by C. M. Lind
He sighed. “It’s just not fair, you know? For that man to have lived his life carefree while you suffered.” He shook his head. “But I suppose that’s why you killed him the way you did? A bold statement of how you deal with a traitor.”
She heard the voice, which was normally epicene, suddenly turn deep and masculine. It rattled the word as Mikis said it. Traitor.
“What is it you want, Mikis?” asked Aimee.
“I am merely observing that Vitoria is very driven! It is a compliment, I assure you!” He flashed his charming smile at Aimee.
The deep tittering in her mind continued, and she begged it to stop, to stay silent for a few moments longer—to just wait until Mikis left. The mention of James seemed to fuel it, and the weakness she had thought was from the poppy, was faltering.
“Your admiration for Vitoria is not doubted; you always compliment her whenever you see her,” said Aimee. “In fact, you’ve always been one to compliment many people, Mikis.”
“Yes, I suppose I do, but I promise this time it has a point.” He turned back to Vitoria. “I will give you this invitation. But this is not a job for The Disciples; this is a job for you.”
“Conyers has assured me that he will personally take care of your fee,” interjected Aimee.
“I don’t want his money. I am doing this for Vitoria, and I would like payment from her.”
Vitoria was practically strangling her cup of tea. “What do you want?”
“A favor,” he replied casually.
She scrunched her forehead at him as she subconsciously pulled away from him, pressing her back into the chair.
“Nothing sexual, I promise you—let us not sully our attraction with lurid business, my sweetness. Your determination and ruthlessness will prove useful to me. I give you this invitation, and one day you pay me back.” He took another sugar cube and tossed it into his mouth.
“I’ll have Conyers give you more, something more adequate for your services, Mikis,” said Aimee.
The sugar cube crunched in his mouth. “Aimee, my sweet Aimee, I have plenty of Conyers’ petals already! I don’t believe I would have any more space for them! No, I would much rather prefer a small favor from the relentless, vicious, and infamous Vitoria.” He said the words with a lustful, admiring twang. “Do I have your word?”
They both looked at Vitoria. The voice within her was momentarily appeased by her begging, but she knew that soon it would bombard her. “Fine!” she snapped.
“Oh, thank you so much, sweetness!” Mikis drew a single coral envelope from his pouch and extended it to Vitoria.
Aimee reached out and snatched it from his hand. “Thank you, Mikis, but we have much to plan.” She stood. The invitation was held close to her breast, as if it would fly from arms like a fleeing bird. She gestured for Mikis to leave.
“It has been a pleasure, ladies.” Mikis stood, finished his sugary tea in one gulp and then set the cup onto the table. “Stay hydrated, sweetness. It’s the fastest way to get the poppy out of your system.” He bowed to Vitoria and gave her a suggestive wink.
She wanted to smash her cup against his face, but instead she took another small, restrained sip.
Aimee walked him to the door, where he stayed for a few moments longer in their extended goodbyes.
The moment Vitoria heard the door close, she gulped the rest of the tea down and then poured herself another cup. She slammed the kettle back into the fireplace where it belonged as Aimee returned to her.
“How the fuck does he know that?” She threw two sugar cubes into her cup, and before they could dissolve, she had tossed back all the tea into her mouth.
“I didn’t say anything to him,” said Aimee calmly as Vitoria gulped down the tea.
“Then how?” asked Vitoria, uncertain if she trusted Aimee after all. “Ulrich?”
You can’t trust anyone! The voice sounded triumphant that its long held position was proven correct.
“Absolutely not! The boy would never tell anyone, you know that.” Aimee handed Vitoria her own cup of half-finished tea.
Vitoria accepted it without hesitation. “Then how?”
Aimee gave a sad smile and put her hand on Vitoria’s shoulder. “Darling, all he had to do was look at you.”
