At the rate of this crowd, she didn’t think she’d get the chance to say anything to him at all. For every one person who left, it seemed two joined the line, and the sight of it made Alora’s jaw ache. It wasn’t as though she held an aversion to people—she worked with people all the time—but so many, and in one small space, was far from ideal. She didn’t have great memories of such things. In fact, she had one memory, and it was very, very bad.
“Excuse me, excuse me. Need to feel the sun on my head for just a minute. Oh yes, thank you. Very happy. Very happy, indeed. So blessed.” Mr. Whitters wove his way down the steps, taking even longer than usual due to the excessive handshakes and claps on the shoulders. Alora grinned; he deserved every one of them.
She watched his eyes close for a brief moment when he caught the sun, light reflecting from the bald spot at the back of his head. He breathed deep once before swinging his gaze around and finding hers. He beamed.
“Why, Miss Pennigrim! How are you, my dear?” With large hands on either side of her arms, he wobbled her back and forth. “Looking lovely as ever.”
Alora smiled, taking in his bright, brown cheeks and even brighter eyes. “I’m well, thanks. But look at you! Look at this! Mister Whitters, it’s marvelous.”
“Thanks to you. I had to hire Glenda once I realized the opening was marked in the paper. Had people lined up before I even got inside, and I was here at four in the morning!”
Alora chuckled. “And is Glenda going to stay on?”
“No,” laughed Mr. Whitters. “She said she signed up to be my wife, not my assistant. We'll see how the week goes. Maybe I’ll need to hire someone full time. Someone young, who likes to keep morning hours.”
“I think you may,” said Alora, eyeing the swelling patrons.
“Are you planning to come inside?”
“I am, but maybe just not yet. I’ve had the privilege of an entire box of Confectionary Delights all to myself just this week, and I wouldn’t want to be greedy.”
“Nonsense,” chortled Mr. Whitters. “I’ve been prepping for days. I’ll set aside some chocolate creams for you.” He rubbed her arm once more, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes and beyond before stepping back. “Thank you for coming.” Then turning around, he attempted to make his way back in. “Oh yes, thank you. Very happy. So blessed.”
Alora watched until he disappeared beneath the awning. Chuckling to herself, she glanced over the staggered pots lining the walls, to the one near the top that she’d repaired after it nearly smashed her head.
Her smile fixed in memory, its edges drooping. Alora backed away from the store front until she found herself in the alleyway, her recollection shifting from the pot mishap to the mysterious shadow. Mr. Whitters had called them Urchins, a brutish gang who didn’t attack often, which meant they likely attacked with purpose. And to leave their victims without memory of them at all... That was a peculiar thing. Alora peered down the lane.What did the victims know? Secrets? Were they defectors? Witnesses? Alora wondered if they’d seen her, if they would have done to her whatever terrible thing they’d exacted upon the other poor soul, if only to keep her quiet.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard at all of the attack that happened. Not a whisper. Of course, she wasn’t very good about reading the paper, and she was quite preoccupied with work. She would buy one on her way home. But perhaps first—
Her feet carried her along the alley.
It couldn’t be true that this lane was colder than the others, that the ice frosting her bones was related to the shadows cast by bright-colored buildings. Still, Alora felt these things as she walked, drawing nearer and nearer to where it happened. To the fight she was never meant to hear nor see.
She knew she’d found it by feel alone, her heart cold and fast, goosebumps erupting on every inch of her. Yet, it was only a door, a back entrance stoop, completely unremarkable from the one before and the one after.
Only—
Alora leaned forward, forehead scrunched, eyes narrowed. She reached out with a finger, brushing along the wooden frame until her fingertip was flecked red—as if with dried bits of paint.
Except the door was painted blue.
She knocked, once, twice, three times, and then stepped back.
The door creaked inward.
“Who is it?” the voice demanded.
“Alora Pennigrim, ma’am.”
The pause grew heavy. “Do I know you?”
“Perhaps? I think it’s too soon to tell.” Alora didn’t recognize the voice from inside, but she’d seen more faces in her time in Enver than she’d spoken to people. They might have crossed paths.
The door swung in, and the woman standing there was revealed to be as unfamiliar to her as any stranger. She was also crying. “Perhaps?” she managed before reaching out fast as a viper and dragging Alora inside.
They stood in a poorly lit back hall with threadbare jackets on racks and scuffed shoes lined in rows. The woman’s fingers hooked into the sensitive skin on the backs of Alora’s upper arms as her puddled eyes raked her up and down. “Perhaps I know you?”
Alora couldn’t keep up the pretense. “No, I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”
