Chapter Five #2
Out of the corner of her eye, Aoife saw the black lines on the piece of paper shift and twist. “You’re welcome” disappeared, replaced with “No.” And then the words, “I gave them to you.” Aoife glanced behind her, feeling like someone was watching her.
No one, not even the Shadows, seemed to notice her.
“Are you talking to me?” she whispered to the paper.
The word “Yes” formed on the white scrap. Aoife’s heart skipped then thudded in double time.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The one who brought you here, the paper responded.
“The Gates?”
Obviously.
Somebody was feeling cheeky.
“How did you bring me here?”
I believe your culture calls it “magic.”
“Why did that lady call me Aoife Donmaire?”
I made a place for you in this world. That is your name.
“Did I take somebody else’s body?”
Don’t be daft. I brought you here, body and all.
Aoife leaned closer to the paper, as if the Gates, the paper, whoever she was talking to, might not be able to hear her. “Why? Why did you bring me here?”
To bring you to him.
“You mean that bartender? He told me to get out.”
No response.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Trust yourself.
“What does that mea—”
“Meat pie.”
Aoife jumped at the waitress’ voice. The waitress placed a savoury pie topped with a flaky pastry on the table. Aoife’s stomach growled. How long had it been since she’d eaten? “And a key for room five.” The waitress held out a metal key. “Just down the hallway there.”
When Aoife reached for the key, she saw a flutter in her periphery. She looked to the table. The paper was gone.
“You need anything else?” The waitress’ smile was warm, her previous suspicions about Aoife gone.
She did, in fact, need something else. Aoife needed to resolve her research questions.
Or, at least, she needed to start trying.
She hadn’t managed a single interview in the Knitting Widow.
Mum would have chastised her out the window for that failure.
“I’ve gotten a little lost,” Aoife said with an apologetic smile.
The waitress laughed. “I noticed.”
“Can I ask a few questions?”
“Shoot.” The waitress’ eyes gleamed, resting a hand on her hip.
Notes. Aoife needed to take notes. She patted at her pockets, searching for a pen, a piece of paper, or god forbid, a phone. None were to be found.
“You okay?” the waitress said, watching Aoife with hesitation.
“Sorry, I … thought I had a pen and paper.”
“What’s a pen and paper?”
Aoife paused. It was hard to tell exactly what time period this was supposed to be. Not that it would have mattered if she had known. Aoife was no historian.
“Something to write with, and something to write on, I mean,” Aoife said. Again, with an apologetic smile. Hopefully that would get her some lost puppy sympathy points.
“You mean quill and parchment?” the waitress said, the proverbial light bulb seeming to go off in her head. “We have spare parchment, hold that thought.”
She went away for a minute, returning with a small, rough piece of a parchment in one hand and a stubble of coal in the other. “No spare quill and ink, I’m afraid. But I use the charcoal half the time, works just as well.”
Aoife thanked the waitress, her fingers blackening almost instantly as she held the charcoal in her right hand. “So … where I am?”
The waitress laughed. It had a harp-like quality to it.
Soothing and joyous. “You’re in the hospitality district, in the Emperor’s City.
You do know you’re in the Emperor’s City, I hope?
” The waitress stepped in closer. “If you just got here, you probably haven’t heard about the stable boy.
Everyone’s talking about it. He and the new maid were getting lustful in the stable.
” The waitress glanced at someone entering the inn.
“Did her father find out?” Aoife laughed, drawing her attention back. A tale as old as time.
The waitress hesitated, her brows knitting together. “I assume her father knows she worships the God’s lust form from time to time. Doesn’t everybody do that?” The waitress looked at Aoife as if genuinely concerned for her lust life.
Worshipping the God’s lust form. Wasn’t that how the bartender had referred to their passion?
As worship? Maybe this society wasn’t particularly prudish, at least so long as sex was happening in the name of their God.
Aoife flushed at the red-hot memory of the bartender.
She pressed the charcoal to the parchment, jotting down the words “Emperor’s City,” “the God,” and “lust form” to try and douse the fire building inside her.
