[Closed] If You Dare

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
The Wharf

Ava sat perched on the chair, legs tucked at a gentle angle, her back perfectly straight; she made it look comfortable, as if there were no other way she could possibly sit, and there was not a single wrinkle in the long pressed skirt of her slate blue dress. Her bare hands were folded lightly in her lap, and her ringlets hung over her shoulder as she looked, smiling with a pinch of worry around her eyes, at the man behind the desk.

“There have been more and more cargos flagged of late,” Mr. Williams said; the light glinted off the thin wire-framed glasses perched on his nose as he glanced down at the papers on his desk. His writ was framed on the wall behind the desk, hanging behind a thin sheet of glass, along with various other diplomas and authorizations. He swallowed, looking back up at Ava; the slightly worn tweed of his suit twitched with it. “Naturally, all the papers are in order, but the customs officials wanted to see yours as well, as the importer.”

“I understand, I think,” Ava said, slightly wide-eyed. She had corresponded a good deal with Mr. Williams; she sold many Anaxi-made fabrics, but a draper’s shop in the Painted Ladies needed fabrics from Mugroba, from Bastia, even from Hox or Gior, to attract Uptown clientele. He looked very much as she had imagined, down to the thinning spot on the crown of his head, down to the anxious frown on his face.

Ava looked down at the case that rested against the leg of her chair, letting her eyes linger on the roses nestled in green fabric. She looked back up at Mr. Williams. “Do you have a sense of what it will cost me?” Ava asked. “To have the shipment released?” She let a little more of the worry creep into her face; her forehead tightened, and her lips pressed together, pale-pink and trembling for a moment as she found her courage.

Mr. Williams was already shaking his head. “I wrote to you because I know this shipment represents quite a large investment on your part,” he said, frowning. “I hope you would not balk at… there are sometimes extra duties imposed, you understand – unexpected levies. Mr. Hywel-Wilkinson is sometimes…” he breathed in, slow and deep, and exhaled again, “difficult.”

“Yes,” Ava promised. "I see." It was not the fabric she thought of, the brightly colored Mugrobi weaves, the warm patterns growing in popularity in Vienda even in the Dives as fall drew onwards and the Symvoulio moved; it was the single bolt, tucked somewhere unprepossessing among all the rest, with an asymmetric pattern pricked out in dots and dashes all through, parts bordered by a distinctive red stripe. It was the letter which had been sent – not to her, but to another contact – and the name Serro which they had teased, slowly, from two layers of code.

Silk watched Mr. Williams from behind Ava’s eyes.

“I hope we shall be able to resolve all this trouble in the appointment tomorrow,” Ava murmured, softly, when the discussion began to wind itself down.

“I’m sure, Ms. Weaver,” Mr. Williams said, clearing his throat. He straightened a piece of paper on his desk, and rose; the pinched, worried look on his face put the lie to it. “You’ll meet me here an hour prior? It’s much better to be early.”

Ava nodded. She rose as well, gracefully, fingers wrapping around the handle of her case. “Of course. Thank you again, Mr. Williams, for all your attention on this matter.”

“Of course,” Mr. Williams said, firmly. He took a deep breath. That, Ava thought, he had meant. “I do hope, Ms. Weaver – I do hope.”

Ava smiled at him, softly, letting more warmth spill into it. “So,” she said, “do I.”

Mr. Williams held her cloak at the door; he saw her down the narrow, cramped staircase to the first floor of the arcade; he had closed and locked his door behind him, his name painted in a flowing, cursive script onto the worn glass panel installed in the slightly swollen wood. He walked Ava past the other businesses on the ground floor, and bowed her gently out the front door, onto the street beyond.

Ava curtsied, neatly, in the small, cramped space; she finished sliding her gloves on, took her case firmly in hand once more, and stepped out onto the street beyond, a soft turban hat perched on her hair against the cold, the same slate blue as the dress she wore; there were no feathers or flowers tucked in it, but a small length of bright blue ribbon, folded over upon itself in a flower-like shape. The same color blue had been worked into the dress, vibrant just at Ava’s waist, and in the embroidery at the hem and wrists.

It was late in the afternoon; the sun was just above the distant buildings and hills of the rose, slanted golden rays sparkling through the streets, all the colors sharp yet pale. They were a few steps from the edge of the wharf; the waves lapped busily at the piers, and the Rose bustled, too and fro. Ava looked around, taking a deep breath, and went just a little still at the sight of a large, familiar figure coming from the docks. She held a moment – a moment too long, then, to pretend otherwise.

“Mr. Cooke,” Ava said, with a friendly smile. She was aware of a sudden pounding in her chest, of a slow coldness trickling down her spine. None of it showed; she curtsied, delicately, instead. One hand held her case; the other reached up to steady her hat, although it hadn’t so much as twitched with her careful movement. “What a pleasant surprise.”

[Clark Cooke]

The Wharf, Old Rose Harbor

late afternoon of the 13th of dentis, 2719

W
o chet, fuckssake!”

