Benny Stitch's Arc

Chapter 3 of 10

Benny stared at the three names in his head and none of them held still. A man wanted a coat mended. A woman wanted a hem. Someone else wanted a jacket taken in. But which face went with which job? He had taken the orders too fast, riding the thrill of the crowd, and written nothing down. Now the thrill was gone. Mix them up, and the trust he had earned tonight would crack by morning. He knew who kept things straight. Benny grabbed his coat and walked to the tea cart, where Elara Ponds poured for a late customer. She never forgot a face. He asked if she remembered the three who ordered from him. "I saw them," Elara said. "The tall one with the torn cuff. The braided woman. A boy in a green vest." She set down her kettle. "But I don't know what each one asked you for. I only heard the tall one. He said Thursday." It was not enough. Benny needed a system, not a memory. Elara studied him with her middle eye, then spoke. "Nell Corra keeps records for a living. Try the library." Benny found Nell at a reserved desk in the Petal Library, an elder with eight ink-stained fingers, bent over a thick almanac. Charts covered the desk, sorted in tidy stacks. Nell numbered a page, blew on the ink, and slid it into place without looking up. "I take weather," Nell said. "Four hundred miles a year. Every day counted." He capped his pen. "You lost three orders. Elara sent word ahead." Benny nodded. "I have the names in my head. I don't trust my head." Nell pulled a large binder from the shelf, its cover lined and labeled in neat squares. Sewing Records. Projects. Patterns. "Made this on the walk over," he said. "One page per customer. Name. Job. Date. Cloth." He set it in front of Benny. "A head forgets. A page does not." They worked backward together. Nell asked one plain question at a time. What did the tall man wear? A torn cuff, so the coat was his. The braided woman held her sleeve up, showing the hem she wanted shortened. That left the boy in the green vest with the jacket to take in. Elara's fragment locked the last piece. Thursday belonged to the coat. Benny wrote each order on its own page. Name, job, date, cloth. His ink-stained fingers moved sure now. Three tangled promises became three clean lines. "Bring it every day," Nell said. He closed his almanac. "I keep mine so the wind can't lie to me. You keep yours so your customers can't say you forgot." Benny carried the binder home. The three orders were safe. But holding it, he understood the harder truth. Getting the work was one night's trick. Delivering all three, on time, with hands the town had never tested, would take more than a good record.