Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette. Volume XX

Annabet stared at the crumpled, nearly illegible pattern in her basket while she twirled the hook in her fingers. Then she considered Klaussen one last time. She read his sullen expression easily. Her dead fiance wore that same look often before he ran off to be a mercenary.

"My brother, Johann, left for Grantville four days ago. I don't know how long it will take him to walk there, buy patterns, and walk back. I don't even know that I trust the Americans when they say they want equality for all.

"I do know this. The Committee of Correspondence has given me work when no one else would."

"Then we will speak of work." He sat down next to her and shoved the pry bar under the bench. "Show me the pattern your brother messed up."

Five days later, Karl entered the shop. He trailed Bertha and carried a short bench over his shoulder with one hand and held a tall, narrow table with the other. Two youngish maids took them with a glad cry. The small cluster of women rearranged themselves and reapportioned the lamps, each one trying for the best light.

"Klaussen is not lying to you," Karl told Annabet. He took a seat close to Bertha and accepted a batch of narrow wooden rods from her. He began whittling them into hooks.

"So we have a printer who knows how to print." Annabet waited for the excited whispers to die down. "We still have to deal with the Groenenbachs and the city council. If they suspect anything, we will still lose the press."

Bertha, searching through her bag for her misplaced hook, said, "So hide it."

Two weeks later, the door to the shop slammed open again. Gottfried Groenenbach swaggered in backed by five bravos. "Where's the printer?"

Twelve women scrambled to keep their lights from being blown out by the wind gusting in. Annabet ordered him to shut the door. "Were you raised in a barn?"

She had the pleasure of seeing him gape at the freshly painted walls. Racks of spindles, knitting needles, crochet hooks and sewing scissors were on the wall opposite the door. There were bundles of prepared fiber waiting to be spun. Stiff paper bobbins that held various kinds of crocheted lace filled in any gaps. It was a craft woman's dream and a bully boy's ultimate confusion.

"Well, were you?" Annabet demanded.

"This is a print shop!"

The women tittered. The bravos shifted uneasily.

"Does this look like a print shop?" Annabet asked.

Gottfried looked around and tromped through the assembled maids.

The women drew their feet back and pulled their skirts out of his path, much like they would do for a filthy, snarling mongrel.

"You're up to something," he said.

"Yes," Annabet agreed. "I am up to teaching crochet. Would you like to learn? I charge by the hour."

Gottfried snarled at the sniggerer by the door. He gave the shop one last glare then stomped out.

Bertha, who sat by the window, watched the council's enforcers leave. "They're gone."

Paul opened the hidden door to the back room. "You were right, Annabet. Fresh paint does cover up the smell of ink." He sat in the space cleared for him and continued to read aloud the latest news from the Committees of Correspondence.

Johann returned a week later. Tired and dirty, he looked from Bertha to Annabet with the biggest smile he could muster. "I have more patterns." He started to say more, but the door opened. Two girls walked in, followed moments later by two more. He looked around, confused at the changes. "Annabet, what's going on?"

The girls ignored him. They moved a bench into the light then sat out tapers in simple clay holders on one of a handful of tall stools. The women opened their work baskets and made themselves at home. One sent him a quick glance. The other frowned at a lacy circle.

"I'm giving crochet lessons. Not everyone can make sense of the instructions." Annabet shooed him off.

"In my shop!?" he asked in a near-bellow.

"Don't yell," Bertha said. "You weren't here. And it's her shop as much as yours now."

Annabet sighed. "It kept your precious printing press together. We hid it in the back. And watching for an attack is not that different from waiting for someone to return from war. Hand work makes the time pass." She turned to her students then had to rap one of them on her head to get her attention back on the lesson. "A double crochet stitch there, not a treble, Wilhelmina."

Bertha made a rude sound. "Who is going to suspect a lace shop, Johann? We're just girls, after all. No Committee here." She put on a dumb look, then laughed at his expression. "Don't worry. Everyone here is a member of the Committee. Annabet makes Karl and Paul check to make sure no new members are spies for the city council"

"Who is Paul?" Johann asked.

"Paul Klaussen. Who happens to be a real printer," Annabet said. "He's as excitable about the Committees as you are."

Johann made a face at her, then went to check the printing press for damage. Not finding any, he collected his pack and crouched beside Annabet. "I found something else while I was gone."

She looked at him with suspicion. "What is it this time?"

He handed her a hank of fine wool thread. "A peddler was selling this. I thought you might like the color. It's a thank you gift for helping me. Not that I expected this much help."

Bertha leaned closer. "What an odd shade of pink."

Annabet squinted at the label wrapped around the yarn. "'Brillo's Best,'" she read aloud. "'Common Wool for the Common Man. Color: Mauve . Product of Lothlorien Farbenwerks.'" She fingered the wool. "What kind of name is 'Lothlorien'?"

Bertha took it from her. "What kind word is mauve?" she grimaced. "Scratchy. I've seen better wool." She passed it on.

"But the color!" one girl cooed. "So pretty."

"How much will you pay me for it?" Annabet asked.

Johann squawked, outraged.

She glanced over at him. "I agree with Bertha. If I am going to work with wool, it has to be softer than that."

The girl named a price and dug for coins. Johann blinked and held his tongue when the other two young maids also offered to buy the yarn at the same price. By the time the women were ready to leave, he was left with an empty pack and a bemused expression.

As he and Annabet walked home, he finally spoke. "They paid more than I did."

"So when you go for more patterns, buy more Brillo's Best."

The next evening, Annabet watched Johann and Paul circle each other like strange dogs, ruffs raised and ready to snarl.

"This shop is not a bone," she said. "One of you can't print and the other can't draw. My lace patterns need both. So does the Committee."

When they didn't leave off the posturing she stepped between them and shoved Johann toward the door to the printing room. "Show Paul your letters from the Committee. Tell him about Grantville, too, while you're at it. I want you out of my hair until the women come. Three or four of them said they will be bringing their sweethearts."

They turned to her in unison. "How do you know?" Johann asked.

"Women talk in the market place as much as men gossip in the tavern." When they just stood there, she assigned sweeping and dusting.

Both men balked and headed for the press room. All three kept busy getting ready for that evening's Committee meeting. Sixteen women and girls, not counting Bertha, showed up. Half of them brought their sweethearts. Some brought hampers in addition to work bags. Others brought flasks and before long it was share and share alike.

People were reduced to sitting on the floor, and Karl eyed the walls and muttered about benches. Bertha told him to save his carpentry work for a shop in a better part of town.

Annabet stood by the door, brow wrinkled as she listened to Karl describe his experiences with the Americans to the newest Committee members. Crochet hooks flew while women grilled Johann about Grantville ladies. She glanced over when Paul joined her.