Hearts and Ashes

Beneath my nails, traces of dirt linger from my daring descent down the chimney of the brick-layered fabric store two nights ago. The worth of that venture now weighs on me as I sit in the dimly lit room of the same establishment, anticipation thick in the air.

Gloves hastily conceal my hands, shielding them from the prying glances of the passing servant, evidence of undeniable dirt underneath. Leigh's disapproval echoes in my mind, her scolding for tarnishing the hands she meticulously softened with rose water and lavender. Yet, this sacrifice is a necessity.

Having confirmed the lady of the fabric store's shady dealings, I silently vow to secure an abundance of fabric for Leigh's creations. I can already envision the vibrant blue of her eyes gleaming as she sways across the worn-out rug in our modest apartment, fabrics draped over her frame. The vision unfolds as she imagines the countless dresses and corsets she could craft.

Unlike Leigh, I'm not one for dresses and societal frills. Give me leather pants and a sharp knife, and I'll raise a toast to the Ember in your honor.

On the table, two cups hold the remains of tea, steam occasionally rising. Despite being told the Tailoress was absent, the evidence of shared tea moments before my arrival suggests otherwise.

The servant lied to me. He claimed the Tailoress wasn't here. Seated, I contemplate inventive ways to teach him honesty, perhaps with my dagger. His deception leaves a bitter taste.

I gesture for his attention once more and he saunters over. The lad before me is a ruddy-blond vision, dressed in a crisp white tunic and green jacket. He could almost pass for an elf, if not for his lack of pointy ears. Yet, his demeanor suggests a mix of elfin charm and boredom.

He approaches the table, a wooden tray clutched beneath his arms. "How can I help you?" he monotones.

"I've got an invite from the Tailoress. We're meeting," I state, a cautious smile on my lips. He'd better not try any tricks, or he might lose a finger.

This morning, an invitation was sent out, hoping the Tailoress saw it and told the boy to watch for me.

His eyes flutter, and he awkwardly presses his wrist to his head, as if searching for information. "Raven Falency?" he asks, and I nod with a smirk.

No, I'm not Raven. I'm Arwyn, but they don't need to know that. Raven's my alias for business.

"I'll tell her you're here," he says before disappearing. And they said she wasn't available, huh? I cross my arms, the loose flap of my tunic falling over my leather pants, fingers tapping on my thighs. The knives in my purse press against me as I wait.

This is my first job in a while, and I feel a bit nervous. Arwyn never backs down from a task, especially when there's a lot to gain. Money is involved because I'm working for Pete Delitroy, one of the notorious outlaws in Vakythia.

I take a deep breath, glancing out the window at the dark outlines of buildings, flickering lampposts, oblivious passersby, and carriages.

The Tailoress angered Pete by cutting into his trade with a merchant from Quasar. Initially mad, Pete turned his anger toward me after simmering silently for weeks. I eagerly went to him, craving adventure and purpose, like a puppy chasing breadcrumbs. He calls me his little lamb, as if I'm some devoted follower of his.

Leigh and Kale warned me against getting involved with Pete, unaware of my inner struggles. I needed distractions from boredom and nightmares of my mother's death. I can't shake the image of the soldier, the man who killed her, his harsh golden-brown eyes haunting me.

My eyes scan the room, searching for escape routes. There's another door farther from the one the servant entered through, my potential way out if things go south. Pete always said to check for blind spots, but I was too lost in thought to plan my escape.

The first door opens, and the servant returns, followed by the Tailoress. She's dressed elegantly, with milky skirts, a tight brown corset, and dark hair flowing over her shoulder.

I stand, hiding my smile and adjusting my sleeves, waiting for her to fully enter the room.

Vanilla permeates the room with her arrival, a scent that makes me nauseous. She takes the seat opposite me, moving with such flawless grace and caution, motioning for the servant to clear away the tea cups that were on the table upon my arrival, and I let out a crooked smile as she eyes me cautiously. A mistake on her part for leaving a clue to her previous lie of absence.

"Your stooge told me you weren't accessible," I begin, but she raises her hand, nails painted a bright ruby.

"What is your name, girl?"