Clark saw it sliding back off the pallet right when Allen yelled. Mr. Ohak’d opened his mouth to give him the go-ahead, and the tip of his pencil froze over the pad.

Clark saw it sliding, and there wasn’t much time, so he pushed past the Mugrobi – he felt bad, but there wasn’t much room, and there wasn’t time for sorry, neither – and thumped down to the gangway. The back of Allen’s neck was bright red and glistening, in spite of the chill wind. Wood scraped wood, and Allen swore again through his teeth.

And then Clark lunged with his hook, flashing in the late afternoon sun. Planting his feet, he grunted with effort, pulling the crate back into place. It hadn’t slid far, but it was an awkward angle, and Clark felt something pull in his lower back; he winced.

Allen was all tied up with the pallet. Clark saw his face for a half-second, before he set about securing the crate like it should’ve been secured in the first place. It was a twisted knot, red as an apple.

In the corner of his eye, Clark saw him twist halfway round, looking up toward the Marie, where the shadow of a man stood slumped over the railing, a plume of smoke billowing out against the reddening sky. “Waller!” He shouted, hoarse. The silhouette waved a hand languidly.

“You useless fuckin’ kenser’s –”

“There goes, Allen,” mumbled Clark, with a little half-bow.

The whole of Allen was a knot, Clark thought. He could see the muscles corded underneath his thin shirt; he’d left his coat down on the pier, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up. The breath whistled through his throat as he heaved again, a little squeak.

Clark didn’t ask if he needed help, because when he asked questions like that, the other men just got angry or laughed at him. He didn’t point out that Allen shouldn’t’ve tried to take a pallet this heavy by himself, neither, even though it was the truth. Clark hadn’t quite worked out the difference, but there were times when you shouldn’t tell a truth that wasn’t asked for, and he thought for sure this was one of those times.

So he put his hook with Allen’s and the two of them took the pallet up onto the deck, where Mr. Ohak still stood waiting. Allen looked halfway in the grave when he let go, and something in Clark’s back was twitching, though he tried to ignore it.

“Fuck me,” breathed Allen. “Fuck.” Clark could tell it was hard for him to let go of the hook; his hand was swollen around the joints, and he couldn’t spread his fingers.

Wiry old Waller was still leaning on the railing, all bundled up in his coat. Clark could see him better up on the deck, his lean, pock-marked face all lined with gold-pink sunset light. He was looking out toward the warehouses.

Clark looked at him with a furrowed brow, then turned away. He didn’t think Allen wanted him around, to see him struggling.

“Eat shit, Waller!” Allen roared, and Clark managed to suppress a flinch.

“I’m on break,” came Waller’s reedy whine.

Allen turned, then, and was looking at him. Clark knew he had to look him in the face, so he picked the space right between his eyes. “Wager a ha’bird he’ll be slingin’ the hook in a maw,” Allen said.

“Ain’t enough of us,” mumbled Clark, looking down and askance at Mr. Ohak.

The slim old Mugrobi — they all knew, without saying, he was a scrap; he couldn’t’ve been otherwise — was standing by the pallet Clark had left, watching the two humans. Against the darkening sky, Clark couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see the frown on his face.

Allen hocked up some spit and Mr. Ohak’s frown deepened.

That was the last pallet to go aboard the Marie, and so Clark and Allen went to put them with the rest of the cargo. This was the part Clark liked; this was the part Clark was good at. Mr. Ohak was quiet, having seen Clark at work many times before, and the first mate of the Marie’d figured out he didn’t need much direction.

Even with his back all knotted up and aching, it was just about the most satisfying thing in Vita to put the last boxes in place. Give Clark Cooke an empty hold and a bunch of boxes, and it didn’t matter how big or unwieldy they was; he’d figure out a way to fit them all in there benny and pretty.

When he’d first started working with gang forty-three, Waller’d told him not every kov was cut out to be a docker. It wasn’t all about heavy lifting and hooks, he’d said; space was a wharfie’s qalqa. Clark could picture him clear as clocks, waving his knotty old hand, pulling at his beard.

It wasn’t a mung job, he’d told Clark, patting him on the back, and Clark still wasn’t sure what to think of it. But he knew he sure did like figuring out how to fit all them boxes in, even if the golly captains sometimes got uppity and made him do it the wrong way.

Wasn’t long before the men was all spilling out toward the wharf. The horn bellowed out across the water; the wind played in the rigging, ruffled the canvas. Standing at the top end of the gangway, Clark could see color spreading out over the west horizon like the pulp of a blood orange. Golden light spilled over the tangled rooftops and chimneys of the Rose, filtering through dark smoke, making black shapes of the birds alighting on the towers.

The warehouses gaped like dark mouths. The crowds were thinning out, but Clark waited a little; he didn’t want to walk back with the other men. The wharf was full of gold light and the Marie was disembarking when he finally set out, steps slow, past the dispatch office and the other buildings on the street near the warehouses. A gaggle of other dockers, Allen among them, was a few paces ahead.