Chapter 20
As the two journeyed to the glove shop—only about an hour away by foot—Randolph told Soli all the details of what had happened from the beginning. He didn’t hold back as he told her about wanting to please Jae with his first job, taking over the investigation on Jae’s insistence, the rushed investigation, the strange witness Rienne Suchet, the peculiar informant Dion Vaux, Vitoria’s escape from The White Cliffs, and Vaux’s recent demise. The words spilled freely from his lips, faster than if he had been confessing to a priest while drunk on his deathbed.
Soli seemed to take the revelation well—or at least better than Randolph thought she would. He figured by the time he told her about Vitoria being sent to the pit, that Soli surely would have slapped him and hated him forever, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for it. But she didn’t. She listened intently and quietly as he spilled his regretful tale.
The glove shop was located in the most posh marketplace in the city known as Pearl’s Way. Unbeknownst to Randolph, it was so named for its history. During the founding of the city, the first powerful merchant to take up residence built the first real store in what would be named Queensport. She was a Venari woman who specialized in jewelry—notably pearls.
Pearl’s Way was known as the affluent part of Queensport, and Randolph stood out like a vagabond around the beautiful and well-dressed. Extravagantly large buildings, built from brick and oak, housed all kind of strange shops. Large, colorful tents crafted from the finest heavy brocades housed traveling merchants. Musicians like Randolph hadn’t heard before were on every corner. They weren’t loud or brash as many of the musicians he had seen in his days tended to be. Instead, they were reserved, talented, and impressive. He particularly was taken aback by the presence of so many harpists, delicately plucking out their beautiful, courtly music. A half-formed thought lodged in the back of his busy mind, and he supposed that these were the types of performers that Soli might very well be considered as—the best. When she would play her lyre for Ety, there were more than a few times he eavesdropped.
They passed by countless fragrant restaurants, each filling the air with their rich, delectable scents. They all advertised their specialization in something different: Venari shellfish or tuna, Northern boar and bear, southern Avelinian lake trout, northern Avelinian snail with crusted pine nuts, and so much more that Randolph didn’t notice. There were rows of shops of clothing, jewelry, and shoes—each advertising themselves as the best in the city. Randolph couldn’t help but feel ridiculous, walking past such gaudy extravagances, and wondered if Soli felt as ridiculous walking with him.
There was a sign that read “The Gilded Glove” with hammered golden plating over the letters. The writing was so extravagant and loopy that at first Randolph didn’t even recognize it as words. He was ashamed that he could barely read cursive, and most certainly couldn’t write in it. Luckily, Soli’s eyes were quick, and she gently tapped him in his side with her elbow, pointing the sign out. His front teeth grazed his bottom lip when he realized he would have walked right by it without her.
As they approached the shop, a particularly slender building of one floor wedged between a chocolatier and a tea shop (each wafting heavenly scents into the streets, which would have easily enticed Randolph if his mind wasn’t already so burdened), Soli finally spoke to him. “We cannot change what has happened.” She said the phrase as if she had spoken the words to herself a thousand times before. She put her hand on his shoulder for a moment and at her touch he felt his shoulders become lighter.
A few passing noblewomen snickered at the two.
“But you can change what happens now. You have to do whatever it takes to make it right.” Randolph eyed the passing women, but Soli b
rilliantly ignored them. “Killing is a heavy burden that I know of, Randolph, it is something I carry. Something that is always close to my mind and heavy on my heart. But I cannot imagine the suffering you feel at the thought of stealing that woman’s future. That you snatched her freedom from her, and left her to misery, rot, and abuse.”
Randolph gave one quick nod.
Soli looked him in the eyes for a few more moments, as if to steel him, and then she pushed open the door and slipped inside the store. Randolph followed.
The entire place smelled decadently like leather. The shop was filled with small, round tables. Each were home to a few pairs of gloves. Displays were nearby showing off the different styles of gloves. Randolph never knew there were so many different cuts of gloves or types of fabric, and he still thought the only real difference in such things came down to color and price. There were two other people in the store, a woman trying on several pairs of gloves, and a saleswoman dressed in a dangerously revealing gown the color of overripe strawberries.
