The Wharf
“There have been more and more cargos flagged of late,” Mr. Williams said; the light glinted off the thin wire-framed glasses perched on his nose as he glanced down at the papers on his desk. His writ was framed on the wall behind the desk, hanging behind a thin sheet of glass, along with various other diplomas and authorizations. He swallowed, looking back up at Ava; the slightly worn tweed of his suit twitched with it. “Naturally, all the papers are in order, but the customs officials wanted to see yours as well, as the importer.”
“I understand, I think,” Ava said, slightly wide-eyed. She had corresponded a good deal with Mr. Williams; she sold many Anaxi-made fabrics, but a draper’s shop in the Painted Ladies needed fabrics from Mugroba, from Bastia, even from Hox or Gior, to attract Uptown clientele. He looked very much as she had imagined, down to the thinning spot on the crown of his head, down to the anxious frown on his face.
Ava looked down at the case that rested against the leg of her chair, letting her eyes linger on the roses nestled in green fabric. She looked back up at Mr. Williams. “Do you have a sense of what it will cost me?” Ava asked. “To have the shipment released?” She let a little more of the worry creep into her face; her forehead tightened, and her lips pressed together, pale-pink and trembling for a moment as she found her courage.
Mr. Williams was already shaking his head. “I wrote to you because I know this shipment represents quite a large investment on your part,” he said, frowning. “I hope you would not balk at… there are sometimes extra duties imposed, you understand – unexpected levies. Mr. Hywel-Wilkinson is sometimes…” he breathed in, slow and deep, and exhaled again, “difficult.”
“Yes,” Ava promised. "I see." It was not the fabric she thought of, the brightly colored Mugrobi weaves, the warm patterns growing in popularity in Vienda even in the Dives as fall drew onwards and the Symvoulio moved; it was the single bolt, tucked somewhere unprepossessing among all the rest, with an asymmetric pattern pricked out in dots and dashes all through, parts bordered by a distinctive red stripe. It was the letter which had been sent – not to her, but to another contact – and the name Serro which they had teased, slowly, from two layers of code.
Silk watched Mr. Williams from behind Ava’s eyes.
“I hope we shall be able to resolve all this trouble in the appointment tomorrow,” Ava murmured, softly, when the discussion began to wind itself down.
“I’m sure, Ms. Weaver,” Mr. Williams said, clearing his throat. He straightened a piece of paper on his desk, and rose; the pinched, worried look on his face put the lie to it. “You’ll meet me here an hour prior? It’s much better to be early.”
Ava nodded. She rose as well, gracefully, fingers wrapping around the handle of her case. “Of course. Thank you again, Mr. Williams, for all your attention on this matter.”
“Of course,” Mr. Williams said, firmly. He took a deep breath. That, Ava thought, he had meant. “I do hope, Ms. Weaver – I do hope.”
Ava smiled at him, softly, letting more warmth spill into it. “So,” she said, “do I.”
Mr. Williams held her cloak at the door; he saw her down the narrow, cramped staircase to the first floor of the arcade; he had closed and locked his door behind him, his name painted in a flowing, cursive script onto the worn glass panel installed in the slightly swollen wood. He walked Ava past the other businesses on the ground floor, and bowed her gently out the front door, onto the street beyond.
Ava curtsied, neatly, in the small, cramped space; she finished sliding her gloves on, took her case firmly in hand once more, and stepped out onto the street beyond, a soft turban hat perched on her hair against the cold, the same slate blue as the dress she wore; there were no feathers or flowers tucked in it, but a small length of bright blue ribbon, folded over upon itself in a flower-like shape. The same color blue had been worked into the dress, vibrant just at Ava’s waist, and in the embroidery at the hem and wrists.
It was late in the afternoon; the sun was just above the distant buildings and hills of the rose, slanted golden rays sparkling through the streets, all the colors sharp yet pale. They were a few steps from the edge of the wharf; the waves lapped busily at the piers, and the Rose bustled, too and fro. Ava looked around, taking a deep breath, and went just a little still at the sight of a large, familiar figure coming from the docks. She held a moment – a moment too long, then, to pretend otherwise.
“Mr. Cooke,” Ava said, with a friendly smile. She was aware of a sudden pounding in her chest, of a slow coldness trickling down her spine. None of it showed; she curtsied, delicately, instead. One hand held her case; the other reached up to steady her hat, although it hadn’t so much as twitched with her careful movement. “What a pleasant surprise.”