14. Valefar
Valefar
Ihear every word.
I am examining a display of tumbled stones near the far end of the crystal island—citrine, carnelian, a pale green aventurine that catches the shop’s amber light quite memorably.
And I am making a reasonable effort to appear fully occupied with this task.
I am not succeeding. My hearing extends considerably further than the width of a coffee bar, and Vesper’s voice carries to me as clearly as if she stood at my shoulder.
I do not move.
I am not yet certain what the correct response to overhearing something private is, in mortal custom.
But I keep my hands behind my back, concentrating on the aventurine while listening to Vesper dismantle her mother’s argument with the uttermost control of someone who has made this case before and knows exactly where to apply the pressure.
I’m not angry. I’ve moved on.
Vesper believes it. The evenness in her voice is not performance. Like a door not merely shut but locked from the inside, and the key purposefully misplaced.
She is done.
And something about a person who is done rather than merely angry is considerably more final. As if I could not admire her more.
I hear her footsteps turn. She is walking back. Her pulse is steady, an elevated rhythm but unhurried and certain. Her jaw is tight. I have learned the specific set of her jaw and what it means: I have said the necessary thing. I will not revisit it.
I have no language in the Pit’s long catalogue of suffering for the emotions overcoming me: the irritation in someone I am devoted to, combined with a strength not only learned but earned, combined with the weight of knowing she bears it alone because she has always borne it alone.
I have escaped execution. I have endured seventeen centuries below the mortal world’s floor. Name the weight. I will carry it, if she’ll but let me stand at her side while she bears her own.
Vesper walks toward me. I look up from the aventurine before she reaches me. She says nothing, but I read an impending question in her expression.
“I’m fine,” she says with a single exhale. “Would you like to be useful?”
I have wanted nothing more since I arrived in this world. “Deeply,” I tell her.
She points toward a door at the far end of the shop. “Stockroom. Eight to ten boxes, labeled,” she shares with me, “for the display. Bring them to the front near the center island.”
I nod and go.
I study the shop more carefully as I go.
Vesper’s Vessels has been built with obvious intention. The herbs are grouped by property rather than alphabetically, the crystals arranged according to resonance, and the amber lighting is warm without leaving the room too dim. The twinkling lights upon ropes create a whimsical attraction.
I pass neatly labeled tinctures, a wall of altar supplies, and an old apothecary cabinet with hand-forged ironwork and wood darkened by age. A selenite sphere rests on top beside dried rosemary and a brass incense holder, mismatched pieces that somehow belong together.
There is an order to the place I find unexpectedly calming, and I suspect Vesper is responsible for all of it. Just beyond the cabinet is the stockroom, where I retrieve the boxes. The stockroom is narrow and orderly, so one may fetch something at reasonable speed.
Floor-to-ceiling shelving leans slightly to the left, effectively labeled. The boxes are in a row along the back wall—eight of them, card stock brown, each marked in black ink: SMUDGE KITS—Q3 RESTOCK and ALTAR SUPPLY—MIXED LOT.
I carry all eight with no difficulty.
When I emerge from the stockroom, Vesper is at the register with a woman holding a slab of labradorite and an earnest expression.
I am carrying all eight boxes. This attracts more attention than I anticipated.
The woman at the register stops speaking. A younger customer near the candle display looks up from her glowing rectangle. Even the mortal man behind the coffee bar pauses with a ceramic mug halfway to his mouth.
Vesper does not. She finishes whatever explanation she is giving about the stone, rings up the purchase, and gestures toward me with two fingers.
“Center island, Big Guy.”
I set the boxes down carefully beside it.
“You know,” the man behind the coffee bar says, “most people make two trips.”
I straighten. “That would be inefficient.”
His mouth twitches.
Vesper’s customer laughs as she gathers her bag. “Thank you again. And cleanse it before you use it for the first time,” Vesper tells her. “Smoke, moonlight, sound bath. Whatever works for you.” The woman promises she will and heads toward the door.
Only once the bell jingles behind her does Vesper turn toward the man with the mug. “Oh. Right.” She waves me closer. “Vale, this is my long-suffering manager, Robby Benson.”
I glance at him. He is an older man, likely in his late forties, with a trim beard, salt-and-pepper hair, and sharp but friendly blue eyes.
“Long-suffering?” I ask. Robby lowers his mug slowly. I cannot help the genuine confusion pulling at my brow. “Who could possibly suffer for long with such a wonderful human being as you, Ves?”