Randolph briefly made eye contact with the saleswoman. Her eyes were the color of dark, bitter, ground cocoa, and, for a moment, he was afraid that she would recognize him. If she did, she made no inclination of it. Instead she turned back to her customer, complementing the woman’s thin fingers and delicate wrist. Even though Randolph wasn’t close to the customer, he was sure from where he stood that the woman did not have thin fingers, and that her plump wrists were anything but delicate.
Soli walked to the first display, and she gently touched the tips of her fingers along the soft, aurulent leather gloves. She turned to Randolph and their eyes met. He was so glad that she had accompanied him. She darted her eyes at the saleswoman, and Randolph nodded to her. Soli smiled back at him, and then she continued to look at the gloves.
Randolph began to walk straight for the saleswoman when Soli put out her newly gloved hand. “What do you think?”
The question stopped him. “Uhhh….” His eyebrows squeezed together. “What?”
“What do you think?” She waved her hand in front of his eyes, deliberately breaking his rancorous gaze from the saleswoman.
He relaxed his mashed brow, but kept his eye on the saleswoman.
“I guess that means you don’t like it.” She pulled the glove off and set it back on the display as she stepped in front of Randolph, physically blocking him from his march towards Rienne Suchet. Soli turned her attention to another table, lined with various light blues gloves. “What about these then?”
Randolph looked down at the gloves and then at Soli, who was so close she was almost touching him. “Are you serious?” he whispered into her ear as she scanned the gloves with her fingertips and eyes.
She turned her face to him. “Are you seriously going to question her with someone else here? Just wait,” she whispered with a passive noble smile on her face.
She took his rough and scarred hand and placed the tips of his fingers on a pair of gloves that was the color of under-ripe blueberries. They were soft, and Randolph’s calloused fingertips caught on them. He drew his hand back. “Those are…nice?”
Soli tried them on, and she contentedly sighed as her hand slipped into them. “They are nice!” she said in a voice that made Randolph cringe.
“Yes.” He smiled through clamped teeth. She sounded far too much like every other rich, snotty woman in Queensport, and he found it striking how quickly and believably she took to the part.
She continued in that way for a few more pairs, while the saleswoman packaged the gloves the customer had decided on: seven sets of different gloves. Randolph didn’t overhear how much the total came to, but he could imagine it was ridiculous. The store didn’t list prices on their gloves, and he knew that was a sign that no one with any good sense should be shopping there.
After the customer left, the saleswoman walked over to them like a prized show horse. “Find anything you like, madam?”
“You know,” Soli said, flashing a charming smile that, even given the situation, made Randolph swoon inside. “They’re all so lovely that it’s hard to pick anything!”
The saleswoman giggled and flashed her overly bright teeth. “Well, madam, there is no reason you must only decide upon one! Take your time.”
“But, Miss…?” Soli let her words linger.
“Oh, I apologize. My name is Rienne.” The saleswoman giggled like a little girl again. Randolph rolled his eyes.
“But, Rienne, it could take me hours to decide! I would feel awful taking up all your time. Is there anyone else who could help, in case someone else needs assistance?” asked Soli.
“Nonsense! It would be my pleasure to give you my full attention! It is just me here for now. We don’t get many patrons at this hour. Most ladies finish with their shopping by lunch, so the others at The Gilded Glove go home.” Rienne busied her hands by adjusting a few stacks of gloves that were in no way in need of needing adjustment.
“Really? That seems odd!” said Soli.
Rienne giggled again. “Really, it is no odder than you bringing your bodyguard into the shop! Most ladies leave them outside to carry the boxes.”
Soli touched Randolph’s arm as she laughed. “Oh, he’s not my bodyguard.
Rienne gave a short giggle as she tried, and failed, to mask her disgust. “Oh, do not worry, madam. I won’t talk.” She winked at Soli.
A flush crept across Randolph’s cheeks, and he tightened his hands into hard fists.
