Chapter 5 Silva #3
She was meant to be at home, sulking in corners and eating cereal for dinner until her husband’s return home forced the return of her false smile, but instead, she had contrived to be here, had puffed and pouted until she’d won, and now this — this was the result.
And this is why you should always get your way.
“Welcome.”
The man’s voice was flat. His eyes never raised from the laptop he hunched over on the crowded countertop, his entire comportment anything but welcoming.
He appeared human to her eyes, with a mushroom cloud of dark, tightly coiled hair and heavy black frames sliding down his nose, never sparing her a glance as a small bell announced her arrival in the shop.
Silva sniffed. Rude.
She took advantage of his inattention to familiarize herself with the contents of the sales floor, carefully making her way around the front aisle.
Calling it an aisle was generous. There was product stacked everywhere, on tables, bookcases, and on the floor itself.
There was a curious assortment of both old and new, genuine antiques mixed in amongst pieces she could tell were mass-produced items, painted to look like antiques.
It was both a flea market and an oddity shop, vaguely reminding her of the odd little tearoom in Cambric Creek, with only half as much charm.
There was so much stuff that the man behind the counter was completely hidden from view.
Silva continued edging around the perimeter, examining the over-laden collection with no real interest, straightening up a bit when the man behind the counter once more entered her line of sight.
He’d still not looked away from his laptop, oblivious to her entirely.
You can wander in circles all day, or you can ask for help and get out of here faster. The decision had served her well enough in obtaining the key, and there was no reason to think it would not be just as usefully applied here.
The man’s head still didn’t lift as she arrived before the counter at last, straightening her spine, frowning when she was ignored. Silva cleared her throat.
“What can I help you with?” His voice was spoken to the screen, eyes never rising.
Whatever. Rude humans. That should be expected. She cleared her throat again primly. “I’m looking for something specific.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that. You planning on sharing what that is, or . . .?”
Her nostrils flared, hands balling into fists at her sides. Fucking asshole. She didn’t approve of such coarse language normally, but there was no way around what this man was.
“I’m looking for a lock. Or . . . or a door. One that needs to be unlocked to enter.”
“There’s a locksmith at the back of the hardware store, three shops down on the left. We don’t have anything like that here.”
Silva closed her eyes, pushing her tongue into the roof of her mouth, huffing as she did so. Beneath her ribs, a furious little pummel of wings, as if her silent passenger was just as incensed. It’s fine. We’re fine. She breathed in slowly. Remember the lingo. You know how to ask for this.
“I’m looking for a doorway,” she began again slowly. “One that grants passage.”
At that, the man’s eyes raised at last.
Not human, she realized. Everything about him appeared completely ordinary, a common face she’d not look at twice, but his eyes . . . his eyes were sapphire blue, bright and jewel-toned, with a feline pupil. On the keyboard, his fingers twitched.
“Passage to what?” he asked, his voice disinterested, but it was too late. He shouldn’t have looked up with such celerity if he wanted to continue holding his cards close.
She was back in that dim little speakeasy, perched on his knee, keeping her cards close to her chest as he whispered against the shell of her ear.
Watch the way they hold their eyes, dove.
That’ll tell you what’s in their hand surer than if they flash you the cards.
She could almost smell him there beside her, could almost feel the span of his long fingers against her hip, holding her steady.
Her little wing fluttered. Silva gave the cat-eyed man a tight smile, knowing she’d already won.
“Passage through a door that’s tired of being locked.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. Silva refused to blink, lest she miss another small tell.
“Well, for that,” he began just as slowly, pushing off his elbows at last, straightening with a grimace, “you would need a key. A locked door isn’t going to open just because you ask nicely.”
“The key isn’t what I’m looking for—”
“But the key is what you need,” he interrupted, pulling a leather-bound book from beneath the counter, flipping the ledger open.
“The door is irrelevant without the key. The door isn’t important.
Now, if you’re interested in a key first, we can set up an account.
