Page 18 of The Cobbler and His Elves

But how? The cell door loomed before me, solid and unyielding. I was no escape artist, no hardened criminal with tricks up my sleeve. I was just a cobbler, in way over his head.

I slumped against the bars, despair threatening to overwhelm me. Then, unbidden, my grandfather’s voice echoed in my memory.

“Milo, my boy,” he’d often said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “a good cobbler can fix more than just shoes. With clever hands and a quick mind, you can mend any problem life throws your way.”

I looked down at my hands, calloused and scarred from years of working with leather and tools. Then my gaze fell on the cell’s lock.

It wasn’t so different from the intricate fastenings on some of the fancier shoes I’d repaired over the years. Complex, yes, but not impossible to understand. Not for someone with clever hands and a desperate need. Hope, fragile but persistent, bloomed in my chest. I might not be an escape artist, but I was a damn good cobbler.

I slipped my hand into my pocket, fingers curling around the pouch where I kept extra thread and awl needles. With a quick glance at the cell door, I withdrew a thin, pointed needle and crouched before the lock.

I inserted the needle’s tip into the keyhole, feeling for the tumblers inside. The cool metal against my fingers brought back memories of repairing delicate ladies’ boots, their tiny buckles requiring a similar delicate touch.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the subtle vibrations transmitted through the tool. Each click and scrape told a story, just like the worn soles of a working man’s boots. I manipulated the awl needle, coaxing the lock’s inner workings like I would tease a stubborn leather seam.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I worked, the silence of the jail broken only by my measured breathing and the soft scraping of metal on metal. I thought of my grandfather, who’d taught me that patience and persistence could overcome any obstacle.

The lock resisted, but I persevered. This was no different than salvaging a pair of shoes others might deem beyond repair. Every mechanism had its weakness. I just had to find this one’s.

As I worked, I thought of Jack and Elijah. Of Martha and Thompson. Of all the people counting on me, even if they didn’t know it yet.

I couldn’t fail them. I wouldn’t.

The lock clicked softly beneath my fingers, and the cell door swung open.

6

My heart pounded in my chest as I peered out into the dimly lit corridor. The sheriff’s office lay just beyond, a thin strip of light visible beneath the closed door.

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. I had to get out of here, had to warn Martha and Thompson. And Jack and Elijah... God, I needed to see them, to make sure they were safe.

Slipping out of the cell, I crept down the hallway on silent feet. Years of tiptoeing around the shop to avoid waking my grandfather so he could get an extra hour or two of much-needed rest had taught me how to move quietly. I pressed my ear to the sheriff’s door, straining to hear any movement inside.

“...just get it done,” Dawson’s muffled voice growled. “We need to tie up these loose ends before the state boys start sniffing around.”

I froze, hardly daring to breathe. Deputy Smith mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“No, you idiot,” Dawson snapped. “We can’t just dump ‘em in the river. It’s got to look like an accident. A fire at the tannery, maybe. Kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Thompson and his brat, and destroy any evidence linking us to the theft.”

My blood ran cold. They were planning to murder Martha and her father. I had to get out of here, had to warn them.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor sent me scurrying back down the hallway. I ducked into a supply closet just as the office door opened, my heart thundering so loudly I was sure they’d hear it.

“I’m heading out,” Dawson said. “You stay here and keep an eye on things. And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone near that cell.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by the slam of the outer door. I waited, counting to a hundred before daring to peek out.

The coast was clear. I slipped out of the closet and made my way to the back exit, praying it wouldn’t be locked. The handle turned easily under my hand, and I stepped out into the cool night air.

Freedom. But no time to savor it. I had to find Jack and Elijah.

I ran through the darkened streets, keeping to the shadows. Sterling’s Fine Footwear lay just ahead. But as I rounded the corner, my heart sank. The shop was dark, no sign of the brothers. A bitter wind whipped through the alleyway, carrying stinging flurries of snow that bit at my exposed skin. My thin shirt offered little protection against the biting cold. I longed for my grandfather’s old coat, threadbare but warm, still hanging on its peg back at the shop. Even that worn-out garment would havebeen a blessing in this frigid night air. My teeth chattered as I hugged myself, trying to conserve what little warmth I had left.

A car engine roared to life nearby. I ducked behind a parked truck, watching as Sheriff Dawson’s patrol car sped past, heading in the direction of Thompson’s Tannery.

No time to search for Jack and Elijah. I had to get to the tannery before it was too late.

I ran faster than I’d ever run in my life, my lungs burning with each gasping breath. Slipping through old Mrs. Peterson’s yard, I scaled her weathered wooden fence with practiced ease, then headed toward the railway. My boots scattered gravel as I darted between two abandoned boxcars, their rusted sides towering like steel sentries in the dark.