Chapter 40. Eloise
Eloise
We ride in Grayson’s car in complete silence. He puts on music, but somehow that only makes it more obvious that we don’t know what to say to each other.
He clears his throat. “You were telling me you found something in Brachan’s books yesterday?” he asks, which admittedly is an easier topic than most.
“A poem and a dedication to the cobblers who came before and for those who come after,” I say. “Which is a weird thing to write if you don’t come from a cobbler family. But you said Brachan wasn’t a Laborer.”
He considers it. “What if I was wrong?” he says, and I snort.
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’m being serious.”
“Okay, let’s go with that. If you’re wrong, I’d tell you that Laborers inherit their family businesses, especially if they’re lucky enough to have a store.
And then I’d say that instead of reading more poetry, we should ask the town cobbler if they’re related to Conri Brachan and if they know anything that might help us. ”
His blue eyes brighten. “That’s actually … incredibly smart,” he says, and I hate that I warm at the compliment.
He makes a sharp left and we change directions, heading for the center of town.
Grayson stops his Porsche in front of a shop with a wooden sign that reads Cobbler. He opens the door for me and a little bell chimes.
There are floor-to-ceiling shelves, crooked and asymmetrical, like the tree decided their shape instead of the shop owner, piled with everything from work boots to sparkling heels.
A man looks up from his workbench. He seems to be in his seventies with wild gray hair that sticks off his head.
“The young Stone, is it?” the man says with a fair amount of grump. “Is this some sort of special occasion? You usually send your servants—I’m sorry, Laborers—for something as lowly as shoe buying.”
Grayson shakes off the dig and flashes the man a bright smile, one I’ve come to realize is its own kind of armor. “Actually, it is a special occasion. I wanted to let Eloise pick out a pair of shoes. Whatever she wants.”
I exhale. It’s not the worst cover, but given how awkward things are, I also don’t love it.
“There’s everyday wear in the front and the impractical pretty baubles in the back,” the cobbler says. “Probably want to head straight there and see which ones cost the most, Stone, that way there’s no doubt about yer grand present.”
I laugh at the way the old man heckles him. Gran would love this guy.
“After she chooses, we’d love to have a chat with you, sir,” Grayson adds.
“Now I’m sir, is it?” the cobbler grumbles. “I don’t chat.”
After a lifetime of living with Gran, I know that tone—this man means it.
“Just a couple of friendly questions,” Grayson says with his charming demeanor that usually gets people to crumble in his hands.
The cobbler frowns. “No time and no interest.”
“Go ahead and shop,” Grayson says to me, which I’m assuming means he needs time to think of another angle.
“You know, I’ve never had store-bought shoes,” I say half to them and half to myself. “Grandad always made mine, and when the Lawless took him, Mom took his place. She’s good at a lot of things, but shoes aren’t exactly her talent.”
The cobbler pauses to take another look at me. He narrows his eyes slightly and hmmfs.
I run my fingertips along the gorgeous racks, examining each of the styles before pulling out two pairs—cute flat ankle boots that have a sturdy sole and a totally impractical pair of shiny red heels. I try them both on in front of the standing mirror with a little twirl.
When I look up, the cobbler and Grayson are staring at me. “What?” I say self-consciously, but in truth I don’t care if they think I’m ridiculous. If I only have a week left, then I’m twirling in these shoes.
Grayson clears his throat. “Nothing. Sorry, was I staring? I think I was staring.”
“Who are you, lass?” the cobbler asks me gruffly.
“Eloise Belrose, sir. I come from a servant family. Oh sorry, I mean Laborers,” I say as a joke, and it earns me a crooked smile.
“This is my first time in a store like yours and I have to say—wow. My grandad would have loved it. He helped craft weapons for the Guardians, but pretty things like this were always his favorite. He used to whittle me little toy animals when I was a kid. I still have them on my windowsill at home.”
The cobbler considers me for a long moment. “Let me ask you something, lass, do you like the boy standing next to you? Not askin’ if you’re impressed with his title, but do you like him as a person?”
“I, um…” I start and get stuck.
“That’s what I thought,” the cobbler says and looks back down at his bench.
My face flames, and there’s part of me that’s frustrated enough with Grayson that I want to leave it at that.
I sigh, looking up at the ceiling and back down. “He doesn’t suck,” I say flatly. “Well, sometimes he does. Grayson can be arrogant and bossy and thinks it’s okay to lie no matter the consequences.”
The cobbler looks up and my answer seems to please him.
“But,” I say holding up my hand. “He’s not all bad. I actually suspect he’s a good apple in a bad batch, where he has to continuously fend off the poison. He’s saved me more than once and paid a price for it every time.”
