She hurried along the street, passing people with hats pulled low and scarfs pulled up to their noses. A few nodded in greeting, which was more than she’d gotten back in Nightport. She found that she liked it here in this city of cold and blinding white. They celebrated what warmth they had and knew to be grateful for food and drink that didn’t come readily from the snowy, hard ground. That was new to someone born a Noble.
This was why she adored the frost faire, it embodied the idea of taking hard living conditions and making them appear wondrous and magical. She gazed towards the river and considered going over there to see what the faire looked like in daylight. Was it even open? Would the faire seem mundane in the muted winter sunlight?
No, that had to wait. She needed glass bottles, strainers, labels, ready-made oil, or nuts to be squeezed into it, and… she tapped her gloved fingers against her thigh.
Oh! Herbs and dried flowers for scents. I saw a shop that sold scented oils, soaps, and cosmetics that first night in Skarhult when we bought clothes. Where was that?
She recalled the general direction of the shop and walked that way. After about half an hour, she found herself outside Sinclair’s Scents.
Yes, this was it. A window filled with potpourri bags, soaps in all shapes, and minute bottles of scents of all kinds. A thrill rushed through her as she opened the door and stepped into a room so packed with fragrances that her head swam.
She walked straight over to a table with little glass bottles, some with ornate stoppers and some with plain corks. As she stood there, trying to figure out how much they cost, she overheard a man speaking with a woman in Arclidian. It was so uncommon to hear her language here, without it being directed at her, that she couldn’t help perking her ears up.
“Genia, I am telling you… there is no obvious reason why that shop should suddenly be without customers. Everything is the same: staff, wares, and procedures. All which have made that shop flourish for years. And yet, it has been many weeks of little to no footfall.”
“Perhaps customers simply want a change, yes? Or maybe more people can afford tailored clothes?” the woman replied in a thick Storsund accent. This ‘Genia’, Elise assumed.
The man grumbled. “Firstly, wanting a change would not keep them away this long. Secondly, my other second-hand clothing shops in Skarhult are doing well, so customers do not only want tailored clothes. No, it is that shop. I looked in before coming here, as it is just down the street. The shop was empty, the clothes hanging wretched and abandoned.”
Elise squeezed one of the bottles in her hand. It was growing clear that this second-hand shop was the one where the Wayfarer-hating cashier had behaved so horribly towards her and Anja. This was the owner, lamenting his lack of customers. An issue she had probably caused by spreading the word of rats and moths in the shop. She chewed the inside of her cheek. Did he know of his staff’s behaviour? Anja had claimed it was a common form of bigotry in the city. Perhaps he shared it.
Genia hummed. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. My shop is doing well. You saw sales figures for this quarter, yes? We are making you a good bit of coin, Mr Sinclair.”
“You are, indeed. Thank you for that and for letting me pour my complaints into your sympathetic ear. I simply cannot help but fret over that shop, as it has four employees who need to make a livelihood. I would hate to deprive them of that.”
Elise put the bottle down. This man sounded like a good person. And if he wasn’t, well, he still needed to know the truth. She strode towards the voices, which were coming from a curtain that parted the shop from some sort of backroom.
She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
A woman’s head popped out from the curtain. She wore heavy amounts of cosmetics, and hair balanced on top of her head in a complicated up-do.
“Hello, miss. I will be with you shortly, yes?”
“Thank you, but it is your employer I wish to speak with. Mr Sinclair?”
The curtain was pulled aside, and a man stepped out. He was a severe-looking man, softened by kind eyes and wavy, greying brown hair and beard.
“May I help you?” he asked in a crisp Midlands accent.
“Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I think I may be able to assist you with something. I could not help but overhear your discussion and can shed some light on what happened to that shop.”
If he thought her eavesdropping rude, he didn’t show it. “Really? If that is true, it would be most helpful.”
“It is true. I know why the shop has few customers these days. I know, because I am the reason.”
His dark eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Indeed?”
