Aveline's Bookstore • Deventry
Evening on the 14th of Bethas, 2720
H
e remembered well the flare of irritation that’d gone through her at the look on his face; she’d meant to find something else there, he thought sadly, to draw something else out of what must’ve been – he couldn’t think what he must’ve looked like to her. She meant to guilt him, he reminded himself, for whatever it was she wanted, whatever it was she was going to pull out sooner than later. The thought was growing brittle and thin with wear. The ground beneath him felt shaky.
And he wasn’t sure why he smiled when she did, or why his smile widened when she gave none other than her name. Not Vauquelin – she’d not gone back on her promise to him; he felt a little chagrinned – but Cerise, and then, plain and easy, thank you.
“Cerise,” Miss Berjeau said, smiling. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Miss Winterford.” She turned her smile on him, raising her eyebrows. “As mannerly as she is talented, I see.”
“I haven’t a clue where she gets either of those things,” he said, grinning at Cerise, and Miss Berjeau laughed.
She half-turned, beckoning toward the stairs. “You’ll come up and have a cuppa?” He raised an eyebrow at Cerise, then made to follow. Miss Berjeau took a first careful step up, lifting the hem of her skirts with the jangling of a few bracelets on one plump wrist. Her other arm was engaged with a stack of moth-gnawed books.
The stairs wrapped round once, a window set high on the landing spilling out rainy light. One small globe of blue phosphor light glowed at the post. As he climbed, he held tight to the varnished old banister.
“Bertram tells me your tastes in fiction tend rather toward the speculative,” Miss Berjeau went on, glancing over her shoulder with glinting gold eyes. A strand of white hair had slipped out of her bun and wisped round her cheek. “He mentioned Mircalla, my only copy of which which I had – regrettably – only just parted with, unless there is one around here somewhere…”
The second floor, as they moved through the narrow doorway, was all the smell of books and cobwebs and those smells the rain brings up out of old wood. He sniffed, and caught a drift of something else, too, good, bitter black Anaxi tea.
“I assume you have already read Coquillon? Marianne Coquillon, mind,” Miss Berjeau corrected herself, “not Perseus, her rather more notorious husband. You may be more familiar with the novel she wrote – until the twenty-six forties, it was published anonymously – rather a terror in three volumes…”
More clocking monsters, boemo. He wasn’t winded after just a flight, but his hip ached from the walk. The upstairs looked much like the downstairs, a maze of bookshelves, except they soon emerged into a clearing with a low table and a smattering of overstuffed, patchily-upholstered chairs. The dizzying, mismatched pastel and florals put one in mind of the twenty-five hundreds; he’d thought some Bastian lady with an oversized skirt wouldn’t’ve looked out of place with her ribboned heels up on a footstool, so long as she was as decrepit as the furniture.
An enormous white cat loafed in one chair, its face so well-hidden in fluff it looked almost like a pillow. On the low table was a tea service; the teapot steamed, and there was milk and sugar both. One of the cups was cracked at the rim.
“Please, please, sit, make yourselves comfortable.” Downstairs, a bell jangled. “Let me know if the two of you need anything,” tutted Miss Berjeau hurriedly, turning back toward the stairs.
He hesitated, half-waiting to see if Cerise sat first; then, tired, he eased himself into a seat. He laid the package down on the arm beside him, patting it softly. Then he leaned to take the teapot by its delicate handle.
He was quiet a moment, sucking at a tooth. He poured one cup, then the other. He wasn’t sure what’d possessed him – other than the usual ghost – but there was still something in her field, he thought, and still some tightness in his chest.
“Emiel,” he said quietly, as the tea trickled into her cup. He paused, setting the pot down; he looked down at his own cup, frowning.
e remembered well the flare of irritation that’d gone through her at the look on his face; she’d meant to find something else there, he thought sadly, to draw something else out of what must’ve been – he couldn’t think what he must’ve looked like to her. She meant to guilt him, he reminded himself, for whatever it was she wanted, whatever it was she was going to pull out sooner than later. The thought was growing brittle and thin with wear. The ground beneath him felt shaky.
And he wasn’t sure why he smiled when she did, or why his smile widened when she gave none other than her name. Not Vauquelin – she’d not gone back on her promise to him; he felt a little chagrinned – but Cerise, and then, plain and easy, thank you.
“Cerise,” Miss Berjeau said, smiling. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Miss Winterford.” She turned her smile on him, raising her eyebrows. “As mannerly as she is talented, I see.”
“I haven’t a clue where she gets either of those things,” he said, grinning at Cerise, and Miss Berjeau laughed.
She half-turned, beckoning toward the stairs. “You’ll come up and have a cuppa?” He raised an eyebrow at Cerise, then made to follow. Miss Berjeau took a first careful step up, lifting the hem of her skirts with the jangling of a few bracelets on one plump wrist. Her other arm was engaged with a stack of moth-gnawed books.
The stairs wrapped round once, a window set high on the landing spilling out rainy light. One small globe of blue phosphor light glowed at the post. As he climbed, he held tight to the varnished old banister.
“Bertram tells me your tastes in fiction tend rather toward the speculative,” Miss Berjeau went on, glancing over her shoulder with glinting gold eyes. A strand of white hair had slipped out of her bun and wisped round her cheek. “He mentioned Mircalla, my only copy of which which I had – regrettably – only just parted with, unless there is one around here somewhere…”
The second floor, as they moved through the narrow doorway, was all the smell of books and cobwebs and those smells the rain brings up out of old wood. He sniffed, and caught a drift of something else, too, good, bitter black Anaxi tea.
“I assume you have already read Coquillon? Marianne Coquillon, mind,” Miss Berjeau corrected herself, “not Perseus, her rather more notorious husband. You may be more familiar with the novel she wrote – until the twenty-six forties, it was published anonymously – rather a terror in three volumes…”
More clocking monsters, boemo. He wasn’t winded after just a flight, but his hip ached from the walk. The upstairs looked much like the downstairs, a maze of bookshelves, except they soon emerged into a clearing with a low table and a smattering of overstuffed, patchily-upholstered chairs. The dizzying, mismatched pastel and florals put one in mind of the twenty-five hundreds; he’d thought some Bastian lady with an oversized skirt wouldn’t’ve looked out of place with her ribboned heels up on a footstool, so long as she was as decrepit as the furniture.
An enormous white cat loafed in one chair, its face so well-hidden in fluff it looked almost like a pillow. On the low table was a tea service; the teapot steamed, and there was milk and sugar both. One of the cups was cracked at the rim.
“Please, please, sit, make yourselves comfortable.” Downstairs, a bell jangled. “Let me know if the two of you need anything,” tutted Miss Berjeau hurriedly, turning back toward the stairs.
He hesitated, half-waiting to see if Cerise sat first; then, tired, he eased himself into a seat. He laid the package down on the arm beside him, patting it softly. Then he leaned to take the teapot by its delicate handle.
He was quiet a moment, sucking at a tooth. He poured one cup, then the other. He wasn’t sure what’d possessed him – other than the usual ghost – but there was still something in her field, he thought, and still some tightness in his chest.
“Emiel,” he said quietly, as the tea trickled into her cup. He paused, setting the pot down; he looked down at his own cup, frowning.
