Dallion followed in Azalea’s footsteps, trailing her closely like an intrusive but well-meaning dog that had attached itself to someone on a walk.
The market crowd parted before him a bit more readily than before ordinary laborers, but he seemed not to even notice.
To the girl, this appeared peculiar.
“And yet, Miss Rosenthal, you didn’t answer,” his voice rang out right beside her, steeped in that same light, polite, and devilishly annoying smile she remembered from their first meeting.
“Why does a noble lady from a good family, who supplies the finest essential oils to the Empire, need this warehouse junk? Copper, iron, filthy salt… Have you decided to retrain as a blacksmith? Or is this a new fashion trend in the Upper City that I haven’t managed to learn about yet?”
Azalea did not answer.
She walked forward in silence until the alley narrowed, cutting off the bulk of the market din.
The porter with the loaded handcart looked at her questioningly.
Azalea nodded, thereby telling him that he could go ahead and dispatch the purchased goods to the warehouse.
The man inspected the young mistress’s companion and decided that the fellow was perfectly capable of protecting her should anything happen.
Walking past a nook filled with strange metal wares whose purpose she did not know, Azalea stopped dead.
So suddenly, in fact, that Dallion had to take a quick step aside to avoid colliding with her.
She turned her torso to face him.
Her face was calm.
The gaze of her light blue eyes was cold and piercing.
It even seemed to Dallion that for a fraction of a second, they glowed faintly from within.
“Mr. Lenoir,” she spoke evenly, and this deceptive softness of tone would have put a smart man on his guard.
“There is no need for you to play this role before me. Put an end to this circus.”
Dallion raised his eyebrows slightly, his smile widening a fraction, though a vivid interest flashed in the depths of his eyes.
He tilted his head to the side, tucking his hands behind his back out of old habit.
“What role exactly are we speaking of, Miss Rosenthal?” he asked softly, demonstrating a perfect, almost childlike incomprehension.
“I am merely showing genuine concern for a lady of my acquaintance who is wandering alone through a hazardous district of the city. What kind of game could there be?”
Azalea took half a step toward him, causing his smile to falter slightly.
“Your appearance was far too strange,” she countered directly, pulling no punches and lowering her voice so that the rare passersby wouldn’t overhear them.
“Let us piece the facts together, since you are so fond of riddles. First, by a bizarre coincidence, you turned up exactly where we were inspecting a building for purchase; then, you came to the home of the merchant Bothmer. And what happens next? Immediately following your sudden visit, a fire breaks out at the warehouse, the merchandise is destroyed, and Bothmer himself is arrested by the Secret Chancellery of the Imperial Court.”
She paused, catching every micro-movement of his face.
“A few too many coincidences for one idle young aristocrat, don’t you think?”
Dallion did not betray himself.
Not a single muscle twitched on his noble face, the smile did not leave his lips, and his gaze remained just as open and serene.
He merely shifted his posture within a second, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall of the old warehouse as though they were discussing the weather or the prices of racehorses in the capital.
The professional mask of an aristocrat accustomed to intrigue since early childhood fit him like a glove.
Azalea stood at the doors of the storage facility, checking the list against what had been purchased and mentally scolding herself for acquiring things she hadn’t even planned on.
She crossed the items off the list, looked at the stack of invoices, and sighed.
Her head had been turned, in some small part, by the cheapness of the goods, so she simply hadn’t been able to stop herself.
The hired porter stood near the doors, settling up with the loaders he worked with.
The lad had been silent the whole way, but Azalea had noticed him casting hesitant glances at her every now and then, catching his breath and kneading his greasy cloth cap in his fist. The source of this chapter is novelping.com.
Finally, when the warehouse doors closed and Azalea was about to step into the hired carriage, Tom resolved to speak.
“Miss Rosenthal…” he called out quietly, his voice trembling slightly with nervousness.
“Forgive my audacity, but… may I ask? What do you intend to do with all this iron and provisions?”
Azalea paused smoothly and turned her head toward him, arching a brow.
The lad swallowed immediately, clearly prepared for the noble lady to harshly put him in his place for breaching subordination.
At the Lower Market, for one question too many, a person of his station might not get paid at all, or worse, have some servants set upon him to beat him.
But Azalea had seemed different to him from the very start.
In her gaze, there was no blind aristocratic contempt for the “dirt” beneath her feet, neither literally nor figuratively.
Tom cast his eyes down, looking at her shoes stained with street mud, which most likely cost significantly more than all of his clothes combined.
