by C. M. Lind
His hand was still in his pocket, and he rubbed the paper with his index finger and thumb. His upper, front teeth were hard at work picking at his lower lip.
“What is it?” she asked him. Her words were stern, and it was more of a command than an inquiry.
“Hmm?” replied Randolph, keeping his eyes off of her.
“You heard me,” she said.
His face felt hot, and his words came laboriously. “We were talking about the Jubilee.”
“What’s that?” She pointed to the hand stuffed in his pocket, rubbing the paper.
“Oh!” Randolph let go of the paper and pulled his hand out. “It’s an address.”
“To where?” she asked.
Her eyes hadn’t left him, and he felt completely disarmed by them. He spent several seconds trying to come up with a good excuse. His stomach ached, he felt weighed down by guilt, and all around just felt terrible. The last thing he wanted was for Soli to know about how he was responsible for imprisoning an innocent woman—and for her to think he was as dumb as everyone had told him he was. But, he found himself unable to spin any tales; the idea of lying to Soli became too much to throw onto the emotional pile. He sighed. “I screwed up a long time ago—badly. I have to make it right. The address is for someone I have to talk to.”
“So, you two weren’t talking about the Jubilee after all?” She didn’t sound surprised, just disappointed—which made Randolph feel worse.
“No.” He cautiously raised his eyes towards her.
She sighed. “How bad?”
“Very, very bad.”
“Well, let’s go, fix it.” Her tone told him that it wasn’t up for debate.
“What?” The word popped out of his mouth without thinking.
“You helped me, now I’ll help you. You can tell me all about it on the way.” She turned and began to walk away, but turned her head over her shoulder a few seconds to ask him one final question: “Will I need to bring the axes?”
Randolph was stunned, but he managed a weak, “No?”
She motioned for him to follow with her index finger. His feet managed to pull free from the mental muck that had locked him stiffly in place, and he hurried after her.
Randolph thought about arguing, about telling her that he could handle it himself, that it was his mess that he was responsible for—but the words remained passing thoughts and nothing more. In a surprising way, he found himself happy that she wanted to help him. With Soli by his side, the feat of finding the truth suddenly seemed surmountable.
She waited for him to catch up, and then they walked together. “I take it we won’t be going through any questionable parts of the city. Where are we going?”
Randolph pulled the paper out and quickly read it. “A glove shop?” He looked at her quizzically, and then double checked the note.
“A glove shop?” she mirrored back.
His voice was dry but with a bold touch. “A glove shop.”
Chapter 19
After Ulrich left, Vitoria laid in bed until she heard the front door slam shut. Aimee must have been close on his heels, because even though she didn’t hear her speak, she heard the latches being shut tight on the door.
Vitoria pushed the pillow away from her face and took a long breath. She held her hands in front of her and flexed them again. Part of her expected her fingers to crunch like old twigs, but, of course, they didn’t.
She pushed herself up in the bed and looked around. The milk was gone. Her mouth still felt dry, and she knew she would have to venture downstairs if she wanted more. There was still bread, and while she knew it would be delicious, she did not think she could stomach anymore. She felt more stuffed than a straw mattress.
She slung her legs over the edge of the bed and took another deep breath. She stretched her legs and rotated her ankles around in a circle. A delightful series of cracks and pops was her reward from her joints.
She hoisted herself from the bed, keeping one hand on the frame, just in case she was worse than she thought. She wobbled for a moment, and her stomach lurched at the movement, but, with a steady, deep breath, she was able to control herself. She closed her eyes and told herself that she wasn’t as bad off as Ulrich had made her out to be. That she wasn’t getting “fogged” so much as “resting”—but even then, part of her knew what she was really doing.
What was she doing the past couple weeks, she thought. She was doing what the juvenile part of her wanted to do. She had told Conyers to fuck off by simply ignoring his request. Was that what she was doing? Or, was she unable to think about him—about James? She shook her head. No, she told herself, it hadn’t been about him. But again her thoughts poked at her: are you so sure?
If someone can’t be sure about their own thoughts and mind, can they be sure about anything?
