“I did. And while I appreciate your faith in me—like it a great deal, in fact—Enver isn’t like anywhere else. Wilderwoodtrees didn’t even exist until the great-grandfather of the current owner grew them from Indigo Mountain stream stones in his greenhouse. To this day, none but his descendants have access to the grove outside of town. Myrtle Merryweather is my aunt. She can soothe anything that grazes. If I’ve got anything in me, it’s a touch of that, nothing more. I tried to brew my own ale awhile back and it tasted like pasture and piss. Excuse my language. Maybe in most places hard work can get you by, but in Enver, if you can’t add a touch of enchantment, you might as well give up before you’ve begun.”
Alora wasn’t sure what to say. How could she say anything to that? She couldn’t imagine possessing an affinity for something she held no passion for, and now she felt like a dolt for bringing it up to begin with. This was why she avoided dates; she was not good at them.
She swallowed a sip of whiskey and tried not to let the distaste show plainly on her face. If he described his own ale so poorly, she didn’t want to imagine how terribly it had tasted. The liquor burned a bitter trail down her throat. “I suppose there is still much I’ve yet to learn about the way of everything.”
“It’s a lot for any outsider, pardon my use of the word. It’s why most are visitors. Or traders. That way they can leave when their minds grow too overwhelmed, returning to the classic ‘normal’. But you’ve been here for some time now.”
Alora recognized the leading statement for what it was and side-stepped it gracefully. “Two years. I will say I’ve become used to the surprising, but I wasn’t anticipating the shocking.” Timothy continued to watch her openly, his whiskey nearly finished. Emboldened, she leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I recently learned of a gang underfoot.”
Her date, having waved for a second tumbler, pushed the piece of obstinate hair from his eye. “Ah, you mean the Urchins.”
Alora’s lungs squeezed. “Yes, that’s the name! What a dreadful business. I’m appalled nothing is being done.” The next sip she took of the whiskey was fake.
Timothy polished off what remained in his as the second was delivered, and with it, a cart was wheeled. The server lifted the lids from the trays in a practiced flourish.
“Your choices this evening,” the server said, and looked to Alora first.
The meats were piled high and the vegetables steaming. The cheeses were as plentiful as they were diverse, and the renowned sauces bubbled in their boats. She made her choices quickly and without much thought. Timothy spent more time deciding, enough that Alora had to physically place a hand on her knee so she would not tap her foot. When the server left them at last, he took to sampling each thing in turn.
“I’m sorry, what were we speaking of?”
“I’m shocked nothing is being done about the Urchins,” rushed Alora.
“Oh.” Another swallow of whiskey. “Well, they tried. Before. Now they don’t bother with it anymore.”
“How can that be? How can attacks go unpunished?”
Timothy’s cheeks were flushed, having nearly finished his second pour, and his eyes were bright. “They’ve never been caught, for one. Some say it’s like laying a trap for a ghost. Or the wind. Rumor is nearly all the less savory trading is overseen by them, the darker side of Enver’s enchantment. That they usher in all manner of cursed and monstrous things from the forgotten corners of the world.”
Alora could think of one street where such dealings would happen.
In fact, she could think of one shop in particular.
It felt hard to swallow.No, surely not.
She said mostly to herself, “And anyone who speaks out is silenced.”
Timothy shrugged, bold in his drink. “Depends on what you say. I can say they’re filthy criminals, cowards hiding in the dark, and nothing will probably happen. But see something you shouldn’t”—he pressed a finger to the side of his nose—“heaven help you. Because no one else will.”
Chapter Seventeen
The date ended rather abruptly. One moment, Timothy was bidding her goodnight with a kiss she avoided at the last moment, glancing across her cheek, and the next she met an oddly familiar face peering at her from across the street.
She gasped, pulling back, and Timothy, apologizing profusely, shuffled away. She spared him a glance. “No, not you,” she found herself saying. She really was the worst at this. “Thank you, Mister Lofte. I enjoyed the night. I’ll likely see you tomorrow, I think. Goodbye!” Then she ran in the direction she’d last seen the strange man staring back at her.
It was the trespasser. The man darted in the neck on Opulence’s grounds. She was as sure of it as she was in her newfound hatred of whiskey. The moonlight offered a brief glimpse of a torn brown shirt turning the corner, and she rounded it at an outright run, her heels clacking alarmingly on the cobblestones.
“Wait!” she called.
She never once considered he’d obey. A mistake, for as she turned the corner, she smacked straight into him, sending them both stumbling. The man nearly went down, while Alora twisted her ankle with a muted cry. Righting herself, she breathed through clenched teeth, willing the pain into submission.
“I’m so sorry,” she hissed at the man.
“You told me to wait,” he said simply, and stood there in his tattered clothes.
He looked utterly lost.
He was middle-aged, judging from the hint of wrinkles and sparse peppering of gray hair, but it was his eyes she focused on. Eyes that were once so intense in his intent as he ran past her that day but were now dark and empty.
