The Curiosity Shop
Daphne
The city choked me with soot-stained fog and the sharp tang of coal in the air.
Gas lanterns flickered like fireflies along crooked streets, their glow barely piercing the gloom.
Horse-drawn carriages rattled past, wheels splashing through the mud.
Somewhere nearby, a drunkard sang off-key, and a baby cried behind a boarded window.
My fingers tightened around the saddle, and I scanned the dark alleys that bled off the main road.
I felt watched. What if the Renegade’s monsters had followed us? Or Vexley’s men?
An odd vibration shook me. I glanced at Emrys. There was no doubt—this winged lunatic was actually laughing.
“It didn’t change that much, Miss Daphne! Gods, how I missed this mud!” He winked at a woman with too much rouge on her cheeks who smoked a pipe and tossed a coin to a beggar. “This is how freedom smells!” He took a deep breath and spurred the horse.
We passed through slums where bent-backed men huddled over barrels of fire and children watched with hollow eyes.
Signs for pawn shops, opium dens, and shady taverns hung overhead.
It was like seeing it for the first time.
His euphoria was infectious. There was no Arthur around to control my every gaze, my every move.
It was just me and Emrys, both drunk on that feeling of freedom, of the world at our fingertips.
The traffic grew heavier. Wheels thundered.
Hooves clattered against the soot-stained walls.
Like a dome of iron and glass rising from the receding mist stood the Charing Cross railroad station.
Warm lamplight spilled through towering windows, reflecting off the damp cobblestones.
The rhythmic clatter of carriages and the shrill cry of porters drifted into the night, a strange symphony of order after the lawless neighborhoods we’d ridden through.
To my surprise, Emrys pulled the reins and steered the horse into a narrow alley.
A hooded figure stood motionless in the shadows near a narrow shopfront with windows smeared by decades of smoke.
A single lantern trickled light over a rusted brass sign: Hearth & Hollow: Tobacconist and Purveyor of Exotic Goods.
Emrys swung down from the saddle. Before I could ask, his hands were on my waist, and he pulled me down.
He steadied me as I staggered, then turned to the mysterious man.
The figure nodded once in recognition as he handed over the reins.
They murmured something to each other—too soft for me to catch—and the stranger led the horse into the fog, vanishing like a ghost into the alley.
Emrys turned, his eyes gleaming silver. “Stay close,” he said, pushing the shop door open.
The scent hit me first: old paper, cloves, and something more bitter—burned herbs, perhaps.
Or something long buried. The interior was cramped and dim, lit only by an oil lamp nailed to the wall.
Rows of worn shelves held dusty tins and carved pipes, but the displays were sparse as if the real business took place elsewhere.
The floorboards groaned beneath our steps when we entered the shop’s depths. I followed Emrys closely but kept glancing at the door, half expecting a horde of Hollowborn to burst in.
What if this was a trap?
From behind a tattered velvet curtain shuffled an odd man in a waistcoat too large for his frame, his sallow skin stretched tight over sharp bones, his eyes keen behind smudged spectacles. Despite the gloom, he moved with uncanny precision.
When he saw Emrys, he broke into a crooked grin and bowed low—deeper than any servant I had ever seen.
“You finally came, Master,” he said, his voice breathless. “It’s been… many years.”
Emrys inclined his head but said nothing.
“Master Liang already left. He said he will act according to the plan.”
“Was he followed?”
“No, Master. None of the Eclipse Order’s scum,” the old man whispered.
“Make sure you watch the sky too, Mister Hearth. Hollowborn are flying in the night.”
“Aye. London is not safe anymore. As my task here is done, I ask permission to leave, Master.” The man’s narrow eyes glowed with hope.
Emrys’s face softened. “What do you have in mind, old friend?”
The man reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and placed two photographs on the dusty glass display before us.
One was a beautiful opera house beneath strange tropical trees.
The other was of a stunning young woman with dark hair that cascaded past her narrow waist. Of course, she was gorgeous.
Of course, Emrys’s breath caught when he saw the picture. I rolled my eyes.
His fingers lingered on her face. “Camille,” he whispered, then paused as if afraid to ask the next question. “She’s still alive?”
My stomach twisted with something sharp and stupid. I barely understood what I felt for Emrys. But whatever it was, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
“Alive and well. Living in Brazil and performing at the opera house in Belém.”
Now, it was my turn to draw a sharp breath. The dark-haired woman wasn’t only beautiful—she was obviously talented. And connected to Emrys in some way I couldn’t stop thinking about.
“So it’s Brazil for you, old friend?” Emrys smiled, and the man nodded.
“It is. At my age, tropical heat is better for my old bones than the fog in London. Let me get your things, Master.”
The tobacconist vanished into the back room with surprising speed and returned moments later with a thick, iron-bound strongbox clutched to his chest. He set it down on the counter with a grunt and opened it with a small brass key he wore on a chain around his neck.
I craned my neck to peek inside. Stacks of crisp banknotes, several rolls of sovereigns, travel papers, a sealed envelope marked with an old wax sigil, and a velvet pouch that clinked softly when moved. Obviously, Emrys had prepared everything for this moment.
The tobacconist closed the box and placed it in a large leather bag. “I’ve kept it just as you left it. Safe travels, Master.” Then, with a sly glance at me, he added, “May your path remain… interesting.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.
Emrys nodded with a smile, and without another word, he turned around and walked out of Hearth & Hollow.
The fog had thickened, swallowing the alley whole.
I glanced back once. The shop’s lamp still burned behind the warped glass, but the interior was empty.
The sign was gone too—as if the shop had never existed.
Emrys offered me his arm.
“To the station,” he said.
After everything that had happened today, I gave in to the temptation and leaned on him, grateful for the support.
Since part of his power had entered me, I sensed this strange connection.
Somehow, I’d taken a piece of him inside me.
I didn’t know what that meant yet—but I could feel it now, like a tether humming under my skin.
We crossed the street toward Charing Cross as the clock tower tolled eight, the din of arriving carriages and hissing steam rising ahead of us.