It was cold, he realized, now he wasn’t working; it was cold, and he was tired to the bones. He shivered into his coat, staring down at the cobbles.

Up ahead, he heard a burst of laughter and a whistle. He grimaced, but he didn’t look up. He took his time and let the other men get far enough ahead he could barely hear them over the lapping of the water, the wind and the calls of the gulls. After a moment, he looked up, furtive, and caught a glimpse of something blue.

It wasn’t the blue his eyes lingered on. It was a familiar green case, stitched out with fine red roses.

By the time he realized what he was looking at, he knew it was much too late, because she’d paused in her step — too long, he thought, not to’ve seen him. Painstakingly, he brought his eyes up; he caught a glimpse of two familiar eyes, great dark doe eyes, and a flash of bright blue ribbon on her hat.

Like a flower, he thought, looking back down. Mr. Cooke, she said in her pleasant, soft voice, and curtsied, the delicate point of her gray-blue skirt not quite brushing the stones.

A pleasant surprise.

He was aware, suddenly, that one big hand was still clenched round the handle of his great curved docker’s hook. It was polished — some men let theirs get rusty; Clark kept his nice and clean — and glinted in the late afternoon light as he put it in its place at his belt.

His hand ached as he let go of it; it was stiff, and he almost couldn’t uncurl all his fingers. He wasn’t sure he’d let go of it a single time in the last five hours, since lunch. Tucking his hand into the pocket of his old brown coat, he dipped low in a bow.

“Miss Weaver,” he grunted, through the tightness in his throat, the pounding of his heart. “Didn’t expect t’ see you here.” He grimaced as he rose, then hesitated.

I like the flower on your hat, he wanted to blurt out. He thought of the way she must’ve been laughing at him the first time, and just kept on frowning. He still didn’t know what to think about last night. He felt funny; he was looking at her case, so he didn’t know if she was smiling, but he felt like maybe she was laughing at him, even now. Like maybe they all were.

He was itching to get home to Renata, but he didn’t see as he could just go by without another word. “I’m jus’ comin’ off my shift, madam,” he said a little louder, and took a small step closer. “Headed home.”

He wasn’t sure what else he ought to say. He didn’t know if she had any other place to be, or trouble to get into, or if he ought to offer to escort her there; he wasn’t feeling fair generous, neither, but he knew he had to keep that to himself. He cleared his throat into a fist and tried to smile, and when that failed, he just kept his head down.

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
The Wharf

Ava watched him from behind a pleasant, easy smile. She knew her face well; she knew that nothing showed on it unless she wanted it there. Not here, on a busy street in the Rose, with so many people going back and forth; not here, with Clark Cooke glancing up at her and back down, a heavy, polished docker’s hook in his hand.

Clark bowed; he mumbled a greeting. He had scarcely looked at her. She thought perhaps he had been watching her, but he could not have been there long; she had not been there long.

A docker, Ava thought. It was a good job; steady, for most men, reliable, so long as ships came in. A docker and a boarding house; was it enough to sustain them? Clark, and Teresa, and Claudia, and little Renata, plump and well-fed, with her sweet bright eyes and quiet thoughtful look. Was it enough? What would a man do, who loved his daughter?

There is no need to worry, Teresa has said the night before, tucked beneath a pleasant discussion of dinner and its conversation. Orso is safe enough, she had said, and Mr. Welkin too. Claudia and I, Teresa had promised, standing in the doorway as Ava ran the hot iron against the pressing cloth - Claudia and I. The light of the lamp had spilled out past her, edged traces into the hallway, caught the serious, worried look on her face. Ava had smiled, smoothing the fabric with one hand, and settling the heat against the cloth all the more firmly. Of course, she had said, and promised nothing. She had thought Teresa spoke true, but - then - truth was easy to come by.

And Clark?

Ava had not asked; to ask was to give herself away. A woman with nothing to fear would not ask - and so Ava had not. Now, standing on the street, a few feet away from Clark Cooke, his gaze fixed on the roses of her case, Ava wondered. She had thought to take the walk back to West-and-Long in silence, studying the Rose and preparing herself for the evening to come. It was unexpected - a surprise - and most of all, an opportunity. Clark liked to hide, Ava thought, in silence, in tender care of his beautiful daughter - but it was hiding all the same.

Clark had put the hook at his belt, and tucked his hand away into his pocket. Ava was no less conscious of it than she had been before, but she did not think it was the hook she had to fear. If anything, Ava thought, it was the hand, hidden, held just out of sight.

“I’ve just finished my business here,” Ava said with a friendly smile, glancing sideways at the building behind her. She hid nothing; there was nothing to hide. “I’d planned to head back as well,” she glanced around, briefly, and then looked back at Clark. Ava smiled, warmly, although not too warmly. “I’d be grateful for your escort, if it’s not too much trouble,” Ava said. “I’m not quite sure I know the way.”

