Oswy Thrale’s Lucky Labels

When the Foundry’s horn sounded a third time running over Hurlock Sands, Oswy Thrale was already pasting new labels on his jars with flour and spit. FOUNDRY LUCK, they said, in his best red letters. CAUGHT THRICE. A drop of the same fire, sealed. The queue on the sandbar had grown sour since passage doubled to two drops a span, and sour people buy luck.

He held one up to the grey light. The water inside had a little mica stirred through it and caught the sun nicely. “Three in a row,” he called. “Lantern’s picked its favourite. Carry a bit of the favourite home.”

Bridie Coombe, in a coat too thin for the wind off the sand, took the jar and turned it once. “My girl trims wicks for the Foundry. Six nights a week.”

“Then she knows the luck’s real.”

“She knows they lit forty more lamps at midsummer and pay the coal-men late.” Bridie handed it back. “That’s not luck. That’s more hands throwing more dice. Next link it’s anyone’s.”

A few heads in the line turned toward him. Somebody laughed, not kindly. Oswy could have argued; he usually did. Instead he watched Bridie count two drops for her own crossing into the gate-box, and he peeled the red label off with his thumbnail, rolled it small and flicked it into the tide. He kept the jars. The labels, he decided, had been too honest about what he was selling.