The Merchant and the Rogue, page 15
“I don’t have a drawing of her,” Vera said. “And I cain’t draw to save my skin.”
“Móirín can,” Ganor said. “She’s brilliant at it.”
“Give me some paper, Brog. I’ll see if I can’t sketch out this mysterious woman.”
Brog? An Irish word, perhaps? Vera didn’t dwell on it. They’d a woman to find and a drawing to get done. The urgency of the moment was more important than passing curiosity.
Móirín sketched as Vera described Clare. Their efforts went on for long minutes, stretching into at least an hour.
Through it, Ganor gathered up the neighbors’ accounts and neatly stacked them. He fetched them both glasses of water. He brought Vera a blanket, apparently noticing she was shivering. And he sat beside her, patient and supportive. He was showing himself thoughtful. Again.
At last, fickle fate seemed to be smiling on her.
by Mr. King
Installment IV
in which the Threat to the village reveals itself in Terrifying ways!
Tallulah watched for the squire as the days passed. She hadn’t the least doubt he would return, and she needed to decide how she meant to respond. Knowing he was, by all estimations, at least eighty years old despite appearing to be only half that, she knew there was something otherworldly about him. That explained the putrid air that hung about him, and the unnerving noises that seemed to follow him about.
Her gran had told her stories of the Fae, of monsters and fairies and mysterious beings. If the squire belonged to that world, then he was dangerous in a way no one comprehended. And yet, refusing to stand up to him simply allowed him to hurt the village all the more. He would continue his reign of terror if he was left unchecked.
“You must know what it is you’re facing,” Gran had said. “To unknowingly cross paths with the Fae is a danger greater than any human can imagine.”
But what was he? She wasn’t at all certain, and saints knew she needed to be.
Belinda and Marty stepped inside, their eyes immediately on the colorful displays of candies.
She adored the children of Chippingwich. “What’s it to be today, loves?”
“We want to try anise candies,” Belinda announced. “Georgie likes them.”
“He does, indeed.” She set a ha’penny’s worth of anise candies on a slip of paper and folded it up, trading the sweets for their coin.
“Do you have any new candies, Miss Tallulah?” Marty seldom spoke, and when he did so, he was very quiet.
Tallulah kept her own voice gentle and calm when answering. “I have chocolate-covered almonds. They come very dear, though, so we’ll have to save those for a very special treat.”
Marty nodded, eagerly eyeing the folded paper in his friend’s hand. The two little ones would most likely have the anise candy eaten long before reaching either of their homes.
A flurry of red announced the squire’s arrival. He slid into the shop with all the arrogance of someone who knows he will not be challenged or denied what he wishes for. Tallulah didn’t know what he had come to demand this time, but it was clear he believed he had won already.
The children inched quickly away from the counter, watching the squire’s approach with a deep-seated wariness. They were, no doubt, all too familiar with the sort of person he was. Tallulah kept her posture straight and her demeanor sure.
The squire likely did not know she had pieced together that he belonged to the world of the Fae. She hid her discomfort with his smell; she ignored the distant laughter.
“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked in a tone that was as neutral as she could make it.
“I have decided to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself,” he said.
He meant to humble and humiliate her before making his demands, did he? Well, she didn’t mean to allow him.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I was referring to the cake,” he said.
“I do recall the cake, but I do not understand the reference you’re making.” She understood completely, but giving him the impression that it was of so little consequence that she had already forgotten might take a bit of the wind out of his sails.
“The cake you produced was a failure,” he said. “I am certain you remember that muddle.”
She pursed her lips in a confused frown. “I do not recall a failed cake.”
He eyed her more closely. The man, no doubt, wasn’t certain what to make of her. Good. If he were upended, he might not be quite so sure of himself. Lack of confidence might render him less dangerous. Perhaps he’d even offer a clue as to who or what he truly was.
“I’m here to place another order,” he said. “I have decided to be generous since you are new in the village, and it is the job of a squire to see to the good of his people, even if it means risking another disaster.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, still feigning innocence.
His narrowed gaze grew bewildered and increasingly annoyed. She would do well to tread lightly.
“That ridiculous haberdasher said that your petits fours were well done. I should like to place an order for enough of those to impress visitors who are coming to Chippingwich. I will be hosting them in two days’ time, and I should warn you they are not easily impressed.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” she said.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a bit of irony she struggled not to smile at, he repeated the same words that, coming from her, had so frustrated him a moment earlier. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve declared my cake was a failure. I’d not see you disappointed again.”
“I have told you I am generously willing to allow you another opportunity.”
She shook her head. “I have learned my lesson, Squire Carman. I am simply not talented enough to provide someone of your eminence with confectioneries for your exalted guests. You had best ride to the nearest village with its own confectionery shop.”
The entire shop fell silent. She wasn’t certain the children were even breathing.
“You would rather not make money?” he asked through a tight jaw.