The cobbler eyes the pair of us. But Grayson doesn’t look at the man, he’s staring at me, wearing an expression I’ve never seen on him before—something soft and almost vulnerable.
“Don’t just stand there lookin’ daft, boy,” the old man says. “Flip the sign in the window to Closed. It spell-locks the door.”
I look at him, shocked.
The cobbler lifts his hand. “This is no special favor. It’s teatime anyhow. You have until I finish my biscuits to ask your questions before I kick you out.”
“Understood!” I say with too much gusto and he scowls at me.
We follow the cobbler up the staircase to a small apartment where everything is crowded and cozy. He gestures to the round table in his kitchen.
Grayson and I sit while he boils water. But when the old man joins us, pouring the steaming teapot into our cups, Grayson doesn’t say anything. He looks at me instead.
I grip my hot teacup for courage. “We were wondering if you were related to Conri Brachan?”
The cobbler freezes. “It’s like that, is it? You came here to talk about poetry? I’m a cobbler. Don’t read the stuff.”
I clear my throat. “We were reading Brachan’s books and he had a dedication to the cobblers who came before and after him.”
“So?” the old man says.
“So, we thought you might be related to him,” I say.
He eyes me. “My family name is Conlon.”
I look at Grayson but he only nods like you’ve got this. For a second, I’m taken aback. I’ve gotten used to Grayson bulldozing his way through every interaction.
“Do you know if any of Brachan’s relatives live in town?” I ask.
“I’m the only cobbler in Mayo,” he replies.
Only this time I notice that while he’s giving me an answer, he actually isn’t. “But that’s not what I asked.”
The old man smirks. “No, it isn’t.”
I hesitate. If he’s anything like my gran, nothing short of blunt will work. “We think Brachan wrote a poem about calling the Archive Key and we want to know what it was.”
The cobbler coughs uncomfortably. “Brachan was a merchant’s son. Never went to University. Merchants don’t call Archive Keys.”
“Yeah well, I’m the daughter of a housekeeper and before I even set foot on campus I called the Key,” I say with my chin raised.
Which is when I realize that’s probably why the Chancellor wanted to keep it secret. Would he have killed me if Grayson hadn’t stepped in? Because having a Laborer call the Key during her exam doesn’t exactly follow the rules.
I turn to Grayson. “Please wait downstairs.”
Grayson startles. “Excuse me?”
“Wait downstairs,” I say more definitively. “Now.”
And to his credit, he stands and leaves.
I look the cobbler in the eye. “Now you can tell me whatever it is you don’t want to say in front of him.”
The cobbler considers me for so long that I wonder if I read this all wrong. But then he shakes his head, mumbles something about going soft, and walks off into his bedroom.
He returns holding a small box. “Brachan didn’t put all his poetry in books,” the cobbler says, taking a seat. “He had a good few journals, I’m told, most of them lost to time. But there was one journal remaining, with a draft of the poem yer looking for in it.”
My heart leaps with hope, but before I can ask, the cobbler says, “That Stone boy’s uncle confiscated it some years ago.”
Grayson’s uncle confiscated the journal?
The cobbler slides the little box toward me. “But those Guardian louts missed something. Despite their nasty stealing spells, they missed the original. Because that poem wasn’t written on paper.” He opens the box. “It was written on a piece of his father’s shoe leather.”
I sit very still, afraid that if I make any sudden movements the cobbler might change his mind.
He pulls out the thin piece of leather and lays it on the table. “See for yerself.”
I lean forward, pushing my braid over my shoulder and staring at the beautifully curved handwriting.
The Key
The key, they say, is sentient wood,
For centuries, the hidden arch has stood,
It only appears when it so desires.
Through connection and the heart’s true fires.
Part I: The Heart of Courage
This wielder’s might resides within,
A noble spirit, pure and keen.
Their heart, the wellspring of their power,
In love and truth, they build their tower.
And that’s where it ends. I read the poem ten times. More, really, until I can recite it from memory.
“Where’s part two?” I ask when I’m finished.
He merely shrugs. “Never seen it.”
“But, how can there be a part one and not a part two?” I ask.
“You and yer questions…,” he says in a huff.
“Conri Brachan died a hundred years ago and I never spoke to him in my life. Maybe he never wrote it. Maybe he did write it and ate it after he got pissed in a pub. Or maybe he gave it to his lover, that Moore fellow he was always waxing on about. How am I supposed to know?”
The cobbler takes the poem and places it back in the small box. “Now show yerself back downstairs. You’ve outstayed your welcome.”
I smile at the old man. “Thank you,” I say. “From the bottom of my heart.”
He waves his hand at me, but I swear his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. “Go on with ya.”