Chapter Sixteen
Alora had vowed long ago to avoid any and all distraction. Yet, she’d never had more to contend with than now. It was the following evening, and the third outfit she’d tried on, when she remembered:
“Brother!”
Mrs. Flops, alarmed, thumped furiously and bounded from the room.
William and the Urchin, brothers? They were different in build, it was true, but similar in height, and while one’s eyes were dark and the other’s light, that didn't mean anything.
They both worked for Master Merridan, for one.
Did that make William an Urchin as well? He was certainly devious enough for it.
Oh, what a mess! She’d half a mind to appear at the mansion tomorrow, imagine the room to completion in a moment and be done with the entire thing.
But that wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be honest. Hell, at this point it wouldn’t be wise.
Who knew to what lengths the Urchins spied upon Enver, because they must, especially their leader, who could mimic deep shadows and move about unseen.
She’d have the shop she’d purchased wallpaper from as an alibi, but no one else, and she’d already let slip she was capable of more than simple, good taste.
She turned in the mirror, eyeing the silver dress from every angle.
It was longer than she usually wore, flowing below her knee, the corset bodice free of straps.
The hem’s stitched flower stems twinkled in the lamplight.
This will do, she thought, and began the quick process of twisting the hair from her face.
The rest she left long and draping down her back.
She fixed gems in her ears and red to her lips. She puckered them in the mirror and frowned immediately after. Maybe she’d made a mistake. Maybe she should cancel—
The knock on her door told her that line of thinking had come far too late.
Alora slipped on her shoes, blue, with a thin strap slid over her heel, and hurried from the bedroom.
“Hello,” she said, only a little breathless.
The stable hand grinned in reply. “Hello.”
Alora didn’t find Timothy Lofte near as beautiful as Bash nor as mysterious as the Urchin nor as devious as William—all of which made him ideal.
A fine dinner date. And if she used the situation to learn more of what the ‘young people’ of Enver gossiped about in regard to the Urchins and their dealings, it would take a fine date and elevate it to perfect.
Or so she told herself.
She also told herself she wasn’t using him. That Timothy must offer saucy winks to more than just her, and likely with good results—he was handsome. And a date was a date. Good grief, she didn’t agree to marry the boy.
“You’re right on time,” said Alora, and smiled her perfected smile.
“Always. You look beautiful; are you ready?”
He sounded so damned sincere. So nice. A part of her cringed away, withering.
Oh no. Perhaps she was using him. His hair was the color of golden sand, thick with waves that continuously desired to flop over one umber-colored eye.
She felt no wish to push it back in place—a fact she noted with dismay, as she frequently fought the urge to rifle her hands through Bash’s ink-dark hair like some unfettered breeze.
“Thank you, and I am ready. Did you choose a place then?” She traded her satchel for a small purse, snapping it closed over lipstick and her key.
He stepped back to allow her through. “I thought Delight and Truffle. Have you been before?”
“I’ve passed it by, I think. On Foxglove Lane?” She led them down the stairs.
“The same. It’s quiet but not overly, and the sauces are some of the best I’ve had in the country. The service is unmatched. Also, they use barrels of Wilderwood for their aged whiskey, and serve it in these small—”
Alora tried to listen, for she wasn’t often purposefully rude, but despite her best effort, her attention wandered.
She’d the distinct impression Mr. Lofte went on many first dates without making time for many seconds, and Delight and Truffle would recognize him on sight.
Not to mention the golden cloak now returned to her closet, the need for her to rearrange her entire bedroom after waking to ten wall-length mirrors imagined to existence then shattered, William’s hands on her, Bash’s hands on her, the Urchin’s voice behind the mask demanding, “Spread your legs”—
“—your cart returning this morning. Miss Merryweather parked it in its usual—” Timothy startled and glanced at his forearm where Alora gripped it like a falcon.
“My cart is returned?”
He frowned beneath the flop of his hair. “Should it not have been?”
At his obvious discomfort, Alora released him at once. “Yes. Yes, it should have been. I’m only pleasantly surprised; the person I’d asked to return it isn’t exactly…”
“Pleasantly surprised?” interjected Timothy between the break of her thoughts. He rubbed at his arm, and Alora knew in that instant, she’d not be asked out a second time, even if she wished it.
They arrived at Delight and Truffle without further incident if not relative silence. It wasn’t until the door was opened and the hostess seated them—after a familiar smile for Mr. Lofte—that Alora attempted to salvage what she could.
“Tell me more of this whiskey. I’ll admit I’m a complete novice in terms of its process, but I’d like to try some.”
Timothy, in a surprisingly forgiving turn, smiled hugely at her. “Would you, really? So it begins with—”
As she was prone to do, Alora took notice of the room.
Square and dimly lit, it was quiet despite more than half the tables being occupied, and it smelled of wood, liquor, and roasted meat.
At the back were barrels, stacked on their sides and stamped, a barman picking his way amongst them, and to the side was a fireplace with cushioned seating before it.
A single person sat there, a glass in his hand and eyes trained on the flames.
When their server approached, uniform starched and impeccably white, Alora inclined her head at Timothy’s order for two house whiskeys, served neat. When he went away, Timothy returned his attention to her, and like that day in the stable, winked boldly.
