Tonight the Stairs Will Hold

By the time the light in Tavi's workshop turned the color of weak tea, the rain had begun to tap at the boarding house like a patient visitor who had forgotten what time it was. He bent over a half-soled boot, drew the waxed thread through leather with steady hands, and listened to the house breathe above him: a kettle singing on the second floor, a door latch clicking, somebody laughing softly over supper. The building was narrow and tall, stitched together around an outdoor stair that climbed past the windows like a ladder someone had decided to make elegant. Tavi liked boots better than stairs. Boots were honest. They only asked to be fed scraps of leather and a clean heel, and in return they carried people where they meant to go. Stairs, by contrast, were forever developing opinions. Mottle, the boarding house cat, was curled on a stack of off-cuts beside the stove, watching him with the severe expression of a judge who had been denied a nap. Tavi flicked a look at her. ‘If you’re going to supervise, at least look useful,’ he muttered. Mottle blinked once, as if to say that usefulness was beneath her dignity. Rain thickened against the window. A gust slipped under the door and brought with it the smell of wet stone, onion soup, and Mrs. Calder's clove cake cooling somewhere upstairs. The house had a habit of smelling like everyone's life at once. Tavi set the boot aside and reached for the next one, but before he could start the new seam, a low creak rolled through the stair outside. Not the ordinary complaint of old wood. Something longer. Tired. He paused, listening. Another creak answered, then the soft, uncertain thump of water hitting a loose board. Tavi frowned, wiped his hands on his apron, and told himself that old buildings always sounded dramatic in bad weather. Still, he did not enjoy the way the stair had begun to speak.