“You really care to know?”
“I don’t ask questions otherwise.” He’d taken up stirring again, but when she didn’t immediately answer, he turned fully toward her, his expression open and waiting. “You’re embarrassed,” he finally said.
Her mouth parted in annoyance. “Hardly.”
“Shy?”
“No.”
“Is it immoral? Are you a secret reprobate?”
Alora felt her cheeks flush at his nettling. She stepped toward him. “A shop of my own, you villain! With walls of my work, samples and storage.”
His mouth quirked. “An answer at last. Was it so difficult?”
“You’re insufferable.”
The concoction on the stove began to whine, stealing the shopkeeper’s attention. “It is a good dream.” Three vials were funneled with warm, orange liquid. Bash corked each one before placing them in a purse. He added a dropper, a little handwritten note, before he pulled tight the strings. When he handed them to her, she took the bag, reaching into her own larger one for coins.
“Do you have one?”
“One what?” asked Bash. He waited as she counted in her palm. “Ten will do.”
“Only?” But she didn’t argue. She was comfortable, not flush with money. She held the coins out. “And a dream.”
“No.”
She watched him turn slightly, tossing the coins into an open vase, where they clinked against others. If he lied, she didn’t know him enough to realize; his answer seemed serious enough to her. Maybe he only meant he lived it now, his dream already grasped. Yet the words were out of her mouth before she could help them.
“You don't strike me as a potion-master.”
He leaned his hips against the counter, a tight-lipped smile forming. “Not a shopkeeper, not a potion-master. What do I strike you as now? Please don’t shame me with the pickpocket title again.”
Before Alora could think of a reply, because she didn't really know what, a muffled shuffling sounded from somewhere up above. She tipped her face to the ceiling. “Is something up there?”
“Something?”
“Someone?”
Alora focused on Bash, to his smile—curling with something like satisfaction, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“I’ve no idea.”
Chapter Eleven
Alora felt disappointed by two things that evening. First, the newspaper had absolutely nothing about the attack on the woman living behind Confectionary Delights. Second, the potion created at Potions and Peculiarities tasted like sour, bitter water. She was tired, confused, and terribly scared to sleep.
The walls of her bedroom were green again, but softer and darker than before. Probably because when she’d imagined the color to replace the mess she’d created, she’d thought of certain eyes instead. It soothed her now, though not nearly enough for sleep.
The wallpaper would be ready for Opulence Mansion by tomorrow; she’d need George and the cart to take it all that way. Her stomach twisted at the thought of it, a tight bundle of nerves she couldn’t unknot, and thus must ignore instead. William would be there. He was nice, she’d decided, and certainly nice enough to look at—his dancing in minimal clothing would be forever seared into her brain—but there was an intensity in hiseyes that gnawed at her. He didn’t feel quite safe, and not in a thrilling, unknown sort of way. She thought, guiltily, that at any time he might grow bored of burning alone and so burn her with him too.
What a terrible thought. Of course he wouldn’t.
She might see Lennox, though. A bright spot. She wished to talk with her more, to see if they might schedule an outing or three. To see if they could be friends.
Friends. When Alora thought of friends, she thought of children with foul names on their tongues hurling insults in time with their parents. Of a small rabbit, strangely shaped, and oddly eyed. Of Eirian, a town nestled between green hills and endless space to run. A broken leg needing mending. Her memories were all spice, some pleasant but still biting, but maybe these new memories, hopefully more vivid now, would be sweeter.
She glanced down at the potion-master’s handwritten instructions, smudged with ink and as messy as his shop.
