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Dozens of tools of various types and sizes were suspended against the wood-paneled wall—from chisels to saws to vices. He’d hammered nails just so, each protruding far enough and at the proper angle such that a specific implement could be placed and held securely.
A row of large tins lined the back of the tall workbench, the shellac, varnishes, solvents, and oils required in woodworking. Clean cloths were folded in neat rectangles, forming a tall stack.
Multiple large tables were set up in the large room, most with wooden tool cases open, his usual orderliness on display. There were almost no loose items; though the shop was rife with what looked to be hundreds or even thousands of objects, each was in its place.
But the places are all wrong! Molly’s body screamed. The tools on the back wall blurred, and she weaved on her feet.
“Molly?”
As if numb, she barely felt the pressure of Frederick’s hand on her elbow as he guided her to a nearby stool. Instinct caused her arms to tighten on the wrapped books when he would have relieved her of them.
“Are you well?” Frederick asked, frowning.
“Miss?” Thomas’s voice cracked.
She gasped, realizing she hadn’t been breathing, and after a moment, she could feel the stool under her.
Six eyes trained on her.
“Alvin and Thomas, no need to stop your work on my account!”
His mouth flattening stubbornly, Thomas turned to Frederick. “Do yer `ave any vinegar?”
“I believe so. Will that help?”
“Make `er drink some. It’ll revive `er quick.”
“I’ll not be drinking vinegar, lad! I’m revived already! I just…” Her eyes couldn’t help but flit around the workshop again, and the men all looked at each other with confusion. She shook her head to clear it. “You needn’t concern yourselves, I assure you, but I thank you.”
They were alone while Alvin and Thomas brought in the last piece, and Frederick placed a warm hand on her forearm.One.Two.Three. He pressed lightly but perceptibly, and her heart swelled anew at the gesture.
“Oh, Frederick.”
“You stay here,” he ordered lightly, leaving to open the door a last time.
The rush of cooler, fresh air into the shop brought additional relief. Molly closed her eyes, but as if every single item in the shop was alive and had eyes, she tingled with awareness of all of them.
The top row on the wall had thirteen tools, the second only ten. The third cried out with seventeen smaller tools, and the fourth row had only eight large ones.
The row of tins was impeccably clean, but the heights varied like a horrific jumble of mismatched teeth.
The stack of cloths was out of sorts where it was, and while the leather work gloves of varying thicknesses were carefully set out on a shelf, they, too, were not in balance with the rest of the room.
It was simply all wrong.
Even when Alvin and Thomas said their goodbyes and the room was quiet, the space was full of noise to Molly’s ears, high-pitched screams from every item out of balance.
Her fingers itched to remove all the tools from the wall and pull out every nail. The panels could be sanded and puttied, and the nails redone so that the implements could be laid out properly from smallest to largest, left to right, with an equal number in each row.
Squeezing the books to her chest, she rocked lightly, seeing it all in her mind, project by project. Once she finished setting the workshop to rights, the shiny tins stood proudly from shortest to tallest, the stack of cloths sat length-wise as they ought…
Exhaling, her shoulders relaxed. Her eyes drifted open, disappointed that the room was not as she imagined it, but relieved to have restored order to it in the dimension that existed in her mind.
She looked up at Frederick, who looked only mildly worried and mostly patient.What an odd man. A darling, odd man.
“Shall I lock up the shop and we go take some air?” He smiled. “I’d like to hear more about your impressions of the concert last week. If I recall correctly, we spent our time afterwards minding other matters.”
Laughing, she nodded, and after checking that the twine was still secure around the package, she deposited it on the stool.
