Page 90 of The Cannibal

I practically stumbled into the next room. This one had been converted into a drink and cigar lounge. They rolled a solid wood bar into the corner, single seats arranged around each other, rather than sofas. It was clear who the room was meant for—I suppose gentlemen were allergic to sharing a cushion.

Phoebe stood before the bar, a clipboard and pencil in hand. “Should we order more flowers for the rooftop?” she asked.

I hadn’t even greeted her and there wasn’t so much as a glance up from her list. It wasn’t entirely clear she was speaking to me, specifically.

Except she did peek over her board when I didn’t reply.

I cleared my throat. “Depends.”

“On?”

“The function.”

“Secondary dining spot, breakfast service too.”

“Then yes, since I assume that’s why the outdoor furniture was moved to the hallway outside my door.”

“Oh! Apologies. I thought you would be sharing a different room.” Her brow twitched, the pencil scraping hard as she slashed her list.

“I assumed I could keep my separate room.”

“You can do as you like.”

“You’re really going to be like this?”

“Like what?”

“This.”

Suddenly her back was to me.

Is she really walking away mid-conversation?

“Phoebe!” I demanded.

“I’m busy, keep up or get lost.” She went straight to the front door.

I pulled my robe closer as I followed her out.

The noise outside was almost as boisterous as inside. The smell of hot concrete burned my nose, so did the smell of horse dung and smoke.

Mornings were the worst here if you didn’t have access to a roof. The dawn always rose before the thick fog, trapping whatever charm the city had to offer within the cloud.

My feet felt so bare on the pavement, even with slippers. I wished I had had time to change, but I didn’t think Phoebe would wait. If I lost her now, she might hide from me for the entire day.

Loud banging pierced my ear as we walked next door. The gap between the buildings had a wood fence barrier as the builders worked.

“Miss!” one of them called. “Miss!”

Phoebe stopped, staring at the man. The worker walked up to her. I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the noise, but he pointed toward the street.

A gravel truck was blocking the road, seemingly having trouble getting the right angle to dump within the work zone with how narrow the street was.

Phoebe’s lips moved quickly, directly. The man nodded and whistled for a couple others to go with him toward the truck. One of them pulled a wide commercial wheelbarrow that made the poor man look like a mule pulling a cart.

We continued to the next building over, where she disappeared through the front without even as much as a knock. Now that I was closer, I realized it was a shared residential building.

There were just as many helpers moving furniture and cleaning. I suppose out with the old, in with the new.