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“No, I’ve got plenty.” The girl laughed, and then conspiratorially whispered, “I’m Andromeda Dahl.”
“Fia Ives,” Fia replied before the meaning of the young woman’s name clicked into place. “Oh. Dahl’s Love Drops. That Dahl?”
“Yes, the very one. You can call me Dromeda.”
Fia couldn’t imagine what she was doing here, so far from her family’s confectionery empire in Fantillian, and then it struck her. Andromeda might have run in the same circles as the Madbury. “Are you looking for Penbrook?”
“I am. Is he here?” She went up on the toes of her slippers like a ballerina in a music box, peering around the spellshop.
“Not now, but he’ll be back soon.”
“We’re always missing each other, it seems. Things… fell through the last time we had plans.” She casually gestured at the sign in the window. “He’s here… taking appointments?”
“For illusions. I can squeeze you in.” Fia might have already filled up his week, but she wanted to thank Andromeda in some way for getting rid of that man. And besides, Fia had taken a liking to her. She pulled the paper with Penbrook’s schedule from her pocket and looked for an opening. Finding none, she figured he would have to do with a shortened lunch. “Tomorrow? How’s noon?”
“Perfect.” Andromeda fiddled with one of the bottles on the table, clinking the little charm, then glanced up. “I’d like to surprise him—it’s one of my favorite things—if you wouldn’t mind marking some other name down for me?”
“Um, of course.”
Andromeda offered her pretty smile in parting. “Till tomorrow.”
Fia wasn’t sure what Andromeda was up to—probably nothing, the two Fantillians were likely old friends—and she wasn’t sure Penbrook was someone who liked surprises, but she couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t want to see Andromeda Dahl, and so when she noted this latest appointment on his schedule, she simply wrote: A. D.
The ink splattered on the final punctuation mark, and she dabbed at the blots on the counter even though they matched all the ones spilled before.
And then she smiled, knowing exactly what she needed to investigate next.
It seemed to take forever for Penbrook to return, but when he did, carrying a single suitcase that she couldn’t imagine fit all his many jackets and trousers and shoes, Fia flung his schedule at him, called back, “I won’t be gone long,” and hurried out the door.
The wind whipped against her as she slipped down the street, and she shivered, smashing all those fallen leaves under her boots as she went, but she didn’t have to go far. Two days ago, when she’d bumped into the young man she recognized from Thistledown, he’d nearly dropped a package. One wrapped in ink-blotted paper—the familiar design of Inkblots Stationerium.
Stepping into the shop, she realized that she’d missed this place. A cozy cluster of armchairs sat in one corner, where customers could page through books showcasing different fonts or compare design embellishments. The brick walls were covered floor to ceiling with reams of paper and shelves slotted with card stock and stationery in every imaginable color. She’d always felt small here, looking up and up, and that hadn’t changed, even if so much else in her life was different.
Fia straightened her shoulders and brought a smile to her lips. She was friendly with Vernon and Michael Lavender, as their stores were only a block apart and she’d known them since she was just a girl, but she doubted they’d appreciate her trooping in with questions about one of their customers. She’d have to be tactful.
“Fia!” Vernon greeted her from where he sat behind the low counter in his big, cushy chair. He was a permanent fixture there due to his bad back, which he always cheerfully moaned about.
“Hello, Vernon. How are you faring?”
“My back, you know. Oh, it’s aching.” In his typical fashion, he chuckled as he said it, but then his gone-white eyebrows drew together, deepening the lines in his pale skin. “How are you faring?”
With the loss of her mother, he meant.
“My heart, you know. It’s aching too.” Fia couldn’t quite bring herself to chuckle, but her smile was more genuine than the one she’d pasted on when first stepping into the shop. She’d forgotten how sweet it was that Vernon could tease words out of her. How nice it was knowing that someone else remembered Sable.
“No doubt it is,” he murmured.
“How’s Michael?”
Vernon’s partner was usually busy at the printing press in the far corner—not that he was any younger, but they liked to joke he had a better back. Right now, though, his spot was empty, the press quiet.
“He’s good, very good, and making us an early supper. Ah, the dear. And you, what brings you by?”
Fia plucked a leaf from the ends of her hair, worrying over the best way into this conversation, then decided on honesty. She didn’t have the heart to make up some false story for Vernon.
“I ran into someone the other day who I think had just come from your store, and—”
“What sort of someone?” Vernon asked, curiosity already piqued.
