The Alleyway Behind Woven Delights
Evening on the 17th of Ophus, 2719
I
f Incumbent Vauquelin smelled remarkably of smoked tuna during the talks, no one said anything.
Still, he thought he caught a faint glitter in dzehúh Owo’dziziq’s eye, as all the drab Anaxi suits flung on their coats and began to file out of the hall. When the Councillor rose from his deep bow, his smile was nothing less than immaculate. “May His currents carry your fish to blessed waters,” he said, taking the incumbent’s hand and clasping it with both of his.
It’s been sitting in his jacket-pocket like a secret since noon. Or like a treasure. He’s hungry as a flooding chrove, and he’s not sure if it’ll be worth it, but all a man can do is hope. While all the rest scattered off to the winds Uptown in search of lunch, he snuck off in search of something else – an acceptable gift.
They’d made plans two weeks ago to meet on the seventeenth, a good hour after he was supposed to claw himself free of Stainthorpe. He’d had a feeling the talks with the Fat Purse and Pipefitter representatives would go over – not owing in the least to dzehúh Tseqi. By the time he stepped out into the misty streets of Ro Hill, it was thirty minutes past, and he still had to catch a cab to the Painted Ladies.
There was not even time to change; that might’ve lain heavy on him, once, but he accepted it, now. Better, at least, than keeping her waiting. There were things he wore now, things she had taught him to wear, that he could not take off. These days, he came to her as he was, and she knew who he was – regardless of whatever else lay on the table between them, among the tea-things.
His heart is heavy; his mind is full. He hasn’t heard her footsteps creaking on the stairs, but he can picture the thick fabric swishing to behind her, just as he closes the door behind him with a click.
You should go, everything in him tells him. You’re tired; it’s a fool’s, this fancy of yours, Tom Cooke. Yaching some stray cat.
The sliver of sky overhead is dark. Clouds, barely moon-limned, cover up the stars. The air is wet, the cold clinging. The mist is thicker, rolling with echoes of blue phosphor streetlamp; you can’t see much further than a stone’s throw. Little five-fingered feet skitter here and there, race up pipes and down gutters, rustle through trash. Not much can be heard, except for the distant hiss of carriage-wheels over wet stones, days-old puddles not melted by the hidden sun.
The alleyway is narrow and cold and smells of petrichor and discarded things, though Tom still carries a whiff of bohea – and Ava’s rare warm smile – in his chest. He hangs by the door, listening; he can hear nothing through layers of hanging cloth. He casts a furtive look up, along the network of old pipes, through the rustling ivy. He sees a light, but he can’t see her window.
There’s no answer to the question, except that he lowers himself to the ivy-clad steps with a grunt. He’s unbuttoning his coat, rustling through his jacket for the small paper bag.
He’s nowhere to be seen, the little gray cat. Still, Tom has a feeling. Maybe it’s a fool’s feeling; maybe Tom’s a fool. But he’s Tom, here, sitting on the back steps of Woven Delights like a fool, taking out a paper bag full of tuna. He can’t be anyone else, in this alleyway, and maybe that answers the question after all.
So he sits with the tuna-smelling bag in his hands, shivering in his coat, and he waits. He doesn’t light a cigarette, and he’s not carrying a flask.
He can’t say how long he’s waited; it’s a shorter time, in the end, than he thought.
He hears a noise, first. Of all the places he’s expecting to look, up isn’t the one. Up where the light is, the rooftop slants. He hears a shuffle; he cranes his neck at first, startled, to see a shadow moving carefully across the shingles. A pipe snakes out from the shadows under the eave, and a lithe dark shape slinks onto it.
Hasty, Tom turns back to his paper bag, his alleyway-watching. The shadow must’ve stopped a few times; it’s a while before it comes back into view, a spot of movement dark-on-dark in the corner of his eye. Slinking on a lower pipe, now.
It’s only when he hears a pat-pat, sees the shadow drop to the cracked old stones, that he catches the glint of eyes. Like two mirrors, bright.
He still doesn’t look, doesn’t make a sound. He knows better. Careful-like, as he used to say – real careful-like – he rustles the bag open. The shape freezes; he freezes.
The shape creeps closer, and this time, when the bag crackles, it does not start.
The smell is loud, now. It’s a Rose-smell, Tom thinks, fish and smoke and salt. He tears at with his fingertips and imagines it winding its way through the clinging-chill mist to the twitching nose and slightly-opened mouth of the little gray cat. More movement in the corner of his eye, silent and slow.
Even more careful, like he’s drawing the lines of a ward, Tom takes a few bits of fish and sets them nearby. It’s a stretch, to lay the offer down midway between them; he settles back, and it’s just a dark patch on the stones. He spares it only a glance. The cat advances.
The tuna is gone.