He could not refuse, and they both knew it. They fell in together, quietly; Ava’s boots clicked softly on the street beneath the swaying of her slate blue skirt, the gray line of her cloak nestled against it.

“Are you from the Rose, Mr. Cooke?” Ava asked, lightly, as if the question had only just occurred to her. She held her case in one gloved hand; it swayed gently with her. The breeze tugged at them both, rustling the layers of cloth, lifting up to tug at her long dark curls. It carried with it the smell of fish and sand, and the faint dark odor beneath it Ava had known from a girl, though she had not known to name it then. She glanced around, though her gaze didn’t linger on Clark, but rather all those around them, the busy people flowing like waves through the streets of the Rose.

[Clark Cooke]

Crowded Streets, West and Long

late afternoon of the 13th of dentis, 2719

H
e mumbled, “’Course, madam,” as they fell quietly into step on the busy street. He didn’t look at the building behind her, or at her face again, though he could see in the corner of his eye she was smiling at him.

You found your way here well enough, he thought, with a strength that surprised even him. He did not say it aloud; there was still enough space between his mind and his mouth to protect him. But it wouldn’t’ve been so hard, this time. He wondered where it’d come from. He hadn’t been thinking about it today – all day, he’d only thought of crates and where to put them, even at lunch – but there must’ve been something at work inside him.

He didn’t like that thought. There was too much mystery at work outside him for there to be more inside him, inside his head, where he lived and thought he was safe. Or maybe everything had got strange.

He was grateful to walk beside her, so he wouldn’t have to look at her face.

He had always found it hard to keep track of his eyes in a crowd. Mostly he looked down, to avoid all the eyes that tended to avoid his, and that was a world in and of itself. It was dizzying, the things you saw when you kept your head down on a busy street in the Rose.

The hems of skirts in all sorts of colors, in all sorts of cuts – you saw a lot of pointed hems, ‘course, in cotton dyed plain earthy colors. But often enough, underneath the grim dark wool of a coat, out peeped a brush of crimped delicate crêpe in a surprisingly bright color, like orange or forest-green; you saw a lot of orange, this time of year. Sometimes you saw the silky sweep of a Mugrobi skirt, with a border of patterned embroidery following the hem; sometimes several clustered together, accompanied by lilting laughter.

Shoes, too. Heavy boots, some steel-toed, some worn through. Thin, ragged shoes, some flopping open at the toe like lazy mouths, sometimes with a bit of mangled wool sock peeping through. Narrow-toed shoes shiny-black with polish; sometimes you felt a brush of woobly against your skin, not wick-woobly, and you knew to steer clear. Under shifting skirts and long embroidered coats, ladies’ boots with heels Clark couldn’t imagine trying to walk in.

Mostly, you saw stones, whizzing by underneath your own heavy boots. Sometimes the glitter of a rusty coin. Clark stopped to pick them up, sometimes, if it didn’t hold up the crowd too much. Not for stealing, not if he’d seen somebody drop them, but for good luck: he liked to save those for the little miss.

Today, he watched a quart’penny go by wistfully; it was near a lady’s shoe, in the shadow of her skirts. And he didn’t want Miss Weaver to think he was some kind of thief, anyways.

All that looking had calmed him down a little, but Miss Weaver spoke again, and his throat tightened. It was a while before he could say anything. He looked over at the hem of her cloak, and at her shoes, and then back at his own.

“Aye,” he mumbled, “madam.”

He swallowed and found there was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away. Slowly, he reached up with one big hand and ran his hand over his jaw. He didn’t think he ought to leave it there; he felt sure there was more he was supposed to say.

Wasn’t just the question she asked. A yes-or-no question like that, and you were supposed to say more things. Like what you thought of the Rose, as a native. She was – making conversation, folks called it. He wasn’t sure why. Nobody thought a mung like Clark was much good for conversation.

But he felt he ought to say more. “I like it. I reckon,” he added uncertainly, after a few more moments, when the words had come unstuck. “I’m from Sharkswell, past Cantile.” Another small pause. “That’s a bad part, Miss Weaver. Maybe don’t go there, if you ain’t got to. West-and-Long’s fine. Somethin’ to see on market day, which is tens, which is when Tess makes pot roast.”

He wasn’t sure, after all, what she was asking about. He put his hand back in his pocket and pulled up his shoulders. “I never been nowhere else, to compare,” he explained, bowing his head, feeling more mung. “What’s Vienda like, madam?”

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
The Wharf

I
t was quiet a long time, in the wake of her question. Ava wondered what he thought he would give away in the answering; he could not know, she thought, what she knew; he could not know what she might hope to learn. Ava knew something of patience, though; she knew something, too, of laying in wait. She walked as if there had been nothing to it but a casual desire, between strangers, to make conversation; she knew even the slightest emphasis might give away exactly that which she wished to avoid.

