The Art of Folding

My shop should be easy enough to spot, it's the only one with a blue sign, read the letter in Ben's hand. The pages shivered as the train carriage rattled along its rails, and he sighed, folding them carefully and tucking them back into his pocket.

Three years. How had it been three years since he and Rhys had last spoken? He had been resentful, the first time she had told him of her intentions to move away from Belvar, away from the only place that he had ever stayed in long enough to call home. She'd noticed, of course. They knew each other too well for her not to, and the ensuing fight had lasted for all of five minutes before she had furiously jabbed a finger into his chest and shouted, "You don't get to lecture me about leaving, Benjamin Rova!" He'd shut up very quickly after that.

There had been another five minutes of stony silence, and then he'd apologized for being a pillock and she had rolled her eyes at him but accepted it with good grace. All of their fights had been like that, ever since they'd first become friends at age five, but they'd spent every winter together without fail ever since, and fear of losing the person that he loved most in the world still carved out an icy pit in Ben's chest.

"Well, that's a sour face if ever I saw one," the old man sat across from him said, weathered face scrunched up in good-natured concern. "Bad news?" He nodded at Ben's pocket, and Ben sighed, offering up a weary smile.

"Not really. Just... meeting up with an old friend, and I'm worried that things will be different. We haven't seen each other for so long."

The man broke into a toothless smile. "Oh, aye. Things will certainly be different. Time does that to ya. But who says different has to be a bad thing, eh?" He winked. "If ya go into it expecting doom and gloom, that's what ya'll get. If ya keep an open mind? Well, I s'pect it'll all work out just fine." A puff of white smoke from the engine wafted past the window, and Ben found himself smiling at the man, the fierce grip of worry easing at his reassurance.

"You think?" He asked. The man chuffed at him softly.

"I'm speaking from experience, lad. Trust me, you'll be fine." And he pulled his workman's cap down over his eyes and settled in for a nap, apparently content. Ben watched him for a moment, then returned to gazing out of the window, turning the conversation over in his mind.

The shop was easy to find, the wide windows filled with carefully-tailored clothes an easy giveaway, even without the neatly painted blue-and-gold sign that announced, Fittings and Foldings, above the door. One of the panes had been broken, he noticed, frowning slightly at the neatly sanded wooden board fixed over the missing glass. It was one of the center panes as well; the interruption of opaque wood in the middle of all that meticulously cleaned glass jarring to see.

Ben's train had pulled into Kirston's small two platform station at around eleven in the morning, the late hour meaning that he had at least avoided the worst of the crowds.

Curious eyes and soft whispers had followed Ben as he wandered along the cobblestones with his sturdy bag slung over his shoulder. It wasn't surprising. Kirston was a small town; everyone here knew everyone and any newcomers would be carefully scrutinized for both gossip and usefulness. Ben had seen it a hundred times before, and knew that they would relax as soon as they learned that he was only visiting and had no intentions of staying past his welcome.

A cheerful bell rang out as he pushed open the door, followed by a distant "Be with you in a minute!" from somewhere upstairs. The front room was pleasantly open, with a wide counter with several small projects arranged artfully on the top, shelves filled with bags made from leather and linen and silk, rolls of fabrics shelved neatly along the walls. A curtained doorway separated the front and back rooms, and the sign hanging over it announced 'Fitting Room.'

"Don't rush on my account," Ben called back. "It's only been three years." A loud thump followed his words, and then the frantic clattering of someone descending a staircase very fast, Ben winced at the noise, half-braced for an accident, but then the curtain was being thrown aside and Rhys, small and dark and neat as ever, was in his arms and laughing as he picked her up and spun her around.

"I can't believe you're finally here!" She exclaimed once her feet were back on solid ground. Her brown eyes were shining.

"Sorry it took me so long," Ben grinned, and Rhys flapped a dismissive hand at him.

"Don't be ridiculous, I know how busy your parents have been keeping you." She frowned up at him. "Mostly I'm annoyed that you didn't bother to include a date for your arrival in your last letter."

