Chapter 16 #2
"—Lord Brambleton's manor. Completely empty now."
"Twenty bedrooms, I heard. Just sitting there."
"Well, after the scandal with the taxes—"
"—family fled to the summer provinces—"
"—magistrate's selling it for debts—"
I stop so suddenly Gray Streak nearly runs into me. Twenty bedrooms. Twenty. Everyone could have their own room. Real walls, not sheets. Proper beds, not shadow furniture and disease floors.
"Excuse me," I approach the women with what I hope is a friendly smile. The shadows ripple against my shoulders. "I couldn't help overhearing about Lord Brambleton's manor?"
They take one look at me—paint-stained dress, shadow shawl, Gray Streak looming—and press back against the fabric display.
"We don't know anything," one squeaks. Her friend nods so hard her hat wobbles.
"No, I just wanted to ask about the house. How many bedrooms exactly? Does it have proper drainage? What about the kitchen situation? Mold problems? Roof leaks? Proper heating? Are the windows sealed? What about—oh! Fireplaces? Please say fireplaces."
They stare at me.
Gray Streak steps forward. "She asked you questions."
"Oh no, that's not—we don't need to be threatening about it." I touch his arm. His sleeve is damp. Why is his sleeve damp? "We're just asking about property."
But he's already looming with greater purpose, still holding the lavender soap. "The lady wants to know about the house."
"T-twenty bedrooms," the taller woman stammers. She's got flour on her cuff. Baker maybe? "Four floors. Two kitchens. Garden. No mold that we know of?"
"Two kitchens?" The shadows warm against my neck. "That's perfect! What about bathrooms? Please say multiple bathrooms."
"Six? Maybe seven?"
"Seven bathrooms!" I turn to Gray Streak. "Do you understand what this means? People could bathe. Regularly. With hot water! No more sharing! No more waiting! When did you last have a hot bath?"
He's still looming at the women.
"The drainage. Tell her about the drainage," he says in his most menacing voice.
"Modern pipes! Installed five years ago!" The shorter one looks ready to faint. "Very good water pressure!"
"See? That wasn't so hard." Gray Streak seems pleased with his interrogation technique.
"We weren't interrogating them. We were having a conversation about housing." The shadows pat my shoulder. "I'm so sorry. We're not usually like this. Well, he is, but not about houses. Thank you for the information. Are you getting enough iron? You look anemic."
We retreat to the counter where the shopkeeper has assembled our supplies with shaking hands.
"Actually, do you have any tea? The calming kind?"
She practically throws chamomile at me.
More whispers follow us:
"—Shadow Guild—"
"—saw the shadows myself—"
"—planning something with the Brambleton manor—"
"We're not planning anything nefarious," I announce to the shop at large. "We just need better living conditions. Our current place has aggressive mold."
Silence.
"The healing one," someone whispers. "From the compound."
"She's wearing his shadows."
"Are they courting?"
"Can you court the Shadow King?"
"We should go," Gray Streak suggests, gathering our bags.
Outside, I breathe easier. The shadows adjust themselves, keeping my neck warm against the morning chill.
"You interrogated those women about drainage."
"You wanted to know about the house."
"Yes, but through normal conversation, not threats while holding soap."
He considers this. "How else would they answer?"
"By... wanting to? Because they're helpful? Most people share information without being terrified first."
"That seems inefficient."
"It's called being civil. We should try it more often. Though I suppose the information about the water pressure was very detailed."
"Fear improves memory."
"That's not... well, maybe, but it's not very nice."
We walk in comfortable silence—well, I'm comfortable. Gray Streak keeps checking behind us. Probably expects the shop women to pursue us with fabric bolts.
"Two kitchens. We could have actual meal preparation. Different stations. Maybe a baking area that's just for baking, not also for surgery and weapon cleaning."
"Boss won't approve."
"Boss is sleeping. Boss needs to sleep. Boss has been awake for four days straight making terrible decisions." The shadows flutter against my neck. "Not you, shadow friends. You're perfectly reasonable."
"You talk to them."
"They're good listeners. Better than most people, honestly. Very supportive."
"They're concentrated darkness that answers to the most dangerous man in the city."
"And they like lavender soap. Everyone's got layers, Gray Streak."
He makes a sound that might be amusement.
"Nineteen bedrooms after boss takes the master," he says suddenly. "More than one for each who died."
Oh. I hadn't... that's not what I meant. But he's right. Nineteen rooms for seventeen empty spaces. My throat gets tight.
"Then we make those rooms nice. Really nice. So when new people join, they know they're valued. That they matter more than just being weapons."
"New people don't join the Shadow Guild. They're recruited. Or threatened."
"Well, maybe they'd volunteer if we offered decent housing and regular meals. People like stability. And doors that lock. And not having to check their shoes for mushrooms every morning."
"Assassins don't—"
"Assassins are people. People who currently live in a warehouse with aggressive fungi." I stop walking. My feet hurt. These shoes have holes. "Gray Streak, when's the last time you had your own room? A real room, with a door that locks and windows that close?"
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
"Everyone deserves privacy. And sheets without blood stains. And the ability to bathe without an audience. Lord Brambleton's manor. We're doing this."
"Boss won't—"
"Boss will. Once he's slept and eaten and I explain about the seven bathrooms." The shadows warm further. "See? They agree. Seven bathrooms is very persuasive."
We're almost back to the warehouse when Gray Streak speaks again.
"The shop women think you're courting."
My face heats. The shadows get warmer too. "The shop women think many incorrect things."
"You're wearing his shadows."
"They volunteered. I didn't steal them."
"Shadows don't volunteer."
"These ones did. Very helpful shadows. Very supportive of domestic improvements."
They wiggle slightly against my shoulders.
The warehouse looms ahead, all rust and ruin and architectural sadness. But not for much longer. Not if I have anything to say about it. My feet splash through a puddle that's definitely not just water. Need new shoes. Need new everything. Need that house with its seven glorious bathrooms.
"Help me set up supplies. Quietly. If anyone wakes boss before he's ready, I'm making them personally scrub every mushroom with their toothbrush."
"What if he's angry about the shadows?"
I look down at the darkness wrapped around me. So warm. So weirdly affectionate. "Then we'll explain about the seven bathrooms. Very calmly. With visual aids if necessary."
"Visual aids."
"I'm thinking a nice chart. Pros and cons. Heavy on the pros." I push open the warehouse door. "Trust me. How could he say no to proper drainage?"
Gray Streak follows me in, muttering something about civilian logic. But he helps arrange the supplies quietly, and when Finn appears, excited about the soap variety, Gray Streak only threatens him a little bit about staying quiet.
The shadows stay wrapped around me as I organize bottles and plan my bathroom-based argument. Somewhere in this diseased warehouse, Ruvan sleeps on, unaware that his shadows and I have been house hunting.
He's going to be so confused when he wakes up.
Good thing I got that chamomile tea. We're all going to need it.