“Yes. Although I believe I had good cause. Do you know of your staff’s prejudice towards Wayfarers?”
His eyebrows, having for a while retreated to their usual dwelling, shot back up. “No. Certainly not!”
“Well, the woman who served my wife, my friend, and me when we were there had a good helping of that frightful attitude. She served only my light-skinned and light-haired spouse, shunning me and my friend, who shares my colouring. My friend explained that she probably assumed we were Wayfarers and therefore was prejudiced towards us.”
Mr Sinclair’s mouth made a perfect O before the corners of his lips drew down in a deep frown. “If that is true, she has no place in my organisation. I know many people in Skarhult have that stance towards Wayfarers and the Viss, but I and those in my employ should never make anyone feel of lesser value. What did she look like?”
Elise described the woman in as much detail as she could remember.
His expression turned grim. “I know of whom you speak. Her name is Lena.”
Behind him, Genia stepped forward. “Excuse me, Mr Sinclair?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“The lady bringing it up has reminded me of something, yes? Mrs Sten who runs that shop has been rude about Wayfarers and Viss in the past. When I confronted her about it, she always said they were jokes and apologised. But now, I wonder. Perhaps her opinions have trickled down onto her staff? At least on young Lena.”
Mr Sinclair looked even grimmer still. “I see. It seems I must speak to them both, or possibly to the entire workforce.”
“Perhaps so. The young lad who works there also tends to curse a lot, yes? In case you wish to speak to him about that,” Genia added, clearly warming to the subject.
Sinclair nodded absently. Then he looked back to Elise. “May I ask how this is connected to you and the shop being abandoned? Did you tell people of the bigotry you experienced in the shop?”
Elise squirmed. “Well, yes and no. I felt furious and helpless when I understood this to be a common attitude towards a whole group of people, even though I do not actually belong to that group—”
“I thought not. Few Wayfarers have a Midlands accent,” Sinclair pointed out.
Elisandrine ignored the interruption and carried on. “It angered me to the point where I had to do something. So, I did the only thing I could think of.” She steeled herself. “I told customers that there were vermin in the shop and that the shop’s standards had dropped. I told them to spread the news to get people to stay away. Clearly it worked. Perhaps I should have contacted you, but I do not see how I could have reached you. I was new to the city, cold and tired.”
They both gawped at her. Then Sinclair began to laugh, Genia soon chiming in.
“Clever! Perhaps not the right thing to do. But clever, yes?” Genia said through chuckles.
Elise shrugged, relief flooding through her at the lack of a reprimand.
Sinclair peered at her. “So. You are clearly from the Midlands, like me. I hail from Chislehurst. May I ask where you are from?”
“I was born in Silverton but moved to Highmere. Then to,” she stopped herself from mentioning Silver Hollow Castle, “Nightport and then some weeks ago I took the journey over here.”
He smiled. “Well-travelled, I see. Enjoying Storsund?”
“A great deal. The peo
ple are kind and the snow is beautiful. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! My name is Elise Glass. Pleasure to meet you.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Carlton Sinclair at your service. Now, Mrs Glass. I should like to help you in some way, mainly because I wish to make up for your awful experience in my shop, but also to assist a fellow Arclidian here on this vast, cold continent. As you have only been here for some weeks, do you require a position?”
“A position? No, I have a job. I take dictation for a historian.” She glanced at the bottles she had been perusing, an idea forming. “Although, if I were to try my hand at making something. Say… scented oils. Would you be willing to sell them?”
He rubbed the left side of his beard, silent for a few seconds. “Perhaps. It would depend upon the quality of the products.”
Genia placed her hand on his arm. “You know, if they’re good oils, they might come in handy. As I mentioned, we’re selling splendidly, yes? Customers want more soaps, scents, and potpourris than we can supply…” She trailed off before picking up with renewed vigour. “This gives me an idea. We need more space and more products, yes?”
He ran his hand over the right side of his beard this time. “Go on.”
