Chapter Seven
SEVEN
Dry red maple leaves crunched noisily underfoot as Vesper ambled along the border of Basalton City Park.
She focused on that sound and the sharp smell of pine needles in the air.
Fifteen minutes had passed since she’d left the museum grounds, but try as she might, she couldn’t block out the memory of Mr. Kite, the absurdity of his proposition.
The longer she thought about it, the more annoyed she became.
Of course someone like him would try to buy his innocence.
Really the only surprising thing was that he’d thought she’d actually go along with it. Vesper shook her head.
It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. You got your notebook back, and you’ve declined the offer. It’s done. With any luck, you’ll never see that sorcerer again.
By the time she’d returned to Pierce Street, her mood was much improved.
She relaxed slightly as the Globe’s office came into view.
The Quander Building was the oldest on this block.
Its once-red bricks would have benefited from a good scrub, and the wild honeysuckle vines climbing up its front were in desperate need of pruning.
Vesper didn’t mind. The Basalton Globe was more than just her employer; for eleven years, it had been her home.
She’d just reached the front stoop when its double doors swung open.
Vesper jumped out of the way. A well-dressed, olive-skinned man she’d never seen before was leaving, and if he realized that he’d nearly knocked her into the street, he didn’t take much notice as he adjusted his brown bowler hat and round spectacles. Vesper hesitated.
“Uh … good afternoon?”
“Afternoon,” the man said curtly. He didn’t so much as look at her as he shouldered past. Vesper stared at his retreating back a beat longer, then headed inside.
A blended scent of paper, ink, and coffee filled her nose as soon as she entered the foyer. Nell, their receptionist, wasn’t behind her desk, and it was oddly quiet for midday. She passed through a second set of doors, then stopped.
The Basalton Globe’s staff was small, comprised of only five people counting herself. Three of those five people were standing in the middle of the newsroom, a shared look of worry on each of their faces.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“A man was just here.” Rory, their delivery girl, spoke first. She was tall for eleven, with a light brown complexion and dark hair. At present, she was tugging nervously on one of her braids. “He came to speak to Tom.”
Vesper thought of the man she’d just seen leave. “What did he want?”
“We don’t know.” Nell spoke next. She was a slight, middle-aged woman with graying hair and pale, freckled skin. Worry lines creased the corners of her eyes. “He wouldn’t even look at us.”
“He only spoke to Tom,” Ronaldo added. He’d been using a handkerchief to clean the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses, but set them on a desk as his gaze met Vesper’s, full of concern. “He went into Tom’s office and…”
“They were yelling,” Rory whispered.
Vesper bit her lip. Now she really wished she’d paid more attention to the man from earlier. She took a deep breath before addressing the group. “Has anyone talked to Tom yet?”
“No,” said Ronaldo. “We all … well, none of us really…”
“It’s all right,” said Vesper gently. “I’ll find out what’s going on, then I’ll report back.”
The relief on all three of their faces was instant.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” said Nell.
Vesper offered a small smile as she set her satchel on her desk, then headed for the door at the back of the newsroom.
It was paned with frosted glass, and the words EDITOR-IN-CHIEF were emblazoned on it in flat gold lettering.
Vesper stopped before it, girding herself, then rapped her knuckles against the polished wood.
“In!” bellowed a deep voice on the other side of the door.
Vesper turned the handle and entered the small windowless room. Stacks of old newspapers lined all four of its oak-paneled walls, and a lingering smell of shoe polish hung thick in the air. Vesper looked around, confused. The office appeared to be unoccupied.
“Tom?”
“Down here!”
A man popped up from behind the wooden desk in the center of the room, looking slightly frazzled.
Vesper resisted the urge to laugh. She’d known her editor for over a decade, but had never gotten used to the fact that he bore an uncanny resemblance to a walrus.
He was a large, stocky man with a dark brown complexion like hers and a graying bottlebrush mustache that stuck out in all directions.
As though he could read her thoughts, he gave Vesper a dour look as he resettled in his chair.
“Evans.” He gestured, and she took a seat in a chair opposite his desk. “I wondered where you went this morning,” he said without preamble. “You’re usually the first one in the office on Saturdays. How’s the exhibition piece going?”
Vesper fidgeted in her seat. Tom must not have heard about Mr. Gladwell’s murder yet. He was still expecting her original assignment, and she hadn’t quite worked out how to tell him that it wasn’t ready yet.
“I had to run a quick errand this morning,” she said, “but I’ll have it ready soon.”
Tom made a noncommittal sound as he leafed through a stack of papers.
“I saw a man leaving as I came in,” she said casually. “Seemed to be in a rush, was he important?”
“Nothing to worry about.” Tom looked up from the papers. “Did we order more coffee for the break room?” he asked. “I’ve had it on my mind to order more from Guillermo, but I keep forgetting.”
Vesper paused. It wasn’t like her editor to be evasive. She waited until he’d finished with the papers before she spoke again, this time more directly.
“Tom, who was that man? Everyone’s worried. Apparently they heard the two of you shouting before he left.”
Tom finally looked up. Her editor looked more tired than she’d ever seen him before. He sighed. “The man’s name is William Burbank,” he began. “He’s our new landlord.”
Vesper frowned. “What did he want?”
Tom folded his hands on the desk. “He came to introduce himself, then notified me that, effective immediately, this building’s monthly rent has gone up, from four thousand gild to five thousand.”
Vesper nodded. “We can pay that, right?”
Tom didn’t meet her eye. “I’m not sure we can.”
Vesper tilted her head. “I don’t understand. I know subscriptions have been down, and a few advertisers haven’t renewed, but—”
“Evans.” There was an unusual softness in her editor’s voice, and that scared her most of all. “I’ve never lied to you and I won’t start now. Things are not good. Our expenses are exceeding our revenue. We have bills to pay, but we’re not making enough money.”
Vesper went still. She’d known the Globe had been struggling for the last few months—local newspapers sometimes had slow spells—but she’d had no idea that it was this bad.
“We’re two months late on rent,” Tom went on. “In the past, our old landlord was willing to work with us. Mr. Burbank, however, is not as lenient.”
“Tom.” Vesper’s voice sounded hollow in her ears. “What exactly does that mean for the paper?”
Tom stared at his hands for a long time before he answered.
“We have until December first to come up with the rent for October, November, and December,” he murmured.
“That’s almost fifteen thousand gild in total, plus the bills we need to pay.
If we don’t…” At last, he met Vesper’s gaze.
“We lose the building, and the Globe will have to shut down. We have some time, but…”
Tom was still speaking, but the words were garbled.
Vesper felt as though she’d been plunged into an icy lake and left him above its surface.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. If The Basalton Globe shut down, she’d be out of work.
Reporter jobs were already hard to come by, and harder still for a woman, even one with her experience.
She’d lose her apartment, and winter was a terrible time to try to find a new one.
If she couldn’t find work, or a place to live …
This time, anxiety was no fluttering bird in her chest. It was a snake, coiling around her body and constricting until she couldn’t breathe. Her teeth clenched as the memories she’d buried deep resurrected, and she closed her eyes, willing them away.
“Miss Evans?”
Vesper opened her eyes. Tom was staring at her with new concern.
“Vesper, are you all right?”
Vesper didn’t answer; she was already barreling out of the office. She snatched her satchel from her desk without looking at the rest of the staff, and then she was out the door.
People pulled out raincoats and umbrellas as Vesper marched up Pierce Street.
She didn’t look up as clouds gathered above, and paid no mind to the rumbling thunder. Walking for the last ten minutes had done her some good, but her mind was still in disarray, crowded with disquieting images.