Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
O nce again, Joss was avoiding Clio. Not an easy task when all he wished to do was recall that kiss. To wallow in the remembered taste of her, the feel of her, the appeal of her flushed enthusiasm. And if he couldn’t kiss her again, he wanted to make her laugh once more—to see those green eyes shine, her bosom heave, to hear the delicate ring of her laughter—all the sights and sounds of her happiness.
Shards, but he wanted both together. He would kiss her laughing mouth and drink in her enjoyment, her lightness. He would do his damnedest to give it all to her, again and again.
But now that she was sure his bauble had once been her bauble, she was full of questions about it and about his family.
He understood. It was natural. She’d had no connection with her family for a very long time, and now she felt closer than ever to finding out something of them.
Joss had no idea how the bauble had come into his great-uncle’s possession, but he told her about the man. About his cold demeanor and his demands for obedience. About the fear he inspired in his own family. How they cringed at the sound of his footstep, and the ever-present click of his walking stick. He told her about his Great Aunt Judith, who hid in her rooms when she was not out trying to penetrate the fringes of Society. He told her of his uncles Roland and Gunther, who were rough, crude men who lived entirely under their father’s thumb.
He had not yet told her of the family mission. He hadn’t mentioned just what—or who—he and the bauble were supposed to be in search of. Joss didn’t completely understand it, himself. Something had happened, years ago. An incident. One of his uncles had died and another disappeared. Wilmot Hagan had been obsessed with it, with finding the truth of it all, with finding word or sign of his missing son, for as long as Joss had been with the family. It made sense, but there was something else underneath the urgency. Something he’d never understood. An undertone, not of grief, but of avarice. Of longing.
The only things he’d ever known his great-uncle to long for were money, magic or power. He’d often wondered which lay at the heart of the family mystery.
Having connected Clio to it, he was very much afraid he had his answer.
Could it be true? Could she be what he’d been looking for—what they had all been looking for—for so long? Not Wilmot’s lost son, but his unknown granddaughter?
He’d been avoiding even considering such a possibility, and now he fervently hoped he was wrong. She was desperate for a family, but she deserved so much more than anything the Hagans could give her. And that was the crux of it. They would give nothing. They would only take.
Joss knew firsthand the treatment the Hagans inflicted upon everyone not part of their small inner circle. He knew the pain and the doubt it brought. Knew the horror of wondering if you could trust your own instincts and senses.
Fortunately, he’d had a strong sense of himself, the awareness of his own strengths and weaknesses that had been imparted on him by his parents. They had been good people. People of character who insisted their children should be as well. He’d been so heartbroken when he arrived in England, he’d been an easy target, but eventually, he’d been able to see past the manipulations of his new family, to disengage his emotions and set up the walls that he’d needed to protect himself.
Would Clio be able to do the same? He wished he could hide her away from them altogether. She would be better off. But it wouldn’t be fair. She longed for a deeper feeling of attachment she thought a family could bring. Somehow there was a level of belonging or acceptance she was missing.
He would have to reveal her possible connection to the Hagans eventually. But he could not quell the notion that she would fare better if he could help her bolster and deepen the connections she already had.
“Here you are, then.”
Joss looked up to see Clio approaching along the curved path. The Night Market had arrived in a field in the hills above Bath this morning. Thank goodness. He counted the city among his favorites. After a long, busy day, he’d asked Droose if he could slip away and he’d come down to this spot on the bank of the Avon, just beyond the Pulteney Bridge and the weir below it.
“And here you are.” Closing the journal in his lap, he raised a brow. “I realized that Promethean was right, you know. You don’t often venture beyond the confines of the Market.”
“Is that why you are here? Because you thought I wouldn’t come after you?”
He looked out over the water. “It’s one of my favorite spots.” He nodded toward the bauble, racing in and out of the spray from the falling water.
“May I?” She indicated the empty space beside him on the bench.
