Melt Season – Day 81 of 90
“Ow! Reeves, so help me, if you hit one more pothole I’m vomiting in your bag!”
Cook roared with laughter from the front seat of the Benson. He turned and smacked his pupil on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Alex, it’s only half an hour more.”
As the car bumped again, the teenager clapped his hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. Even with the wind whipping through the windows, everyone heard the nauseated gulp.
With a sympathetic frown, you rubbed his back. “Reeves, really, it is a bit rough back here.”
The engine noise dropped as the footman depressed the clutch. He clasped the mahogany knob in his hand and thrust the shifter into the next gear. “Sorry, ma’am, but if we slow down, we’ll reach Marinar after dark. You don’t want to be on these roads at night, trust me.”
You gazed out at the dense pine forest on either side of the car. Even though there was still an hour until twilight, the thick trees cast deep shadows on the carpet of needles below them. The air was rich with turpentine sap and drifting pollens. It made your nose itch.
“What about the master?” you asked.
Reeves rolled his eyes. “With the way Sicarius drives the Lacrima, I’m sure he’s already at the townhouse. The only one to ever beat his time was Lyle.” The engine dipped again. With smooth precision, Reeves dialed back the shifter for the sloping curve ahead. “I’m still convinced he has secretly worked out a teleporter. There’s no way he made it from Gravelorne to Marinar in less than two hours.”
From the top of the hill, you could see the long, winding coastline and low-hanging sun. Golden hour painted the world in hues of fire orange. Near the edge of the city, steam rose from the Grand Station of Marinar. It was only half a year since you rode the steam train to this place, but it felt like only yesterday.
Another lurch of the car sent your stomach flipping. Alex groaned and muttered something under his breath that would have cost him a week’s pay if Ellsworth had overheard.
“Toughen up Alex,” Reeves teased. “You’re losing to a girl.”
“Mr. Reeves.” Your voice nearly frosted the windshield. “Would you like me to repeat that to your wife?”
Sinners pleaded for their souls with less sincerity than when Reeves begged for your silence.
Compared to the massive mountain manor, Sicarius’s lean, tall townhouse was almost claustrophobic. Even halls twice as wide as the professor’s domicile could not improve the cramped feeling. To navigate steep stairs, the gear cart was forced to cling to tight corners. Plowing into the cupboards and tables while dodging the other servants was painful, even if graceful waterfall lines meant the edges of the furniture were smooth.
It is a universal truth that closer quarters make for higher tensions. The Gravelorne staff was no exception.
Weary from the hills, everyone but Sicarius was on edge. Most of the infighting was resolved by each party tending to their area of expertise. Reeves handled the cars and visitors. Cook and Alex set about collecting food for the stay. You threw yourself into all the cleaning the town dust-mice could not accomplish. Despite everyone’s best efforts to keep the peace, more than the kettle was boiling over when you went to collect the master’s nighttime tisane.
“Don’t touch that! You’ll mess up Cook’s labels!” Alex snapped.
The labels Alex mentioned were of little help to you. Like the manor, all the cabinets at the townhouse had a series of dotted markers to indicate their contents. However, the code was not any defined language. It was just a pattern that Cook created to help him sort his wares. Alex had years to learn all their meanings. You were barely permitted in the kitchen to pick up meals.
Alex shoved the cupboard shut and stabbed a finger towards the hall. “The tea set is in the parlor!”
“Come now, Alex. She was only at the townhouse once before.” Cook waved his hand and filled the kettle. “She can’t know everything.”
“I’m just trying to keep things in proper order!” Alex protested. “I can’t stand people messing up the kitchen and making your life harder than it already—”
“Now listen here, boy.” Cook’s voice made everyone in the room feel two years old. There was a deep frown and a father’s disappointment on his lips. “I appreciate all you do for me, but I am more than capable of handling my own kitchen even if a few things are out of place. I’m blind, not broken.”
Embarrassed brown eyes refused to look at his mentor. “Yes, sir,” Alex mumbled.
Standing next to the door, you watched the exchange in silence.
Cook sighed and reached for the cupboard by the stove. Inside were eight canisters, each encircled with differing numbers of rubber bands. Meaty hands stroked down the sides until he selected the container with four markers.
“Missus, would you go get the teapot from the hutch?” He patted the top of the can. “I’ll get the water boiling.”
“Yes,” you replied. “Absolutely, Mr. Miller.”
Cook crossed his arms and turned to the boy. “Alex?”
“Y-yes, sir?”
The older man cocked his head towards the groceries on the counter. His broad grin was back. “Stop sulking and help me get these biscuit tins marked before bed.”
“Yes, sir!” Alex agreed, rushing to his mentor’s side.
As the kitchen door clicked shut, you could not help but smile.