Tom’s smiling, by now. Huddled into his coat, he’s not thinking about the hands in his lap. He lays another bit of fish down, closer, within arm’s reach. Slowly, the shape advances.
Tom looks, this time. He sees the streetlamp limn grey fur, grey as his eyes. He meets the cat’s mirror-flash eye as he passes into the range of his field. The cat meets his. Tom blinks, slowly, and without waiting to see – trusting – he looks away, back up at the sky with its faintly swirling clouds. At something dripping from a pipe, far above.
The cat eats, then sits on its haunches, watching him curiously.
He reaches out a tuna-smelling hand, one finger outstretched, limp. He’s smiling; he can feel it budding in the corners of his eyes. “Ts’awa, on’oza,” he murmurs, and if he is troubled by the voice, the words are from his soul.
The cat comes closer, with more confident steps. An inch from his fingertip, the little gray cat sits – then flops over onto his erse and starts licking his belly.
Tom laughs, soft and low; he grins into his collar. The misty alleyway smears. He sniffs. His breath hitches, once. Cats have long memories, he knows; but not as long as men, or women. And not as long as the mona.
He rustles in the bag for more dried fish, pulling it apart and laying it nearby. Distracted from his grooming, the little gray cat sets about to eating again. Tom’s leaned back against the door, against the ivy, one leg comfortably stretched; whatever it is, this isn’t an uncomfortable truce. He looks over, studying the cat.
The light catches the silvery line of a scar on one ear, a rough patch of fur. “You tallyboy,” he says softly. “Dragging yourself up to Miss Weaver’s window whenever you need to lick at your wounds, hey?”
The little gray cat eats noisily.
“You've had some scrapes with Naulas. By the looks of it.” Not many; he’s not too old, Tom thinks. He hasn’t got the hoary fur, the big-headed, shaggy-pawed look. “You can’t help it, I reckon. You’re a wild thing.”
The little gray cat stops, licking his lips. Like a loaf of crusty bread, he tucks his paws underneath him and settles. His luminous eyes watch Tom; his ears are attentive, though one of them is slightly cocked, as if to preempt an attack. “You can never be too wise, mm?” he asks, tilting his head.
The little gray cat licks its lips again.
“Some of us learn the hard way. I think you’ll live to be an old tom,” he murmurs. He blinks again at the cat, inclining his head.
The cat blinks back.
He smiles. There’s a little tuna left in the bag; Tom doesn’t think it would hurt to stay a while longer.
f Incumbent Vauquelin smelled remarkably of smoked tuna during the talks, no one said anything.
Still, he thought he caught a faint glitter in dzehúh Owo’dziziq’s eye, as all the drab Anaxi suits flung on their coats and began to file out of the hall. When the Councillor rose from his deep bow, his smile was nothing less than immaculate. “May His currents carry your fish to blessed waters,” he said, taking the incumbent’s hand and clasping it with both of his.
It’s been sitting in his jacket-pocket like a secret since noon. Or like a treasure. He’s hungry as a flooding chrove, and he’s not sure if it’ll be worth it, but all a man can do is hope. While all the rest scattered off to the winds Uptown in search of lunch, he snuck off in search of something else – an acceptable gift.
They’d made plans two weeks ago to meet on the seventeenth, a good hour after he was supposed to claw himself free of Stainthorpe. He’d had a feeling the talks with the Fat Purse and Pipefitter representatives would go over – not owing in the least to dzehúh Tseqi. By the time he stepped out into the misty streets of Ro Hill, it was thirty minutes past, and he still had to catch a cab to the Painted Ladies.
There was not even time to change; that might’ve lain heavy on him, once, but he accepted it, now. Better, at least, than keeping her waiting. There were things he wore now, things she had taught him to wear, that he could not take off. These days, he came to her as he was, and she knew who he was – regardless of whatever else lay on the table between them, among the tea-things.
His heart is heavy; his mind is full. He hasn’t heard her footsteps creaking on the stairs, but he can picture the thick fabric swishing to behind her, just as he closes the door behind him with a click.
You should go, everything in him tells him. You’re tired; it’s a fool’s, this fancy of yours, Tom Cooke. Yaching some stray cat.
The sliver of sky overhead is dark. Clouds, barely moon-limned, cover up the stars. The air is wet, the cold clinging. The mist is thicker, rolling with echoes of blue phosphor streetlamp; you can’t see much further than a stone’s throw. Little five-fingered feet skitter here and there, race up pipes and down gutters, rustle through trash. Not much can be heard, except for the distant hiss of carriage-wheels over wet stones, days-old puddles not melted by the hidden sun.
The alleyway is narrow and cold and smells of petrichor and discarded things, though Tom still carries a whiff of bohea – and Ava’s rare warm smile – in his chest. He hangs by the door, listening; he can hear nothing through layers of hanging cloth. He casts a furtive look up, along the network of old pipes, through the rustling ivy. He sees a light, but he can’t see her window.