He shrugged and she sat. “The boy was right,” she said after a moment. “I do tend to stick close to the market.” She drew a deep breath. “There are times when too much magic builds up inside me. It bubbles out and makes an escape occasionally, often in strange and unexpected ways.”
He thought about it. “And the people in the market are less likely to be alarmed by something . . . unexpected?”
“That’s part of it.”
He nodded. Silence stretched out between them for a while.
Joss had come to this area first when his great-uncle had sent him and the bauble out on their search. Finn Hagan, the uncle who had disappeared, had a close friend who lived outside of Bath. Joss had come asking questions, but his uncle’s friend had not been forthcoming with answers. The pair of them had sat in this very spot, and Stuart Forth had instead urged Joss to abandon the quest. He’d told him to quit pursuing the Hagan family demons. His wisest course, Stuart had counseled, would be to avoid the Hagans altogether and to find his own purpose in life.
That was when Joss had started his journal, started his collection, and began his real travels.
Now, though, he had a new batch of questions. He’d sent them to the man in a letter this morning. He would like to have answers to them before he told Clio the rest of the story.
“This is a good thinking spot,” she said at last.
He nodded again.
“So, what are you thinking?”
About kissing you again. About touching your skin. About how you are always a little shocked but also a little delighted when I answer your questions with a bit of sass. About how you always give a bit of sass right back.
He couldn’t say any of it. “Droose heard from Karl. He is still not able to stand on his leg. But I know it will only be a few weeks before he is back.”
Her gaze fell away.
“I was thinking, perhaps you would do me a favor?”
She waited, expectant.
“I would like your help in getting to know the market folk a little better. I’d like to see their stalls, their products. Learn about their passions and interests and their specialty magic.”
She glanced toward the journal in his lap. “For your records?”
“That’s part of it.” He waited a beat. “Would you help?”
Interest bloomed in her expression. “I would love to.”
Clio embraced the idea of introducing Joss more thoroughly to the people of the Night Market. It gave her an excuse to spend time with him, but not alone. She couldn’t help the rapid beat of her heart or the catch of her breath when he came near, but she could slow down this . . . whatever was building between them. Slow it down without abandoning it.
Because she had other things to consider, too, now that they knew that it was her father’s bauble that had ended up in his family’s possession. He swore he didn’t know how it had happened, and she believed him. He said he’d sent a letter, hoping for answers. She would wait, then. And in the meantime, she would let him become a little more entangled in her world.
Droose was as enthusiastic about the idea as she was. It made Clio feel a little better that she was not the only one secretly hoping to entice him to stay. The baker made up a tray of biscuits for them to take along on their first interview. “It’s always better to arrive with a gift,” she said wisely.
Clio chose Jarby as their first. Partly because he already liked Joss, and also because the old glassblower never failed to make her feel comfortable. It proved a wise choice, as Jarby proved to be happy to talk about and show off his clever pipe.
“Passed down in my family,” he told Joss with a glance toward the bauble, which hovered nearby, seemingly as interested as Joss clearly was. “Handed down through the generations, with each adding a trick, a skill, a new design element. My own father added the special blow that creates those ribbon effects.” He gestured toward a shelf of vases with a flared, curved construction.
Clio watched Joss carefully taking notes and drawing a detailed rendition of the pipe. He asked Jarby if they could step outside so he could sketch him at work. Jarby agreed. It was early yet, and the market was slow. As usual, both vendors and a few shoppers gathered to see Jarby’s creation grow. Even Athena swooped in to watch.
“What was your addition to the pipe?” Joss asked, his fingers flying over his journal.
Jarby grinned. “It’s the technique of adding the stripes of texture and color to the glass.” He cocked his head toward Clio. “But you could ask that one about it, as soon as ask me. It were her idea.”
“Was it?” Joss asked, regarding her with interest.
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, feeling the eyes of the other vendors on her.
“Perhaps not an idea, then, but more of a nag,” Jarby agreed between puffs.