She sighed. It was a long, exaggerated, loud exhalation meant to clear her mind. It worked, and she was left in that lonely room with silence.
Nearby, her clothing was neatly folded on a small stool. She hadn’t noticed it before, as the stool was positioned in such a way as to be in the bed’s shadow. She reached for them but then pulled back.
Her hand had brushed the simple, soiled night gown that she wore.
Vitoria scrunched her nose.
She walked to the latch and pressed her ear against it. She could hear Aimee, but she wasn’t anywhere near. A metal pot clanked, and Vitoria knew it was the sound of Aimee’s kettle being placed over the fire. She opened the latch as quietly as she could, and she quickly thanked herself for oiling the hinges as soon as she took up residence there, before she lowered the ladder below.
At the top of the narrow staircase that led to the main level of the house was a small table, and, on it, Vitoria saw a copper pitcher with a few white daisies. She took hold of the small, wobbly railing on the extendable ladder and slowly descended down the creaky footholds.
The hallway was flooded with sunlight and fresh air. Aimee had the windows at both ends opened. Vitoria grabbed the pitcher, and water sloshed within. She looked at the daises. They were new, probably picked that very morning, which did not surprise Vitoria. Many people brought Aimee all sorts of frivolous gifts.
Vitoria could smell their freshly cut stems and their light, almost undetectable, sweet scent—they reminded her of a warm, perfect day far away from Queensport. A fantastical place where no one was haunted by the things that haunted her. A fictional land where people were stupidly happy, where people could trust their own minds.
She pulled them from the vase, tossed them to the ground, and kicked a few down the stairs. She looked inside the pitcher, and saw that the flowers had not sat too long inside. The water was clear, and there was no scent of wet decay. Carefully, she returned to the rickety ladder: one hand on the rail, the other clutching the pitcher.
Once she had made it up the ladder she delicately placed the pitcher on the nightstand. She pulled the nightgown off of her, and without a thought, dropped it out the window to join the shattered vial of opium below. Naked, she returned to the pitcher. She took the cloth that Ulrich had used on her, and submerged it into the water, soaking every inch of it. She pulled it out, and the water ran down her hand, the rag, and the pitcher, splattering the table, floor, and her own bare flesh.
It was cold against her skin, and she wiped and rubbed every inch of it—starting with her face and working her way down. Her wet body pricked up, and she shivered as the fresh, cool air from the window hit her, but she continued. Even her feet were scoured with the wet rag. Even after she scrubbed away every drop of sweat, she could still smell a faint metallic scent that seemed to be infused with her skin—the scent that marked her as a fogger. She eventually gave up once she was sure the water was simply re-depositing the stench of sweat over her.
With her naked, damp skin raised like a goose’s, she took the pitcher and went to the window. She overturned it, and the water splashed into the alley. Looking down, she saw the nightgown soaked with muck, outlin
ed by small specks of scattered glass. She took another long, deep breath and turned back to the room. She set the pitcher back down onto the nightstand and turned to her clothes.
Her long, thick, wool socks were on top of the pile. She grabbed them, and was stunned by their softness. She brought them to her face and inhaled. They were freshly laundered—and in fine soaps. She grabbed the next piece, and the next piece, but they were all soft and clean—infused with the scent of lavender. She smiled, and got dressed as fast as she was able to without falling over.
After her warm clothing was wrapped tightly around her, she began to lose the chills from earlier. She ran her hands up and down her sleeve, and pushed the crook of her elbow into her nose.
Another deep breath.
A faint smile.
She looked at her feet, and then looked about the room. Her boots were nearby the latch.
She walked to her boots. Someone had cleaned them. She grabbed them, and brought them closer to her eye. Not only clean, she concluded as she rubbed them, someone even conditioned the leather. She walked back to the bed, sat down, and pulled her boots on, taking great care to tie the laces.
As she finished lacing her boots, her smile faded as she gently set her feet on the floor. She sat in her room quietly, unsure what to do next. She had only thought as far ahead as getting cleaned and dressed, but didn’t know where to go from there. Instead of thinking, she merely stared out the window. There were always so many pigeons in that alley. Their cooing, paired with the wicked winds the alley created, drowned out the sounds of the city. It wasn’t a particularly nice view—there was another building but not much more than that—but still she stared, completely, and splendidly, oblivious to her life in that moment.