The light had gone golden-pink; it washed over the buildings in wide swathes. It made all the colors richer, more elegant. Ava knew the styles of the dresses around them; it was a mistake to think, as she knew some galdori did, that humans all dressed the same. There was variation, depending on the tailor, depending on when the dress was made; there had been a fashion for a more pointed scoop at the neck in Vienda – not along the chest, naturally, but at the shoulders where the seams met – in the summer of 2717. She was surprised to find it here in the Rose, in dresses that looked almost new – the sort that would have been purchased in the summer, and were seeing the last of their wear before being put away for the winter.

The colors were shifting, dresses along with the leaves; orange and red were creeping in, making a last appearance before winter. That, Ava remembered from her childhood, watching orange and red cloths folded against the counter at the end of the summer, seeing the dresses people wore through Cantile change color, slowly, through the year. That, she understood now, was something the Rose had all to itself. It was surprising, still, to feel it settle in her chest; to feel it rise like a lump in her throat, and have to breathe around it.

Aye, madam, Clark said, touching the scar on his face. She didn't know what he was thinking of.

Nothing showed on her face, or in her stride; when Clark spoke again, Ava glanced at him with a polite smile. Sharkswell, she thought, remembering another man with the broad vowels of the Rose, telling her in a deep voice where he’d grown up. Sharkswell, she thought, past Cantile; she knew where the streets turned – not sharp and abrupt, not one house to the next, but slowly along a block, here and there, until well-kept houses became crowded tenements, until the washing outside faded from white to gray.

Ava wasn’t sure how she’d expected him to answer the question. It was the confirmation she had wanted – a slow triangulation of points, converging like a spiral on an inescapable truth. Clark Cooke, Margaret, Sharkswell. Tom had never said, one way or another, but Ava knew there was no escaping the Brothers; if Clark had joined, as a boy, not knowing any better, following his brother –

Ava looked around. The shadows were growing longer; their crisp edges were fading into a smooth darkness as the sun began to sink over the hills. The clouds above the bay, half-behind them now, had gone from pink and orange to a deeper, darker red, and were losing their color now, slowly, as night began to dawn. Streams of people moved around them, the busy clip of shoes on cobblestones here; sandswept alleys lined either side, and dark bodies shifted there too, quiet, searching in the last of the light.

“It’s hard to compare, I think,” Ava agreed, “even having seen both,” she offered Clark a friendly smile, though she was not sure, with how fixed his gaze was on his feet, whether he saw it. Why didn’t he want to look? What was he afraid of? Ava wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she thought there was no avoiding it.

“Vienda is bright,” Ava said. The brightest lights, she thought, left space for the darkest shadows. “Lively, colorful. Even the quiet places are loud, sometimes.”

They turned; Ava followed Clark. It wasn’t, she thought, the way she’d gone that morning; she felt a prickle of unease down her spine, and she set it aside. There would be nothing she could do, if it turned out to be the hook that she should fear.

“I live in a neighborhood of old houses,” Ava said with a smile. “They’re all painted different colors, some fresh and some peeling. My shop is on the ground floor. It’s called the Painted Ladies,” she said with a lightness to her voice. "The neighborhood, that is." Her head was turned away, ever so slightly, as if she were looking at a dsoh shop across the street; her gaze was on Clark, out of the corner of her eyes.

[Clark Cooke]

Crowded Streets, West and Long

late afternoon of the 13th of dentis, 2719

T
he Painted Ladies,” Clark said after a long moment of walking, with just a hint of a smile dimpling his cheek, beside the scar. Underneath the bustle of West and Long in the afternoon, he could see it clearly. Rows of houses painted all sorts of bright colors. He could picture a tall, skinny house in bright green, the color of a lime’s skin, and just beside it a squat fat one in apple-red. Storefronts, like them in King’s Court, all fancy.

And he thought there ought to be ladies, too. Painted ladies. His brow furrowed, trying to sort through the thought. Not that sort of painted lady, he hoped. Not if Miss Weaver ran a shop alone there. But ladies in dresses so bright they looked painted, just like the houses. Big skirts in funny shapes, too. He thought the fashions in Vienda might be strange; he’d heard the golly ladies there wore dresses that were all ruffled on one side and plain on the other, and collars all the way up to their jaws.

It must’ve been a fair long moment he was silent. Clark wasn’t sure how long it was. That was the problem with making conversation, such as he could. Clark paused too long; a silence long enough, and most folk moved on.

Most folk, he thought, must have been able to feel it, whatever it was. Clark knew it was there because he caught glimpses of it sometimes; he found them worrying, rather than tantalizing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it. It was like a big crowd, and some folk could feel the push and pull of it, where a space was about to fill or empty, and move through it.

Once, he couldn’t’ve moved through these streets at all. Once, he’d’ve gotten halfway to the docks from the boarding house and got overwhelmed. He’d’ve stood very still until they flowed around him, full of unkind looks.