“If we took over the second-hand shop, cleaned it out, got new signs, painted it, put new staff in and sold other products… it would wipe out the bad smell of bigotry and the rumour of vermin. And we’ll have a store in which to sell more products, yes?”
Sinclair looked from Genia to Elise and then back to Genia again.
“And if this lady manages to make good scented oils…”
Genia smirked, interlocking the fingers of her clasped hands. “Then we market them as exotic Arclidian wares. Made by an actual Midlands lady.” She turned to Elise. “Don’t fret. I know you’re not a Noble lady. What would one of those be doing here? If they even came to our continent, they’d send a servant to shop. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a lady. It is sales talk, yes?”
Normal breathing resumed, Elise replied. “Naturally. Sound like a splendid idea. Everyone desires some luxury, clean skin, and to smell good. This city has lots of tailors and second-hand clothing shops, but not many places to buy fragrances. You should open another one, and yes, give my oils a chance.”
Mr Sinclair kept running his hand over his dark beard, but more slowly, as if unaware he was doing it. “I do wish to do you a good turn, and I appear to require more merchandise now. Fine, bring me samples of your oils. If they are suitable, we shall buy some to sell here. If they are excellent, they will be part of the base of my new fragrance shop.” He pointed a finger at her. “Now, excellent means a lovely scent, an attractive label, and long-lasting fragrance. People will not buy oils that stop giving scent after an hour.”
Elise bit her lip to keep from whooping. “Certainly! Thank you. Well then, I should go back to shopping for bottles, sieves, herbs, and dried flowers.”
He nodded and returned behind the curtain with Genia, leaving Elise with a shop filled with luxurious ingredients and a tingle in her stomach.
Back at the house with new ingredients and materials, she stared at the jars of already made oils in disappointment. Sure, she could bottle them and create labels to make them pretty. Perhaps even add some colour to the oil to make them stand out. It still wouldn’t change that they’d been made with old, dried herbs. Neither strong in scent nor long-lasting. She squared her shoulders. She would simply have to find a way to strengthen and complicate their scent. Quickly.
She looked over at the warm bowls of oils they had managed to amass. There should be enough to fill the twenty pretty bottles she had bought at a discount. But how to improve them? Elise stared at the bowls, pondering which scents stayed longest on the skin. The answer was simple: ones mixed with alcohol. But purified alcohol was expensive and not kind on the skin. Besides, it reminded her too much of the Queen. No, Elise’s scents were oil-based, that was part of the brand which was forming in her mind. Exclusive, caring, natural, rich, sweet. That meant oils and not sharp, purified alcohol.
Alcohol.
Elise stopped dead. She glanced up at the large decanter of black wine Anja always kept on the counter, next to the bread bin.
She contemplated the contents of black wine. Blackberry wine, honey, and… ebony root. A root known to always keep its black colour, thick texture, and aniseed-like smell. Perhaps it could prolong scents without the negative effects of alcohol?
She shook her head.
Surely some chemist or other scholar would have thought of that? Still, it cannot hurt to try it in a few of the bottles.
It would at least give them a unique base scent, viscosity, and colour. She took the lid off the first bowl, which contained dried winter cherries and dammon nut oil, and sieved it. Then she funnelled some into a bottle, heart pounding with excitement. She retrieved some ebony root from the spice cabinet. Fresh would have been better, but for her experiment, this would do. She topped up the bottle with the black granules, put the stopper on, and shook it. She’d have to upend it several times a day, forcing the ingredients to mix.
Biting her lip, Elise considered the ground ebony root. Moments ticked by. Then she made a decision to trust her impulse. After all, that was how she had lived her whole life.
She’d make half of the finished oils with ebony root and the rest with just oil and the scents. She had three bases, now she just had to choose what went with what. She mixed the meadowsweet with lemon rind, the watermint with the winter cherries, and the lemongrass with violet, all offsetting sweetness with freshness. She could only hope that Sinclair’s customers would share her scent preferences.