But her quiet, solitary peace did not last long. As real and loud as if the voice was standing by her right ear, it spoke. Our word means something. She could swear that she felt its heated, moist breath on her ear. We finish what we start.
Vitoria always was one to finish what she started. She was thief, a sneak, and a murderer, but she had always kept her word. That was one thing that no one could take from her—and damn Conyers knew it. “Yes,” she answered, emboldened. “My word means something.”
The front door to the building stirred. One of its large, ancient, metal latches opened beneath her, and she jumped as she sat on the bed. She froze, turning her ears to the floor. Another latch undone and the door below opened. Even with the floor muffling their voices, Vitoria heard Aimee welcome someone. The voice that answered was a man that she could not recall immediately—but it sounded as if Aimee and the man were old friends.
Pleasantries were exchanged, and Vitoria quickly recognized that the man was saying her name. She stood from the bed, one hand on the frame for support, and then she moved to the hatch. The two voices below kept up the pace of their conversation, and Vitoria heard the kettle on Aimee’s fireplace being moved.
Vitoria silently opened the latch with the finesse of a jewel thief. She stuck her head through the opening.
“Once again, I’m sorry, Aimee. Odette wanted to come, but you know how busy she is,” the man said. “Always coming and going with that one!”
“Oh,” said Aimee. “Think nothing of it!”
“Thank you,” said the man.
“Sugar?” asked Aimee.
“Of course!” replied the man.
His silvery, sing-song voice resonated with Vitoria at his exclamation. She quietly cursed and then took another breath as the two made conversation about their tea.
She steadily went down the narrow staircase, and she was glad to have her good, gripped boots on the slick, worn, wooden steps. She made no attempt at stealth—she wanted Mikis Savas to know she was there.
The two were sitting in the living room, close to the fire and the teapot that nestled within its breast. Aimee beamed at Vitoria as she entered, and Mikis smirked. Vitoria took big, proud steps towards them, and hoped that neither would notice her hesitant sense of balance or, what she assumed, was her light pallor.
Aimee immediately grabbed the kettle and poured another cup. “Sugar?” she asked Vitoria.
Vitoria nodded, and Aimee plunked a sugar cube into the cup. She set it on the small table near an empty chair and motioned for Vitoria to take a seat.
Vitoria didn’t have to be prompted. The staircases had taken a toll on her, even though she didn’t think she showed it. She sunk into the ancient, plushy chair that permanently smelled like rosemary since Aimee had spilled a potion of hers on it several years ago. Vitoria gently took the cup and held it in both hands as she gingerly took a sip—sugared black tea with a hint of blackberry and sage. Her parched mouth wanted to drink the candied concoction down as fast as she could, but she didn’t let herself.
Inside Vitoria’s head the voice snidely suggested what she should do to Mikis. She ignored it. The voice seemed sporadic and easy to suppress, nowhere near the intensity of a when Ulrich visited. She figured it must have been the last of the poppy inside her that kept it tame for the moment.
She looked Mikis right in his lambent, orange eyes. “To what do we owe the visit of such a prolific, sneaky whore?” She took another slow sip, and she swore that her dry tongue sucked up all the moisture before it had a chance of hitting her throat.
“Vitoria!” Aimee was exasperated. Vitoria’s comment stopped her mid-sip.
Mikis smiled, proudly shining his abnormally bright, white teeth. “Last time, I think it was ‘damned spy.’ So tell me, sweetness, am I moving up or down in your eyes?”
“Down.” Vitoria smirked.
“Vitoria, darling, please,” said Aimee in a warning tone.
“For you, sweetness, I’ll go down for a discount.” He winked. “Since you’ve been gone for so long, I’ll consider it an act of charity.”
She always managed to walk into those sorts of things with Mikis. Suddenly, all those whispers she had ignored before sounded incredibly pleasurable.
