Chapter 2: Chapter One: Esselle
The foyer was riddled in dance and song—women and men garbed in finery. The lively banter of minstrels—with their clarinets, bassoons, and fiddles—pushed the merry guests to dance once actors bowed, and curtains closed, and all made haste from stands to stools. Each of them, adorned in emeralds and rubies, had more coin than they could account for.
I, not nearly so elaborate, wore my daily tunic of meagerly woven wool. It was long and plain and simple and fitting for a bar-maiden working the renowned Diamond Theater.
What the theater had lacked in size was redeemed in quality—mahogany velvet chaise longue sofas and glassy candelabra chandeliers. From its domed ceilings to its limestone floor, the building was embellished in gold trimming. And enriched by illustrations of the great artist Clement himself.
The house, awash with rows and rows of velvet chairs, sported two upper balconies and an orchestra built to fit a throng. Of course, such a place for only the highest ranked nobs, needn't be very big.
On this night, much like any other, they scattered about the foyer. Some veered closer to the gold-brick fireplace, absorbing the heat of its crackling embers. Others danced viciously in mimic of those flames—nobs of every age stomping circles in the floor, singing:
When only a lass, she would make off with money,
Only to trade it for nobleman's honey…
'Til she had learned that he spiked the sweet sap,
Oh, what an end for the lass…
I just listened, watched—wiping one of the glass beakers with a rag and soapy water. Then a man, dragging a stool from 'neath the bar-top—its legs built of ebony and topper of brown leather—sat upon it before me, his gaze scanning the cocktail pamphlet before him.
A glossy nail pointed at the wording, "Stager's Delight?" My eyes were met with his, and he queried, "What is it? Never heard of such a spirit…"
"A divine mixture of rum and sweetness," I replied proudly, "If you're fond of citrus and nutmeg." I had the time to mix a few concoctions of my own during the boredom of an empty foyer. Particularly during shows, when every nob was seated and enthralled in entertainment.
I would experiment with the ciders, the wines, the ales. Then I'd try the lot with juices, herbs, berries. Sometimes they'd rub my tongue raw. But most often, they were splendid. And I discovered that wine could be made exceptional with pomegranate or mulberry—that dashing the ales with finely ground cinnamon stems offered the bitters a kick. There was so much more to be done with the spirits than pouring them, carafe to tankard. That's what the pamphlet was for.
Anything to enliven the labor a tad.
"Hell, mix it. Why not!" The man bellowed. And he shifted in his seat, tossing his hands in the air before clutching the bar-top, curling the toes of his boots around the barring stool-legs, and pulling the entire thing closer to the table so that his belly might touch its black-marble edge.
From the looks of symmetrical lines extending down his nose to his lips—as well as the roots sprouting from the outer corners of his eyes—I'd wager his smile was nothing short of fifty years old. His long and silvery hair was combed into a bun. And the finely spun silk 'neath a skirting surcoat—and leather belt all over hose—made for typical nobbish attire.
It took me the same amount of time to guess his age and weigh his garb as it took me to mix his drink—hardly any time at all. The squeezing of lemons and oranges, and tossing of juices with rum, was second-nature by now. It took me less than a second to pour the mixture from shaker to beaker and dash on the pinch of ground nutmeg to blanket it all.
I watched intently as he took it in, eyed the spirit with hesitance, and sipped but a teaspoon. But when hesitance turned to unabashed delight, my face lit with a smile to match his.
He downed the beaker in two minutes and asked for another. Then downed that one in less time, asking for another. And somewhere, halfway through the last, stood at his stool in a drunken stupor, turning back to the dancing crowd to bellow the tune's final words with the lot.
Oh, what an end for the lass!
When his hand lifted toward the ceiling—still clutching that third beaker—Stager's Delight splashed in circular splotches around its rim. An eruption of laughter and clapping and hooting and hollering filled the foyer. And women spun in their gowns, watching their petticoats take flight when air seeped beneath them, filling 'em up like balloons. But before the man could leap from the leather of his stool, I clutched one of the pouches that dangled from his waist into one palm, swiftly snatching it free of the girdle it clung to.
The thud of his feet to the floor sheathed whatever rattle of coins escaped my apron as I dropped the pouch inside it.
