeit a slightly pudgy one, due to a steady pilfering of his father’s pies. Tom Bailey, son of William the Baker, was the finest fake soldier I’d ever seen. In his right hand, the rolling pin wobbled threateningly. From the oak shelf nearest to him, he snatched the glazed lid of an apothecary jar-Blackthorn’s Wart-Be-Gone, according to the scrawl on the label-and held it on guard, a miniature ceramic shield. Tom stripped off his linen shirt and flung it heroically across the antimony cups gleaming on the display table near the fire. He was deep in concentration, tongue pinched between his teeth, as he steeled himself for combat with the stuffed black bear that ruled the front corner of my master’s shop. ![]()
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