Brittle, p.3
Brittle, page 3
The young man nodded and placed the cap he had been holding back atop his head. “Please, don’t mention it.” And with that said, he tugged on Mr. Tubsman’s arm and they departed.
* * *
A week later, the weather grew unseasonably warm. Snow ran off into puddles in the low ends of the yard, and Dav grew animated as she pulled on her overcoat and a pair of gloves. “I’m going to town to look at Mrs. Suzin’s. I don’t suppose either of you would care to accompany me?” There was a hopeful note in her voice. While Verve often wandered into town without a chaperone, Dav always refused to be seen alone. The things people might say!
Verve looked up from her book of poems, and Helena stopped her sewing. “I’m sure you’ll do fine alone.”
Mother blew out her cheeks and moved away from the window, where she’d been standing and staring for the past ten minutes. “That poor boy. He must be so lonesome.” The words sounded mechanical, rehearsed, and Verve knew a request was coming. “Girls, why don’t you all go to town and invite our new neighbor to accompany you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Dav, her cheeks flushing. “He is ever so agreeable.”
“You don’t even know him,” Verve said, rubbing her arms.
“You’ve been indoors too long,” Mother was saying to the room. “There’s no reason to expect another nice day like this for a while. You should be out and getting sunshine.”
“I don’t know….” Helena looked sideways at Verve, who frowned in concern. “I’m still not feeling right. Perhaps Verve could accompany Dav.”
Mother grinned as though that was the best idea she had heard in a long time. “Well, don’t just sit there like a lump on a log. And don’t run or raise your skirts so high. We don’t want you shocking our new friend.”
When they had both put on their walking boots and shawls, Verve followed Dav through the side door, accepting a peck on the cheek from Mother as they left. “I don’t know why you’re so reluctant to make friends. That’s really not like you, Verity.” Dav looped her arm through Verve’s, and Verve pulled away.
“I’m just being cautious. We don’t know anything about this stranger.”
“Well, we need to mend that, don’t we?” When Verve raised a quizzical brow at her, Dav added, “I mean we need to mend the stranger part. Everyone’s a stranger at the beginning of a friendship.”
Verve slowed her steps as the Franz mansion came into closer view over the hedge. “I don’t know, Dav.” Reluctantly she followed Dav through the gate that led to a narrow lane between the properties, around the bushes, and up the sloping lawn that led to the neighbor’s house. When she caught up, Dav let out a happy sigh.
“Isn’t it so romantic?”
“The house?” Verve looked up at the grand mansion, complete with pillars and intricate woodwork. In one corner, the north-eastern one, there was even a turret, which rose up to the top level and ended in a rounded roof. “It’s the sort of place I’d expect a ghost to haunt.”
Dav laughed and patted Verve on the arm condescendingly. “Oh, you do have the strangest ideas about the world, Verity. There’s no such things as ghosts, which I’m fairly certain you know.”
“Hey!” shouted a voice from behind them.
Verve jumped, and Dav let out a scream that went on and on, until they turned and saw it was only their new neighbor.
“You dreadful man,” Dav said, though she sounded as amused as she was out of breath. “You about stopped my heart.”
That caused the young man to grin. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and jerked his head to the side, indicating the bushes. “And what are you fine young ladies doing, lurking about in the shrubbery?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye as he turned to Verve for the explanation.
Verve smiled. “Mother wanted to know if you would like to join us on a walk to town.”
Dacre looked about, and his blue scarf flew off as he whipped around. “And where is Mother?”
“Oh, she’s not coming with us,” said Dav, reaching for the scarf and then handing it to its owner.
“A shame,” said Dacre as he tied the scarf back around his throat. “She seems like a lovely woman.” He frowned at Verve. “What’s the matter? Did I offend you?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
The young man gave her a knowing look and offered his arm, which Verve did not take. “Then why are you looking at me as though I murdered your dog?”
“Honestly, Verity, you look like a thundercloud,” said Dav.
When Verve spoke again, she began with care. She did not, after all, want to alienate the neighbor. He might turn out to be a good friend someday, but right now she wished to be alone with her books and resented Dav for dragging her along. “I’m just thinking about one of my plays.”
Dacre raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“What has that got to do with Mr. Franz here?”
“Please call me Dacre,” said the young Mr. Franz in question.
Now Verve shrugged. “You would make a capital villain,” she said before she could think it through.
Dav looked as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on her. “Verity!”
Of all things, Dacre threw his head back and laughed as he led them down the road toward town. “It’s the laugh, isn’t it? I do love a good cackle.”
“Cackles are for crones and witches,” said Verve, feeling somewhat more at ease. She lifted her skirts and leapt over a puddle that stood in her path, but Dacre went right through it. “See? A villain isn’t afraid to get dirty or messy.”
“You think I’m a mess?” His voice was low and teasing, and Verve couldn’t help but be honest.
“Perhaps. And also a bit mysterious.”
“Heroes can be mysterious,” he said.
Verve inclined her head, rounding a pile of horse droppings. “True. That would be the mark of an interesting protagonist,” she said more to herself than to him. “You don’t know if they’re good or bad until the final act.”