"There was a reason for that!" Ben protested. "You know how hard getting past the mountains is this time of year, anything could have happened to delay me. I figured that if I was vague, then at least I couldn't be accused of being late."

"Hmm." Rhys eyed him doubtfully for a second, then grinned again. "I suppose I'll forgive you. Come on, lets get out of the shop, I'll show you your room."

"I get a whole room?" Ben gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as though shocked. "Not a sofa or a patch of floor? Truly, you have moved up in the world." He ducked away from the pointy elbow aimed at his ribs, snickering.

"Yes, shut up. I have a spare room. It used to be a cupboard, but what's the point of being able to magically make spaces bigger if you don't use it? The attic was far to big so I just borrowed some of the space up there, and now it's fairly decent, as these things go." Her voice echoed oddly as she made her way back up the stairs and Ben followed closely behind her, turning sideways slightly so that both he and his large bag could fit up the narrow stairway.

Upstairs was similar to down, decoration wise. Clear evidence of Rhys' work was displayed everywhere, both tailoring and Folding. The main living area consisted of a cozy room with a stove and cupboards on one side and a table and chairs on the other, with a bookcase and chest of drawers along the back wall. An almost-finished dress was laid out carefully on the table along with a sewing machine clearly abandoned mid-use. It was clean and tidy, and reminded Ben painfully of Rhys' parents home above their own business, Smythe's Foldings.

"This way," Rhys' voice broke through Ben's perusal, and he looked up to see her waving him through one of the two doorways leading off the main room. He shook off the nostalgia and followed.

The room itself was plain. A bed, a desk, and a washstand were all that it contained, but the desk had a vase of flowers displayed on it, and the bed had clearly been made up with fresh sheets. A fond smile stole over his face as he dropped his bag onto the bed, turning back to Rhys.

"It's lovely," he said genuinely, and she scrunched up her nose at him, playful.

"It's a bit cramped, but I have every faith in your ability to make yourself comfortable. I don't expect you'll be using it for much more than sleeping anyway." She pushed an escaped strand of hair behind her ear, eyes going soft. "I missed you, Ben."

"I missed you too," He replied softly. "Belvar hasn't been the same without you." The problem with spending only three months out of a year in your home city was that any changes made while you were gone were startling and difficult to acclimatize to. Rhys' absence had been a physical thing, glaring and uncomfortable.

She gave him an apologetic smile. "Its a shame that you haven't any trading partners this far north," She said ruefully. "We'd have seen each other much sooner."

Ben shrugged helplessly. "No large cities mean no major investors, which means that there's no point in sending anyone from the family all the way up here. Better to just let the wagons come and go on their own." The logic was sound, but he didn't have to like it, and by the sad angle of Rhys' eyebrows, she didn't either.

"I hope my parents took good care of you these last few winters, at least," she changed the subject. Ben nodded.

"Even more so than usual," He chuckled quietly. "I think they have empty-nest syndrome. They dragged my sister over as often as they could, too."

"Mara!" Rhys said, sounding surprised but pleased. "How is she? She's got to be, what, seventeen now?"

"Seventeen and ruthless," Ben confirmed. "She's already a better trade negotiator than I'll ever be, and she uses it to her advantage every day."

"Sounds like maybe she should be taking over the business," Rhys teased. Ben's smile faltered, and he turned away to fumble with the fastenings on his bag, hiding his face.

"Maybe so," He agreed, trying desperately to keep his voice even. "She'd certainly enjoy it." There was silence from behind him and he cursed inwardly. Three years, and somehow Rhys could still read him like a book.

"...I'll let you unpack." She said finally, and Ben let out a soft breath, relieved that she'd decided not to press. "I need to finish my commission."

He shot her a smile over his shoulder.

"I look forward to seeing the finished product."

