Not two heartbeats later, she heard the familiar laugh of the bookshop owner. As panic built, Alora could do the only plausible thing. She downed the contents of her cup in three swallows. Tongue scalded, chest afire, she hardly managed to toss the cup into her satchel where it clattered loudly when Ellie Turkens appeared at her side.
“Here you are, dear. Black tea, nice and strong today, to beat back the disruption the thunder leaves on our energies, and a warm tomato and cheese— Oh, sweetheart! Whatever is the matter?”
Alora brushed the tears from her eyes, leftover from downing hot tea like a draft horse, and gifted the proprietor a watery smile. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Turkens.”
“It isn’t nothing if you’re tearing about it. Tell me, child. Are you hurting?”
Only her tongue, but Alora couldn’t very well explain that. “I met a very rude man today.” Let Ellie think her common reaction to distasteful people was sorrow rather than anger.
“Ah,” clucked the old woman. “Now you know what you do with rude men, don't you?”
Alora shook her head.
“Poor darling. I’ll tell you now. You pull out your favorite color, freshen your lipstick nice and slow, and while they’re distracted, staring right at your pretty mouth, you say: Piss off!”
Alora laughed, unable to help herself. And Ellie Turkens, her lipstick pink as petals, grinned back at her. “You’ll be fine, dear. Drink your tea.”
Slightly worried over what another cup of black tea would do to her nerves, Alora dutifully took a sip. It was leagues better than the one she’d imagined. Partly because it wasn’t scalding hot and pouring down her throat, but also that Ellie Turken’s tea was incredibly enchanted, her blends well on their way to becoming legend. Steam wafted upward in the shape of dahlias.
“And here is your book. I hardly remember what a barshet is, but it should be in there. Let me know if it isn’t.”
Alora finished half her sandwich before diving into the text. It was a brown book,Rare Creatures of the West, and it did, indeed, catalog the barshet, its bat-like eyes illustrated to peer up at her from the page.
THE BARSHET
Characteristics:Cartilaginous endoskeleton with gelatinous covering, usually yellow or green incolor. Notable by one to three horns atop its head. Hermaphrodites. Enjoys water. Brings luck if squeezed in a number synchronous with its horns.
Warning:attracted to voices. Preference unknown but appears to be specific to each creature. If motivated, will attempt burrowing toward sound, often killing the host in the process.
Avoid leaving in direct, hot sun. Will melt and perish.
Alora glared at the page as she chewed. Either the proprietor of that horrid Peculiarities shop was ignorant, or he’d lied to her. Likely he lied and the creature was happily back in its cage. To think he called her out for judging. Why, she’d been correct on every score! She swallowed another sip of tea, regarding the red floral pattern of the cup. She didn’t think she’d ever been so impulsive, not since she’d learned to control her imaginings in her teenage years. First the candlestick, then the almost-chaise, and now the tea.
People admired those with vivid imaginations. They made for many creative types. Most of which ended up in this far west, whimsical town of Enver, chasing various delights and utilizing their own. But as far as Alora was aware, there were none so vivid as her own, capable of bringing into the world whatever she imagined.
It began as a child wishing for a stuffed doll, something to sleep with at night. When her parents discovered it the following morning, asking where she’d gotten it, she’d told them she'd found it. Which she supposed wasn’t really a lie, considering she’d found it inside her own head. It progressed from there. Her youthful imagination conjured all sorts of things she’d wished for, from favorite sweets to hair ribbons to toys. It wasn’t until she'd brought about a living thing that trouble ensued. A brown, flop-eared bunny, but one not quite right, a vital part missing—
Alora’s eyes lifted to a flap of wings. Ellie’s twin owls had come to lay curious eyes on the patrons. She supposed the previously dark skies must have woken them, a trickery into believing an early night had come.
“Lucille. Loretta.” She nodded a hello, the birds’ snow-white heads swiveling in unison as she rose. She’d another appointment which required a brief stop at home, and she mustn’t linger any longer thinking of dark shops and even darker rooms.
No, those were definitely after dinner musings.
She left payment for the book and the meal, tucking the volume within her burgeoning satchel. Thinking over it for a moment, she pulled the teacup and the candlestick from the bag, placing it on the table. Ellie believed one could never have enough teacups, and as Alora wasn’t of similar thought, it would probably get much more use in the bookshop. And as for the candlestick— Well, she’d gotten a little overzealous in her imaginings. Its base was solid silver and would be worth quite a lot. Also, it was heavy.
Chapter Five
This, not Mugwort Alley, was the Enver she’d fallen for. Her house was a one-bedroom flat above a print shop, with a white stone outer staircase and an overlarge terrace off the main room. She set a leisurely pace toward it as the rain had cleared, leaving the cobblestones wet and the air cooled. All around she smelled heaps of blossoms. No one went without. Barrels were repurposed to wildflower gardens, and few walls were bare of a trellis or vines climbing in sweet-scented blooms. Windowsills spilled with bright arrangements and butterflies fluttered all about, though none, she must admit, were so large or so brilliant as those along Opulence Mansion’s enchanting lane. She supposed it was fitting; Master Merridon wouldn’t have it any other way.
Eirian, her hometown, was several hours east by wagon, and while charming in its own right, with plenty of flowers and bees and butterflies, prairies and hills instead of forest and mountains and sea, she’d not been back since she’d left. It was not full of whimsy and enchantment like Enver. The people therewere not so open-minded and far less forgiving. A scarred lesson borne.
“Harrumph,” grunted the printer toward her, a broom in his hand as he swept his stoop of storm debris.
“Afternoon, Mister Zanfold,” replied Alora and made her way up the steps.
Someday, she mused, she might have her own shop. A place where people could come and peruse samples and pick her brain. It would be much easier than being reachable only by letter, or a happenstance run-in, as it sometimes occurred. And she wouldn’t have to carry so many things in her satchel. Only a notepad and pencil.
What a dream. One she couldn’t dream of too vividly, of course, as people would balk at a sudden building materializing in any given space. And she couldn’t simply will her coffers full. She had a moral compass to follow, after all.