Clark turned and took a quieter way, the way he always came back. It felt safer, especially with Miss Weaver; it was easy to lose somebody else when the streets were packed, and these streets were narrower and sparser. Not that he was sure, he thought, that he was safe with her.

As they walked along, Clark dared to look over at Miss Weaver, and found himself looking at a fall of dark curls over one small, grey-blue shoulder. A cab clattered slowly by, and then Clark saw she was looking at a dsoh shop across the way, a few wrought-iron tables and chairs vacant underneath a wind-ruffled awning. A tall man in a dark cloak was holding the door for a young woman.

Clark had had dsoh, once. Not at that shop, but at another like it, in Cantile. Teresa had taken him. He had never thought he would eat someplace like that; plenty of humans in the Rose could afford it, but he had never been that sort of human.

He had not much liked dsoh. The broth was very rich and had an unfamiliar sweetness-and-saltiness, and there were a whole lot of different textures floating in there. But the low, warm lighting had made Teresa’s face soft, and her eyes even darker.

Clark looked at Miss Weaver a little longer, before he remembered you oughtn’t look at somebody who wasn’t looking at you. Then he glanced back at the stones going steadily by.

He still couldn’t think what she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want nothing, or nothing in particular. Maybe she really did just want to talk.

Clark couldn’t think of why. None of it made sense. He couldn’t remember everything Teresa had said to her last night, and he didn’t want to; he didn’t want to go back looking through that memory, like he had to be suspicious of his own wife.

Not just his wife – his whole life, he thought, staring down at his boots. Nothing before the Gorettis counted. This was who he was. The boarding house, the little miss. The hook at his belt. They all felt unreal. Like shadows on the wall. Like shadows he’d been fooled into thinking was real.

His jaw tightened, and he stared at his feet. “I ain’t sure I’d like it there,” he grunted. “In Vienda. If there ain’t no real quiet. If even the quiet’s loud, I mean. You got to have someplace quiet. So you can think, to yourself. Take your time.”

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
Wharf-side of West and Long

Clark smiled.

Ava didn’t know what to make of it. It was a small smile, like most of the ones she’d seen on his face; it was smaller than the ones he gave his daughter, and even those were small, careful and loving. It didn’t last long, either; it was a little flicker, a hint of a dimple alongside the scar in his cheek, and then it was gone, and Clark was furrowing his brow, as if thinking the name over. He’d said the name slowly and carefully.

Ava kept her gaze evenly across the street. She had never tried dsoh; her aunt had not approved of anything Mugrobi or Hoxian, when she was a girl, even in the years when they might have been able to scrape together the funds for such extravagances. Even their fabrics had been viewed with suspicion, and customers too, although Ava’s uncle must have had contacts in Mugroba and Hox both. Bastians were, narrowly, considered acceptable, or so Ava recalled.

There were dsoh shops in Vienda, surely; Ava had never been to one. She tried to think, now, who she would go with, how she could ask. It faded in the background, and the thought faded too; Ava did not try to hold on to it. Dsoh did not matter to her, not really, not enough to take such a risk.

These streets were quieter; it was more conversation and lights drifting from windows, now, fewer businesses. It was early enough still that nothing had closed; bells tinkled, here and there, as customers went in or out to the butcher, or baker. A man was ironing outside, with stacks of clean folded clothes tied with ribbons next to him; Ava studied the fabric with a practiced eye, and looked away, back to the street before them.

Ava did not start a new conversation; she was wary of making Clark feel as if she was pressing, pushing or prying.

When he spoke again, it caught her by surprise. Ava glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, blinking softly. He was looking down at his shoes; his voice was tight, and half-tangled in his throat. She glanced away, putting her long fall of hair between them once more. She didn’t quite know what to say; it was an angle she hadn’t expected.

“I understand,” Ava agreed, softly. She took a deep breath; she let it out in a soft, audible sigh. She glanced back over her shoulder at Clark, looking at him for a moment, and then, carefully, deliberately, straight ahead, so what she could see of him was half-obscured by the fall of her hair. It was easy enough to understand what he meant; Ava thought of the small room above her shop, of the little gray cat who was her constant companion there. It was hers, she thought, achingly; hers and hers alone.

“It’s not so different from having a home, is it?” Ava asked. “Having a quiet place.” She adjusted her grip on the small case; she tucked the folds of her cloak around herself. She let a little wistfulness creep into her voice; it wasn’t hard. All she had to do was think of climbing the stairs after a long day – opening the trap door, and seeing the gray cat curled into a ball in the center of her bed – settling herself in front of her mirror, and beginning the long, soothing routine of making herself ready for bed.

“I haven’t been away this long before,” Ava admitted, softly, letting a little quiver creep into her voice, the faintest hint of one. She looked away a little more, so the light would – just barely – catch the faintest sheen of moisture in her eyes. The homesickness wasn’t hard either; it curled in her stomach. She had known before she went, something of Customs Officer Hywel-Wilkinson, and something of the price she might need to pay. All the same, it was not hard to let the ache show through, to make herself – carefully, precisely – a little more transparent. It was risky, Ava thought, but, then, so was all the rest; so, too, was the not knowing.

