Chapter Seven: Lyewkin

The lass was a pin-up, but by Djinn, her piss was still yellow and rancid. And frankly the drooling men around us were beginning to embarrass even me.

Perhaps I was biased—I always had a thing against blue eyes. That shade of arctic blue was piercing, and not in a good way. But I planned to go with the flow, and I'd sooner plunge into jagged rock than fail to feign interest in a perfectly-fine bar-gal. If it meant finding this thief so I could get the Hell away, I'd sooner plunge into jagged rock before failing to feign interest in a brute.

Hell—were Godwin here, he'd freely spend his time luring the blonde to his bedchamber. She was just his type. Just about anyone's type.

"What's a sweet thing like you doing stuck behind a bar?" It wasn't my wittiest line, but a conversation starter in the least. Her face was nice, but it bordered on plain. Her heavy eyelids and rosy cheeks were also telling of her state. I could ask the girl anything without raising so much as a flicker of suspicion.

Why? Because she was drunk. Drunk at work…

Still, I decided to loosen her tongue with a round of flattery. I said something about her braid—that it was eye-catching, or fitting of her beauty, or something equally cheesy. Though in truth, I preferred brunettes and abhorred twisty coiffures. They simply weren't my taste—not that I had anything against such styles.

I also said something about how her face could make even couture finery look plain in comparison—ignoring that her gown was the epitome of plain, and I'd never set foot in a modiste, so really, who was I to judge? Perhaps there was no statement further from the truth. Such hollowed words, but as far as I could tell, they were working.

She was all-giggle and tease, petting my hands too often and not once prying her demon eyes from mine, even when I silently begged her to. When I couldn't take it any longer, I looked to the folded parchment splayed before my resting forearms. It read:

Diamond Theater Cocktail Pamphlet

And an assortment of words were scribed below in sharp penmanship.

Stager's Delight, House Ablaze, Velvet Vial, Merde Mead…

What was this nobbish list of gibberish? I didn't mean to voice my thoughts aloud, but before I could help it, I was joking about coin and undoubtedly breaking character. "Do they encourage me to dump a pouch of coins upon the glossy floor?"

The blonde whose name I managed to forget, even though she'd given it—twice—smiled nervously and blinked at me. Unresponsive. Blank. I gave her a minute to think up something, but the best she could muster was, "They seem to be worth every shilling… Folks around here seem to like them," in that airy voice of hers I had to lean in just to hear over the music.

"Then I have no qualms, filly." It was true—the drink mattered not. "I'm hardly picky. I've no doubts I'd appreciate anything those hands could mix." I smirked. Her pale skin reddened even more, almost like a ghost came along and spread more rouge atop her cheeks.

Perhaps the same ghost stealing all of the dust. Wouldn't that be something?

It's time, I thought to myself. Dig.

Working any conversation to my favor was an art I'd mastered striking deals with Pale's lowliest. All I had to do was mention the crowd, inquire of remarkable happenings, and gather everything of note that had been witnessed in the foyer. And with a drunken bar-maiden amid a crowd of oblivious nobs, a simpleton could quite honestly get the job done.

"This theater draws quite a crowd," I muttered, turning to look at those frolicking behind me, "Bet you've seen a thing or two from back there…" I scoured her bewitching eyes for anything. But nothing came forth.

They drew a blank.

"If it weren't my first night on the job, I'm sure you'd be right!" She beamed at me, and I did my best not to pound the black marble with both fists. It was her first night on the job. In other words, she was useless and my lousy coquetry was for nothing.

I was ready to bluntly ask if she ever planned to start on my spirit—the Gods knew how much I could use a drink, now—when she sidestepped to reveal a second bar-maiden barely taller than the bar-top.

The most uniquely drawn girl I'd ever laid my eyes on.

Though the height of a child, the subtle curves of her body revealed that she wasn't one, as did the maturity of her facial features. She had a defined jawline and high cheekbones framed by tendrils of wavy hair—a deep reddish-brown, almost umber—that matched the darkness of her doe eyes.

Her brows were thicker than most ladies that spent years whittling theirs to a line. She was freckled. She was tawny.

Whatever scroll of requirements the city spent its time whipping up to measure beauty, this girl wanted nothing to do with it. She was a walking contradiction of all that I'd seen women desire. And yet, I couldn't help but stare.

She set the beaker down between my hands and was gone before I could give thanks. And when she disappeared again behind the blonde, I wanted to twist around the blocking frame and get a better look. She was the bar-maiden to talk to—I could feel it. She knew something.

Her experience spoke in the way she delivered my spirits with less than a care in the world.