And when he turned around to face me, the only words he managed to slur were, "It seems I've spilled my spirits! Mix me another, Bar Girl!"
➸
Throughout the wagon ride home, I flicked through the loot—most of which were jewels snagged from wrists and necks of ladies, or pins clinging on to their lavish coat lapels. Some men wore bulky rings. I counted two made only of silver. And two pouches, as well, across one man's shoulder and another's waist. Those were filled with coin. At least I'd presumed as much until I clutched one per palm and lifted them for inspection.
No—one was filled with coin, but the other pouch, the lighter one—the one unformed by misshapen bulges that curved around piles of clattering shillings—that one was filled with Djinn dust.
The devil's dust… The sniffer's sugar… Perhaps nobs were infatuated with the powder, but I could only slump my shoulders at the sight of it. I needed shillings, so potting Djinn dust was like scooping up a batch of bad eggs or pricking my finger on the thorn of a rose-stem—Pesty.
I milled the other pouch between my fingertips before yanking at its strings and counting out its contents one by one.
Two, three—
The wagon hit a bump, bobbing several of the shillings to the floor—one or two of them escaping through cracks in the hickory plank of which my weary feet rested. My shoulders slouched further, and I bent down with a sigh to retrieve the faithful sum—the bulging apron in my lap only a little in the way. I should have expected the bump, I suppose. And the roads would only grow worse as we crossed through Port.
It was, after all, where cobblestone streets turned to dirt ones, and the following street lanterns became fewer and farther between. Port was the midpoint, the separation of rich and poor, nobs and wharfs. It's where manors turned to shanties in the same spread of acres. Needless to say, things only worsened the further west you traveled from it—the Cleft, the unofficial dividing line between us and them. It may not have been marked on a map, but we all knew that it existed—could feel it, see it, smell it.
I collected the rogue shillings back into my lap and attempted a second count of the take. One, two, three—
"Aye, Lass," the coachman's voice startled me, "This is West Port." Looking ahead of our stilling wagon, I recognized the post for Tram, standing just before a darkened path of mud through tiny homes of leaky wood and thatched roofing. I gathered three of the shillings, lifting myself at our arrival, only to hear the coachman sputter, "Hold on, Miss Barlowe." Craning his head as far back as his neck would allow, I caught sight of little more than half a portrait—features I knew well from countless trips atop his wain. Looking at me with his brown eyes topped in thick black brows and coiled bangs, he asked, "Are you advancing to Devon?" I wanted to ask how he knew, but his brows raised to prompt a reply.
"I am…"
"Then allow me to take you the rest of the way," he offered with a whip at the shires, propelling the wagon to move before protest. And before I could sit my derrière comfortably on the wood. Instead, I crashed down onto it, and a splinter pricked my tail through the wool of my dress.
I had grown accustomed to an evening stroll through Tram to get to Devon—the moon-lit fog that rested low, clearing the view of starry patterns above. I'd known the route by heart, well enough to know its muddy paths were too mushy, too yielding. The cart would not fare well through it.
"I must protest—," I began, but he hushed my voice with his.
"You manage business in Devon, I take it?" He turned to me again, this time with a smile that hinted at something devilish. Apart from the hours I spent mixing spirits at the theater, I helped Chester manage the shop.
But for privacy's-sake, I undermined it when I said, "Here and there." He smiled wider.
"You're my last ride. Cantering you two burgs west is no trouble for me, Miss." His eyes lowered and shot back up to meet mine. "It's the least I could do."
A sense of foreboding sparked in my gut, but I had always been a bit too wary of men. Particularly ones I was alone with in the night. I did my best to escape it. This was but a kind favor.
And he was right about the trouble, our trip was quick—bumpy, but quick. And before long, I spotted Chester's shop in the distance.
Devon was a quaint town, even hub to Pale centuries ago. That is, before the DuPonts—compatriots of the empire and wealthiest of families—purchased everything from Port to the East-most Ristic Village, drawing aristocrats to newfound mines and plots, and building our city to what it was now, where Devon became little more than a spec on its moneyed map. A spec deemed unworthy—much like everything west of the Cleft—of city funds, repair work, or succor of any kind.
Even if it was home to those who built the city, ground up—built the burgs to the east and worked the mines and plots. Heaven forbid the nobs share any of their wealth with those who earned it for them.