It did not do to her what Bash’s had done.
“We will see what you make of it,” he said, as if knowing what her opinion would be.
Alora pasted a smile to her lips but said nothing else of it. Instead, she asked, “What do you do when you’re not occupied in the stables, Mister Lofte?”
“No, Mister Lofte, please. Makes me feel like we’re conducting a business meeting instead of getting to know one another.
” When Alora only smiled her agreement, he continued, “I do this, mostly. Not dates! Well, not always. But I explore local pubs and distilleries, cataloguing which I like best and why. It’s good fun. ”
Alora, preferring the taste of flowers and grapes over wheat and barley, said, “How invigorating. Perhaps you will start your own one day.”
“What a thought!” said Timothy, beaming like it was a good one. “But this is too competitive of a market for the likes of me. I’ve not got any special talent to speak of.”
The whiskeys arrived on a curved, wooden platter, the glasses heavy crystal.
Timothy offered one to her first before taking the other for himself.
He sniffed it deeply, sighing. Alora studied him, at how he fit.
Her gaze drifted above him, to the carved beams beneath the ceiling, and below, to the legs of the table chiseled until they resembled living trees with leaves and roots and textured bark.
She glanced at the fireplace, empty of admirers now.
“It isn’t always about the product, though that is important, and I’m sure you’d do a fine job.
But the ambiance as well. Everything in this room works toward its purpose.
I’m sure you could replicate it while still maintaining originality.
” When Timothy only stared at her, bemused with a touch of humor, she asked, “What?”
“Did you grow up here?”
Alora felt her face warm. Through no fault of the whiskey, which she hadn’t yet touched. “No. Did you?”
“I did. And while I appreciate your faith in me—like it a great deal, in fact—Enver isn’t like anywhere else.
Wilderwood trees didn’t even exist until the great-grandfather of the current owner grew them from Indigo Mountain stream stones in his greenhouse.
To this day, none but his descendants have access to the grove outside of town.
Myrtle Merryweather is my aunt. She can soothe anything that grazes.
If I’ve got anything in me, it’s a touch of that, nothing more.
I tried to brew my own ale awhile back and it tasted like pasture and piss.
Excuse my language. Maybe in most places hard work can get you by, but in Enver, if you can’t add a touch of enchantment, you might as well give up before you’ve begun. ”
Alora wasn’t sure what to say. How could she say anything to that? She couldn’t imagine possessing an affinity for something she held no passion for, and now she felt like a dolt for bringing it up to begin with. This was why she avoided dates; she was not good at them.
She swallowed a sip of whiskey and tried not to let the distaste show plainly on her face.
If he described his own ale so poorly, she didn’t want to imagine how terribly it had tasted.
The liquor burned a bitter trail down her throat.
“I suppose there is still much I’ve yet to learn about the way of everything. ”
“It’s a lot for any outsider, pardon my use of the word. It’s why most are visitors. Or traders. That way they can leave when their minds grow too overwhelmed, returning to the classic ‘normal’. But you’ve been here for some time now.”
Alora recognized the leading statement for what it was and side-stepped it gracefully.
“Two years. I will say I’ve become used to the surprising, but I wasn’t anticipating the shocking.
” Timothy continued to watch her openly, his whiskey nearly finished.
Emboldened, she leaned forward, her voice dropping.
“I recently learned of a gang underfoot.”
Her date, having waved for a second tumbler, pushed the piece of obstinate hair from his eye. “Ah, you mean the Urchins.”
Alora’s lungs squeezed. “Yes, that’s the name! What a dreadful business. I’m appalled nothing is being done.” The next sip she took of the whiskey was fake.
Timothy polished off what remained in his as the second was delivered, and with it, a cart was wheeled. The server lifted the lids from the trays in a practiced flourish.
“Your choices this evening,” the server said, and looked to Alora first.
The meats were piled high and the vegetables steaming.
The cheeses were as plentiful as they were diverse, and the renowned sauces bubbled in their boats.
She made her choices quickly and without much thought.
Timothy spent more time deciding, enough that Alora had to physically place a hand on her knee so she would not tap her foot.
When the server left them at last, he took to sampling each thing in turn.
“I’m sorry, what were we speaking of?”
“I’m shocked nothing is being done about the Urchins,” rushed Alora.
“Oh.” Another swallow of whiskey. “Well, they tried. Before. Now they don’t bother with it anymore.”
“How can that be? How can attacks go unpunished?”
Timothy’s cheeks were flushed, having nearly finished his second pour, and his eyes were bright.
“They’ve never been caught, for one. Some say it’s like laying a trap for a ghost. Or the wind.
Rumor is nearly all the less savory trading is overseen by them, the darker side of Enver’s enchantment.
That they usher in all manner of cursed and monstrous things from the forgotten corners of the world. ”
Alora could think of one street where such dealings would happen.
In fact, she could think of one shop in particular.
It felt hard to swallow. No, surely not.
She said mostly to herself, “And anyone who speaks out is silenced.”
Timothy shrugged, bold in his drink. “Depends on what you say. I can say they’re filthy criminals, cowards hiding in the dark, and nothing will probably happen. But see something you shouldn’t”—he pressed a finger to the side of his nose—“heaven help you. Because no one else will.”