Robby’s jaw drops slightly, and his focus snaps toward Vesper. Then, he examines me again before turning back to her. His lips move silently. Ves?
Vesper heaves a sigh and waves her hand, a gesture I recognize as “let it go.” I am clearly missing some mortal context, but Vesper simply reaches into the nearest box and pulls out a bundle of dried sage as though nothing unusual has occurred.
Robby recovers almost instantly. “Oh, Vesper is wonderful.”
He sets his mug on the counter, rounds the end of the coffee bar, and sweeps one arm around her shoulders. With the easy familiarity of someone who has clearly done this before, he squeezes her against his side.
An unfamiliar pressure closes around my chest. My first thought is the tether. But I dismiss it. No pain. No strain on the bond. This feeling…it is hot and constricting, something primitive tightening behind my ribs as my gaze settles on Robby’s arm.
Around Vesper.
I understand, intellectually, that there is nothing improper about the contact. Vesper does not stiffen, nor pull away. She looks more amused, accustomed to Robby’s theatrics, and regards him as more…fraternal.
I also understand that I possess no claim over whom she permits to touch her. This knowledge does absolutely nothing to make me enjoy it.
“Vesper just knows I’m far better at organization.” He snorts. “You would not believe how disorderly this place was before her savior arrived.”
He releases her and flutters one hand beneath his chin before dipping his head in a theatrical bow.
I recognize the gesture immediately. Flaunting—mostly in jest, judging by Vesper’s expression.
Still, the word savior settles unpleasantly in my chest. It should not.
Robby is speaking about shelves. I know this.
However, Vesper unintentionally pulled me from an execution. When she discovered exactly what she had summoned, she did not condemn me or harm me. She brought me into her home. Fed me. Protected me. Trusted me near the small beastie she treasures above everything in this realm.
The word “savior” belongs more naturally to her.
“But—” Robby lifts one finger, cutting directly through my thoughts. “Vesper is still the ultimate power behind VV’s.”
VV’s. I presume this is an abbreviation of Vesper’s Vessels.
Vesper groans, kneading her brow. “Robby.”
“No.” He points directly at me. “The giant new man needs context.”
She blows out a huff. “I don’t think the giant new man needs anything.”
“I assure you,” I tell her, “I am interested.”
She turns a betrayed look on me.
Robby beams. “See?”
“You’re both already exhausting.”
He turns toward me again. “This woman did everything.” He gestures broadly around the shop.
Vesper sighs, kneading her brow. “Here we go.”
“She is a networking force of nature. Half the suppliers in here were tiny businesses nobody had heard of when she found them. Etsy shops. Local artists. People making candles in garages and jewelry at their kitchen tables. Somehow she finds the best underrated creators before everyone else does.”
“I research.”
He leans in, lowering his voice to a secretive tone. “She stalks the internet.”
“I research extensively,” she corrects.
“And then,” Robby ignores her, “she sweet-talks them into wholesale prices they absolutely should not agree to.”
Vesper straightens. “I negotiate.”
“You charm.”
“I negotiate charmingly.”
I face my savior. “This I believe.”
The corner of her mouth lifts, betraying her. Robby points at me as if I have just provided testimony before a tribunal. “Thank you.”
“Traitor,” Vesper mutters.
“And when charm fails, she barters. You should see her. If somebody won’t budge on a discount? Suddenly they get first claim on testing bottles of whatever seasonal coffee syrup she’s developing, or she’s connecting them to some local printer they need.”
“That isn’t bribery,” she chimes in, “That’s networking.”
He takes a step to the side and sets his hands on his hips, all serious. “You sent Hannah three bottles of blackberry-sage syrup before you negotiated the fall candle order.”
“She liked the syrup.” I register a playful smile. She is enjoying this.
“Hannah lowered the price,” says Robby.
“Coincidence.”
“Her syrups are so popular, customers threatened violence if we didn’t bring back smoked vanilla-cardamom.”
A breath snags in my throat. “I trust these were empty threats?”
Robby makes a grunting sound. “They did a petition. Vesper nailed it to the supplier’s door like the 95 Theses!” I must research this reference.
He turns back toward me.
“She found this building when it looked like tetanus had opened a storefront.”
Vesper snorts. “He’s being dramatic.”
I pay close attention to their banter, as it faintly reminds me of my favorite sitcom.
“The ceiling leaked.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “One spot.”
“There were mushrooms.”
“Two mushrooms.” She blows a curl off her cheek.
He elbows her gently. “There should be zero indoor mushrooms, Vesper.”