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At the same time, Michael pushed through the swinging door from their apartment with a tray carefully balanced in his warm brown hands. “Fia! Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you,” she said quickly, knowing he’d scrape together another plate if she didn’t stop him fast enough—like all those dishes he’d brought over when her grief was new and raw. The Lavenders had already been more than generous.
“A handsome someone?” Vernon prompted, smiling at Michael as he set the tray on the counter and took a chair.
“Well.” Fia hadn’t exactly been thinking about the stranger’s attractiveness either time she’d seen him. “I suppose he was nice looking.”
Vernon’s eyes twinkled. “Of course he was. Or you wouldn’t be here, would you? Wondering if we know his name.”
“No. I mean, yes. That is—”
“I overcooked the chicken,” Michael muttered around his chewing.
“It’s delicious,” Vernon said, even though he hadn’t yet taken a bite.
Michael beamed.
Fia had forgotten how perfectly they fit together, and it warmed her heart. She couldn’t understand how her parents hadn’t wanted something like this. Or maybe they had, but they’d found each other instead. And now, apparently, Vernon thought he might play matchmaker for Fia with this stranger. She certainly didn’t want anything to do with that nonsense.
“We wouldn’t normally give out information about our customers, but I don’t think I can resist. Not when it might be love.”
“It’s not love,” Fia insisted around a laugh. I think the stranger might be in collusion with thieves! she did not say.
But Vernon had his own ideas, and with a wink, he said, “Not yet.”
Fia shook her head. “Really—”
“What’s he look like?” Michael asked, pulled into the mystery.
This Fia could answer plainly, and it cut to the heart of what she wanted. “He was near my age, I think, and he was tall, with black hair and gray eyes. Like smoke.”
Vernon propped his chin in his hand, his wrinkled face gone dreamy. “Eyes like smoke.”
“Well, something like that.” Fia hadn’t meant to play into Vernon’s penchant for the dramatic.
“Ah, poetry.”
“Hardly,” Fia said, and then without any flowery description added firmly, “He wore a black coat, and he looked very serious.” If she didn’t redirect the conversation here, they’d be designing a whole romance for her.
The Lavenders shared a knowing look, and Michael said, “There’s only one person I can think of who came in this week matching that description.”
“He really was a stern-looking fellow.” Vernon chuckled, as if he saw no point in being serious. “Surprising, given that he planned to hold a ball, which would hardly be a somber affair.”
“That’s what he came in for,” Michael explained to Fia. “He wanted invitations made up for the festivities. We gave him samples of our finest paper and promised we’d have everything printed and sent to him up in Bramble. He’s quite new to town, I think, and looking to introduce himself.”
“Oh, but she wants his name, Michael. Not all these boring details.”
Fia did want the details, though—anything that might link him to those thieves who stole the grimoire—and she hoarded every one.
“His name, his name, let me think. Smith something, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Smith.” Vernon grinned. “Sebastian Smith.”
CHAPTER 10
Hurried shoppers ducked beneath tattered awnings before stores closed, carriages clattered over cobblestones, and Fia wandered down the street despite the nip in the air, entirely lost in her thoughts.
She had a name—Sebastian Smith—but she didn’t know what to do with it. Whether she should approach him herself, which was, upon reflection, not the wisest thing to do alone—and certainly not without more information. Whether she should give his name to the Cloaks and trust they would question him. Or whether she should first try to locate The Book of Ribs by way of magic.