“Why do you need to know?” she asked directly, peering intently into his face.
The porter hesitated, but it was too late to back down.
“I mean to say… Do you need any clever lads for work, miss? The kind who know how to keep their tongues behind their teeth and move their hands?”
Azalea remained silent, granting him the opportunity to finish.
Tom, heartened by her silence, spoke faster.
“My older brother, Simon…
he’s an incredible master with metal and all sorts of mechanisms, honest to God!
He can build a steam nozzle out of a rusty chunk of iron.
Only…
he doesn’t have an official permit from the Town Hall.
To get the paper, you need a basic education and entry into the artisans’ guild, and we’ve never had that kind of money in our lives.
And he couldn’t finish school either…
He had to help Father.
He only takes orders on the quiet, and people don’t want to pay him, knowing he won’t go to complain.
And we also have a sister, Ophelia.
She’s been a widow for a year now, unfortunately, but the girl is clever too, industrious, takes on any accounts and papers, catches on fast.
She went to the temple school, she’s literate.
Not like Simon and me.
If you need people for your new place who won’t go babbling to the administration…
We would break our backs for you, Miss Rosenthal.”
Azalea did not interrupt him.
She surveyed Tom slowly and appraisingly from head to toe.
The lad was strong, industrious, and judging by his work today, truly treasured an opportunity to earn.
But most importantly, Azalea genuinely needed someone to assemble the autoclave.
A man from the guild would inevitably start asking questions, demanding approved blueprints, and might report the creation of an unregistered installation to the authorities.
Simon, lacking a license, had simply nowhere else to go.
And finding a good craftsman who was not part of the Guild and therefore would not pass her blueprints to competitors was difficult.
“Tomorrow after ten in the morning,” Azalea spoke evenly.
Tom froze.
He had been fully prepared to be berated for his foolish words, but instead, his family had been given a real chance.
His shoulders relaxed instantly, his face brightened, and he broke into a relieved, childishly wide smile.
“Thank you, Miss Rosenthal! I swear you won’t regret it!” he exclaimed fervently.
The lad hastily pulled his crumpled cap onto his head and, nearly skipping, ran toward the residential slums at the top of his speed, eager to gladden his family.
He was already thrilled that he would be able to buy a good piece of meat for dinner tonight thanks to her generous wages.
And now, this on top of it.
For the first time in a long while, Tom was truly happy.
The carriage swayed softly and came to a halt by the porch of the guest wing at the Bothmers’ house.
Azalea entered the cool vestibule.
A grueling day was behind her, her dress smelled of a blend of market aromas, and her fingers were still coated in dust that she wished to wash away as soon as possible.
In the hall, she was met by Teresa Bothmer, who was now running all the affairs here.
The woman gave the guest a welcoming and respectful nod, to which Azalea responded with a reserved but warm greeting.
Right now, the last thing she wanted was to be distracted by empty chatter.
She had spent half the day studying the Lower Market, which had drained her of considerable energy, and now she just wanted to change her clothes and lie down in a soft bed.
She climbed the stairs to her floor, but the moment she stepped into the corridor, her habitual confidence instantly evaporated.
Walking toward her with heavy steps was Marcus.
His shoulders were trembling, his face was unnaturally pale, and large, unceasing tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Everything went cold inside Azalea.
Her heart skipped a beat, and a sticky, primal fear flooded her chest.
The physician.
A physician was supposed to visit Elena this morning.
Had her exhausted heart failed to withstand the aftermath of that dreadful night?
Was this something that could not be cured by medicine or holy magic?
“Uncle Marcus!” Azalea lunged forward, completely forgetting her exhaustion.
Marcus stopped, turning a glazed gaze upon her.
He tried to say something, but only an indistinct, raspy sob escaped his chest.
He gasped convulsively for air, moving his lips, but the words tangled, turning into an incoherent, muffled babble.
He looked like a man who had survived a horrific shock.
“Uncle, pull yourself together!” Azalea shook him lightly, peering into his tear-stained face.
“Look at me. What did the physician say?”
Marcus took a deep, whistling breath, closed his eyes, and finally managed to check his weeping.
He seized Azalea’s hands in his own and squeezed them so tightly that her fingers nearly popped.
A wild, trembling, yet incredibly radiant smile appeared on his lips.
“Elena…” he gasped, and fresh tears spilled from his eyes.
“The physician said… Azalea, my girl… Elena is with child. We are going to have a baby.”