Dear sir,
A month ago we discussed a fabric which I did not have in stock at the time. A shipment has arrived today, and I would be glad to receive you at your convenience, if it is still of interest.
Regards,
Ava Weaver
H
is coachman had needed to help him out at the corner of Slake and Thripping Bite, where the streets still smelled a little of fish and soot. He had asked if the incumbent did not wish to be taken to the Ladies at least, respectfully, sir, with the chill in the air. He’d been polite and deferent, his face an unreadable sliver between the shadow of his hat and his thick dark beard.
It wasn’t far; so he told him, waving a hand. It wasn’t far, and he needed to walk and think.
That’d been fifteen minutes ago. He’d walked up Slake, his eyes lingering on the covered phosphor lamps, watching the light grey sky turn marbled and smoky in the early evening.
There were lights on in the windows; talk and music drifted from bars, and sometimes slanting light, and he walked through it, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He heard the hiss of cab wheels on the slick street once and looked over. He met the dark eyes of a woman, crammed in with a cluster of other shapes; she’d been looking out with a smile on her face, watching the street, and her eyes flicked down at the sight of him.
An hour ago, Douglas’d helped him out of his private coach from Stainthorpe.
His voice was smooth and deep, with only Anatole’s dignified edge of a rasp. The bruises still ached at his throat, but less than they had last week. He’d been half-asleep in the coach and shivering at the door, glad of all the warmth spilling out of his parlor, and of Margaret readying tea for him in his study. Rosmilda had given him the envelope, and he’d cracked it open without even looking at the seal.
Forty-five minutes ago, he’d been sitting in a coach rattling across the Arova and to the Dives. He hadn’t even taken the time to change; underneath Anatole’s long coat, he was still wearing his neatly-cut, expensive suit, his proper pocket-watch with its gold chain, his dark silk necktie. He’d thrown a scarf around his neck to hide the bruises.
He’d sat with the note unfolded in his lap. The soft phosphor light inside the box had been gold; it had glistened in the swirls of dark ink, glistened like lacquer on nails.
Now, he was walking up the street; now, he’d come to it, and he stopped, breathing in deep. Looking at the familiar broad windows, hung with browns and russets and swirling-patterned greys, brocades and printed flowers. There was warm lamplight leaking out around the displays; just out of sight of the door, he studied the open sign.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; he wasn’t sure, still, what he expected.
One of his hands was in his pockets, his thumb pressing tightly into the folded note. There was a knot in his chest, somewhere the heart might’ve been.
Living my life as if I am being watched, all the time. No longer safe. Waiting, as long as I have to.
When I was still a man, he remembered. He couldn’t remember how he’d said it; all he could remember was its reflection – without inflection – soft and even, like a mirror through which he could not see any of his faces.
He’d sat on his desk thinking about it, thinking and thinking through draughts of brandy as the sky grew dark. He’d thought of her gasp; he’d thought of the way she’d sat, at first, her careful smiles, her careful answers.
He didn’t know why he’d walked; he didn’t know what good it would’ve done. She knew what he was. There was no finding the rhythm again. He’d tried to walk quick and catlike, toe to heel; one of his feet had kept insisting on putting its heel first, and now his back just ached, though it ached less when he pulled it straight and breathed through his diaphragm. He’d tried to find whatever he could of his old voice, but his throat ached, and it was easier to enunciate.
And what would he say, when he went in?
Why?
What news did she have? Why’d she called him? Was it about the Shrike? Was she safe? Was it about the – but he couldn’t think of that; the thought of chalk dust on his fingers churned his stomach, and the knot in his chest tightened. He breathed in deep. The bell jangled as he pushed through, head up, jaw set.
It was warmer inside, and he took off his hat, his hair still combed and coiffed from work. He tucked it under his arm.
He didn’t see her, at first; he saw nothing but the rolls of fabric. He stopped and wiped off on the mat, and found himself strangely dizzied by the sight of his narrow, polished black shoes against the swept floor. When he raised his eyes, he knew better than to linger on any of the fabrics, or to run his hands over the silk or – achingly – the rough tawny wool. He had his note, and he knew what he’d come for.
He got halfway to the counter and then stopped.
“Good evening, miss,” he said, with only the slightest pause. He came closer, deliberate and unhesitating; he fit a pleasant smile to his face, and he didn’t dare look anywhere behind or askance. There was a pit of cold, burning fear in his stomach, growing and growing.
He bowed deeply, and when he rose, he was still smiling pleasantly.