Chapter 4
Thealina
Coffee, syrup and pastry fill the surrounding warm air, hints of roasted hazelnuts too.
More animated chatter from loyal patrons, too loud for this time of the morning, mix with the clanging of cups and plates, though today it seems to be keeping my mind off my churning belly that swarms with anxiety.
I always get like this, but once I see him, the jitters tend to simmer.
In a few moments, the paper-delivery boy, currently waffling outside the butchers, will pass by the office of the Portal Master—who will step out, catch the rolled-up Chronicle the boy tosses him, swipe him over the head with it and make his way over with his paper wedged under his armpit, ordering his usual of sweet milky coffee and a strawberry tart, which also happens to be my regular order too, before he returns back to his duties.
The man rarely steps out to take a break.
I only ever see him first thing in the morning, and early evening on my walks home from the castle.
Even darting here for lunch is a waste of time, so was stationing myself here all day on my day off recently.
I spent the day basking in the sun reading whilst trying to get eyes on his movements, but I never saw him come out once during the day.
His home is a mystery too, because as soon as he returns to his office in the early evening with his beef and gravy roll, he doesn’t come again till next morning.
How I know this you ask? I may have told my husband I was working through the night cleaning up the rubble at the castle, only to sleep rough in the alleyway beside the cafe.
Never do I ever want to do that again. Being outside with the chilly wind whipping my face as eerie animalistic cries petrify the crap out of me.
Leaving my body on edge and stiff from laying on the hard, uneven cobblestone.
Never again.
Rolled up papers spill from the boy’s brown leather sack.
He eyes them, shrugs and moves on down the street, not bothering to pick them up.
A fruit merchant rolls his eyes, grumbling as he taps into his Earth magic, using vines to snatch them up, stretch back to the young lad and plonk them back in his sack.
He thanks the fruit merchant with a thumbs up and a cocky wink.
He’s closer now, almost passing the Portal Masters office, and any minute he will…
he will… ok, any minute now he will… not show up.
My coffee mug lands on the table with a thud as I straighten, examining the odd scene before me.
Even the young boy is puzzled, narrowing his brows.
He shrugs his shoulders, throws the paper by the door and moves on down to his next delivery, not without looking back though, the lines in his forehead prominent as he struggles to work out why the Portal Master didn’t come out to receive his paper and swipe him playfully over the head.
Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
This never happens.
The man is so predictable I can tell you all his movements with my eyes closed.
Lurching up, I rush into the café and order his usual. I’ll play this as though the waitress noticed his absence and didn’t want him to go without. Maybe he’s sick. Or hurt. Maybe he’s been stolen through the portals he opens. I’ve never been in there, so I’m unsure of his set-up.
The coins I toss on the counter spin and rattle as I snatch the paper bag containing the tart and the sugarcane cup of coffee. Twisting and turning out the way of passersby’s, I find myself outside the office door, staring at the rolled-up chronicle.
What in the embers am I doing?
My laboured breaths make me pause for a moment. A moment to compose my silly self.
I never planned for this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But when things go awry, we adapt and overcome. Right?
Fuck it.
The heavy oak door groans as I barge through, leading with my shoulder, almost tumbling over my feet. It’s silent. Too silent. Dust motes dance in the air that smells of spicy orange and wood polish.
The room is large, empty, bar a thick, red curtain pulled back from a stone wall with painted runes, a wooden desk in the near centre and a large floor to ceiling cabinet running across the entire length of the office back wall filled with various trinkets, stationery, maps and a large globe.
Shadows slither across the floor as folk walk past the sash window. With the shadows, the silence and a missing Portal Master my whole-body thrums, unease rattles my very bones.
He’s not here.
But he’s always here. Always.
No other doors are in the room. No floor or attic hatches. No open portals. Nothing. No sign of him. Not even a sandwich wrapper or cup of his leftover beverages.
Heavy buzzing mauls my eardrums despite holding the paper bag over my ears as a shield.
A golden glow seeps across the floorboards, creeping up and over the walls, devouring the room.
I turn in a full circle, attempting to find the source before a gust of wind has me stumbling forward.
