Chapter 1 #3
“It is impressive,” Arthur said, determined to help Lore’s apparent mission to remedy her friend’s self-esteem, though he wasn’t lying. The soaps were lovely—vibrant, but not artificially so. He spotted some with black and red swirls that might complement the inn’s color scheme nicely.
“Thanks. I’m Stephanie,” the woman said, holding her hand out to Arthur.
“Arthur Miller, no relation,” he replied, a habit of his own.
“I know who you are. My house isn’t far from the Dead & Breakfast.”
Lore pointedly cleared her throat. He glanced at her, confused, then Stephanie spoke again.
“I’ve been meaning to pay you and Salvatore a visit, actually.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, staring down at the table. “I wanted to float the idea of you stocking my soaps for guests. To use. Um, not like a store.”
“Oh.” Arthur blinked. Currently, they got soaps wholesale from some large corporation, but a chance to collaborate with another of Trident Falls’ entrepreneurs and provide custom soap was thrilling.
He could already hear Sal’s suggestions—bat-shaped, blood-scented, with a placard that said Fangs for Washing Your Hands. “That’s a fantastic idea.”
“Right?” Lore punched her friend on the arm. “See? I knew he’d agree. Your soaps are perfect for the D&B!”
Arthur was unaccustomed to having his businesses acronymized, but he quite liked the casual way she referenced the inn—as if it was there to stay.
Stephanie smiled and finally met his eye. “I think so, yeah. We can talk more later, but please, take a bar of soap, on the house. Free sample.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll pay like any other customer.” Arthur picked up the nearest soap and gave it a sniff. Lavender. “What are all the herbs for?”
The booth was lined with baskets of fresh herbs as well as bundles of dried ones.
“I grow them myself, for the soap. But my garden is a little overrun now, so I thought I’d sell the extra here. The cilantro is half off!”
Arthur couldn’t help but pull a face. “It might as well be poison to me, sorry.”
“Oh, are you allergic?” Stephanie’s eyes were wide with concern.
“Earlier this morning I spoke to another vendor—a psychic, I think?—who bought herbs for her tea but got super upset when I told her that some of my soap has cilantro in it. Said she’d left her EpiPen at home and couldn’t risk the contamination potential. ”
“Nothing like that,” Arthur said. “I’ve just always been of the opinion that cilantro has more in common with soap than I care for in something I’m supposed to eat.”
“Lots of people are like that. It’s a genetic mutation, you know,” Lore said, clapping his shoulder. “Not your fault.”
Arthur sniffed a few more soap bars before selecting three—a purple and yellow lavender chamomile, a blue and green blackberry basil, and the black-and-red-swirled vanilla clove.
He handed over a few crisp bills and tucked the soaps—along with the coven witch’s freebies—in his pocket next to the sugar-dusted handkerchief.
Before he could add the receipt to the section of his wallet reserved for business expenses, a commotion farther down the row drew his attention.
As usual, where there was chaos, his husband was at its center.
“Absolute buffoonery!” Salvatore cried, bursting from the pet psychic’s tent a dozen yards away. “The likes of which this world has never seen before!”
Arthur wasn’t sure if Sal was boasting about his own actions or complaining about another’s.
“I demand my $14.99 fee back! You, my lady, are a fraud!” Sal held Rumble up like he was reenacting the opening of The Lion King (a regular occurrence around the Dead & Breakfast). “My beautiful daughter deserves so much better than the throne of lies upon which you sit!”
Sal’s antics were drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Arthur was already jogging toward him as quickly as he dared.
“I will not rest until every soul, living or dead, within these fairgrounds knows what a charlatan you are!” Sal was wailing now, loud enough to make poor Rumble flatten her ears against her head. “Scribbling away in that book, spouting your nonsense! Fifty years, indeed!”
The pet psychic, a woman in a very loud green dress with a purple shawl much too warm for the weather, stumbled out of her tent.
“No refunds!” she shouted, matching Sal’s commitment to the theatrical arts. “And you’re banned from my tent! No one questions the honor of the great All-Pet-Seeing Lola Lataurelle!”
As he neared Sal and Rumble, Arthur could picture another universe in which Sal and Lola were great friends who bonded over being extremely dramatic at all times. But it seemed that was not to be in this reality. Things had gone terribly awry while he was chatting about soaps and cilantro.
“You, madame, should be ashamed to call yourself a psychic. You lured me in with that false aesthetic of yours. But drapey clothing and shiny baubles do not make you powerful or interesting!” Sal freed one hand from holding Rumble to adjust his outrageously pouffy cravat.
Rumble, perhaps tired of all the yelling and being lofted up like a cartoon lion cub, seized the momentary weakness in grip to lunge out of Sal’s hand.
She hit the ground running. If it had been dark, Arthur would’ve been fast enough to catch her, but with the horrible sun so hot and bright overhead, his vampiric powers were diminished.
Rumble was nothing but a black streak across his vision as she made a break for it.
“No! My daughter!” Salvatore cried, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead as he slumped against one of the tent posts. “Someone catch her!”
But it was too late. In the blink of an eye, Rumble was gone.