“Anyway,” the waitress continued. “There in the stable was a black diamond. Just sitting there. Can you believe it? That lucky bastard is halfway to being a Lord now.” The waitress leaned in. “You don’t have any spare black diamonds lying around do you? I sure would love to be a Lady.”
Aoife laughed and so did the waitress. “Afraid not.”
In another life, Aoife could see them being friends. A little like her and Eimear. Aoife warmed at the thought, but then the ruthlessness of reality rushed back into her. She wasn’t here to make friends. She needed to find out about this world. And, quite possibly, get the hell out of it.
Aoife jotted down a few notes about nobility.
There were Lords and Ladies, and presumably an emperor if there was an “Emperor’s City.
” Although, she supposed that could have just been a historical title.
She’d try to find out. Was money all it took to ascend to the position of Lord or did a person need prestigious blood, too?
Where did Aoife fall in the nobility line?
The Gates had said they’d made a place for her, but how much of one? Did she have a social status?
“Anything else, hun?” The waitress said, glancing at two people coming in the door.
Yes. There were far too many questions, but which ones were the most important? Another thought came to mind. One that seemed more pressing than the others.
“Somebody,” Aoife said, “mentioned a Halc … a Halk …?” What was that word the bartender had used? That word she really should have asked him about. At least then she would have gotten something useful out of the interaction.
“A Halcin?” the waitress said with something like disgust.
“That’s it!”
“You must really not be from here,” the waitress said. “But you best stay away from those mongrels. Thieving, criminal scum they are. They’ll rob you blind!”
Would they? The bartender could have stolen all her coins and she’d have been none the wiser. But he hadn’t.
“They stole a rare necklace from this friend of mine. They did it right out from under her nose, too! It’s a local joke that those eyes of theirs can see through clothes, stone, anything to find jewels.” The waitress leaned in. “They always seem to know where you’ve hidden your valuables, you see.”
“They sound … charming.”
“Vile is what they are. Stay well away from them.” The waitress glanced over her shoulder again. “Sorry, I’ve got to get to the other customers. Enjoy!”
She left, leaving Aoife alone with her dinner, her notes, and her thoughts.
There was so much to learn, so much she didn’t know.
But all she could think about was that Halcin.
He may not have stolen her jewels or her coins, but he had stolen her logic.
Her sense. And that was the most valuable thing she had.
~*~
Room number five was almost bigger than a standard broom closet.
It had a mattress stuffed with itchy hay and a candle burned three quarters of the way through for light.
A bucket sat at the foot of the bed, and although Aoife knew what business it was for, she didn’t want to consciously think about it.
Despite the state of the room, Aoife fell asleep immediately.
Travelling across dimensions was exhausting.
When she woke, she realised she had dreamed. Something about a cupcake. She made a mental note of this. It was potential evidence, after all, that this world might be classified as “real.” In a hallucination, or some other non-real state, would she have dreamed and had a full night’s sleep?
Unlikely.
A bang on the door caused Aoife to leap from the mattress. She fell, hitting her forehead on the hard ground as she struggled for freedom from her one, paper-thin blanket.
“Oww,” she mumbled, rubbing her head. It was bad enough she’d had to use that bucket before bed last night. Now she was going to have a massive bruise on her face.
“Miss Donmaire?” a voice said from behind the door.
Aoife struggled to her feet, patting down her frizzy hair. “Yes?”
“Please forgive the intrusion, my Lady.” The voice was enough to give Aoife pause, to make her heart beat a little faster. It sounded like it had been spun of silk.
“May we speak?” the seductive voice said.
“A-about what?”
“A matter of grave importance.”
Grave importance. Aoife wasn’t aware anybody actually used that phrase.
She hoped it wasn’t about the money she’d used to pay for the room.
What if they had been counterfeit coins?
What if the Gates had lied to her? She opened the door, having to jerk it several times because it stuck.
The man on the other side had eyes as blue as an ocean untouched by man, his renaissance-era armour fitting snug to his body in all the right places.
Oh. This was unexpected.
He smiled reassuringly.
“My name is General Aristen Holt,” he said. “I need to ask you about last night.”