Our procurement rate is extremely impressive, and I’ve no doubt we’ll be able to locate something for you in—”
“How is the door irrelevant?” It was her turn to interrupt, his dismissiveness making her bristle. “The door needs to be opened with a key, but the key is worthless without something to open, isn’t it? One is just as important as the other! And I’m not looking for a key; I’m looking for a door.”
The man rolled his eyes, his turn to sigh at her. Silva glowered, attempting to look as ferocious as she could, fully knowing she was only as ferocious as a wet kitten on her most terrifying days.
“Look . . . the door,” he began, huffing again with a shake of his head, as if she were too stupid to even contemplate.
“There are lots of doors, okay? The doors aren’t important.
Anything can be a door. It has to be the right door, granted, but they’re not in short supply.
Keys, on the other hand . . . keys are exceptionally rarer.
Much harder to come by. Even harder to hold.
You either need a key, of which there are not many, or like, access to a Wisp, and they’re not exactly throwing keggers, if you know what I mean.
Setting up an account with us is the wisest choice if you’re a true collector. ”
Silva wanted to scream.
“What the fuck is a Wisp?!” She knew she was splotched purple, blood pounding at her temples. Her grandmother would have needed smelling salts to recover from the shock and horror of her precious, perfect Silva cursing in public, but she was too far gone to care.
Behind the counter, the man’s head dropped forward, shoulders bouncing as he chuckled.
He’s laughing at you. Silva seethed. She wished, not for the first time, that elves were still regarded as the vicious predators they’d once been, capable of reducing their enemies to bloody pulp.
“Look,” he began again, his voice considerably gentler.
“You seem like a nice elf lady. Little bit of a Karen,” he added, leaning on the glass countertop on his knuckles, “but nice enough. My advice? Forget about this. This is not the kind of shit you want to get mixed up in. Just, go back to your little elf village or whatever, and forget about whatever put this into your head.”
She hated being an angry crier. Her emotions all lived too close to the surface these days, her hands tightening at her sides again when the man turned away from her tears.
“I already have a key,” she bit out through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, I very much doubt that.” His voice was flat again, his attention already pulled by something on the clipboard behind the counter.
She was out of politeness, out of subtlety. Sometimes one needed to show their hand, she thought. The massé was a flashier shot than one needed in a hustle, but it would get the job done.
“Winter’s Bone.”
When the man turned, his eyes had changed. Narrow slits, a feline watching her from a distance, disinterested no longer.
“Pye, I’m clocked out.” A beautiful young woman erupted from an unseen doorway. Sylvan, her dark brown skin making the gold markings on her forehead glow. “I’m grabbing lunch across the street; you want anything?”
The man shook his head silently, holding Silva’s eye. It was his turn not to blink.
“I’m good. Just lock the door, please.”
At that, the young woman hesitated, shrugging when the man nodded again. Silva heard the door being pulled shut behind her, and then the shop was silent.
“And how did you come to acquire such a thing?” he asked her after a moment, as if they’d not been interrupted. His voice had changed as well. Deeper, slower, with a magnetic pull that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re assuming or implying.”
He spread his hands wide, a gesture of innocence.
“I’m just wondering what a nice Karen elf lady is doing with an extremely rare and valuable bit of ephemera she clearly doesn’t understand.
Illegal, too. Did I mention that? An extremely illegal, rare and valuable bit of ephemera.
That’s all. Because if you have the key, the door is inconsequential.
Pick one. Or don’t; I wouldn’t if I were you.
If your words are true, what you possess is not a toy.
It’s not going to take you to some trading outpost. Winter’s Bone .
. . that’s a front row seat. But the hard part is done. On this side, at least.”
Tears of anger were replaced by tears of frustration.
“What door?” Silva choked out again. “How am I supposed to open what I don’t know how to find?” This was hopeless. You’re not a warrior. You cry if you get a paper cut and throw tantrums when you don’t get your way. This is too big for you.
The man sighed again, once more leaning forward on the countertop.