“A nag?” Joss’s eyebrows raised.
“I was just a little girl,” she protested.
“Aye, and persistent.” Jarby grinned at Joss. “The Market spent a few days in Northumberland and we saw the Northern Lights dancing in the sky over several nights. Wee Miss Clio insisted I make a vase that captured the waves of color.”
“And you managed it,” she said lightly.
“Aye, and your next demand, too—the light coming through a canopy of leaves. And the next—do you remember?”
“The light on the water,” she said sheepishly.
“All solid ideas,” Jarby said gruffly. “They made for interesting and pretty embellishments. Elements I’ve since used many times.”
Joss frowned. “I remember the first time I saw you make a vase—the stripes on it—I was put in mind of sun-dappled leaves. I thought then that it must be a complicated spell to craft something like that.”
One of the other vendors—the older man who sold potion ingredients, snorted. “Old Jarby knows complicated spells, he does.”
“Oh, hush,” ordered Jarby.
“Don’t be hidin’ yer light under a bushel, Jarby,” the man countered. “What with the increase of thugs hanging about, it might do us all a bit of good, did folks know you used to be a champion in the dueling pits.”
Clio gasped. The dueling pits? It was a common name for an underground league of magical duels. Technically illegal in witching communities, it thrived on secrecy and whispered tales of dark magic and crowds who came to gamble and marvel over strange and powerful spells. And Jarby took part in it?
Muttering broke out amongst the vendors, and Clio saw Joss watching the glassblower with interest.
Croy, the cobbler who sold everything from riding boots to dancing shoes from his stall, stepped forward. “I should say Miss Clio already handles any difficulties with ease.” He grinned at her. “But Jarby is right about one thing. You were full of inspiration for many of us, when you were just a little girl.”
Croy looked around. “Do you remember, those of you who have been with the Market the longest, when she came to us, we could scarcely get wee Clio to wear shoes? She was the reason I worked so hard to perfect the spell that makes my boots feel nearly weightless.”
Clio blinked. “I didn’t remember that.”
“Well, I never forgot.” Croy studied her. “It helped make my name and reputation.” He cocked his head. “It’s been a while since you shared your thoughts and ideas with us, Miss Clio.”
She realized it was true. When had she stopped being so comfortable with her friends? It had come on gradually, she realized, as she took over more responsibilities from Maret. Not everyone had been thrilled to have someone so young at the reins. She definitely had taken a step back after the incident with the mermaid. But now she wondered if she’d given too much weight to those who disapproved or acted fearful.
“I think we should get back to sharing ideas,” Croy said. “Among other things.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I would like that.”
A crowd of excited, chattering customers turned the corner then and the vendors all scattered back to their tents and stalls. Jarby’s assistant took the new platter away as the glassblower looked over Joss’s drawing.
“What will you do with all of your collected stories and knowledge?” Jarby asked. He seemed eager enough to turn the conversation away from his past. “Do you think to publish a book?”
“I’ve considered it,” Joss admitted. “Would you mind being included?”
Jarby flushed a little but shook his head. “Nay, I wouldn’t mind. Be good for business, wouldn’t it?”
“Speaking of business . . .” Joss nodded toward a couple inspecting a shelf of goblets. “Thank you for indulging me.”
Jarby nodded as he moved off, but Clio caught the musing look he cast her way. She wondered what it meant.
“I’d better head back to help Droose,” Joss said.
“Yes. I need to order some supplies for the cook tent.”
Joss’s icy blue eyes held hers for a long moment—long enough to start a flutter in her belly. Their connection heated, and Clio’s breathing started to go shallow.
“We have another interview tomorrow, do we not?” he asked softly.
“Two.” She nodded. It took her a moment to realize she was still nodding. She had to break her gaze away to stop.
“Good.”
Clio turned back in time to see the expression in his eyes shift from hot and interested to . . . smug. And as he walked away, she was left wondering, again, just what it all meant.