Aminark's Treasures, Old Rose Harbor
Instead, Aremu had held Niccolette’s hand, carefully, while she sobbed into his shoulder, and taken her slippers off and tucked her into bed when she had worn herself out with the weeping. He was not sure if he should do something with her hair, but in the end he left it a mess on the pillow, hoping she would know how to deal with it when she woke.
Aremu had gone to the small guest room, then, and taken the sheets off the furniture, one by one; he had folded them with his hand, using his arm to hold them in place, and set the pile it made on the desk. He had opened the window, grateful at least that there was no dust, and made the bed himself from the linen closet. Then, and only then, he had set about unpacking, taking clothing and papers and tools from his rucksack, until it was empty and deflated, and could be tucked away in the wardrobe.
Aremu had sat on the bed, then, silent, his hand and his wrist between his legs, his face solemn. She was better off than he had half-expected, better off than he had half-feared. Let her weep, Aremu thought; he could not see any harm. The wet patch on his shirt had dried, by now.
Aremu rolled his right cuff up, slowly and carefully, until it was settled just below his elbow. He took his prosthetic, and set it on his wrist, and he pulled the straps tight, one after another, until they dug, familiar, into his forearm. He sighed, and carefully rolled the sleeve back down to his wrist.
Better the Rose than the empty silence, at least for now, Aremu thought. If she had needed him to stay, he would have; he could have born it. But she was asleep, and Aremu would rather face the busy streets of strangers than the all-too-familiar rubble around him.
Aremu tucked his right hand into his pocket, and made his way out into Quarter Fords. He didn’t walk purposefully, although he didn’t walk slowly either. He wandered; it had been years since he was last in the Rose. It had changed, and yet somehow the totality of the changes seemed to keep it the same. There were familiar restaurants and kofi shops, some old and some new; there were streets with too many memories, and those Aremu avoided without thought, as if his instincts knew to keep him away, as if their very familiarity forbade them.
He wandered out of the Fords, then. He felt the tension rising in his shoulders, a familiar ache; he felt the keen awareness of the crowd, instinctive – that need to know if anyone’s gaze was lingering too long, to check whether he was being followed, to make sure – just – to make sure. He never knew, here in Anaxas; he never knew.
Aremu found the wharf, the Mahogany and the distant skyline; Roalis clouds drifted through it, airships too. For a little while, Aremu sat on a fence and watched the ships rise and fall through the air, as if prodding the wound would make it more bearable. And it did, in time; it stopped hurting, and only then did he rise and go, away, leaving those thoughts behind on the wooden slats. He kept walking, then, and let himself find new side streets – never too far off the main drags, never too distant, even with the weight of his knife against his back, and the gun holstered beneath his shirt. Not here, not in Anaxas.
Aremu saw the bottle kiln from the street, and he made a choice almost without thinking. He could not mend Niccolette’s heart; he could not mend his own. He could not make her home worth living in once more, not this one. But he could, Aremu thought, replace some of the dinnerware she had broken – at least a few more plates and bowls.
The craggy mountained-carved wooden sign above the door read Aminark’s Treasures, and he mouthed the word to himself, quietly, a small frown wrinkling his brow. Gioran, of course; Aremu had studied history at Thul’Amat, as the general curriculum required. He found it an odd name, all the same.
Aremu eased himself into the shop, and glanced around, eyes lingering on the shelves, on the dinnerware in particular. His left hand found his pocket as well; his right wrist rested gently against the seam of the other. “Good afternoon,” he said quietly, almost hesitant, taking another step inside the store.