Chester's shop fared well, at least for a hock and goods outlet in the west—likely due to its being the only place one could afford luxuries. The place for bourgeois patrons to barter for jewels in attempts to play posh—for folks to snag rare finds and spread the word of where they found 'em. Yes—Chester was lucky those shelves filled quicker than they emptied—thanks to my sleight of hand and his business savvy. Quite the team, we were.
"And where from here?" The coachman queried, pulling me back to the present. The shires were kept at a slow gait whilst he craned his head to probe at me.
The shop was still up the road a bit, but I said, "Here is fine."
"I'd much prefer to get you on your doorstep, Miss. It's late… and it is Devon." He snickered out the last bit, which dug under my skin a ways. His clear contempt for Devon would be vexing to any girl raised by the wharfs of this burg—a burg where "wharf" wasn't an insult, rather a compliment.
For I would argue Devon more congenial in a stroll than those gaudy cobble paths in Ristic Village, filled with prim and proper vaunters. Folks of Devon sure worked harder than they did. Folks of Devon were kinder than they were. He lifted a brow at my pause. And by now, we really were up on my doorstep.
"Then halt the wagon here, please." I pointed at a house that wasn't mine across the way. No need drawing a nob to Chester's shop, where he might poke his nose around its wooded rows of stolen stock. "I live just there."
He responsively halted the wagon, and I hopped out to make my way around its barrel. When I did, the shires let out an expulsion of air and stomped their shoes into the mud. And I held out my hands with the shillings—same fare as always, four hexagons of glittering gold.
But he stared at them. And he didn't move. And I felt foolish thinking the fare wouldn't rise, even if it was he that offered to ride me those extra burgs west. So I added two shillings to the mound in my palm, but he still didn't go for them. Instead, he just stared at me—a befuddled half-frown spawning upon his face.
"Perhaps… I should walk you inside," he suggested, his wording hesitant. Now this was becoming improper. Surely the coachman did not think so lowly of Devon, that a woman of twenty-and-none would need a chaperone for all but ten paces.
"No need," I said—my tone short—,"Thank you, but there is no need." I nudged my hand closer to his, which kept clinging to the reigns in his lap. Unmoving. Undecided. Like a painter and cream canvas, he studied me in stiffness.
His eyes pried to a point that caused my gut to supply with vigilance. I now could grasp the full extent of my discomfort. For there was something hungry in those prying eyes of his, and it was quiet, dark. All that broke through the air were the sounds of palm trees—their fronds blowing in a breeze of the wee hours.
What did he want?
Bold as brass, he answered my thought, mumbling, "I drove you all this way from Port—I didn't have to…" Before I could remind him that I did protest, he queried, "Were you still expecting payment?"
And then it dawned on me. The man thought I was a courtesan. My face lit up red—so crimson it may have glowed, even in nothing but moonlight. "You don't—you think I am—I'm not a—" The words left my mouth in choppy, incomplete declarations. Perhaps because my mind spoke to me in jumbled thoughts. How could he think me a courtesan when I did nothing to offer myself? "You think me a courtesan?!"
"Don't make a scene!" He hissed to quiet me. Then he pivoted his head from one side to the other in the off-chance one was still awake to witness his indecency. That's when I caught sight of glittering platinum banded over his ring-finger. He wasn't just a prick, he was a married one at that. "You cannot blame me—look at you." Finally he moved his hands, but only to point them at me—to my shoes on up to my face. "You thought I'd drive you two burgs west through muck just for the hell of it?"
Not wishing to give him any more of my time, I stomped through the muddy paces between us, slamming my levy atop the plank holding his booted feet in place. "Perhaps you should consider the offer," he snarled, glaring down at me, "Think it a compliment that a man of my status would be willing to stoop so low." The low part of my stomach felt hollow as I bordered on unnerved. "If need be, I can pay generously."
I gathered enough confidence to spit, "Or perhaps you should return home to your wife—though who can fault even her for not wanting to bed you?"
His lips spread, but he had no riposte. A typical nob—no wit—too dull—so run-of-the-mill. I offered him a sorry smile and turned on my heel to leave, starting home to the music of hooves desperately stomping through mud and a creaking wain's hickory wheels stuck rolling in place.
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