As the door swung shut behind him, he let his head drop. Rhys wouldn't let him keep his silence forever, he knew. Not that he wanted to; half of the reason for his coming here was a desperate need for advice. Several times in the past year he had considered asking her in her letters, but his mother was notoriously nosy, especially when she suspected someone of keeping secrets.

A little later, unpacked and relaxed, Ben emerged from his room just in time to watch as Rhys Folded magic into an almost-completed silk purse. He paused, hovering at the edge of the room, unwilling to break her concentration. The dress from earlier was gone, presumably finished and put away, ready to be sold.

Ben had always loved to watch the Smythe's as they worked their strange small brand of magic. It was a little like watching the sleight-of-hand street performers of the western city-states, but with the added allure that came with knowing that what you saw was real.

Folding, Rhys had explained once, was about space. Everything took up a certain amount of it, and if you wanted to have more of it then it would still have to come from somewhere. That was why Folded items were so expensive; you had to use the same amount of material that you would need for an Unfolded item - it would just look far smaller.

Currently spread out over the table in front of her was a stretch of silk lining three times larger than the purse that would contain it. As Ben watched, she took hold of the center of it and tucked it neatly into the bag, her entire arm vanishing inside it. She withdrew her hand and shook out the finished product, running careful fingers along the seams to check for faults, then nodding to herself in satisfaction.

"I'll never get used to seeing your arm disappear like that," Ben commented. Rhys glanced up at him, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"How many times have you seen me do it?"

"It doesn't matter, it still looks bizarre."

She huffed out a laugh. "Well, so does your dress sense, but you don't hear me complaining."

"Ouch!" Ben clutched at his heart. "You've gotten mean in your time away."

"Blame Mary, she brings out the worst in me." Rhys snorted, then froze. "Oh, gods. Mary."

"A great and terrible foe?" Ben asked, confused. Rhys rolled her eyes at him.

"Mary Kirston - yes, that Kirston. Her family basically own this town, they founded it centuries ago - never mind about that, just promise me you won't let her get you."

"I won't?" Ben said, mildly alarmed. Rhys sighed, rubbing her forehead.

"No, not... She's harmless, she's my best friend up here, she's just..." She waved one had vaguely in the air, searching for words. "She gets ideas, alright, and there is a significant chance that she might try and play matchmaker with you."

"...Matchmaker?" Ben half-shouted, suddenly much more than mildly alarmed.

"I think I headed off the worst of it, but she got this insane idea that we were some kind of... childhood sweethearts or something - yes, I know," She nodded in agreement at the strangled whistling noise that Ben had just made. "So... just be prepared, alright? She means well."

Ben stared at her in wordless horror. Both his and Rhys' families had spent their entire childhoods cooing at their closeness and making sly remarks about their future together, but at age thirteen, Ben, worried and determined, had gone to Rhys and confessed that he had absolutely no interest in her like that, to which she, wearing an expression of great relief, had responded likewise.

"Gods save me from well-meaning women," Ben said faintly. Rhys made a soft noise of agreement, standing from the table with the finished purse and vanishing down the stairs to put it with the others, while Ben sank down into the opposite chair, resting his spinning head on his hands.

"So," Rhys said as she reappeared. "Do you want to talk about it? Not Mary, whatever the other thing is that's bothering you." She leaned forward, elbows propped on the back of her chair, dark eyes knowing.

Still staring down at the table, Ben found his mouth curling up at the corners, and he turned his face slightly so that she could see it.

"Not right now," he told her quietly. She stretched out a hand and squeezed his shoulder in silent acceptance. Ben's chest ached with how much he had missed her.

Changing the subject, she asked him, "Stew for dinner?"

"Sounds great. Thank you."

"Well, it's all I've got in at the moment, given your lack of a schedule, so it had better be great, mister." She pulled out vegetables and a peeler, dropping them in front of him with an expectant look. "Come on, get peeling and tell me what you've been doing without me for three years."

Lips pressed together in an attempt to smother his grin, feeling lighter than he had in ages, Ben obeyed.