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Things happened in it. Little brawls and melodramatic scenes. But not anything like this.
“What?”
“If it’s your cellar,” the man continued. He studied Paul, perhaps deciding he didn’t look seasoned enough to own a public house. “Or your employer’s.” That was fair. Paul had only managed the place all on his own for two months and he supposed it might show. He was confident and competent, but still adjusting to his mother’s recent death. “I’ll take an attic or a cupboard. Anywhere. I’m not picky, but I am being chased.”
“Hide?” Though he was usually a man of minimal speech, Paul generally employed more than one word at a time. “Chased? And it’s not my employer’s… it’s mine.”
“Well, can I?”
“I suppose.”
“Thanks, mate, thank you.” Relief wove through his voice, blatant as the pine scent that wafted from his person.
“Don’t thank me. I’m only giving you a place to hide, not solving your problems. It’s not every day a man comes demanding to be let into my cellar.”
“Does that make me special?”
Inconveniently, Paul was coming around the bar as the nightmare asked his coquettish question. He rammed his thigh into the varnished corner, which he hadn’t done since he was a boy. Back then, he was more prone to clumsiness — but visions of the future would’ve distracted or exhausted anyone.
They usually came in dreams and could occasionally appear while he was awake. He’d never seen anything too grisly, but he also knew his sense of the macabre was skewed because of what he did see. The first premonition he recalled was about the family dog dying, only he’d been too frightened to mention he’d seen it before it happened. It became less simple to deny he could see the future as he got older, but it also wasn’t easy to own up to certain things.
How could he tell his brother he’d seen exactly how his broken arm would snap as he fell from a tree — even if he knew that might help prevent it in the first place?
More usefully, he'd been able to advise on things like a chandler who was later charged with theft, and a horse who died of what seemed to be a bad heart. In the thief’s case, they found another chandler before anything was stolen from The Queen Anne, and poor Bishy the horse was retired before he collapsed with anyone riding him.
Bishy was the primary reason his parents had suggested he not talk about his ability. They were kind, but he could tell they were unsettled for one reason or another. Either they believed him or they thought he was mad — and he knew they believed him because they’d already enacted some of his advice. He’d been thirteen when they finally told him never to mention any of his premonitions away from family. It made sense to him. Just as he hadn’t been able to talk to Edward about how he’d known his arm would break, it had been nearly as difficult to tell Father the horse might accidentally kill him.
So, even when it portended good things, he tried not to talk about what he could do. He wasn’t sure what to make of a stranger who impacted him like a premonition.
“Ah… yes. You are special. I mean to say… no. You’re not, but you do seem…” Paul frowned and fingered the keys at his hip. “This way. The attic is too full and… you wouldn’t fit in any of our cupboards, either. You’re too big.”
“I’m Alastair.”
When he didn’t add a surname to the forename and came to his side, Paul said, “Just Alastair?” He kept a step between them and did not breathe too deeply of Alastair’s pine-needle scent. It wasn’t from the world, anyway. Along with the premonitions, other things came to him. Smells and colors, personal attributes that weren’t legible in the same manner as wrinkles or freckles.
“Eh, better if I am. For now.”
They passed into the adjoining corridor. Paul nodded to the trapdoor when they reached the end. “Nothing special down there. Kegs and the like.” He cleared his throat. “We’re not in the habit of hiding people, or acting as a…” he stopped and considered the nicest way of saying they didn’t serve as a hiding spot for either smugglers or their contraband, both of which were still common in the area, though the widespread practice had waned somewhat. He was making assumptions, but he didn’t think he was wrong about them.
Then he shrugged and met Alastair’s dark eyes. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to say to a charming stranger asking to hide in your cellar but yes. There was an air of intrigue to it that Paul enjoyed, and there was all manner of smuggling underfoot. Interested parties would arrange drop points just offshore or inside various businesses who looked the other way, and the water — the sea, or the Broads — served as opportune roads free of taxes.
But Alastair looked more dashing than his presumable peers. It could have been the tattoos that barely crept out from under his collar, most of which likely went unnoticed, or the impish smile. In his day, Father had served known free traders and fences without hesitation, but possessed no special arrangements with them. Paul recalled meeting a few in passing — they were disappointing to his young mind, which had built them up to be roguish protagonists.
He’d read too many novels.
“I see,” said Alastair. “Who’re you, then?”
“Hm?” Paul couldn’t look away from him. The corridor was darker than the taproom and wrapped Alastair in shadows, but he seemed more comfortable away from windows and the street.
He said, gentle as a kitten’s whisker flicking against an outstretched hand, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mr. Apollyon.”
“Thank you, then, Mr. Apollyon.”
“I’ll… if you tell me what to look out for, I’ll come and let you out after it’s over.”
“You’ll know when it’s fine.”
