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Hyde puffed out a draw of his cigarette beside Grey while they sat on the porch. The old man continued his carving and hummed a slight tune as pages flipped back and forth with scrutiny in Hyde’s grasp.
Grey shifted and pinned his hands between his knees to keep from squirming as he waited for Hyde to say something—a torturous activity that was cut short by movement along the edge of the steps. An orange tabby stared back at him, creeping closer to sniff his boot.
His couldn’t help but smile, his stress from Hyde’s scrutiny melting away in favor of gaining the small creature’s approval. He held out his gloved hand for the cat to sniff, hoping they wouldn’t be offended that it might’ve smelled strange and musty from wherever the town had been storing these spares.
A thorough examination from the feline, and he was rewarded with a headbutt against the back of his hand. His heart squeezed as he reached to scratch under their chin, and the cat inched forward for more.
The turn of another page broke Grey from his trance, and he cleared his throat, still trying to focus his energy on the cat. “They’re nothing really that spectacular…”
A huff of smoke slipped past Hyde’s lips with a chuckle. “Nothing spectacular?” He shook his head. “You could certainly make a pretty penny from this sort of talent, hemomancer or not. Hell, some of these people might start thinking better of us if you offered this up to the wealthier folk in the center of the city.” Hyde snapped the journal shut, took another long puff of his cigarette, and pushed himself to his feet. The cat gave him a perturbed look, flicking their tail with a growl before Hyde took a step down and the creature skittered off.
Grey’s heart sank as he watched the cat dart down an alley. He scrambled to his feet, hopping forward to catch himself as Hyde started to wander off with the cloth-bound book in his grasp. “Can I have it ba?—”
Hyde tsked and flicked ashes against the crumbling pavement. “Not until I sell someone a portrait to get your foot in the door.”
Grey sputtered and grabbed Hyde’s sleeve, the fabric slipping through his gloves with awkward grip. “W-wait?—”
He spun around and held the journal above his shoulder in challenge. “What you have is something that can be used to bring us a little more respect. This is your Calling, Grey. And I feel like it’s part of my duty to finesse the sale of your artistry to flip our reputation.” His brows knit together in concern as Grey pulled on the strings of his hoodie. “You’re nervous.”
“I-I’m not exactly—” Grey forced out, starting to reach for his eye before he stopped himself, letting it hide behind his hair. “Not exactly comfortable sharing that with other people. It’s sort of a personal sketch journal of sorts, so…” His arms snaked around his body in a self-hug.
Hyde’s forearm wobbled and dipped before he held it back out for Grey. “Then why don’t we find you a fresh sheet of paper and a place to sketch, hm?”
He spun on his heel and picked up his languid stride toward a side street. Grey hurried behind, ducking and weaving past refuse in the form of metal and plastic bins, mattresses bleeding stuffing, and glass bottles. Hyde made a sharp turn past a light pole and jogged through the propped-open door.
Grey skidded to a stop on the threshold and gaped. Neatly lined containers of bundled and single pencils and baskets of paper propped up notebooks on the bookshelves. It was more than Grey had ever encountered back home. Uncle Atticus had given him his journal as a gift shortly after taking him in and told him to take good care of it. Looking at the sad state it was in now with its chewed-up edges and warped paper, he supposed it’d at least been well-loved.
But, unlike Grey deciding to gawk in the door frame, Hyde pressed on to the back of the shop, dropping his gloved hands to the counter in front of another hemomancer tending to her ledger. “Yes, Hyde?” she asked, pushing up her glasses with an elongated sigh. “If you’re here for another notebook?—”
“I’m actually here for some thicker paper. Something with some smoother texture to it too, perhaps.”
Her face scrunched up before her dark eyes flicked to Grey. Her choppy, dark hair fell over her eyes for a second before she brushed it away, and she moved to the other end of the counter. “Should I ask why?”
“Trying to help my friend here,” he said, half-turning and motioning for Grey to creep a little closer past the various metal baskets and plastic storage bins in this nook of a supply store.
Friend. What a strange thing to call Grey, a boy who didn’t really have friends. Friends—keepers of secrets, hopes, dreams, fears, and sorrows—were a luxury he couldn’t afford because his heart was too fragile to share.
The shopkeeper hummed and flipped through a couple boxes. “How many pieces?”
“Two.”
She slid them against the countertop and Hyde plucked a couple metal coins from his pocket when Grey reached into his bag.
It’s on me, he mouthed as he dropped them into the woman’s open palm.
The warble of the sheets flapping in Hyde’s grip called Grey to follow him. Like a fawn following its mother, he chased after Hyde through more streets to the hulking mass of an iron-laced wall. That emblem of safety and dread backdropped a patch of wildflowers and rogue weeds, drawing Grey toward it, despite Hyde stopping short. Grey dropped his bag and crouched at the edge of the field, letting his gloved fingertips tickle the dandelions and daisies.
“What do you think?” Hyde mused with a chuckle, nudging his knee with a boot. “Think you could show off your skills with a little slice of paradise like this?”
* * *
By the time Grey finished up, it was lunch, and Marielle welcomed them both back with sandwiches and lemonade. She gushed over the graphite sketches while his drink sloshed in the glass, pins and needles still biting as his legs, even though he thought it would’ve worn off during the walk back.
Hyde vanished shortly after the meal with a ragged notebook in hand, spouting off how he’d take Grey out in the morning to gather him some patrons. And the house descended into tranquility.
Itchy tranquility.
Grey’s legs bounced as he flipped through his journal at the kitchen island until Marielle’s clasped hands slid against the countertop into view. “Something wrong, Grey?”