“On the contrary.” The last time, he had paid her only a portion of what he’d promised for the cake. It would not surprise her in the least if he decided that the petits fours ought to be complementary. He would find some reason to argue that they were not worth paying for. She refused to be swindled again.
“As I said, there will be no confectioneries for you to pay for. You will simply have to go elsewhere.”
“You are refusing?” The squire asked the question in so tense a tone that she felt some of her courage flee. But no. Someone had to stand up to him.
“It appears I am refusing.” The declaration emerged firmer and surer than she had anticipated. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice. The children, however, did not seem to feel quite so much confidence. They bolted for the door and out onto the street.
“No one in this village has the audacity to oppose me,” the squire said.
Something in the air changed. Literally. It was colder, heavier. Her very breath sounded different. Her voice likely would as well, but she refused to stay silent.
“I’ve not improved as a baker in the last few days. Nothing I make is likely to meet with your approval, so it makes no sense for me to bake you anything else. It’s for your own good, and for the good of the impression you hope to make on your distinguished guests, that you obtain what you wish for from a shop that you trust.”
“I am not the one who ought to be concerned with what is in my best interest.”
Tallulah set her hands on the counter, feeling the shift in the balance of things. She had the oddest sensation of not being entirely stable on the ground.
“Now,” the squire said in a tone that could never be mistaken for patience, “do you intend to take the order I have come to place?”
The fear she felt growing inside insisted she bow to his demands. He was frightening, and powerful. If she didn’t stand up to him, she doubted anyone ever would.
She swallowed. Breathed. And pushed on. “You will have to place your order elsewhere.”
The displeasure in his eyes grew quickly to fury. The very ground beneath them began to shake. Items on shelves shifted and moved, jumping dangerously about. A glass bowl of candies fell to the floor and shattered. Confections flew from shelves and boxes, landing in ruined heaps on the floor.
All the while, the squire watched her, unblinking. The hatred in his eyes gave them an unholy glow. One she was nearly certain was literal. Literal and heated and radiating red.
The glass in the window wobbled, an unnerving rolling motion she knew glass was not meant to make.
The squire’s expression twisted with hatred. And with it, his face changed. It seemed to pull, elongate, grow misshapen.
Faster and faster the window shook and waved. More and more grotesque grew the squire’s face.
Then—a cracking sound.
Tallulah dove to the ground, her head tucked in and her arms covering herself as much as she could manage. In the very next instant, a blast of air shook the space and the window gave, showering her and the shop with shards of wood and glass.
“You, Tallulah O’Doyle, have made a very grave error.”
From her position ducked behind the counter, she heard the sound of the squire’s exiting footfalls, crunching on the bits of glass and candies and debris strewn about the floor.
She remained there, curled in a ball, shaken more than she cared to admit. He had done this. He had done it while standing in place, and without causing himself the least harm. Though she was uninjured, she suspected he could have hurt her if he’d wish to. It was a warning, an easier consequence than what he would likely inflict the next time.
All was quiet in the shop. She could hear nothing beyond the sound of her breathing and the wind whistling in through the broken window. She was grateful the children had already left the shop. How many others in town would know soon enough what had happened? Her determination to help them by standing firm might simply have made them more afraid, put them in more danger.
“Tallulah?” Someone was calling her name. The sound of glass crunching beneath heavy footsteps told her the speaker was in the shop. “Tallulah, are you hurt?”
Royston Prescott. She recognized his voice now. And she felt better.
Slowly, carefully, she stood once more. Glass and bits of cake and biscuits and candies rolled off her as she straightened.
“All the market cross saw your window shatter,” he said. “And even before the squire stepped out, we knew what had happened.”
“You knew he had this power?” She tried not to let her fear show, but she was not at all certain she’d succeeded.
He nodded. “None of us knows where his abilities come from, but we have all had our own experience with them. He is a dangerous man.”
“He is not a man. I know enough of the Fae to know he is some variety of monster.”
Royston brushed bits of debris from her shoulders with his gloved hands. “Whatever he is, he’s dangerous.”
“All the more reason none of us can face him alone.”
He looked her in the eyes. “This has not scared you off? Hasn’t convinced you to stop trying?”
“If the children had still been in here when he did this, they might have been hurt or worse. I cannot shrug and walk away simply because I’m afraid. It’s time this village escaped the grip of whatever the squire truly is.”
A smile spread across Royston’s handsome face. “Kirby said he was certain you wouldn’t flinch. I’m happy he was right. Chippingwich has been waiting a long time for someone like you.”
Móirín dropped into the shop at the end of Brogan’s workday. She wore the slightly tattered cloak and bonnet she always chose when they were bound for the poorer corners of London. Blending in was a helpful thing. So was being armed. Móirín had likely brought him his pistol. She always had hers.
“We’re for Somers Town today,” Móirín said. “Frank sent word they’re having troubles.”