“But is anyone truly one or the other?” Dacre pulled Dav around another puddle of muck, which she had almost walked into.
“Of course not. But a good character is going to have leanings one way or the other,” said Verve.
They walked the remaining mile to town in silence, something that surprised Verve. Dav normally monopolized any conversation she was admitted to, and Verve hated awkward silences. As a little girl, much to her family’s chagrin, she would bang on the piano when in an ill humor and no one would speak to her. And when she felt sad, she would simply retreat to the attic and pace, causing the floorboards to groan.
The houses now grew closer together, and the telltale signs of horses and carriages lay in the melting snow. The air was thick and oily, and it smelled of horse and smoke.
“Disgusting,” Dav said, this time remembering to mind where she was walking.
“Where I come from,” said Dacre, offering his arm again to Verve, which she ignored, “someone cleans up after the horses so quickly, you’d think they were following behind with a pail and shovel.”
Dav laughed. “Where do you come from?”
For some reason, the young man winked at Verve as he let his arm drop to his side. When he spoke again, his voice was trembling with barely suppressed merriment. “Somewhere far away and yet very close.”
“Ooh, a riddle. I hate those. Verve’s good at them, though.”
Dacre turned to Verve, a glint in his eye that she did not like but couldn’t say why. “Oh, it’s not a riddle per se.”
“A paradox,” Verve offered and hastened her steps.
With the sun out, many people bustled through the slowly narrowing streets. Large hooped skirts brushed against Verve’s limp ones, and she found herself more annoyed than usual. There had just been a war and a depression, leaving thousands dead and many poverty-stricken, and here were men and women dressing themselves up like peacocks. She took particular offense at a dandy who bumped into her, nearly knocking her over without so much as an apology. As it was, she was driven into horse muck. “Brother.”
“Hey!” Dacre shouted after the dandy. “Watch where you’re going.”
The man in question did not even turn around.
Dacre lifted his hand, and Verve thought he was going to make a rude gesture. Instead, he flicked his pointer and middle fingers from his thumb toward the offender, who then cried out and fell over like a stiff board.
Verve blinked. She must have been imagining things, but she thought she had seen a flash of light and then a wall of blackness rise up in front of the dandy before he fell over. Horrified, she looked at Dacre, who also looked startled.
“What was that?” he asked Verve, his eyes wide. “What did you do?”
Dav looked back and forth between the two, a crease forming on her brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Verve, her temper rising as Dacre continued to stare at her, awestruck apparently. “You’re the one who flicked your fingers.”
But Dacre was shaking his head. “There was a fly. You just glared at that man and he fell over.”
Verve opened her mouth to accuse him further, but the insufferable young man began to laugh. “Oh, so you’re just making fun of me?”
“Don’t be angry,” he said, coming alongside her.
“I’m not angry,” she spat. She looked back at Dav, who gave her a pitying glance before turning her attention elsewhere. I’m not crazy. Suddenly their trip to town sounded worse than a mere inconvenience; it could prove dangerous, in more ways than one. They already think I’m slightly mad; Dacre could tip the scales for me.
Needing to clear her head, Verve forced a smile, which she knew came off as a grimace, and said, “My head hurts. I’d better go home and lie down.”
“But we just got here,” said Dav. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the new dresses.”
“C’mon, Verve, don’t be a spoilsport.” Dacre stuck out his lower lip.
Their insistence did nothing to lighten Verve’s mood or soothe her uneasiness. But it did have one desired effect: she gave in to the pressure they were putting on her and did not return home.
“Thank you for being selfless for once,” said Dav.
Verve rolled her eyes. “You could have stayed with Dacre here as a chaperone.”
The look Dav gave her was scandalized, as though Verve had suggested she parade around the town in her underthings. “Verity, it wouldn’t be proper.”
They wandered around town, stopping in the dressmaker’s so Dav could pine over the latest fashions and moan about how poor her family was. “Are you working on any stories right now?” She ran her fingers over a ready-to-wear gown of indigo silk and sighed.
“Even if I sell another story,” said Verve, “the money is going to put food on the table.”
“And buy you more paper,” said Dav, her cheeks reddening as her eyes flashed.
Perhaps scenting a fight, Dacre coughed and moved toward the door. “I’m going to have a smoke outside, if you don’t mind.”
Verve wrinkled up her nose. “Nasty habit,” she said before she could stop herself.
Dacre only laughed. “I’ll be just outside the shop, should either of you need anything.” And with that said, he left.
“Dav, you’re young. You still need to learn you can’t have everything you want.”
“Fifteen isn’t so young,” said Dav. “And at least I’m not crazy.”
The words stung, and Verve recoiled as though stricken. Before she could lash out in kind, Verve turned on her heel and made for the exit, prompting heads to turn as she stumbled through the narrow aisles and knocked over a bundle of green brocade. She spilled out onto the streets, breathing hard. Thankfully, there was no Dacre in sight.