“Darling, he’s here because he’s been helping us.” Aimee leaned over and put her hand briefly on Vitoria’s knees. “I sent word to him weeks ago about our situation. I asked him here tonight.”
Vitoria rolled her eyes, but it was taking all the restraint she could muster not to rip Mikis’ throat out. “Fine.” She wasn’t one to hate Venari, but Mikis certainly had dampened her impression of them all. He looked Venari enough—tanned, olive skin, bright eyes, and a lean build that would make women damp with desire—but his filthy mind and mercurial loyalties made Vitoria hope he didn’t represent an entire people.
Aimee removed her hand from Vitoria’s knee. “I asked him for help a while ago.”
“And whenever my favorite friends of those kooky Disciples need help, I am there!” Mikis grabbed a sugar cube with his hand. “I mean, they are my best customers after all!” He plopped it into his mouth, and it crunched under his perfect teeth.
“I suppose you’ve been hurting lately then?” Vitoria couldn’t hide her disdain for him.
“You know, now that you mention it, I have.” How he managed to be splendidly sarcastic and yet maintain his singsong rhythm was always so odd to Vitoria. “I’ve had to take on a lot of private clients, and, if you wouldn’t have guessed it, I’m beginning to miss those crazy Disciples! They’re so reliable, discreet, and generous.”
A whore through and through, thought Vitoria.
No one would miss him, the voice whispered. You know where to find him. It would be easy enough to pay him a visit.
“And I’m sure you’ll be paid generously for helping us,” said Aimee.
Mikis didn’t look at Aimee; instead, he kept his eyes on Vitoria. She tried to ignore him, and she acted as if her cup of tea was the most interesting thing in the world—which, to be fair, might have been since it was so delicious. But the mysterious Mikis always made her uncomfortable with his advances, comments, lingering stares, and all the things she had heard about him—and she simultaneously needed and hated to k
eep an eye on the man.
“About that,” said Mikis. “I have learned much from Odette. You remember her, don’t you, sweetness?”
Vitoria nodded. She did indeed remember Odette. It was hard to forget the strange, painted, footless harlot. Odette and Mikis certainly made quite a pair as they led their crew –and quite a killing in the underground business of prostitution and blackmail.
“She has been visiting a certain naughty little lordling lately, and she has gained herself quite the collection of invitations to a certain upcoming party. The nasty lord asked her to hand them out to her most available and desirable friends and associates. I just so happen to have one with me. It might take a little work, but I believe you could pass for such a friend, sweetness.” He winked at her again.
She ignored his wink and the backhanded comment. “If all it takes is a dress and a wig, then consider Jae dead.”
“Excellent! I’m so thrilled to hear that, sweetness!” He smiled at her again, and Vitoria couldn’t help but notice the sugar sparkling in his teeth. “I would have loved to have met with you sooner about this, but Aimee informed me you were ill recently?”
Vitoria glanced at Aimee, who showed no sign of having told Mikis about the poppy. “Yes.” She returned her eyes to her tea. “I’m fine now.”
“Good to hear it! You had me worried,” he said.
“It was never anything major,” interjected Aimee. “All Vitoria needed was a bit of bed rest.”
Mikis nodded. “Wonderful! You know, sweetness, you were always my favorite. Those others?” He turned to Aimee, as if silently asking for her agreement. “Can’t quite trust them. Too quiet! Too cryptic! Always keeping things from each other!”
Aimee did not respond to him, and instead she gave her tea her attention.
Vitoria eyes flickered to Mikis as he said “trust.”
“Like Conyers! That man I’ll never understand! He abandons you in that prison, while the person to blame for your accused crimes is free to live his life about the city?”
Aimee broke her eyes away from her tea, and looked at Vitoria. The two briefly locked eyes. Vitoria heard an angry rattle in her head as the voice within her shouted at the insinuation that Conyers had harbored James all that time, but she locked it away. She knew Mikis was baiting her. The man’s profession was information. He could have known about James, or he could be learning about him through her reaction. No doubt he knew it was Vitoria who killed the blonde man weeks ago, but he might not have known who he was to her.