Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey
“Oh, how did you get it off so nicely?” Priscilla frowned down at hers; she was absorbed in the careful wriggling of her spoon through the cracked bits of the egg, easing it slowly up. “Go on, don’t wait up.”
Chrysanthe dipped the buttered toast into the soft yellow of the yolk, and took a bite. “Delicious,” she said, setting it down. She reached for her tea, taking a small sip, and sat back, glancing around the elegant little café, with white trim and yellow curtains. She smiled across the table at Priscilla, who, with a frown beneath soft red curls, was carefully easing the last of the shell out of the way, practically holding her breath.
“There,” Priscilla sighed. She set the top away, and delicately dipped her bread into the end; a little bit of yolk spilled down the side. She nibbled at the toast finger, her other hand carefully covering her mouth, and set the bread down with a smile. “This is fun. I haven’t had soft-boiled eggs since I was a girl,” she giggled. “I can’t imagine doing it in the cafeteria.”
“No,” Chrysanthe smiled, “what a mess!”
“I’m so glad you decided to come for the weekend,” Priscilla said, smiling still. “Will you come dress shopping today, or have you had your fill?”
“I’d love to,” Chrysanthe said, “but I’ve promised to run an errand for the Ladies’ Society of Static Conversation; our last printer was quite dreadful, and apparently we’ve a referral here in Muffey. I said I’d take a look.”
“Oh, how fun,” Priscilla said; her field was all static as well, and mingled warmly, politely, with Chrysanthe’s. “Is there to be another lecture series?”
“Of course,” Chrysanthe grinned, sitting forward. “Ms. Marielle Wilkinson will start it off; she is to give a talk during the Gala of Physics on The Dynamics of Condensation in Upkeeping Phase Spells. She recently published her second spell on a related subject, and it promises to be most interesting.”
“I’m sure,” Priscilla said with a giggle. “I do love the Gala.” She picked her bread up again, dipping it into the yolk once more. “Our last term already,” she said, sighing, hiding the ungainly biting motion behind her hand once more. “Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday we were first formers? Or, well, at least sixth formers.”
“Sixth formers, perhaps,” Chrysanthe allowed; she dipped her buttered toast in the egg as well, taking another bite.
“And soon, graduation – and who knows what next!” Priscilla giggled. “Our whole lives, just waiting.”
“Yes,” Chrysanthe thought of the acceptance letter folded even now amidst her things; she knew she ought to have shown it to Amaryllis before she had left Vienda, that it would have been a conversation easier had in person. She had not responded yet; she had told herself there was little need to tell her sister before she had formally accepted the offer to go to Qrieth for graduate studies. She looked at Priscilla, now, sitting across the table; she drew in breath.
“Do you think Dagwood Henderson would be interested in the lecture?” Priscilla asked.
“Dagwood?” Chrysanthe’s eyebrows lifted. “With the spots?”
“Oh, he’s cleared up quite a bit,” Priscilla giggled. “He’s really rather cute. Perhaps I can convince him to escort me.”
Chrysanthe blinked. “Well, as you like. I imagine it would make it rather hard to concentrate on Ms. Wilksinson.”
Priscilla giggled again. “Oh, Chrysanthe, you’re so funny.”
They parted ways outside the shop; Chrysanthe promised to come and find Priscilla at the dressmaker’s after her errand was over, and fished the small card from her reticule. Jenkins Printing and Engraving, she read, and the address as well. She made her way from LeSade’s, walking with firm, deliberate strides down the small, fashionable streets; her pale green walking dress was, if not precisely fashionable, neat and well-tailored, and her waist-length blonde hair was pulled back into two neat braids with a part down the crown of her head; only a few wispy stragglers had escaped, at this hour.
The printer’s shop was, Chrysanthe had to admit, rather a disappointment. The flower boxes all around the front door and on the upstairs window sills were rather spoiled by the straggling weeds which hung, limply, in every direction; a bit of paint was peeling, Chrysanthe noticed as well, on the second story.
Nonetheless, Chrysanthe went inside; a bell chimed softly overhead. She glanced around, lips pursing. There were spots on the glass, which looked rather like fingerprints, above the chaise lounge; it had a little spot on it as well, which she could only hope as tea. A low table in front of it held a scatter of pamphlets and sheets, in no discernible order, sort of haphazardly heaped atop one another.
Chrysanthe sighed, coming into the middle of the shop. She waited a few moments, glancing around; the scuffed wood counter off to the side was equally messy, the glass display case set in it all marred with fingerprints, such that it was oddly difficult to see inside.
Chrysanthe took a deep breath. I’m sure someone recommended him, Adelaide Thureau-Dangin had said, when she handed Chrysanthe the small card.
Chrysanthe made her way to the counter; she nudged several papers aside, to reveal the faint metal gleam she had hoped was a bell. After a deep breath, Chrysanthe brought her hand down solidly against the bell, letting the chime echo through the shop. "Hello?" Chrysanthe called, politely, a moment later. "Is anyone here?"