Chapter Seven #2
She pictured Tom on a ladder, taking down the battered sign that read THE BASALTON GLOBE with slumped shoulders.
She thought of Nell, weeping at the chipped wooden table where they’d shared cups of coffee and hot chocolate so many times.
A hard lump formed in Vesper’s throat as she imagined closing the door to her little apartment for the last time, never sitting in her lumpy armchair ever again.
Home. That was what The Basalton Globe had given her for the last eleven years: a home, family.
Now the memories of what life had been like before she’d found it were swarming.
She remembered life on Basalton’s streets, the throbbing ache in her fingers as she’d looked for warm places to sleep when the temperature dropped.
She tasted the sourness that had coated her tongue from going days without food.
The worst part had been the way people had looked at her—or rather, looked through her—no matter how loudly she’d banged her tin cup against the curb and pleaded for something to eat.
She’d outgrown her childish dislike of the dark, her aversions to spiders and roaches, but the bone-deep fear of ending up on the streets again never left. Perhaps it never would.
Vesper looked up as a fat raindrop splattered against her cheek.
She’d reached the intersection of Pierce and Oliver.
A part of her knew she should turn around; Tom and the rest of the Globe’s staff needed her now more than ever.
But something held her back. No. She couldn’t go back yet, not until she had a plan that would fix this.
A familiar sign farther down the street caught her eye.
Guillermo’s Coffeehouse was one of her favorites in the city.
A warm, inviting light poured from its large front windows.
Vesper’s feet were taking her toward it before she’d even processed the decision.
She hadn’t eaten all morning, and suddenly nothing sounded better than a pastry and a hot drink. Maybe it would help her think.
A little bell above the door dinged as Vesper stepped inside.
At once, she inhaled the smell of fresh coffee grounds and powdered sugar.
Most of the small round tables and comfy chairs were already occupied, so she made her way to the long counter and slid onto one of its leather barstools.
Moments later, a tan, black-haired man emerged from the kitchen. When he saw her, he beamed.
“Miss Evans, welcome!”
“Morning, Mr. Crivello.” Vesper tried for a convincing smile.
“Your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
He nodded, then disappeared into the back. When he returned, he was holding a plate with a buttery croissant and a steaming mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. When Vesper pulled out her coin purse to pay, he waved her off.
“But—”
He’d turned away before she could argue, attending to another customer farther down the counter.
Vesper nibbled on her croissant while she watched the whipped cream melt into her hot chocolate and tried to think of a plan.
Perhaps Mr. Crivello would let her take up some part-time work here at the coffeehouse.
She’d never worked in one before, but she could certainly do dishes or clean.
She thought of another idea. The holidays were approaching; maybe the Globe could plan some kind of fundraiser to get the money they needed.
If they could come up with even half of what they owed, and if Mr. Burbank could be reasoned with …
It was possible, but December first was less than a month away.
Vesper was so focused that she didn’t notice the door’s bell the second time it dinged. She was still thinking through the logistics of a fundraiser when a single voice tore her from her thoughts.
“Guillermo, always good to see you.”
Vesper froze. No. It couldn’t be. Surely, he hadn’t followed her here. Vesper carefully turned her body away from that low male voice, and forced herself to sip her hot chocolate. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder.
Maximilian Kite was standing at the counter, just a few seats down from her. He was leaning on his elbows, staring up at the chalkboard that detailed the coffeehouse’s menu. For a few precious seconds, he looked like a perfectly normal young man. Then:
“Staring is rather rude, you know.”
Vesper blinked, and the sorcerer faced her, chin raised. “Unless you’re staring because you like what you see? You wouldn’t be the first.” He smirked. “Also, you have whipped cream on your lip, love.”
The words shook Vesper from her stupor. She licked her top lip quickly, then glared at him. “Are you following me?”
Maximilian’s smirk vanished. “I beg your pardon?”
“I meant what I said before, Mr. Kite.” Vesper lowered her voice. “I’m not interested in working for you. Hounding me all over the city won’t change that.”
