Page 17 of Hawk & Sparrow

Vesper opened her eyes. Tom was staring at her with new concern.

“Vesper, are you all right?”

Vesper didn’t answer; she was already barreling out of the office. She snatched her satchel from her desk without looking at the rest of the staff, and then she was out the door.

People pulled out raincoats and umbrellas as Vesper marched up Pierce Street.

She didn’t look up as clouds gathered above, and paid no mind to the rumbling thunder. Walking for the last ten minutes had done her some good, but her mind was still in disarray, crowded with disquieting images.

She pictured Tom on a ladder, taking down the battered sign that read THE BASALTON GLOBE with slumped shoulders. She thought of Nell, weeping at the chipped wooden table where they’d shared cups of coffee and hot chocolate so many times. A hard lump formed in Vesper’s throat as she imagined closing the door to her little apartment for the last time, never sitting in her lumpy armchair ever again. Home. That was what The Basalton Globe had given her for the last eleven years: a home, family. Now the memories of what life had been like before she’d found it were swarming. She remembered life on Basalton’s streets, the throbbing ache in her fingers as she’d looked for warm places to sleep when the temperature dropped. She tasted the sourness that had coated her tongue from going days without food. The worst part had been the way people had looked at her—or rather, looked through her—no matter how loudly she’d banged her tin cup against the curb and pleaded for something to eat. She’d outgrown her childish dislike of the dark, her aversions to spiders and roaches, but the bone-deep fear of ending up on the streets again never left. Perhaps it never would.

Vesper looked up as a fat raindrop splattered against her cheek. She’d reached the intersection of Pierce and Oliver. A part of her knew she should turn around; Tom and the rest of the Globe’s staff needed her now more than ever. But something held her back. No. She couldn’t go back yet, not until she had a plan that would fix this. A familiar sign farther down the street caught her eye.

Guillermo’s Coffeehouse was one of her favorites in the city. A warm, inviting light poured from its large front windows. Vesper’s feet were taking her toward it before she’d even processed the decision. She hadn’t eaten all morning, and suddenly nothing sounded better than a pastry and a hot drink. Maybe it would help her think.

A little bell above the door dinged as Vesper stepped inside. At once, she inhaled the smell of fresh coffee grounds and powdered sugar. Most of the small round tables and comfy chairs were already occupied, so she made her way to the long counter and slid onto one of its leather barstools. Moments later, a tan, black-haired man emerged from the kitchen. When he saw her, he beamed.

“Miss Evans, welcome!”

“Morning, Mr. Crivello.” Vesper tried for a convincing smile.

“Your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

He nodded, then disappeared into the back. When he returned, he was holding a plate with a buttery croissant and a steaming mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. When Vesper pulled out her coin purse to pay, he waved her off.

“But—”

He’d turned away before she could argue, attending to another customer farther down the counter. Vesper nibbled on her croissant while she watched the whipped cream melt into her hot chocolate and tried to think of a plan. Perhaps Mr. Crivello would let her take up some part-time work here at the coffeehouse. She’d never worked in one before, but she could certainly do dishes or clean. She thought of another idea. The holidays were approaching; maybe the Globe could plan some kind of fundraiser to get the money they needed. If they could come up with even half of what they owed, and if Mr. Burbank could be reasoned with … It was possible, but December first was less than a month away.

Vesper was so focused that she didn’t notice the door’s bell the second time it dinged. She was still thinking through the logistics of a fundraiser when a single voice tore her from her thoughts.

“Guillermo, always good to see you.”

Vesper froze. No. It couldn’t be. Surely, he hadn’t followed her here. Vesper carefully turned her body away from that low male voice, and forced herself to sip her hot chocolate. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder.

Maximilian Kite was standing at the counter, just a few seats down from her. He was leaning on his elbows, staring up at the chalkboard that detailed the coffeehouse’s menu. For a few precious seconds, he looked like a perfectly normal young man. Then:

“Staring is rather rude, you know.”

Vesper blinked, and the sorcerer faced her, chin raised. “Unless you’re staring because you like what you see? You wouldn’t be the first.” He smirked. “Also, you have whipped cream on your lip, love.”

The words shook Vesper from her stupor. She licked her top lip quickly, then glared at him. “Are you following me?”

Maximilian’s smirk vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

“I meant what I said before, Mr. Kite.” Vesper lowered her voice. “I’m not interested in working for you. Hounding me all over the city won’t change that.”

“I’ll have you know that, every Saturday, I come to this coffeehouse to pick up an assortment of desserts Guillermo Crivello prepares at my request.” Maximilian gestured to a pink bakery box beside him. “We’ve had this arrangement for the last two years.”

Vesper’s face grew warm.

The sorcerer went on. “If you’re done falsely accusing me of another crime I didn’t commit, I have work to do. Good day, Miss Evans.” He waved to Mr. Crivello, grabbed the pink box, then headed toward the door. Vesper watched him go. She wasn’t prepared to call the feeling churning in her stomach pity, but it certainly felt annoyingly similar. She shook her head. There was no reason to pity Maximilian Kite. As far as she was concerned, he was just another rich, arrogant sorcerer. Still, she thought of his words from earlier.

You have a specific professional expertise I require. I have money.

She could work part-time for Mr. Crivello, or try to organize a fundraiser for the Globe. But Maximilian Kite? All he had to do was write a check. With a stroke of his pen, the newspaper’s financial problems could be solved. It only required her to do one thing. She bit her lip, deliberating.