Alas, the lime adorned glass she left behind would have to do for now. I went to take a sip, the tinge of pepperiness bringing my eyes to water. But when the liquor met my tongue, I smiled—genuinely—for the first time all night.

As fussy as I was about a "cocktail," this spirit was the best I'd ever had. I'd have to query her on that, too.

➸

No witnesses, no leads, no evidence. No records of any kind. I was beginning to believe Antolie. This was a fool's errand.

After coming up short at the bar, Terrance pulled me into his ticket-booth—more a claustrophobic bubble than anything.

"Perhaps the prick is right," I muttered. "Perhaps there is no thief." I was staring at my fingers—six silver rings. I patted my girdle—three pouches. Everything was still intact. No witnesses, no leads, no evidence. I huffed a sigh.

"There is a thief." Terrance was adamant. When I looked up to meet his gaze I spotted a masked certainty. It was subtle, but I could see through the ticket master's poker-face. He knew something.

He knew something that he wasn't letting on.

"What makes you so sure?" I pried, leaning back in my seat. "I suggest you tell me what you've been hiding… before it divulges itself down the line."

"I don't—" He rubbed at the back of his neck and must have realized his lying was pitiful.

"What do you know?" I repeated. More nobs were squaring away, passing by the glass on their way out, their voices less than muffled thrumming from our side of it. Meanwhile, the ticketmaster's eyes darted about the walls and floor, the ceiling, and right back to the walls. "Terrance." I was growing impatient. My tone was proof.

"I—" He sighed. "I've considered the possibilities of a thief for some time now. Years." My eyes widened at the word, but he carried on without a hitch. "Bits and baubles gone missing… Patrons claiming to have lost their bangles, bands, broaches…"

"And you never said anything?" I didn't mean for my words to come out so reprimanding, but they did, and Terrance recoiled.

"I never felt the need to! The first few times it happened, I did search the place—fore and aft—zilch…" He recomposed himself. "Our patrons prove their wealth by remaining untroubled, Sir. They never ask twice. So I stopped searching and never thought much of the jewels until clients started complaining about the dust. When Stoney suggested a thief, it all finally clicked."

It wasn't hard to believe him—of the nobs I reveled alongside tonight, not one batted an eyelash at the outrageous spirit levies. I couldn't picture them causing much of a fuss over vanishing amulets.

What did peak my interest—

"Our thief isn't singling out the dust like my father seems to think. I'm sure they pocket the stuff by accident." I traced a forefinger over my lower lip, one nervous habit lending itself to another as I took the same hand to reach for my pendant, tucked just under my tunic's upper buttons.

"And it seems," Terrance added to my thinking-out-loud with some of his own, "they're well-versed." My hand dug beneath my collarbone as he rambled. "Rarely will the same patron complain more than once…" I shifted in my seat, patting at the skin of my neck. "Which means our thief avoids stealing from the same patron twice… apart from the dust, which is likely because they think it's only gold." I unbuttoned my tunic to be sure. "I almost respect how calculated our little problem seems to be—"

I interrupted him, springing forward in my seat. "I need a list of everyone that entered the theater tonight—personnel to patron, and everything between—every name…" The words came out hastier than I meant for them to, which must've startled Terrance, for he looked utterly taken aback.

"Why tonight?" His face scrunched.

I swallowed spit, fury, shock, and whatever else bubbled in my throat. Then said, "The wretch stole my pendant."

➸

I had always been observant. As a young boy I had learned to read one's mind simply by measuring the lines in their forehead.

And though my thoughts were always crammed with the minutest details, migraines were a constant, and all the swamping images were ceaseless, I realized it was a gift. Particularly so for a man among thugs.

To know a space inside and out with just one look—where every exit lied, every window, every door. To know who you could trust, and who wished to swindle you. To recognize patterns of behavior. The talents certainly came in handy as a cutthroat.

Pale was a bustling city—and to anyone else, perhaps it didn't make sense. But to me, the nobs, wharfs, and everyone between were as predictable as waves building and crashing over sand, or cracks of lightning during the migration of thunderous storms.

Everything made sense. Everything had a place and time—a pattern. And if you knew where to look, you'd see that most everything was predictable.

Take the ticketmaster for example. I had him pegged after our first conversation—mid-way through it, in fact. He was intelligent, and he knew it. But his need to please rendered him too fearful to cast his own opinion or speak up for himself.

What's more, he was a lonely fellow—hated confrontation—and was too weak to keep his back straight, hence all the slouching.

And judging by the way he'd bitten his nails down to stubs and cracked his knuckles enough times to inflame them, anyone who had read hundreds of folks before could see he was an uptight lad.

