Chapter Eleven: Esselle

My interest toward Lyewkin had amplified tenfold. I found myself curious as to what this "business" of his was. He'd been very vague about that, hadn't he?

The more I thought back on our discussion, the more I realized he was particularly scrutinizing—of me and my every word. It almost felt like a test, and considering the fact that he knew my name and sat with me at the bar for so long made me wonder if this business of his was one that put my place in the theater at risk.

I was paranoid, wasn't I? Any professional businessman would take the time to learn the names of those laboring for them. Then again, he did continue to reference Willow as Blondie. But what could he have to rid of me for other than acting a tad feistier than the others? He said himself that I was adept behind the bar. Only a poor businessman would rid of a laborer with such talent as mine.

But I was paranoid. Whatever Lyewkin's business, it was his own, and likely had nothing to do with me nor the firing of laborers.

And he did leave a generous tip after sauntering off, just in time for Willow to rejoin the bar with a mouthful on his insolence. She used quite colorful language to describe the lad. I take it that whatever words he used to vex her so were much worse than he led on, at least to me.

I found myself preparing for his arrival after the show. Alas, he didn't come. Not once.

Terrance, however, joined me for a drink when the foyer dwindled to a handful of nobs, each too drunk to stand from the chaise.

He groaned, dragging both feet toward the stools.

"Rough night?" I queried, pouring him a classic mulberry wine. He never strayed from his usual.

"Like you wouldn't believe…" The words came from his gut, strained and tired, like it took every bit of his might to voice them. "How silly of me," he recoiled, "You of all people would understand."

I chuckled and set the wine softly before him. I doubted any spirit could ease the tension that hoisted his shoulders to well-nigh the height of his ears—I doubted anything at all could work that magic. The lad was strung tighter than a drum at every hour. Still, it was worthy of a try. I did blend a mean mulberry wine.

My mind snagged on the parchment I'd seen Terrance walking around with, his eyes glued to it all night and knuckles white, he held onto its edges so tightly. I noticed him folding it with the utmost care whilst approaching the bar moments ago, and now, as he sat, the tip of one corner poked out of his suit-coat pocket.

"What is that?" I queried innocently. Terrance traced the invisible line from my eyes to the corner, and hastily shoved the paper further in.

"Nothing," he retorted, too quick and too loud to be believed. Terrance was the most pitiful liar.

I kept a blasé look plastered to my face, like a mask, but behind it, I was fascinated. And out popped that corner again. The parchment itself looked like it wanted to escape.

Perhaps I'd help it do so.

Changing gears, I decided to ask, "So what is our newest patron's business with the theater? Lyewkin Coates?" I kept the tone of my query casual, in no way suggestive of an inkling of curiosity.

"Who? He has no business with the theater," Terrance retorted, again much too hasty, and this time, defensive.

His eyes darted about the bar, and he squirmed atop his stool. More condemning than that was the way beads of sweat began to form at his hairline. He was uncomfortably hot. It was written all over his face—if not by the sweat, by the redness that spread from his cheeks to his chin and forehead. He was lying to me.

"That's interesting," I cooed, "Because he told me just the opposite."

Terrance stilled as I played the part of the coy bar-maiden striking up small talk.

"Oh… Well…," he stuttered, "His business…" Clearing his throat, he finally put together, "He has business with the theater, we're just not supposed to discuss it. Something about—eh—safety regulations."

It was another pitiful lie.

"I see," I muttered. And made sure not to mention another word of Lyewkin or the parchment that now rested in the pouch pocket of my gown.

Secrets were being kept amongst these men, and it was more blatant than snow in the tropics. As for digging my nose into their so-called "business," I was curious. And from my experience, snooping into the business of others proved to be informative, if not simply good entertainment.

I gave it two minutes after Terrance left to unfold the parchment in my pocket.

When I did, I kept one eye on his ticket-office, where he'd disappeared behind the darkened glass. I kept the other eye on Willow, who was too busy chatting with bar-top revelers to notice what I was doing.

Unraveling its intricate folds over the ledgers that sat at our counter, I splayed the stolen parchment over the top of its pages, where my reading wouldn't appear in the least bit suspicious. I took quick notice of Terrance's attention to detail, the way he lined the edges so perfectly, without any overlap.

The humor of his precision was short-lived. For I froze at the sight of my name written atop a column of others titled, "LABORERS," in all caps.

This was a page pulled from his ledger-book, yesterday's date marked at the top. And well over half of the names were crossed through, like he'd been working at whittling it down—perhaps to just one.

Mine remained.

I studied the page with muddled thoughts and glanced over my shoulder just as Terrance left his bubble. But instead of coming to me, he used a brisk pace to carry him through the doors that led backstage.

My eyes darted back to the parchment.

TICKET-HOLDERS. SPIRIT-GOERS. LABORERS.

It was a list of all that had been in the theater last night, but why?

Terrance was bound to come back through that door, so I hadn't long to think. It wasn't easy. Every thought that did manage to enter my head was short-lived.

I looked over my shoulder at the sound of the house doors peeling away from each other. Terrance passed through them first, followed by Lyewkin.

My eyes widened, as the ticketmaster pulled the man into his office.

How I had not yet thought of it was a mystery, but of course—of course this parchment, the odd behavior, the secrecy of it all had to do with Lyewkin Coates.

The date stamped at the top of the page, yesterday's date, was the first night Lyewkin arrived at the theater—at least the first night I'd seen him, the first night he'd mingled in the foyer.

But what could Lyewkin want from this list? What made yesterday's date so special? What made this person they were so-clearly searching for important enough to sift through such a detailed list?

And above all else, what was Lyewkin's business with the theater?

My mind mulled it over some more as I folded the parchment under the bar-top. I had the edges lined perfectly, the page crisply bent into one tight square, just in time for the door to the ticket-office to swing wide again.

Through it, walked Terrance, stiff as a board and sweating profusely. He glistened under the chandelier's flickering light.

I plastered calm to my face, my mannerisms, my movements—willed my voice to relax and my fingers to steady.

But before he could reach the bar, Chester's voice echoed through my head, like the Gods placed it there to give me a hint.

It almost looks like some sort of heirloom.

Lyewkin's voice echoed next, another hint from the Gods.

Your hands move so quickly that they disappear.

It makes me wonder why you'd want to hide.

And everything snapped into place.

I had stolen from Lyewkin yesterday, and he'd written those names down because he was looking for the culprit. He had no business with the theater—he was simply a man out for revenge.

That is why he'd shown for a second night in a row. That is why he spoke with Terrance last night—after he'd noticed it missing. That is why they struck through names on the parchment—they were whittling it down to a lead, their thief, their pendant-taker, me.

That had to be what this was all about—right?

I gulped just as Terrance arrived at the bar, for I realized that Lyewkin had spent the greatest portion of his evening with me. And the reason our conversation felt like a test was due to it being one.

For Djinn's sake… this was not good. No—this was the worst kind of luck. Somehow the lad had already cast his suspicions onto me. Somehow I had already become their bar-maiden of interest. And to make matters worse, my curiosity had gotten the best of me, and I'd done it again. I had stolen from one of the men searching for me.

I may as well have waved a white flag.

Damn that topaz pendant. Truly nothing good ever came from pocketing heirlooms.