There’s no answer to the question, except that he lowers himself to the ivy-clad steps with a grunt. He’s unbuttoning his coat, rustling through his jacket for the small paper bag.
He’s nowhere to be seen, the little gray cat. Still, Tom has a feeling. Maybe it’s a fool’s feeling; maybe Tom’s a fool. But he’s Tom, here, sitting on the back steps of Woven Delights like a fool, taking out a paper bag full of tuna. He can’t be anyone else, in this alleyway, and maybe that answers the question after all.
So he sits with the tuna-smelling bag in his hands, shivering in his coat, and he waits. He doesn’t light a cigarette, and he’s not carrying a flask.
He can’t say how long he’s waited; it’s a shorter time, in the end, than he thought.
He hears a noise, first. Of all the places he’s expecting to look, up isn’t the one. Up where the light is, the rooftop slants. He hears a shuffle; he cranes his neck at first, startled, to see a shadow moving carefully across the shingles. A pipe snakes out from the shadows under the eave, and a lithe dark shape slinks onto it.
Hasty, Tom turns back to his paper bag, his alleyway-watching. The shadow must’ve stopped a few times; it’s a while before it comes back into view, a spot of movement dark-on-dark in the corner of his eye. Slinking on a lower pipe, now.
It’s only when he hears a pat-pat, sees the shadow drop to the cracked old stones, that he catches the glint of eyes. Like two mirrors, bright.
He still doesn’t look, doesn’t make a sound. He knows better. Careful-like, as he used to say – real careful-like – he rustles the bag open. The shape freezes; he freezes.
The shape creeps closer, and this time, when the bag crackles, it does not start.
The smell is loud, now. It’s a Rose-smell, Tom thinks, fish and smoke and salt. He tears at with his fingertips and imagines it winding its way through the clinging-chill mist to the twitching nose and slightly-opened mouth of the little gray cat. More movement in the corner of his eye, silent and slow.
Even more careful, like he’s drawing the lines of a ward, Tom takes a few bits of fish and sets them nearby. It’s a stretch, to lay the offer down midway between them; he settles back, and it’s just a dark patch on the stones. He spares it only a glance. The cat advances.
The tuna is gone.
Tom’s smiling, by now. Huddled into his coat, he’s not thinking about the hands in his lap. He lays another bit of fish down, closer, within arm’s reach. Slowly, the shape advances.
Tom looks, this time. He sees the streetlamp limn grey fur, grey as his eyes. He meets the cat’s mirror-flash eye as he passes into the range of his field. The cat meets his. Tom blinks, slowly, and without waiting to see – trusting – he looks away, back up at the sky with its faintly swirling clouds. At something dripping from a pipe, far above.
The cat eats, then sits on its haunches, watching him curiously.
He reaches out a tuna-smelling hand, one finger outstretched, limp. He’s smiling; he can feel it budding in the corners of his eyes. “Ts’awa, on’oza,” he murmurs, and if he is troubled by the voice, the words are from his soul.
The cat comes closer, with more confident steps. An inch from his fingertip, the little gray cat sits – then flops over onto his erse and starts licking his belly.
Tom laughs, soft and low; he grins into his collar. The misty alleyway smears. He sniffs. His breath hitches, once. Cats have long memories, he knows; but not as long as men, or women. And not as long as the mona.
He rustles in the bag for more dried fish, pulling it apart and laying it nearby. Distracted from his grooming, the little gray cat sets about to eating again. Tom’s leaned back against the door, against the ivy, one leg comfortably stretched; whatever it is, this isn’t an uncomfortable truce. He looks over, studying the cat.
The light catches the silvery line of a scar on one ear, a rough patch of fur. “You tallyboy,” he says softly. “Dragging yourself up to Miss Weaver’s window whenever you need to lick at your wounds, hey?”
The little gray cat eats noisily.
“You've had some scrapes with Naulas. By the looks of it.” Not many; he’s not too old, Tom thinks. He hasn’t got the hoary fur, the big-headed, shaggy-pawed look. “You can’t help it, I reckon. You’re a wild thing.”
The little gray cat stops, licking his lips. Like a loaf of crusty bread, he tucks his paws underneath him and settles. His luminous eyes watch Tom; his ears are attentive, though one of them is slightly cocked, as if to preempt an attack. “You can never be too wise, mm?” he asks, tilting his head.
The little gray cat licks its lips again.
“Some of us learn the hard way. I think you’ll live to be an old tom,” he murmurs. He blinks again at the cat, inclining his head.
The cat blinks back.
He smiles. There’s a little tuna left in the bag; Tom doesn’t think it would hurt to stay a while longer.
