That’d been before the sky opened up and hurled down more rain than they’d seen since the beginning of the week. Distant thunder crackled; the bustling crowd took refuge under awnings and in shops and watering holes. Carriage wheels sprayed muddy water on irate passersby.
For whatever reason, Tom’s steps had taken him toward the Painted Ladies. By now, he felt like a drenched weasel. Glances of mild pity – and amusement – from passersby told him he didn’t look much better. Once, he’d loved walking in the rain, but now, he found himself itching to get inside and get warm. Pulling his coat tighter around him and wincing as he sloshed through a puddle, he cast about the street, looking for some shop to dive inside just long enough to dry off. Wasn’t like he didn’t have the extra shills to patronize a couple, anyway.
He saw the big window first, slick with the rain. He was right up underneath it before he could make sense of what was inside, and when he did, he swallowed sorely. Colorful textiles. The sign out front read Woven Delights, confirming his suspicions.
This was the place.
He hadn’t forgotten about Ava Weaver. In fact, the woman and her silks had gnawed at the back of his mind for half a week, now, ever since she’d come by to show those fabrics to Diana, and he’d had the misfortune of wandering downstairs. The more he thought about her, the more confused he got. He kept thinking about that green silk, too, about how she’d known just what color he meant, like she’d seen the sea in it, too. And that look she’d given him when he met her eye. It’d cut him to the bone with foreboding, and while most of him didn’t want to know, some part of him felt like he needed to.
As he passed through the door, he heard the jingle of a bell and frowned deeply. Still, it was warm and dry inside, and he couldn’t help but sigh with relief. He stood on the threshold for a few moments, dripping water everywhere from the hem of his coat to the tip of his nose. After a moment, he took off his wet coat and then his hat, red hair damp and messy with cowlicks.
He was dressed for the Dives today, all sturdy wool and earth tones; it was more comfortable for him, and it showed in the ease of his steps. There was a few days’ coppery stubble on his face, and he looked a little wan and tired. Moving about the shelves and bolts of fabric, the dizzying jewel tones and floral-patterned cotton and airy gauze, he felt diminutive.
Dizzying, it all was. Reminded him of Basin Court on a summer evening, the market busy with imported goods from everywhere the Vein could take you on its warm blood. Fabrics flapping in the salty breeze, the smell of spices. Looking round curiously, he didn’t see the green he remembered, but he saw a deep brown the color of kofi har. It took his attention immediately; he found himself wandering over, running a hesitant hand over the cloth.
It was hard to creep up on a man like Tom Cooke, but when he felt a stirring at the back of the shop, he didn’t immediately turn. His heart hopped up to his throat. In such close, dark quarters, with the rain tapping insistent fingers at the window, he felt like he was winding himself up for a fight.
He’d thought of a spiel. Madam, you might not remember me, he’d thought to say, but you sold some silk to my wife recently, and I expressed interest… It was all mixed up in his head, though. If he started now, it’d all come out in the wrong order.
So he just said, “Madam?” soft and querulous. He did not turn, but his fingers trembled slightly against the satin.