Soli’s smiled vanished at the woman’s wink. “I believe you misunderstand me.” Her words were gentle, yet there was a terrifyingly fire behind them. “Randolph is my friend, and he is here to talk to you.” Soli removed her hand from his arm, and nodded for him to talk to Rienne.
He grinned at Soli before he turned to Rienne. “You remember me, Rienne Suchet?”
Rienne took a step back and to the side, putting a display between the two of them. “Should I?” She smirked, but did not look him in the eye—as if he was too distasteful to stomach.
“I remember you.” He couldn’t help himself; he was going to like what came next. “It’s hard to forget that damn giggle of yours or the way you dress. You’re in your forties and you act like a young, dumb whore. Hard to forget a used-up, old, lying cow.”
Her face turned as red as her dress, and she began to hurriedly walk around the display (a garish collection of yellow, red, and orange gloves), heading for the door. “I don’t waste my time with trash.”
Soli stepped in front of the door, which didn’t stop Rienne. “He’s not trash,” said Soli, a bit quicker than she probably had meant to.
“You both need to leave! Now!” Rienne put her hand out to push Soli out of the way of the door, but Soli didn’t let the woman touch her. She grabbed Rienne by her fingers, and then she bent them backwards. Rienne squeaked like a stepped-on poodle, and her body contorted to the bending. With a flick, Soli discarded her.
Randolph smiled. He knew that love at first sight couldn’t be wrong. He grabbed Rienne by her arm as she was still reeling from Soli’s push. “Delarue Auction House? Remember now?”
She jumped at his touch, and her upper eyelids rose as she took a quick breath. “You!” she exclaimed.
“Yep. Me.” He tightened his grip on her, and she winced at the pain. “We had a talk then. You lied, so now you’re going to tell me the truth. Now.”
She desperately pulled away from him, but he held tight. Her flailing looked like that of a bird already deep in a cat’s mouth. “You’re hurting me!” she yowled.
Soli turned to the door and flicked the deadbolt to the right, locking the store.
Rienne’s face went wide as she heard the lock click, and she turned to Soli. “You’re going to let him hurt me? I haven’t hurt anyone! Why would you help him?”
Soli was unmoved. “I told you before,” she said as she flipped the Now Open sign to Closed on the window on the door. “He’s my friend, and he is here to talk to you. So, talk.”
; “He’s hurting me!” Rienne shrieked at Soli.
“I know.” Soli was at the one large main window of the store, and she pulled the amber curtain shut with one slow pull of a tassel. “But I don’t care.” She walked over to Rienne who still pathetically pulled at Randolph’s large, strong, unmoving hand.
The fire returned to Soli’s voice. “You’re a coward and a liar.” She spit on Rienne’s face, and the woman cried as she whipped it away with her free hand. “If you’re going to destroy someone, at least have the courage to do it with your own hands and not your filthy, pathetic lies.”
Randolph stared at Soli, and for a brief second he relaxed his grip on Rienne. He had never seen her so angry, so frightening, so passionate. His blood began to pound, and the familiar feeling of that tingling in his limbs and spine before a fight took over his body.
Soli turned back to the door and peered past the closed curtain. “She disgusts me, Randolph. Do what you want.”
Randolph nodded, and tightened his grip on Rienne. He would have never admitted the truth if asked, but it felt good to hurt the woman who had filled him with such guilt—a woman who played him for a fool. She squealed again; he knew that she was already badly bruised, but still he squeezed. “What happened that night?”
“You can’t kill me! People will know! That woman in here before will remember you!” Thick tears dripped from her eyes, creating blackened, kohl rivers and turning her heavy foundation into ivory mud.
“I’m not going to kill you, because you’re going to tell me what I want to know.” He couldn’t believe that Rienne was still ignoring him, still avoiding his eyes. The pathetic woman still thought she was above the truth. That she was above him. Him: The giant idiot who fell for all of her clumsy lies. He jerked her arm as he snarled, “Now!”