In the powder blue parlor, you located a smooth white cabinet with crystal knobs and diamond-shaped accents. Inside was a china set with gold rims and matte black collars. The round, ladle-like cups were etched with cream-white bearded irises. For a moment, you stopped to admire their delicate blooms. Mrs. Norton was a true artist. Every tea cup you drank from was as lovely as the last, and seeing such pretty plates always made meal times a pleasure. Breaking from your thoughts, you collected the tall, tapered pot and bustled off to the kitchen.
By the time you returned, Alex was pasting rubber dots onto each of the new boxes. When you entered the room, he would not look at you.
“Mr. Miller, I have the teapot,” you announced.
Cook waved you over to the stove. You skirted the preparation table, removed the lid, and handed him the china. Feeling the pot’s edge with one hand, he poured the water with the other. “The silver serving tray is in the lower part of the hutch. I’m sure it wants a polish while the scones finish browning.”
Alex squatted down to a cabinet below the sink. There was a clattering of glass and some scraping sounds. He tossed you a rag and the silver restoring preparation. You scrambled but managed to catch them.
“Hey.”
“Yes, Alex?”
He turned to his glue-work, giving you his back. “Sorry… About before, I mean.”
“We are all tired.” You shook your head. “All is forgiven.”
In the reflection from the window, a small smile slipped onto the boy’s weary face.
After a quick polishing job and the ring of the oven timer, you set out on your next task: feeding the master his evening snack. China in hand, you rapped twice on the study door.
“Enter.”
You carried the heavy tray to the maple desk and set it down. The smell of grassy chamomile and sweet cream swirled through the air. As you poured, you could feel Sicarius’s eyes dragging over the exposed skin from your brow to your throat latch. Gaze fixed on the painted china plates beside the window, you tried to ignore the way your skin prickled under his scrutiny.
“How is everyone after the drive?” Sicarius inquired.
“Tired,” you answered. “Alex was nearly sick from the hills. I am worried the stress is going to make his rash come back.”
“And you?”
Were you overwrought from the car ride, or did the genuine concern in that question make your chest squeeze? You hoped it was the former. Your reputation was shattered enough without nonsense clouding your judgment.
“Well enough to work.” You handed him his cup and clasped your hands in front of your apron. “Do you have a particular book selection this evening, Master?”
“Hm…” Blue eyes flitted to the sparsely populated shelves that curved along the walls. Most of the available options were business texts. Sicarius frowned and tapped his chin. “The townhouse selection is rather monotonous, isn’t it?”
As he contemplated the inadequacy of his collection, your eyes drifted to the hollowed angles of his face. Curse the one who gave him those cheekbones. When he stroked his face like that, it made him look so—
You swallowed the feeling and pretended to examine the white wainscot for dust. “It seems adequate for the purpose. This residence is for trade relations, is it not?”
“Adequate?” he teased with a boyish grin. “My dear woman, you will break a man’s heart saying things like that.” Tugging on the drawer pull, he opened the top compartment of his desk, selected a business card and handed it to you. “Still, I am confident we can do better.”
On the small linen rectangle was a handsome, silver embossed address and a simple store name: “Miller’s Fine Books and Imports”.
“Go see Cook’s wife tomorrow. I am sure she will have a few selections that will improve our literary crisis.”
“Yes, Master.”
He leaned back in his leather chair and sipped his tea. “Oh, and one more thing.” His cheeky grin made you sweat. “I need you to take a special order to Georgette.”
Mrs. Miller’s bookstore was located in the arts district of Marinar, not far from the prestigious University of Tramton. The old crabapples that lined its streets burst with fiery magenta blooms. Interspersed amongst handsome horses and monogrammed carriages, the latest steam-core saloons burbled up the road. Fashionable women clothed themselves in calf-length dresses with wide collars, kidskin corsets, and petite floral patterns. Men, no doubt mimicking the figure of their favorite athletes, preferred light linens with padded shoulders and tapered waistcoats. Patterns from tweed to plaid were all represented. Tall leather walking boots and round-toed kitten heels were almost as ubiquitous as brass embellishments.
Not unlike the well-dressed pedestrians, Miller’s Fine Books and Imports was smartly trimmed. Though the front still possessed the dark colors of the coal age, its new windows were smooth and curvaceous as a stage dancer. Chevron-shaped glass inlays in the entryway allowed guests to peek at rows and rows of leather-bound wonder. The smell of ink and dust wrapped you in the feeling of home. You strode across a lattice-style blonde wood parquet. Ebony-diamond accents dotted the intricate patterns below your feet.
The shop assistant was a willowy creature with large wire glasses that engulfed her tiny face. “Good afternoon,” she greeted in a breathy, high pitch. “How may I help you, madam?”
“I was sent by Mr. Estrova to pick up some packages,” you explained.