But that was Terrance, and Terrance made sense. Everyone made sense. Everyone followed a pattern, and everyone was overt to me because I was always alert. Always on my toes. Always watching. Always observing.

So how in Djinn's wretched Hell could I miss my prized pendant—my only jewel of true value and the only thing I didn't plan on losing—as it was ripped from my neck and pulled over my Goddamned eyes?

I was frozen in place as Terrance shook his head and heaved a mammoth book from 'neath a cupboard in his office.

"I can get you the ledgers for ticket records…," he began whilst flipping through parchment bound in calfskin, "But I only log ticket sales. Esselle keeps track of the rest at the bar. And neither of us will have records of anyone who purchased neither. Though our bouncers do make quick work of loitering dawdlers, so I suppose that won't be an issue—"

"Esselle," I repeated, "Is that the redhead at the bar?"

Terrance nodded, "My go-to. Only one that's lasted me longer than a fortnight." His hands quit flipping through the parchment. Instead, his forefinger dug into the open page. "Here it is."

I stood from my seat and made my way through the small-scale ring room to the ticketmaster's side, scanning over the daily list of ticket-holders. Taking one swipe at the parchment, I freed the page from its binding in a perfectly clean tear. Terrance cursed under his breath.

I ignored it and let him pace about whilst seizing a pen and writing the name "Esselle" into a wide margin off to one side.

"Our search must be thorough," I remarked, passing Terrance the pen and parchment, "So any laborer I may have come in contact with must be listed. Write their names below hers."

"I'll do it now," he offered, taking a seat at his desk and going to work scribbling about. I grinned. Perhaps our target gave me a whirl, but I was the one with a clear head. Any doubts I had of a thief, or lack thereof, had been nipped in the bud—not to mention I now had a list in the making, atop which our thief's name would, without the shadow of a doubt, be present.

I grinned while exiting the ticketmaster's bubble. Considering how humid and claustrophobic the glass cage was, I understood why Terrance was always so antsy.

I'd give him space to conjure those names. I had more important business to attend to, like persuading Esselle, the little redhead, to freely hand over those ledgers.

When I approached the bar a second time, the once-crowded edge was all stools and one or two enduring revelers. And the once-dancing crowd became a clique of nobs sprawled over the couches, well-nigh dozing off to the soft puffs of minstrels.

The foyer was clearing out, and the blonde bar-maiden looked like she was asleep, or on the verge of it, with her body draped over the counter and forehead resting against it. The other one, Esselle, was either fresh as a daisy, or an impressive faker.

It took her less than three bounds to approach me.

"Hello," she offered. Her voice was sweet, crisp, and from what I could tell of her one-word greeting, the tone was to my liking—not too breathy soft, but far from masculine. Buttering her up would be easier, considering I wouldn't have to fake any attraction.

"Hello," I mimicked in reply, watching her subtle smile morph into an expression that read: and what will it be?

I hadn't the moment to take her in earlier—not entirely. Certainly not like this. From so close, the freckles danced like starry patterns across her nose, which turned up at the tip in a cute button sort of way. Though I continued to ogle, her expression was unbudging. But her eyes remained like saucers. Such immense shadows.

Alas, I wasn't the type to be plagued by interest, but there was a job to be done. And flattery just so happened to be a shoo-in with the ladies.

She scrunched her forehead and eyebrows together, looking behind before turning back. "What is it?"

I blinked quickly and shook my head, as though composing myself. "Forgive me," I said, "You have a certain quality about you. I find it mesmerizing."

Her cheeks warmed at the attention, but one corner of her lips tilted up into a smirk.

"Thank you," she said, but she said it like a query. And her brows flicked up as she did. Was that… attitude?

"You don't believe me?" I asked, for every shred of her body language said so. And every inch of her face told me she was either skeptical or unamused.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It is what I said." It was, indeed, an attitude she was giving me—there was no doubting it now.

"And why don't you know?" My tone was, to my dismay, a bit antagonistic. I could tell it peeved her, for she squinted her eyes and pressed her palms to the bar's edge. Instantly, I regretted being so disregardful of tone. One had to remember, when speaking to a woman, that such things were enough to induce tears. And heaven forbid…

She lifted her chin in saying, "Because it seems you've a habit of teasing every lady with an adequate face."

I circled back to flattery for fear of losing ground on those ledgers, "Your face is beyond adequate."

"Thank you," she said, and she smiled—I smiled—before adding, "for proving my point."

My smile dropped.

"Are you suggesting my flattery comes from a place of ill-will?"