[Clark Cooke]

Less Crowded Streets, West and Long

late afternoon of the 13th of dentis, 2719

T
here was a waterfall of them pretty dark curls between him and her face, as they walked on side by side. He only got a glimpse of them, before he looked back down at his boots. He felt a little easier, thinking they was there; he had a feeling she was still looking at him, anyway. Looking at him in a way that wasn’t looking, exactly. Or thinking about him, maybe.

Past the streets with the dsoh shops, past the hour and the season for ladies to sun on their back stoops. Still enough scattered folk it was hard to risk looking up, for fear of catching one eye or another. Still chatters of laughter from this way or that, from behind or from some stall closing up.

He kept his head down, and his shoulders drawn up. He didn’t flinch no more, did Clark, if somebody got too close or made a loudish noise, or if he felt the brush of a glamour. But he had a habit of clenching his jaw and his back, and his hands were deep in his pockets.

Home, to the little miss. Soon, he thought. Home. He had to think so. No worrying about Miss Weaver this or the places where there wasn’t no quiet, or knives in the shadows. All that somebody else’s world, not Clark Cooke’s.

There had been some not-talking before he’d talked, and he thought maybe he hadn’t said nothing worth talking back to. Well, that was fine. Maybe it hadn’t made much sense. Clark wasn’t a man for making much sense, or for talking nothing smart. Best keep quiet, most of the time. His big lumbering self was one thing, but the kind of words as came out of his mouth was another, and half the time, they only made folk more confused – or scared.

Wasn’t nothing bad about that quiet, but she broke it, sooner than he’d’ve liked. It was the sigh made him look over, much as he didn’t want to. Sounded real sad.

She was looking straight ahead. He could see some of her face now, around all that hair. Home, she said, and he could see the old red carpet in the Goretti house plain as day in his head. With its special worn patches all worn silvery-dark, and its forty-one remaining tassels, twenty-two on one end and nineteen on the other. And the little miss, and Tess cooking up something that smelled nice and had rich red tomatoes in it.

He almost missed it, the glitter on Miss Weaver’s thick eyelashes. When he saw it, he knew he was looking at her eyes, and he was worried she’d turn and look at him, so he looked down at his feet.

He didn’t say nothing, for a while. He didn’t know what to say. He was thinking. Maybe he had been wrong.

The streets were getting even narrower, and he took them down a much quieter one, where there weren’t many folk at all. The rooftops overhead leaned fair close, and there were laundrylines going to and fro, but no laundry to hang on them.

He was thinking, still, halfway down the narrow street. Cause he kept his eyes on the ground, he saw all the uneven stones; he tried to guide their path round the potholes where rainwater gathered, and the jutting-out bits where soft little green things peeked out. He used to fall all the time, so he was careful.

“I don’t know, Miss Weaver,” he said, when he’d got done thinking. He took one of his big hands out of his pocket, very slowly. He scratched his cheek, where the scar was, very slowly.

He grunted.

“Sometimes home is awful loud,” he went on, careful. “When Tess and Claudia’s cookin’, mainly. I don’t mind that kind of loud. Even if I got to go someplace else, sometimes.” Claudia hadn’t known what to do with him, the first time it’d happened. It had been a long time since then, though, and it never started a fight, not anymore. The little miss didn’t much like loud noises, neither, and papa and mama and grandmama all understood now.

He looked over at Miss Weaver – just a snatch of a glance – then back down at his feet. “If you need some quiet, Miss Weaver, all you got to do is say,” he said, after a moment. “We ain’t home, but we like to make it a good place. So when you go home, it’s a good memory. 'S'what Claudia says. Ma’am.”

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 13 Dentis, 2719
Wharf-side of West and Long

T
here was silence for a long while, after Ava’s quiet comment. She let it be; she waited in it. She knew something of waits with no end; she knew something of moments which stretched on into the horizon, which rippled and wrapped around themselves like a bolt of silk, so that one stretched, on and on, and yet went nowhere. She did not look at Clark; she did not lean any harder than she had already.

She looked away, instead; she looked away, as if she had overstepped. She let a little hint of it, that uncertainty, creep into the set of her shoulders, and the line of her mouth – not fear, but something like doubt. It was not hard to summon up; it rested, scarcely beneath the surface, not half-covered by what lay above.

It was easy to rush into that silence with her thoughts, and fill them; like a square with too much embroidery on it, lines of thread overlapping, one on top of the other. She smoothed it out, instead; she let it sit, still and blank, and she waited.

What did she know about Clark Cooke, really? He was a man who loved his daughter; but many men loved their daughters, and many men had been driven to desperate things for the love of their daughters. He was a man of few, careful words; he was a man who did not, Ava thought, like to look one in the face, who sat quietly at the dinner table devotedly feeding his little girl, even as conversation pointed, whether softly or sharply, in his direction.