"Raven Falency," I mutter, fingers twisting my ring on my left pinky. Her blue eyes scrutinize me, unmoving.

Two bulky men stealthily enter the room, hands entwined in front of them, and swords attached to their girdle. This is not going to end well, is it? I let out a puff of air and stare at the Tailoress.

"Why does your name sound familiar?" she muses, tapping ruby nails on the table. "Who are you, girl? And what do you want?" Her voice is buttery and flat as she mumbles my name over and over as if trying to recall an event.

She was scrutinizing me from head to toe. From my rugged boot to tight leather pant, purple tacky vest and milky white shirt with flappy hands but my brown hair, matted into a fish braid behind my back made me look less shabby. Nonetheless, her gaze was demanding.

"Does it now?" I smile. "I was sent by Douglas. You likely know him, given that you've loaded an entire carriage with ale, ready for delivery to Quasar as per his request, of course."

Her gaze wavered, and her posture stiffened. "Who are you, girl? And what do you want?"

The awaited question finally arrived. "My boss mentioned that you should reconsider."

A smirk played on the Tailoress's lips. "And who's your boss?"

"Douglas. I'm his messenger, and he's no longer interested in doing business with you. I'll need your signature on these papers." I produce a stack of documents cradled between my vest and shirt.

"And why are you so confident I'll put my signature on those?" The Tailoress's nails ceased their rhythmic tapping as she leaned in, scrutinizing me. "How long have you been in Wyrm, girl?"

"The name is Raven," I say through gritted teeth. "And I've been here since last night, eager for an audience with you."

"Raven." Her eyes gleam mysteriously. "So, you journeyed all the way from Quasar just to inform me that I should endorse a couple of worn-out papers, all in the name of your boss, Douglas, who suddenly has a change of heart about working with me."

I nod, uncertain where this conversation is headed.

"Well, Raven. If Dougy wanted to send a message, he could've used the Looters or visited Wyrm himself. Afterall, my inn is open to him at all times".

Brothel, she means. It's not just an inn, but a place of debauchery where all sorts of illicit acts happen. Men stumble in and out, while seductive women linger at the door. And why does she call him Dougy? Are they more than acquaintances?

No. Pete wouldn't throw me into danger without knowing the whole story. My hands edge toward the knife at my side.

"Maybe he didn't expect a long trip," I mutter.

"I know your type. Desperate for a place to belong, probably an orphan, taken from the streets, working for men like Pete Delitroy."

My heart races as I look for an escape, keeping a straight face.

She's right about two things: I work for Pete, and I'm an orphan.

I stand slowly, footsteps behind me stopping suddenly. This is when I'll use a powder puff to distract and escape through the window.

"Two nights ago, some documents vanished from my drawer," the Tailoress declares, rising from her chair also. She paces behind an old brown desk, her fingernails tracing imaginary lines in its wake. The air is charged with tension, her vanilla scent mingling with the room, creating a blend that could be cut with the rugged knife belted to my girdle. Oh yes, knives are strategically tucked into almost every part of me.

No room for chances.

A mischievous smile spreads across my face as I observe her. "Shame."

"Apparently, the suspect crawled down the chimney of my store like a dirty little rat," a scrappy, displeasing noise grates against my ears as she drags her nails against the body of the table edge. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Raven Falency?"

"And how should I know?" I shrug, the deal now dangling precariously. She's well aware I'm nothing but a masterful liar, yet I refuse to lower my guard. The longer I can keep her guessing with feigned ignorance, the better my chances of orchestrating a daring escape.

The windows aren't sealed tight. If I release the powder puff at the right moment, I can dash to the window, open it, and vanish into the night. Her henchmen might chase me, but the busy street offers plenty of cover among carriages and pedestrians.

"When my servant announced your arrival, he noticed your appearance, girl, and the dirt on your fingers." Her eyes meet mine with a sinister glint. That tattletale.

I glance at the back of the room where he's discreetly handed a pouch, likely filled with coins by one of her lackeys.

Think, Arwen, think! "I work in the fields during the day." It's a good excuse, but she still doubts me. Her henchmen await her next move.

"Kill her!" she orders coldly before turning away. Now's my chance.