The girl pushed her spectacles up a tall, pointy nose. “Yes, madam. Please follow me.”
Up the cantilevered stairs you climbed, trying not to mind the hanging air between each stone tread. Alone on the second floor was a statuesque woman with dark hair. The champagne crepe of her A-line dress looked golden against her umber complexion. Unlike the plain corsets outside, the rich navy brocade of her under-bustier was embroidered with vibrant peacock feathers. With an aquiline nose and deep brown eyes, her face would have been equally at home on a marble rendering of a goddess.
“Mrs. Miller?” the assistant called.
“What is it, Colleen?” the woman asked, straightening her flounce sleeves.
“There’s a customer who says she’s here on behalf of Mr. Estrova.”
Mrs. Miller looked you up and down. “I take it you are the new maid my husband mentioned?”
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Miller.” You bowed your head. “Forgive any forwardness, but Cook hardly takes a meal without speaking of you.”
The woman’s eyes widened as she brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, stars. What has the fool been saying?”
You waved your hands. “Only your praises, I assure you.”
She groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Somehow, that seems worse than the alternative.”
Stifling the laugh, you continued, “My master feels his collection at the townhouse is bland. He said you would know what type of titles interest him?”
Mrs. Miller snorted and shook her head. “His pre-orders have arrived, if that’s what you mean. Follow me.”
On the far end of the second floor, taking up an entire wall, was a set of hand-sized novels in matte cloth binding. The shopkeeper crawled along the row, plucking one book after another from their homes. As she handed them to you, your face caught fire.
Ravished by the Rogue Regent
Succumbing to the Scoundrel
The Rake Takes His Bride
Bewitched by the Wicked Warlock
The Very Virile Viscount
Stolen by the Sea Captain
The Princely Consequence of Sleeping With the Duke
A Love Below the Shoreside Moon
Well, at least that last one did not sound so—
You flipped open the book and scanned the text.
As his tempting tentacles ravaged her buxom bottom—
You snapped the book shut. “Please tell me you are joking!” you protested.
Mrs. Miller scratched her cheek. “I wish I was. He’s read most of the ones in print. These are the newest I have.”
Next time you did Sicarius’s shopping, you resolved to wear a deep cloche hat so you could hide in it.
As you staggered under the weight of your unwitting foray into fictional seduction, Mrs. Miller guided you down the stairs to the register. The shop assistant packed the books into a brown paper bag. Bending below the counter, her employer extracted a heavy pictorial bound in black leather. The gold lettering read:
Madam Millie’s Illustrated Guide to Illustrious Sexual Prowess
You slapped your hand over the title. “There is a limit to what I will do for money, and this exceeds the bounds of it.” You stabbed the cover with your index finger. “Under no circumstances will I be taking this book to that man.”
“It’s not for him,” Mrs. Miller insisted. “It’s the delivery for Georgette.”
You clutched your chest and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank the stars above.”
Colleen opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Miller elbowed the girl in the rib. Handing over the thick paper bag, the shopkeeper waved goodbye with a tight grin. As the shop door slipped shut, the spindly girl approached her boss.
“Doesn’t Mr. Estrova own the deluxe edition of Madam Millie’s?”
Mrs. Miller’s teeth gritted. “If you want to live, you will learn to be silent, Colleen.”
By the time you reached Georgette’s shop, the sky had turned a windswept grey. Clenching the paper bag shut, you hurried up the stairs. The buzzer cried out. Heels clicked across the hardwood floor. Blue eyes peeked through the chain lock. The sound of cheerful glee poured out from the crack. The door swung wide to reveal a leggy blonde with blue eyebrows.
“Come in! Come in!” she cried, snatching your wrist. “The tea is ready!”
Georgette’s studio smelled like berries, oil, and alcohol. She dragged you to the plush velvet stool and pushed you down with a flick of her wrists. You dropped the bag on the floor as if it were filled with vipers. Your host hummed a bright show tune, swinging her hips to the rhythm. The ruffled bustle of her swallowtail skirt swayed all the way to the kitchen. When she returned, she was holding two copper striped ceramic cups and their matching teapot. She poured the deep purple drink with an extravagant flourish.
“Passionflower, blueberry, and rosehip. My own blend,” she explained, draping herself over a cozy linen pouf. “It is the only thing to soothe the nerves.”
“Oh! Now you are concerned about my nerves!” You kicked the bag of sin, spilling its carnal contents to the ground. “Tell me, how many of you are enjoying this farce of yours?”
Georgette raised four fingers before snatching up The Very Virile Viscount. “Ooh! I do adore a breeding kink!” With a coquettish grin, she waved the book at you. “You will tell Mr. Estrova that I must borrow it when he is done.”
Seething, you sipped your tea.