He kept his head down, as he walked, and his shoulders hunched. As if, Ava thought, slowly, expecting something – a blow?

It was a careful path, too, that Clark Cooke walked. Careful and deliberate, Ava thought. He stepped carefully, here and there, around this hole and that, as if he were looking for them. Ava followed, just to the side; he never came close enough that she had to dodge out of the way, but he steered them both onto the neater parts of the street, where there were no holes to trap an unwary boot, and no sudden puddles to splash onto the neat fabric of dresses and trousers.

When he spoke, it was a surprise. It had been a long enough wait that Ava had thought he had nothing to say; she glanced at him, sideways, surprised, in time to see him scratch his cheek, carefully. He paused, again, and she thought – this time, slowly, it dawned on Ava that he was thinking it over. She walked, still, beside him, and listened.

He looked at her, a sliver of the glance out of the corner of his eye, and down.

Afraid, Ava thought again, though she could only see the sliver of his face, the curve of the scar, though she had not met his eyes. She thought she could read it all the same in the tension of his shoulders, now. Of what? Of me?

Of loud noises? Of women talking?

“Thank you,” Ava said, glancing over once more and letting more warmth color her voice, “It’s good of you to offer.” She was quiet; she adjusted her grip on the small floral case. Clark Cooke, she thought, Margaret, Sharkswell. A quiet, afraid man, who must have come home from the docks the day before and carried her bag up to her room, and then gone back down to sit with his little daughter, and feed her soup with a spoon.

“Last night at dinner,” Ava said, carefully, “we talked a little about,” she let herself pause, and her gaze flicker further away from him, “danger and caution, I suppose, one could call it. I felt that Mrs. Cooke and Mrs. Goretti seemed to feel one way, and Mr. Welkin and Mr. Goretti another. I wondered,” Ava glanced half-sideways at him. “What do you think, Mr. Cooke?” She asked.

[Clark Cooke]

Less Crowded Streets, West and Long

late afternoon of the 13th of dentis, 2719

T
hank you, Miss Weaver said, it’s good of you to offer. He’d felt like maybe he’d said something mung – he usually did, did Clark – but she seemed appreciative, and when he looked over at her, she was looking at him, too. He knew not to look at her eyes, so it was easier, this time. He smiled just a little, dimpling his scarred cheek again.

She still had a funny sad quietness in her voice. He supposed that was all right; she was missing home, or at least, she said she was. He figured that ought to be true, whatever it was she was here for. He didn’t think folk shed tears unless they were really sad.

Or maybe it was a guilty conscience, from whatever she was doing here. He felt that funny prickling round the back of his neck. He looked down at her green case with its red roses.

Frowning, he looked down at the stones, and he didn’t look back up at her. He could still see her in the corner of his eyes; he almost wished he had some hair to put between them, but he’d pulled it back for work at the docks, and he thought it would’ve been strange to take it down now.

He kept on putting his boots in the middles of the stones instead of on the spaces in-between, though he couldn’t help stepping on a crack now and then. He tried not to step on the cracks as had green things growing out of them, though most of the green things was turning brown, now that the weather was cooling down. But they’d be green again, little buds of them, whenever the weather turned back round.

Like the leaves on the tree, he reckoned. The feeling pressed itself up under his heart again.

It wasn’t too long – wasn’t no time at all – until Miss Weaver spoke again, and she spoke real careful, like maybe she’d had the question in mind for a while and hadn’t wanted to ask it ‘til now. He didn’t look to the side, didn’t look anyplace but down as he thought it over. They passed by a few squat doors in that time, one low and painted dark red, and a window with a little black-and-white kitty-cat sitting between the drawn drapes and the glass.

“I think,” he said first, then stopped.

Nobody much asked what Clark thought, except for Tessa. Least of all strangers, who didn’t much like talking to Clark at all.

What did he think?

“Mr. Goretti’s a smart man,” he said, and even he knew he was saying it in a way that showed he wasn’t too sure. “I don’t know much about Mr. Welkin, Miss Weaver. I don’t like to talk bad of folk behind their backs.”

He thought maybe if he left it there, the quiet could do all the bad talking for him. He left a pause, just long enough so anybody could hear it, then went on.

“Mrs. Cooke’s ri— Tessa’s right. Tessa’s right about most things.” Saying so made him feel something warm, like courage. His heart was thudding in his chest, but he talked through it. “I think you ain’t got to worry, Miss Weaver, long as you’re – cautious. I reckon it can’t be too different from Vienda, like Claudia says.”

He was holding his jaw awful tight. He thought about standing at the top of the steps, listening. He wanted the thoughts to go away, but there was no place for them to go. His heart hammered.

He looked sideways again. “I thought you put it best, Miss Weaver.” He kept his voice steady. “You got to know who’s a friend an’ who ain’t.”