Shoemaker’s so lucky; his elves help.
These sprites ate holes in the dressmaker’s wares. He’d tried traps, locks, poisons, and curses; none had worked. Worse, everyone called him “loco”… except for old Maria Santorini, the village witch. She’d sold Domingo what he felt was his last resort.
He wasn’t waiting long; they flitted in, heedless of the ample clothes heap concealing Domingo. He leapt up and flung the potion – comprising iron and silver dusts, holy water, and “secret ingredients”. One fairy exploded, three ignited, and several smoldered.
The rest turned on the dressmaker, snarling. His last moments were quite unpleasant.