"Not exactly. Though I should warn that flattery doesn't lend itself to a discount," she said, calmly enough to convince me she truly believed I was fishing for one. I suppose she was correct in her assumption that my compliments were forged for personal gain, but still, a discounted spirit was lowly—even for me.

I retaliated. "I take it you aren't complimented often if that's the way you see it. Must be because you scare away the lot."

She shocked me with an immediate riposte. "I'd sooner be snubbed than endlessly flattered by self-serving cads." Her wordplay was impressive. She was quick, and spoke in a manner that suggested she fancied a book from time to time. A low-class bar-maiden with a highborn vocabulary… Interesting.

But there was no way I was letting her win this one. "Is it a lack of confidence?" I queried, ignoring the way my plans were flying out the door, and my intended teasing was quickly turning into witty banter, "That leads you to assume all praise is untrue?"

"The contrary. A lady lacking confidence would likely relish in flattery from a man like you." I opened my mouth to speak, but she added, "And I never said all praise was untrue. I never even said your praise was untrue. I said your intentions were impure. There is a difference." More of that attitude flashed across her raised brows and blank stare.

This Esselle was a firebrand if I'd ever seen one.

I was unsure what to say. The way she carried herself rebelled against every pattern I'd seen in courting. And she wasn't playing any twisted games, either. It was genuine retaliation showing itself in her words, her movements.

Match met.

"I see why you have Blondie do all the mingling." My eyes darted to the blonde—yes, Blondie was a good name. She was still in that same position, slouched over the countertop. And from the looks of it, I was right in assuming she had fallen asleep, for she hadn't budged an inch.

Drinking and sleeping on the job… quite the rebel, that one.

"Hobnobbing isn't my strong suit," she spat.

"I can see that."

I immediately regretted the way I was handling her, like she was a scoundrel from the Basement that I could jest with. If it were possible, I think I was further from those ledgers than I was to begin with.

But just when I thought she'd either stomp off or become teary, she grinned. For the first time all evening, she grinned, squared her shoulders, and folded her arms over her tanned, smooth chest. Perhaps my eyes followed them for a second.

"And I can see why you try so hard to flatter every lady that looks your way—even if their reason for looking your way is mere obligation and nothing more," she remarked. I was entirely taken aback.

"Really?"

"Really." She tilted her head to one side and went on. "I'd bet any lady that falls for your outward charm immediately regrets doing so the moment you open your mouth."

I was speechless. Yet I couldn't help but beam at the girl.

"So you find me charming?" I teased, and she scoffed.

"I find you insufferably arrogant."

"Even so, I'm afraid you were wrong about what you just said," I began, "Because as far as I can tell… ladies seem to lack any and all complaints about my mouth." I mustered my best smirk of all.

She blushed, and I relished in the color. Though I couldn't tell if it was a blush so much as a flush of fury. Either way, I considered it a win.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, I suppose," she muttered under her breath.

I did my best to hide the pride of besting her in the greatest battle of jibes I had yet to play in too long. But my grin was still there, sheathed beneath my skin.

"Are you going to order a spirit?"

Ah—yes—I was here for a reason. The ledgers. I had almost forgotten.

Thumbing through the cocktail pamphlet, I offered a hurried attempt to get my hands on them, "I came by one of these cocktails earlier, but I don't know which. Any chance I could sift through your levy-records? Refresh my memory?"

"It was the House Ablaze." I blinked at her. And she said, "I remember." I was too impressed to be upset that she didn't give in to my request. Impressed that she remembered my order amidst the bellowing crowd I ordered it from. She must have read my mind, for she added, "Don't flatter yourself. I'm rarely asked to mix that choice—that's all."

That surprised me, seeing that the red-hot brandy was the best spirit to ever touch my tongue, and though I wasn't a tippler, I'd tossed down a fair share to make such a declaration quite the impressive feat. My grin didn't falter once as she set down a crystal beaker and began collecting the spirit's various toss-ins.

Looking down to my hands, I began thinking through the speech I'd use to pry any information out of her. This time, I'd stick to the script and wouldn't let any of the repartee get in the way. Flattery was a vain attempt, so gaining her trust it was.

Why she had been immune to my teasing tactics—I suppose I'd never know.

But I'd certainly tread lightly henceforth. This one was quick to catch on.

I cleared my throat and opened my mouth to speak before looking up to see that she was gone. Standing back at the corner in which she stood before—her back to the counter—Esselle wore blasé like it was a plaster.

I hadn't even noticed her leave, nor the shadow she cast over the bar-top drift away. What's worse, I had no excuse to call her back. For when I lowered my gaze to the marble, my beaker was full, and a lime had been draped over its rim.

Somehow the lass had already mixed my drink.