Taric set to work on the shoes with a focused intensity that bordered on trance, hammering out the shells to house the mechanisms. If it weren’t for his young guests, over the course of the next weeks he would have forgotten entirely to stop for food or water or sleep. 

They were occasionally joined by Mr. and Mrs. Hennesy, the former assisting in the development and installation of the clockworks, and the latter echoing her daughter’s sentiments about Taric’s living conditions before setting out on a small crusade to rid his apartment of soot and mice. 

And at night Taric practiced with the cloak of mirrors. 

It was shockingly difficult to navigate through a space when one couldn’t see one’s body. He’d never consciously considered how much he relied on being able to see where to plant his unliving foot before setting it down, much less having to gauge the distance between an unseen hand and a table. He collected far more bruises than he expected over the course of the first week practicing with the thing. 

By the end of the second week, he was working the forge while wearing it. Partway through the third, he forgot he wore it, accidentally haunting the Bacon Arms for an embarrassing few minutes before he hastily stepped outside so he could take it off without causing alarm.

He hadn’t had so much fun in years. Possibly centuries.

All the while, it seemed that the enchantment bestowed by the winter fae that meant Taric’s creations would cause no harm to a mortal also extended to the making process. Even in the intensity of their efforts of creation, none of them felt the usual kind of fatigue - physical or mental - that such exertions would have brought on. As a result, the work sped forward with the speed and impetus of a freight train. 

Until Taric reached the twelfth set.

At first he thought it was a fluke. A product of too little sleep, or a temporary quirk. But, no. Where each of the other models produced some form of impression of its living counterpart, the twelfth sat in his hand as inert as a stone. 

Telling him nothing.

His assistants had returned to their own homes and beds for the night, leaving him to draft the last design.

Except there was no design to draft.

Not even the model’s appearance provided inspiration. It was simply a foot. No scales, no fur, and besides an ashen grey undertone, no odd colorations. The only potential clue was a slight thickening of the sole at the ball and heel, which meant the owner spent enough time on her feet to warrant a slight callousing. 

Which told Taric nothing about how to design shoes for her.

Taric looked over their collective handiwork. Eleven pairs of dancing shoes with soles and uppers of steel, and springs and gears and levers hidden inside. He forearmed the sweat off his forehead, the satisfied pride of work well done momentarily eclipsing the growing weariness.

And yet.

For the first time since being struck with the idea to call on assistants, Taric wavered in his confidence. He didn’t like to think of stumbling so close to the finish line.

There was only one day left until the winter fae would return.

Feeling the heaviness of exhaustion creeping over him, Taric shut off the automaton and banked the forge with shaking hands. He needed to clear his head. Or something. Fast.

But instead of stepping out onto the stoop to get a few breaths of the night air, he found himself limping to his drafting table, leaning his palms on the sturdy wood. His extra project was also progressing nicely. He had only final fittings to do.

All of which would be for nothing if he couldn’t finish that last pair of shoes before the full moon.

He’d come too far to give up now. 

Taric rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an odd chill.

“You are a pair short.” The winter fae’s voice crackled with ice.

Taric stiffened. “You’re a day early.”

“They must be completed in time,” the winter fae said, sharply edged. “There must be twelve.”

Taric bit down his impulse to snap back in irritation that it was his magic that somehow failed the last pair. He couldn’t risk that the winter fae might make that his payment instead. “Why the impatience?” he said instead. 

“If they aren’t finished,” the winter fae said, “I will blight this entire land with a century of winter.”

Taric’s jaw hardened. “Maybe you didn’t notice. I didn’t agree to your deadline.” In the back of his head, he heard the puca’s little “ask him yourself.” Ask him what the hell a winter fae had to do with the faery king’s daughters. But Taric couldn’t risk losing what he really needed as payment.

Taric turned to face the winter fae. His lips were pinched, and the frosty look in his eyes couldn’t quite hide something unexpected. 

Fear.