“I’ll have you know that, every Saturday, I come to this coffeehouse to pick up an assortment of desserts Guillermo Crivello prepares at my request.” Maximilian gestured to a pink bakery box beside him. “We’ve had this arrangement for the last two years.”
Vesper’s face grew warm.
The sorcerer went on. “If you’re done falsely accusing me of another crime I didn’t commit, I have work to do.
Good day, Miss Evans.” He waved to Mr. Crivello, grabbed the pink box, then headed toward the door.
Vesper watched him go. She wasn’t prepared to call the feeling churning in her stomach pity, but it certainly felt annoyingly similar.
She shook her head. There was no reason to pity Maximilian Kite.
As far as she was concerned, he was just another rich, arrogant sorcerer.
Still, she thought of his words from earlier.
You have a specific professional expertise I require. I have money.
She could work part-time for Mr. Crivello, or try to organize a fundraiser for the Globe. But Maximilian Kite? All he had to do was write a check. With a stroke of his pen, the newspaper’s financial problems could be solved. It only required her to do one thing. She bit her lip, deliberating.
“Mr. Kite!” Vesper ran to catch up as Maximilian opened the door to leave.
“Miss Evans?”
“I’ll do it.” She hated how breathless she sounded.
The sorcerer raised a single brow. “Do what?”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. He was going to make her spell it out. “You need a private investigator to prove that you weren’t the one who killed Francis Gladwell last night. I’ll do it, but I have a price.”
Maximilian’s eyes flashed. Definitely green. “And what makes you think that offer is still on the table?”
Vesper frowned. “What?”
“I made you a reasonable proposition. You declined it.” There was no warmth in the sorcerer’s voice. “As far as I’m concerned, that means our business is—ah, how did you once put it?—concluded.”
“But—”
“Good day, Miss Evans.” He muttered something under his breath while simultaneously cutting his hand through the air in a graceful arc.
There was a bright spark of purple, and then the rain paused above him, as though blocked by an invisible umbrella.
Vesper watched in disbelief as he headed down the street toward his coach.
That was it. She’d just let her very last chance at saving the Globe walk out the door. It was done, over.
No, a stubborn inner voice prompted. Not yet.
Outside, rain was pouring in sheets now, but Vesper paid no mind as she marched toward Mr. Kite and did the only thing she could think to. She snatched the pink bakery box from under his arm and hugged it against her chest. He whirled around.
“Those are mine!” He lunged, but Vesper danced out of his reach. Rain was pelting her now, but she didn’t move. The sorcerer threw up his hands, exasperated.
“For the love of God, woman, you’re going to ruin my apple turnovers!”
“I don’t care.”
Maximilian’s eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You need me,” said Vesper. “I have the skill you require, and I have an advantage no other investigative reporter in this city has: I was in the maze when Francis Gladwell was murdered. I was one of the last people to see him alive.”
Maximilian’s expression changed. Was that curiosity, contempt, both? Quickly, Vesper went on.
“As for my price, I want twenty thousand gild, in cash. One lump payment, immediately upon the completion of my work. In exchange, I will prove your innocence before the month is up.”
Vesper expected him to counter, possibly to outright refuse. Instead, he uttered a single word.
“Ask.”
Vesper blinked. “Pardon?”
“You want to work for me?” He tilted his head up in challenge. “Ask. Nicely.”
Vesper gritted her teeth. She hated him. She hated his expensive clothes, his grating voice, his unrivaled levels of arrogance. But she needed him. A frigid gust of wind suddenly tore past, as though to remind her.
Do it for Tom. Do it for the Globe.
Vesper steeled herself, then took a deep breath. “Let me work for you,” she murmured. “Please.”
Maximilian eyed her a moment. Then a slow smile touched his face. It wasn’t warm, or kind, or charming. It was only calculating. He made another swiping motion with his hand, and the rain stopped falling around Vesper. Then he offered his hand.
“I look forward to working together, Miss Evans,” he murmured. “We’ll begin tomorrow morning at nine. Shall we shake on it?”
Vesper took the sorcerer’s hand with her free one and wondered if she’d just made a deal with the devil himself.