“He did?” Brogan hadn’t seen any note arrive.
She eyed him sidelong. “You’ve been a wee bit distracted. I’d be surprised to hear you’d noticed a single thing beyond a certain gray-eyed lass from Russia.”
Thank the heavens Vera wasn’t in the room at the moment. Her da was seated at the printing-order table in conversation with a customer who’d only just arrived. They were too focused on their transaction to be paying Brogan and Móirín any heed.
“Vera and I have struck up a friendship between us,” he said. “I’ll grant you that.”
“Lie to yourself all you want, Brog. It’ll not change the truth of the thing.”
“And what truth is that?”
“Firstly, that you talk about her constantly. Secondly”—she counted off on her fingers—“that the two of you are forever holding hands. Thirdly, I’ve eyes in m’head and can see for my own self how you look at her.”
“I surrender.” He held his hands up. “Give me a moment to let Vera know I’m nipping off.”
“Go give her a kiss goodbye. I’ll be right here waiting.”
Kiss goodbye. Móirín was not going to stop teasing him about this. If only he truly knew what “this” was. He knew he was far more than fond of Vera, and he was well aware he felt a vast deal more than friendship for her. He thought the feeling might be mutual, but he’d no guarantee.
The woman herself arrived in the room in the next moment, having been up in the flat above the shop.
“Zdrastvui,” Móirín greeted.
“What brings you ’round?” Vera stopped directly in front of them both.
“M’brother and I are jaunting out to Somers Town to look in on some people who’re struggling.” After the briefest look of absolute mischief tossed Brogan’s way, Móirín again addressed Vera. “We’d love for you to join us.”
Vera’s expression brightened. “I’d like that. Neither of the children is working here today, so I’m not needing to see them off.”
Brogan might’ve pointed out that their errands could be dangerous and that the people they were looking in on didn’t know Vera and might be uncomfortable with her seeing them in their difficulties. He might’ve. But she set her hand gently on his arm, and he was entirely undone.
In no time, they had the shop set to rights: the various items back in drawers, a cloth set over the penny dreadful display to save it from dust and make it less tempting to anyone passing by the window.
“This is the first I’ve seen your da up here today,” Brogan said as they pulled their coats on. “Whatever job he secured a bit ago must be quite a large one.”
“It ain’t a heap of printing,” Vera said. “He says it’s complicated, and he’s worried he won’t get it right. Must be important.”
“Enough that you’d not be selling the penny dreadfuls any longer?” That might let him finally tell her who he really was. Except, of course, that she and her da both distrusted writers and telling them he’d been lying about being one wouldn’t improve their opinion of them.
“He’d need a string of important print jobs. Until that happens, we’ll be selling the stories, and he’ll be put out about it.”
The three of them stepped out of the shop. Vera tucked her scarf more securely around her neck.
“Perhaps we’ll find Clare while we’re out,” she said, walking alongside them. “She’s not been in the shop in ages, it seems.”
“Makes the lass a bit more suspicious, yeah?” Móirín said.
“She didn’t strike me as the type to be part of anything like this.” Brogan had spoken with Clare a few times in the past. “Quiet, a bit withdrawn, personable.”
Móirín didn’t look put off the idea. “It may be she’s a fine actress. Or it may be she’s being forced into it.”
“Plenty enough women in Soho haven’t choices in how they live their lives or keep the roof over their heads,” Vera said. “Some fare better than others. I suppose that’s true of most everyone on Old Compton, i’n’it?”
Brogan knew the street wasn’t faring too well just now. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Overton?”
“Peter said he was in the area this morning, picking through the ashes of his business. He’s ruined. Won’t be long before the bailiffs come from King’s Bench Prison.”
“He has a lot of debts, then?”
She nodded. “He could make good on ’em if he had his business, but that’s no more than soot now.”
Brogan reached over and took her hand as they walked. “’Tis moments like this when I wish I had the resources of a lord. Breaks m’ heart not to be able to help people who’re needing it. There’re far too many suffering people in this world, and I’ve far too little ability to help them.”
She moved closer to him, walking so near that their shoulders brushed. Vera was almost exactly his same height, making holding her hand and walking in-stride a far simpler thing than it would be otherwise.
“I’m feeling proper guilty myself,” she said. “I told my neighbors I’d help. Don’t seem I’ve done much.”
Brogan slipped his hand free and, instead, set his arm around her. She rested against him, still walking along. He’d assumed the arrangement simply to offer her comfort but found his heart pounding in a most disconcerting way. He didn’t drop his arm away. He couldn’t. Walking with her as he was, enjoying their conversation and her nearness, he felt more at home than he had in ages.
Home. A future. Love. They were dreams he’d not let himself have in years. This remarkable woman was stirring them up in him again. His heart insisted he fully embrace the possibility; his mind argued that it wasn’t wise.