She ought to return home, to check in on Helena, but she did not wish to be interrogated as to why she had abandoned her sister and their neighbor. So instead, Verve wended her way through the masses, no clear destination in mind, until she came across the news office. She stood outside the tall brick building for a moment and stared up at the sign, which needed a new paint job. She had nothing to attempt to sell them at the moment; everything had already been accepted or rejected. But spite and anger made her bold, so Verve took the steps two at a time and pushed through the doorway leading to the offices of The Weekly Eruption and other publications.
As usual, there were only men inside, puffing their cigars, yelling out orders to assistants and errand boys who would run stories to the printer’s in the adjacent building. Not many looked at Verve as she entered. She was a usual sight now and less of a novelty.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to a man in her path. Her ire cooled as she became distracted by the hustle and bustle of the noisy, tight room. This was familiar. The smells of paper and tobacco calmed Verve, and she approached the desk in the far corner.
The chief editor of The Weekly Eruption, a paper known for the fantastical and horrific, was absent. In his place sat a man with dark wavy hair that hung down to his open collar, and when he looked up at Verve, she was startled by the intensity in his almost-black eyes. His looks unnerved her, and Verve almost turned and left. But he had seen her, knew she was approaching his desk, and Verve was not one to flee into the night. Feeling her courage rise again, she took several more long steps and stood in front of the strange man’s desk.
They were quiet for a moment, their eyes locked and neither blinking, until the man said, “Can I help you?” His voice was a deep rumble, touched heavily with an accent that Verve could not quite place.
“Where is Mr. Gibbs?”
At this the man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Gibbs no longer works for The Weekly Eruption. It was my honor to fill his place.”
Verve looked down at the name plaque on his desk. “Mr. Bay-ur?”
“Close. The name sounds more like the wild animal.” As that sank into Verve’s mind, Mr. Baer reached for a pair of spectacles on the desk and sat them on the bridge of his nose. “Did you wish to place an advert?”
She wrinkled up her nose. “Advert?”
“Advertisement.”
Suddenly, Verve wasn’t sure why she had come here in the first place. She had no new stories to sell, as she hadn’t been writing any of her fiction since Father died. Verve shifted from one foot to the other, and the silence between them stretched on uncomfortably.
“Would you perhaps care to be seated?” Mr. Baer rose and towered over the desk he was behind. “While you’re deciding, I have some paperwork to retrieve, if you don’t mind waiting a moment.”
Verve nodded and took the threadbare seat before her, his name rolling and rattling around in her mind. Baer. Could this be the man who called himself ‘Bear’, the one Father had told her to look out for? She observed the man as he rifled through a few drawers, pulled out a handful of papers and carried them to his desk. When he sat again, he looked at her expectantly.
“I was wondering if you would have any interest in a story.”
Mr. Baer looked at the work in front of him and then back at her. “I would have to see it first.” His eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement as she continued to sit there, staring at him.
It took a moment, but Verve managed to shake herself out of her stupor and blurted out, “I’m sorry, but I think you might know my father.” As soon as the words had left her mouth, Verve bit her lower lip.
The look Mr. Baer gave her was piercing, and his eyes did not leave hers, even as he straightened papers on his desk. “Your father, he is a local man?”
“He’s from around here, but he traveled a lot when he was in the army.”
Mr. Baer sat forward in his chair, bringing his hands in front of him to rest, folded, on the table. He studied Verve a moment longer, and sighed. “I was never in the army.”
Verve felt as a ship whose sails had lost their wind. “Oh.”
“But I did work as a contractor for the Eighth Hill Division during the war.”
Her stomach did a strange flip, and her heart took off at a gallop. “Do people call you by your surname a lot?” Here she broke eye contact and ran a finger over the worn wood of the desk.
“The soldiers called me Baer, yes.” Another moment passed, and when Verve looked up, his expression was tense, as though he were preparing for bad news. “I believe you have a few more questions you wish to ask me.”
Verve wetted her lips before asking, her voice lowered, “How does Springer know when his wife is angry?”
“Madelaine Springer gnaws on her lower lip and she leaves the room.”
In her mind’s eye, Verve could see the next line of Father’s neat, looping hand, a beautiful mockery of her own. “What is Baer’s favorite preserve?”
“Blackcurrant.”
“How many times did Springer and Baer stab the Brighton Fae?” She looked up at him again, and Mr. Baer’s expression was unreadable.
He leaned back a little before replying. “None.”
“Did you know I would show up here?” Verve asked, allowing her voice to return to a normal volume and pitch.
With his head cocked to the side, Mr. Baer held up a finger. “I believe it is my turn to ask a few questions.”
Verve gulped. What did Father tell this man about my family and me? “Right.”
“What was the name of the first story you – I mean, Verity Springer – wrote for her father?”
“Did he really call me Verity?” Verve demanded, and the man let out a low chuckle.
“No, but that was the first test. What name do you prefer to go by?”
“Anyone who knows me well calls me Verve. Except for Dav – she’s my youngest sister. She does like to annoy me. And my mother calls me Verity when I’ve vexed her.”
Mr. Baer seemed eager to speak, but Verve continued, her nerves still rattling.