She chuckled, hearing it echo in the empty kitchen.
Papa, remember how you used to laugh when I put flowers together not because of how they looked, but how they would smell together?
She closed her eyes and conjured an image of him.
You were always so proud of my peculiarly keen sense of smell. I think I can finally use that skill. To bring in coin. To be creative and to enjoy my work.
She brushed away memories, hope, and grief. That could wait for the notebook if she felt like writing in it tonight.
Now she had to focus. Had to remember that the scents would change as they infused, especially those with the added aniseed scent of the ebony root. Also, to turn them several times a day to mix them. She had to get this right. This was her chance to show that a quick-to-emotion Noble girl could do more than inspire others. Time to show that she could be the main attraction, not merely a decorative supporting act.
She got to work, and when she finished, she beamed at the bottles. Half of them were in light yellows, pinks, and greens, while the others darkened and thickened with the ebony root. She hoped the ebony root ones would work best, it could become her trademark. Arclid was known to be old and dark, she had met enough people from the other continents to know that. If her Arclid-branded oils looked dark and thick – with a hint of smoky aniseed lingering behind the more pervasive top notes – it would make her oils unique.
Anja came down, probably for more coffee.
“My. That’s a lot of pretty little bottles.”
Elise blew out a breath. “Yes. I am going to sell them in Skarhult.”
True to form, Anja began making coffee. “Really? How do you plan to do that?”
“Is that doubt in your voice? Well, quash that right away. When I was in town buying materials for the oils, I ran into a man who wishes to stock my oils. Well, no, he wants to try them and then decide if he will stock them.”
“In that case, I’m sure he will. Take it from someone who’s had weeks to learn, if Elise Glass has decided on something, it’ll happen.”
Elise did a double-take. She had expected to have to defend herself further. To fight to be taken seriously.
Tentatively, she reached out a hand and rested it on Anja's shoulder. “Thank you. Even though I am aware that you were only complaining about me forcing my dic
tation services on you.” Elise added a smirk to show that there were no hard feelings.
Anja stopped making coffee and looked at her, those bright green eyes grave. “I wasn’t. I haven’t known you that long, but I’ve picked up that you’re a determined person and that you…” She hesitated. “You have that air about you. The kind that tells people that you’re destined for something more. Something bigger.”
Elise was speechless, a rare sensation for her. She let go of Anja's shoulder and began fidgeting with the high collar of her dress. “I… hope you are right. I should like to be able to earn decent coin. Then Nessa would not need to worry so. And I could treat us. Perhaps take you and Nessa out for fine meals in the city?”
Anja scrunched up her nose. “Why would I want to go somewhere to eat? I have a kitchen, cutlery, tables, and chairs right here.”
Elise quirked an eyebrow. “Variation, perhaps?”
“Phah! I suppose I’ll go if you wish. But we were talking about your oil business. Start small, work yourself to the bone, and dream big. If I hadn’t dared to do that, I’d still be working at the school. Frittering my inheritance on wine and regretting never writing my book. You need to find what makes you happy, what drives you.”
Elise gazed at the fogged-up window. “I have always enjoyed scents. I like how much they can change if combined. Something simple gets mixed with something plain, and together they become extraordinary. It is like magic.”
Anja resumed making coffee. “There you go then. That’s your dream. As I made writing this book mine, and Nessa is out there fulfilling her dreams of creating,” she waved her hand around, “glass thingamabobs.”
Elise laughed but stopped as Anja’s words sank in.
“Huh. Nessa wants to turn sand and a few simple components into practical yet beautiful objects. You want to combine your knowledge and some paper into a book to entertain and inform. Now…” She looked around the kitchen for the right words. “I know that I want to blend aromatic items and oils into scents. Ones people can wear to drown out the foul smells and dreariness of everyday life. It is perhaps not as practical or useful as both your dreams. Maybe it is frivolous or vain. Nevertheless, it is somehow important to me.”
Tinderbox Under Winter Stars Page 16