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ChapterOne
I stampedthe snow from my boots, blew into my gloved hands to warm my fingers, and stood in wonder at the contents of Jacapo’s World of Toys. Dozens of clocks ticked on the shop walls, their pendulums swinging out of synchronicity. Ornate tables to my left and right displayed multicolored dolls. Painted trains buzzed along miniature tracks, stacks of puzzles and games were piled high, and bright rugs carved a footpath through it all, leading the customer deep into a seductive wonderland of possibilities.
As a boy, I’d dreamed of Jacapo’s store, of being able to afford its toys. Fifteen years later, the store’s wonder hadn’t paled, even if my enthusiasm for dreams had.
A fire roared behind the fireplace grate. The toymaker, Jacapo, always kept it lit, whether during the height of summer or the depths of winter. The air smelled of hot toffee and cinnamon, and for a few minutes, I was ten again, my hand in my father’s, begging him to take a look inside.
As with all dreams, the cool bite of reality darted back in, or rather a gust of winter wind rippled my coat and almost toppled a glittering jewelry display.
Someone cleared their throat.
I pulled the door closed, ringing the little bell again, and dipped my head in apology. The man seated behind the counter turned a book’s pages, paying me no mind.
“Good evening. May I browse?”
He waved a slim hand, engrossed in his book.
I ambled through the displays, admiring each. None had price tags. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. Adventuring around the displays, I glanced again at the man behind the counter. He was slim, made slimmer by a burgundy waistcoat buttoned over a loose white shirt with oversized cuffs. I knew him, of course. He’d always been tall and slim, like a colt yet to grow into their limbs.
Devere Barella, Jacapo’s son. I’d have known his angular, haughty face in a crowd of thousands. He’d had that self-important air about him at school too, as though the rest of us boys were below him. A group of us had made sure he knew his place beneath our fists behind the bicycle shed. He likely wouldn’t recall. Fifteen years was a long time, even longer in Minerva—the town time had forgotten.
A clock chimed half past three—despite it being nearer six. All the clocks displayed a different time, their hands pointing all over.
“They must chime all day and night,” I said, finding myself at the glass-topped counter.
“That is generally what clocks do,” Devere replied, head down, still reading.
The till gleamed with ornate filigree of black and gold. A fascinating piece of art in its own right, but I wasn’t here to admire the art, or the toys.
A golden bell sat between Devere and me with a small sign:Ring for assistance.Ringing it seemed like a little too much when the assistance I required sat three feet in front of me. Perhaps he wasn’t all that interested in selling toys.
“Must be a riveting book.” I dipped my head to look at its cover and title:The Wonder & Wickedness of—
He slammed the book closed, raked a hand through his shoulder-length chestnut hair, and stood. He towered over me by some margin. Long dark lashes framed eyes the same rich ruby chestnut as his dashing waistcoat. He had beautiful, feminine eyes. Another target for schoolboy bullies.
“It is most rude to interrupt someone reading,” he said.
Well then, maturity had smoothed his voice, giving it a rich, thrumming timbre that partnered well with his sardonic tone and arched eyebrow. He was pretty, in the way snakes, or sharks, are pretty. As though that pretty were honed for one purpose—to ensnare its prey. He certainly looked down at me as though I were still the lesser creature in his world. Devere did indeed remember me.
“Good evening,” I said, choosing to ignore his tone. “I wonder if I might—”
“No.”
That single word landed like a slamming door.
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse you?” he huffed. “What you can do, sir, is turn around”—he circled a finger in the air—“and leave.”
“I merely dropped by to—”
He folded his arms while his smile grew. “I confess, I find it hard to care.”
I blinked, more surprised than offended. “I’m sorry—”
“You know precisely where the door is. Please, use it.”
Was this because of our past all those years ago? Surely he couldn’t hold a grudge for over a decade? We’d been boys, and boys being boys, we’d done things. Stupid things. Things we regretted as men. Regardless, I wasn’t leaving.