Spinning on my heel with my poor, terrified heart in my throat, I throw my only weapon at the black shadow approaching me with haste; the contents of the sugarcane cup.
He halts his movements, holding out his now soaked arms as the golden glow recedes allowing the natural light to illuminate the room in its normal colours again. Including the wet fella in front of me.
The Portal Master.
His dark eyes bore into me as mine widen. With his nostrils flaring, jaw ticking and fists clenching, I should make a run for the door, but I don’t. I’m frozen in this very spot, mesmerised by the drops of coffee dripping from his dishevelled brown hair to his soaked white tunic.
Not white anymore.
He lowers his face, not breaking his gaze on me as he glares through his top lashes.
A gaze that rips through my soul with more intensity than any emotional wound ever has.
A gaze that stays locked on me as he rounds his closed lips before opening them slightly, spitting coffee on the floor in one smooth motion.
That shouldn’t have been an enchanting sight.
Foreign tingles erupt low in my stomach, the churning anxiety and nerves rushing back threatens to regurgitate my strawberry tart all over his shoes.
It would just be my luck; coffee and my vomit coating him.
I’m sure that would convince him to help me…
“Well, he didn’t say anything about that happening,” he mumbles, shaking out his hair like a wet hound caught in the rain. The paper bag blocks any droplets from spraying my face as I hold it up like a shield.
Lowering it, I notice his stance is somewhat more relaxed, his legs wide and hands resting on both hips, taking all of me in. From head to toe and back up again. My heated flesh tingles beneath his weighty gaze. The lines on his forehead soften just a fraction.
It’s at this moment I take my first breath. My lungs screaming at me in thanks.
His brows shoot up when I offer him the soggy paper bag. Though he doesn’t have a chance to take it from my outstretched hand. In what seems to be painfully slow-motion, the bag splits and the strawberry tart smashes to the floor, splattering across the wooden slats… and his boots.
In an attempt to retreat, I slam my eyes shut, repeating the mantra that the last five minutes absolutely, one hundred percent… Did. Not. Happen.
I take a peek, my right eye opening a smidge.
Brooding Portal Master—check.
Wet brooding Portal Master—check.
Wet brooding Portal Master with strawberry tart splattered on his shoes—check.
So, that just happened.
“I think you should leave now.”
My head whips up, my eyes fully open and I open my mouth to plead with him. To apologise, only to promptly shut it without making a sound. Rushing over to his desk to rummage through my satchel, I yank out the leather wrapped notebook and quill.
With shaky hands I write, or attempt to.
‘I’m so sorry!’
I spin around, hugging my notebook close to my chest, ready to show him but stumble back as I almost barrel into his chest. I hadn’t realised he was standing so close behind me.
My chest rises and falls at a rapid pace as I show him my words. He stares for a moment too long before dragging his gaze to my notebook and then back to me without so much of a blink. I swallow, hard.
It takes a moment before he huffs a breath and steps back, circling his desk and reaching behind him to grip his soaked tunic, ripping it off himself in one fluid motion.
The muscles in his taut tattooed back ripple as he yanks open drawer after drawer of his cabinet before finding what he’s looking for.
A clean and dry dark grey tunic.
He turns, facing me, his abs so sharp they almost cut my eyes open.
Heat flushes my chest and cheeks at the sight of him.
I jerk my head to the side, giving him some privacy and take an interest in the town folk bumbling past the window, but not before I spot one side of his lips quirk up in a smug grin.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing in my office and swilling me with a cup of coffee?”
My arm holding my notebook shoots back up for him to read again. His eyes scan my apology once more.
“I’m illiterate.”
No!
No, stop, this can’t be happening.
“Bad joke. You can put your eyes back in their sockets.”
He picks up the chronicle paper every day, why did I fall for that—because I’m a blundering idiot, that’s why.
“But your apology doesn’t answer my question,” he says, placing his hands in his pockets, the rolled-up sleeves giving me a glimpse of more tattooed skin. Swirls, stars and scripture paints his flesh in a detailed canvas that has me captivated.
His posture is so casual, yet I sense him—the tension rolling off his body. I see it in his tight shoulders, his twitching jaw and whatever he appears to be fiddling with in his right pocket.